Where Warriors Roam

I leap over the fallen log. It acts as the final hurdle. I know now that I can make it safely. There will be no stopping me from here. There never has been. I can hear them pounding and crashing through the foliage behind me, and behind me is where they are going to stay. 

I’m not quite sure who it is this time.

I had just been skimming stones across the lake, the edge of the forest sitting away to my left. I had been enjoying the cool evening breeze, watching the sinking sun paint a pink hue across the sky and watching its reflection dance on the ripples that I was creating.

I have grown something of a sixth sense over time, a warning signal in the depth of my stomach wherever there is any hint of stirrings from the monsters. But this time I had been taken by surprise. 

I had heard my name on the wind. I had heard the rustling and had seen the shifting of greenery over the other side of the water. It was somewhere on the path leading around the edge of the lake back to the house. I knew I needed to flee. I was never foolish enough to venture too far from the train. But always far enough from the house to hopefully be forgotten. 

But it doesn’t always work out that way.

Driven by self-preservation I crashed into the forest and headed for safety. 

I bound across the final patch of dirt, scurry over the empty rail track and on the other side of that, there lies the carriage. I have learned to bound up on the bottom step and clutch the rail without needing to stop. It saves time. As soon as I hit the metal step, I hustle up inside the embrace of the carriage and slam the door closed behind me. Slipping the lock across, I’m safe.

They won’t come in. They can’t come in.

I wipe some condensation from a window and look out. Under the canopy of the forest, it feels later into the evening than it is. The world can turn very dark, very quickly. A smile can turn into the ferocious gnashing of teeth in an instant. A loving embrace to a suffocating choke in the blink of an eye. 

There is a stillness, but I know that they are there. Probably skirting around the edges of the small clearing, waiting to see if I slip up somehow and leave a window open, or step outside thinking that they have gone. But I know better than that. I can hunker down here for as long as I need to. At least until the light of the new day.

I am waiting for them as much as they are waiting for me. They know that I’m in here as much as they know that I know that they are out there. There have been times when they have come close, have come right up to the windows and the steps of the carriage. I have cowered in the darkest corner of the carriage at times, listening to the relentless scratching on the side. I’ve even heard footsteps pounding across the roof.

I have heard breaths and growls at the air vents, rustling from underneath. I have heard the taunting, metronomic rapping at the windows. I have caught glimpses of dark movements outside. Have suffered through the shrill cries and penetrating screams of frustration. But they have never been inside here. I never understood why at first, as it would have been easy enough for them to break a window or to tear open a door and devour me. Truthfully I probably didn’t care why, as long as they stayed out there and me inside.

I’ve never actually seen them out there, as the monsters cleverly stay just out sight. It has always just been their sounds haunting me. It’s easy enough to differentiate the growls of a werewolf and the sound its claws dragging down the glass from tree branches knocking against a window. It’s easy enough to differentiate the cackles of witches from the calls of owls. 

I first found the train carriage a couple of years ago. It was when things were peaceful and I had no need for shelter. The carriage was just sitting there in the small clearing, with rusted old railway tracks extending off somewhere into the forest. The carriage was bigger on the inside than it appeared it should be, and there was creeping ivy that had pushed its way in. Other roots and shoots had worked their way in too, the metals and woods of the carriage unable to stop the force of nature’s will. Immediately I knew that this was a place for me. Day after day I returned, meticulously cleaning it out. Clearly no-else had known about this place. That made it safe for me.

But things don’t stay safe. I always kept going to the train by the same route. So eventually I wore a path through the forest, leaving a breadcrumb trail. That’s how they were able to find me here.

Fuelled by the initial excitement of the discovery, I sneaked blankets to the carriage, candles, books, magazines and I was even bold enough to sneak a box of matches away from home. The train carriage still had remnants of curtains hanging so I was able to shut out most of the world with them. It was a world that shifted mood on the flip of a coin. I attached a large blanket over two seats that were facing each other to make a little camp which I decorated with an old pillowcase stuffed with leaves.

I made one of the benches my library, filled with my collection of tattered and leftover National Geographic magazines from the library’s donation box. They still help to pass the time. In here I have a lot of time to think. To think of home. Usually, when I do it just makes me want to take the train further away.

I don't know where I’m going today. A few days ago I had to skip town and I went to Marrakech. I saw the place in a magazine. I liked the pictures, bold and wonderous. This place called Marrakech looked busy and vibrant with all of the people bustling around a market place. It looked like a place where I would never get bored, but at the same time where I could also get lost. Lost in the crowd. It was everything that I had imagined it would be when I got there. The smells, the noises. But I couldn’t stay for long there, because I got pushed and bumped around a lot. Nor could I understand a word when I was getting screamed at. On the train journey back I reminded myself never to go back there.

I need somewhere a little more peaceful than that today. I hear the cracking of a branch outside, a guttural growl. There may have been words mixed in. A curse, maybe. I just need to wait things out on the train. Waiting is something that is a blessing. It means that I have time. A lot of time to travel, a lot of time to explore. The monsters think that I’m trapped in here. I’m not. I’m on a train to anywhere. Except for home. For that to happen I need the monsters to get tired and to go to sleep. Once it starts getting light in the morning that will happen and then I can leave. 

I move to the front of the carriage where there is a door on the left. I crack it open and step inside. There is a seat, brass I think. I lifted the wooden lid of it once and looked inside. Some stale water and a disgusting odour were all that was there. I’ve never opened it again. A small corner sink doesn’t offer up any water, but that is not what I am here for. 

I need to see the Warrior.

It wasn’t until I had cleared out the carriage entirely and had set up camp to make the whole place a little more homely, that I had come in here for the first time. I had to pull weeds down from the mirror and I had spat on the glass scrubbing at the layers of dirt with my sleeve. I started bucketing water from the lake to speed the process until the small room was as clean as it was going to get.

When it was fully clean I had looked in the mirror expecting to see myself looking back. Instead, the Warrior was there. I ran and hid under a seat right at the other end of the carriage. I was expecting the burly man to come bursting out of the small room. I waited and waited, but he did not appear. I didn’t go back in that small room for a few days, but the fact that the Warrior never came out of it, at least put me at ease. He wasn’t one of them.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of me so I went back in there. The Warrior was there in the mirror, just looking patiently at me, waiting for me to speak. I could only manage to say hello and he had done likewise. He returned a nervous smile as well. 

Things got a little easier from there. 

Now he guards my secrets.

I stand up and take a deep breath. Even though I know what is coming, it still is such a strange feeling when you are expecting to see yourself, but you don’t. I step in front of the mirror and the Warrior is there, reliable and steadfast. He is a tall gladiator of a man, broad shoulders and muscled arms. He always wears the same leather vest and I see the familiar sight of the hilt of his sword poking out from behind his left shoulder.

“I think that the werewolf is out there tonight,” I say.

“Remember that the werewolf is never not there,” replies the Warrior, “he’s just hiding, pretending to be something else. You did well to not let your guard down.”

I nod in unison with him. I like the pride I feel from his words. From out of the mirror he stretches his hand. He has something for me. I take it. It’s a sacred gauntlet that he gave me when trust had been built. In my world, however, it cleverly disguises itself as an old shampoo bottle. I rattle it. Familiar sounds fill the room. 

This is my treasure. Everything that I’ve found in the carriage. Coins, a ring, old ticket stubs and a button. At least that is what they look like. The Warrior told me that everything has a greater purpose. A silver coin can blind a werewolf. Gemstones in rings harness different powers, and that the emerald in mine has enough force to stop a witch. Hold a button to my eye and I can see in the dark. Ticket stubs power the train to safe destinations. 

These are my greatest treasures. 

My secrets.

I bid farewell to the Warrior, clutching my goods. I stop to look out of the window. The forest is so pretty when the silvery moonlight creates shadows so deep and outlines unfamiliar shapes. The forest is there to be touched, there to be breathed in. I always get a little angry when I can’t leave the train and savour the sights and smells. But then I always tell myself it doesn’t matter because I have the train and this is a train to anywhere. 

The same world that is out there now in the restless dusk, is the same one that is there in the daytime. It’s just less frightening under the sun. All of the evils of the world thrive off the gloom and sleep in the day. I have been here before when the monsters just seem to throw a veil of blackness over the train, just moments after I have thrashed my way through the forest at the height of midday. 

It’s strange here.

If it’s the werewolf tonight, he is probably calling the coven of witches to come as I speak. It usually happens that way. If so, I will soon hear them hovering above the clearing, sweeping down and trying to unsettle me by brushing against the carriage’s roof. They will cackle and those sickening laughs will chill my blood. Again, it is just a matter of getting to daylight.

I go through the carriage lighting a few candles, just enough for me to light my way. I take a torn ticket stub out of the bottle and drop it into a small box hanging on the wall by the door. I watch it disappear satisfyingly through the small slit on the top. The box has glass in the front. It’s like a little mailbox only for tickets that will take me to wherever I want to go.

I stop and ponder for a moment. I need somewhere warm but isolated because maybe I will want to take a nap when I get there. The beach. I remember the picture of a small cove with towering cliffs of rock around it from one of the magazines. The captivating white sands swallowing a long-forgotten shipwreck. A crystal blue sea lapping at the shore but not a sole standing anywhere on that beach in the picture. 

It sounds perfect.

I sit in the conductor's chair next to the door, facing back into the carriage. I close my eyes and feel the rumble of the engine firing up. Puffs of great stream hiss around the outside of the carriage, a whistle blows and we are slowly off. I feel the momentum pulling me in the opposite direction to which I’m facing. I just need to stay seated for the ride, however long it takes. As long as it is taking me away, the time it takes to do so does not matter to me.

We rattle along on the tracks. Varying colours of light flash by outside of the windows. Sometimes there is just a whole lot of blackness, other times there are bright whites, blues, reds and greens. The trips always make me sleepy. The jaunty rocking of the carriage puts me in a trance. More often than not I nod off. A final whistle at my destination always allows me to awaken.

It wasn’t a particularly long journey this time. Excitedly I hop to my feet and yank open the door. I step down on the pristine white sand and kick off my shoes with glee. I run across the warmth of the tiny grains and make straight for the shipwreck. It’s a staggering piece of history and I wonder if the people who sailed it had just made it here safe or had been lost at sea. Had this been their train carriage? Their vessel that had guided them safely through stormy nights, challenges of pirates and away from the great beasts of the ocean’s depths?

This is easily one of the prettiest places that I have ever been to. The warmth of the sun just hugs me, but it’s more than that. It is a wholesome hug that touches every single part of my skin. It’s energizing and comforting at the same time. I sit down on the sand and grab a handful of it. I watch how long it takes for it all to filter back down to the ground. I repeatedly watch the time slip through my fingers. I have plenty of it. I can just relax here, my back against what is left of the wooden hull as I know that no monster is going to come creeping up behind me. 

In one of the handfuls of sand, a small seashell comes up. It’s in perfect shape, sandy and white and I feel a moment of glee. Treasure. I slip it into the shampoo bottle, knowing that the Warrior will know what to do with it. Maybe it expands into a super-strong shield when I need it. I don’t need it right now. All I need is some more sleep. The security releases all of the tension from my body. I close my eyes, fully settle in and listen to the mesmeric sounds of the ocean while the sun warms my skin. The train’s whistle will let me know when it’s time to leave.

I never really remember journeys back to the clearing. They are forgettable. There’s never an excitement in making a return trip, as the adventure is all in getting somewhere new or just getting away. Dawn is peering over the tops of the trees outside as I get back. The train eases to a soft, gentle stop. A quiet screech of metal, a slight jolt forward and it’s done. I know it’s safe now. The werewolf can’t be out in the sun. The witches can’t fly in the daytime. Spectres can’t be seen in the light.

Before getting off the carriage I pay a visit to the Warrior. I open the bottle first and take out the seashell and hold it up to the mirror between my thumb and forefinger. I go to drop it back in but instead keep it tight in my fist. I close the bottle and hand over the gauntlet with the rest of the treasures. The Warrior nods approvingly, chin high and jutted towards me. There is a knowing look in his green eyes. More pride perhaps.

I bid my farewell and head to the exit of the carriage. The air is crisp and fresh and there is a little morning dew hanging around. I know that I won’t need the shell’s powers, but I will keep it in my pocket just in case the protection of daylight ever fails me.