The Old Rails

Chapter 1: Into the Unknown

The fog that surrounds me is impenetrable – a haze through which I can only see ethereal silhouettes, seemingly gliding by. I am sitting on a wooden bench that hovers amidst the sea of greys. It floats. Not quite fixed in place, I can feel it moving ever so slightly: up and down, to and fro. The bench is my island. My only tether in this purgatorial sea of cold unknown. My hands grip the bench, tight.

Closing my eyes, I feel lacquered wood, slightly damp, under my palms and my soles. I can feel the faintest of breezes whistling past my ears and the nape of my neck as I center myself. Breathe. I smell salt. The sea. I open my eyes to see the boat in which I sit. The fog seems to have thinned.

The boat is a simple dinghy, no sail, no rudder, not even an oar. I look over the side and gaze at the inky water below. The water ripples in the boat’s wake, black and opaque, not revealing any of its secrets. The waves, like black cloth in the wind, were hypnotic. I stare into them, terrifyingly comforted by how the waves seem to talk to each other. They dissipate in unison, collide at angles, and interfere with one another. I feel myself being drawn into their conversations.

My eyes refocus and I snap out of my trance, to see my reflection staring back at me, stretched and distorted on the wavering surface. I look away. The fog has thinned even further. I can now see a single shimmering light, past the bow of the boat. Its emerald glow piercing through the smokescreen in visible scattered rays. As the boat plies its way further toward the light, its shape grows more defined.

The light is that of a brazier; one with an emerald flame dancing atop it. The brazier stands upon the head of a dilapidated jetty that tentatively reaches out into the icy waters, illuminated in the lukewarm glow. As if operated by a ghostly oarsman, the boat eerily coasts to a halt beside the jetty. What now?

Pausing a moment, I reluctantly take to my feet, the boat rocking beneath my feet as I do so. Now that I’m here, the only way to go is onward. I step onto the jetty. Its planks croak in protest, as they strain to support my weight. I pace forward steadily, each step met with painfully unsteady sounds from the wooden structures beneath me. One foot in front of the other.

Abruptly, I notice that my step no longer incited an anxious riot. I’m standing on solid ground. Sand, to be precise. I can hear the ever so quiet lapping of waves on a beach. With the fog thinned down to a light mist, I can see that it is nighttime. With the brazier now behind me, my shadow lies ahead of me, melting into the darkness beyond. I’m tired, let’s get this over with.

Chapter 2: Radio

Looking dead ahead, I sprint into the darkness. The sound of the waves recedes into silence. The dead quiet meant all I could hear was my feet shoveling up sand in each stride. I don’t slow down. Around me, I can see faint figures of trees whizzing by. I am running through a forest. Through the canopy, I can see stars, familiar constellations peering between the cracks in the leafy veneer. I cannot remember the last time I saw so many stars. I trip.

Falling face first, my charge through the forest comes to an abrupt halt. The ground is now a more compact sand – a worn path. Even though I would prefer to have fallen on slightly looser soil, the path gives me a sense of direction.

I roll onto my back, winded and dazed. Trying to recover my bearings, I hear a sound coming from somewhere just off the path – a crackling hiss. Is that radio static? I can barely hear a voice bubbling up from the noise, but I can’t quite make out what it’s saying. Still on all fours, I crawl towards the sound, probing with my right hand into the dark bush on the path-side.

My hand grazes against something cold and smooth. Gripping onto it, I pull it out of the foliage. It’s a hand-crank radio. Its chrome antenna and speaker grill glint ever so slightly under the starlight. The radio has a volume knob and a frequency knob, both knurled and painted a metallic black. The rest of the unit is painted a firetruck red, clearly visible even in such a dim setting. Attached to the radio by metal clips is a black polyester strap, sized about right to sling the radio around one’s shoulder like a guitar.

The radio’s display is an old-fashioned setup: a movable red line that sits atop an array of frequencies, lit by an incandescent backlight. I turn the frequency knob, the cold machined aluminium rotating with a creamily satisfying resistance. Who would leave such a fancy radio just lying around? I keep turning the knob and as the red line glides across the display, the static fades and the voice gets clearer.

”…Station, stay tuned and follow the rails!” The voice of a man gave way to silence. I turn the knob further still. The static increases in volume. Scanning through the rest of the frequencies, I realize there are no other stations broadcasting. Consequently, I switch back over to the only station I could find – 96.9MHz. “Huh, that’s familiar,” I say to myself as a slight smile tugs at my lips.

Now, what’s this about rails? I get to my feet and sling the radio around my shoulder. I look around through the tangle of leaves, branches, trunks, and vines that encompasses me for any sign of where I’m meant to be heading. Nothing but forest. All I have is the path and there’s nowhere to go but forward.

Walking along the path, I realize it’s quite nice feeling the sand under my feet in each step. It’s hard to notice while running at full pelt. It reminds me of burying my feet under the sand at the beach and letting the waves wash over them. I never knew exactly why I did that, but it felt nice. I would always dread the sand at the beach as it stuck to anything and everything I held dear. Truth be told though; I always loved the sand – I just never really appreciated it like that. I feel a slight twinge in my chest and a catch in my throat.

I slow down a bit. I close my eyes and start shuffling through the sand, feeling grains being kicked up and landing atop my feet as I drag my feet along the ground. Feels a bit like the beach. A single tear ekes its way out of my right eye. What is happening to me? Breathe. I feel the cool air flowing into my chest, consoling me with each measured breath. In… Out. In… I can smell rain. Out. A lone droplet races down my left arm and I can hear the crescendo of approaching rainfall.

Before I know it, I’m caught in a torrential downpour. The wind starts to pick up, refreshingly cold against my wet skin. Wait, the radio! As soon as I open my eyes to check on the unit, its speaker chirps to life. I can hear it with perfect clarity despite the cacophony of the storm. It is playing music. At first, I hear a piano. Its chords sound larger than life despite the size of the radio. The piano plays a simple melody: a contemplative jazz tune accented by groovy bass notes. Then the silky sound of a violin fades in. The bright notes it plays sound impossibly clear. The violin and piano duet riff off each other as they play with increasing energy. The instruments sound like they are dancing through the forest, weaving through the trees, completely detached from the radio producing them. A slow and steady crescendo, the music electrifies the air and I feel my soul lifting,

I’m running. As fast as I can, my feet caked in wet sand. I don’t exactly know why I’m running. I’m not running from or to anything or anywhere. It just feels… right. A second violin now joins the fray, and accompanying its entrance, I spot the flicker of a lone firefly dancing in the dark. The piano trills and flourishes with the first violin responding in kind. Running even faster, I find myself suddenly surrounded by a whole throng of fireflies now, seemingly pulsing and swaying to the rhythm. I keep running, right into the headwind caused by the storm. The cool air rushing past my face makes me feel like I’m flying; like I have lightning in my veins. The soundtrack escalates into a climax and suddenly ceases. At the exact same time, a painful stitch throbs in my chest so I stop to catch my breath. Hunched over in agony, I realize that I have the most wholesome smile plastered across my face and I can taste the salt of tears streaming down my cheeks. I can hear a deep rumble of thunder, the remnants of energy, growing distant in the night. Man, that felt so good, but what on Earth was that?

The rain is dying down now, and the fireflies make themselves sparse. I look down at the radio and it’s back to being quiet. This is one weird radio.

Chapter 3: Child

Like a wet dog that has just got done rolling around in the mud, I trudge on. I can see a faint structure obscured in the darkness further down the path, emanating a familiar emerald glow. It’s a lamp post, standing on the path’s edge. The lamp post has a design I’ve seen a million times before – two lamps hang off either side of a plain black post, each encased in a transparent globe speckled with grains of dust and the remnants of whatever insects were unfortunate enough to get trapped inside. At the top of the post lies a solar panel, skewed, as they always are, to face the sun.

Closer now, I can see a figure hunched over on the ground beneath the lamp. The silhouette is small and curled into a ball. I think it’s a child. Their head is buried between their legs; shoulders bobbing as if they are crying. They are crying. What’s a kid doing here? A sense of despair descends upon me as I answer my own question. I approach the child hesitantly, unsure of what to do. I must do something.

The child hears me walking towards them and looks up at me, wiping the tears from their face with the back of their hand. The child looks just as dishevelled and sopping as I do, maybe even worse. Without warning they scramble to their feet and charge at me at full speed. This makes me jump, but before I have time to react, the child has already latched themselves onto my arm, swallowing my hand whole in their embrace. Dumbfounded, I stand there paralysed, staring down at the child like it is some kind of alien.

“So much for stranger danger,” I say awkwardly under my breath through an iffy smile but the child’s face has now sunk into my arm, and I can feel tears and what I hope is not snot and drool slowly dribbling down to my hand. I try to peel my arm away from their grasp but their vice-like grip foils my bid for freedom. My brain crashes for a second, desperately searching for a way to defuse the situation.

I reach out with my other hand and feebly pat the child on the head. It seems to go unnoticed, and the child’s sobbing continues. Oh wow, that was super effective. After what felt like an eternity of awkwardness (but was probably half a minute) the child finally looked up at me.

I try to comfort them with a toothy smile but then I realize that might be scarier than not smiling at all. Too late, I’m already doing it. Wait, is that a slight smile? It’s hard to see the child’s face through the darkness and the snot but I can barely make out a glimmer of relief in their eyes.

“Uh, hello?” I say unsurely. My greeting is met by silence. Maybe they don’t speak English? Right at the end of that thought, the child releases my arm and wraps their whole hand around my index finger. It’s now that I realize that the child’s death grip on my arm had rendered my hand numb and I am left facing an onslaught of pins and needles jolting into my hand. My face betrays my sudden discomfort and I see a wry smile creep onto the child’s face as they notice what I’m feeling.

“I guess you might as well tag along then,” I say to the kid. I couldn’t just leave them here. Upon hearing that, the child held onto my finger even tighter. Resigned to the fate of my finger that has fallen victim to the godlike grip strength of this child, I resume my walk down the path, still not knowing where it may lead.

Chapter 4: Station

I never really liked making small talk. If there is nothing meaningful to be said, is it not much more peaceful and fulfilling to enjoy another’s company in silence? Luckily for me, it would appear the tiny person fused to my finger isn’t one for small talk either.

The green glow of the lamp had long abandoned us, leaving us to, once again, make our way through the faintly lit night. My eyes, now adjusted to the darkness, observe the little one appearing to walk in quite a maniacal and hurried manner… It is now that I notice the unreasonably brisk pace at which I am walking. I’ve been making the poor thing speedwalk its tiny legs off. I sympathetically slow my strides down to a much more manageable cadence, and the child’s gait immediately becomes something more resemblant to that of a regular human being.

As soon as I gotten off that jetty and onto solid ground, I ran my legs off in an attempt to get this over with as soon as possible. That ended with me flat on my face. The reality of the situation is, the journey could last an hour, or it could last a week. There’s no point in rushing anymore. That will probably just lead to more faceplants and setbacks. Patience is the name of the game here.

This is quite the peculiar place I have ended up in. It definitely is not what I was expecting. Then again, I wasn’t really expecting much to begin with…

My eyes lower themselves to look at the child walking beside me. They are walking with their gaze fixated upon the ground, spotting where each foot lands in front of the other. The child is entranced by this exercise and even I find myself doing the same with my feet. Look where the left foot lands. Do the same with the right foot. Repeat. Now the both of us are walking, attached at the hand, staring down at our feet – two toddlers utterly amused by the inane phenomenon of walking.

The green glow of the lamp had long abandoned us, leaving us to, once again, make our way through the faintly lit night. Still, we proceeded, staring at our feet