The Island's Swansong

II - First Contact

"Thank goodness," Rosie sighed, "Seems like they've got their just desserts."

"Yes. Stafford, Whiff and Emily are at the National Railway Museum. Stephen is currently on tour, Fergus is in preservation."

"It's so wonderful they managed to get away," Rosie beamed, "It would be wonderful to talk to any of them again about their new lives."

My smile vanished from my face. She instantly noticed. "What's wrong?"

"They survive, but they can no longer talk," the words clawed out of my throat. A harsh truth. Maybe a meaningful lie would've been better. "The island curse is real. If you leave, your face, sentience, disappears. The television show omitted that fact to keep going, as did some later books. It was reduced to a mere rumour."

"Oh," Rosie's lip began to tremble, "So salvation was never real..."

I had no words. I felt like I'd broken the poor engine's smokebox, coming in with a glimmer of light, only to shatter any hope or reprieve I'd inspired. Perhaps it was best to leave Sodor to memory. I could easily be home by tomorrow, but I'd already come this far. This first contact would stay with me forever, I may as well see the mission through.

"Don't worry about upsetting me," Rosie interpreted the silence, "I'd rather the honest truth than more lies to chew over for... however long I have left in this shed."

Again I hesitated into silence for longer than I felt comfortable. That task of accepting fate, mortality. It wasn't something I could advise on, or even understand myself. The thought alone of being in that position frightened me.

"Tell me a little about you," Rosie changed the subject, "Why did you come to Sodor? Most other people have forgotten about it."

"Well," I put my notepad to one side, "I grew up reading about Sodor. It was in my books, on TV, toys of the engines lined the shopping aisles. The world was so immersive, wonderful. It's followed me through life into adulthood. It's inspired me to write stories, helped me make friends in far away places. So I just had to come and see it for myself."

"So you're a writer?" Rosie asked.

"By night. I have a day job to pay the bills. I like exploring, particularly deserted places. They make for great inspiration."

"Are you going to write about what you find here?"

"Maybe," I paused, thinking about it seriously. I was here to serve my own personal curiosities first and foremost. "It may not be a happy story or a happy ending. I don't know if people would want to read it."

"You won't know until you put it out there," Rosie answered.

The drowsiness began to hit me. "I'll sleep on that." I had walked a long way, carrying heavy loads. The fact I hadn't complained cracked a childish smirk across my face. I'd persevered, like a really useful engine...

"What's so funny?" Rosie looked puzzled.

"Nothing," I shook my head. Somehow I was still awake, even though the moon and stars glittered through the gaps in the roof.

"I'll let you get some rest," Rosie said, "It's been nice having some company."

"We can talk a bit more in the morning," I smiled, cocooning myself in the sleeping bag, "Goodnight."

The wave of tiredness continued to creep over me as I laid down, rolling over with eyes forced shut. The wonders of Sodor would resume in the morning.

I awoke as soon as the sun was up. Rosie was still sleeping, huge eyes shut, so I went about sorting breakfast. She awoke shortly after I'd finished eating. "How did you sleep?"

"As well as one can on sleeping bags and sleepers. They didn't really live up to their name," I rubbed my back.

"What do you plan to do today?" she looked down as I unfolded my giant map of Sodor, a photocopy of a freebie from the back of a special edition book long out of print before even the book series came to an end. "I think I'll start by heading down the Norramby line to the fishing village," I explained, "If anyone is still here and nearby, they'll be living there, off the sea. Failing that, I'll cut across to the mainline and follow that West."

"What will you do after that?"

"I'll make my way towards Knapford, perhaps via Brendam. The docks may hold some clues, particularly if there was a big rush off the island after whatever happened to the railways. But Knapford is the endgame. If Sir Topham was selling off engines, there'll be lists, receipts and other information in his office. I can use that to piece together what happened, though I'd really like to find more engines, and people, along the way."

"That sounds like a lot of travelling, on foot as well," Rosie blinked.

"If I find a working car, that'll make things a lot easier, but it's unlikely."

"Well, I wish you the best of luck," Rosie's voice leaked disappointment, "I hope you find what you're looking for."

Part of me didn't want to leave her. All alone in the shed, it was a wonder she had any grasp of sanity left. But then again, who knew what happened to engines left like this, except the inevitable.

I gathered my belongings, the pack feeling marginally lighter than yesterday. I departed, leaving Rosie to her eternal peace. If time, rations and the trip permitted, I could stop by on my way back to the mainland. But for the moment my focus remained forward.

I found my way back to the junction. The map indicated roads heading South West towards Ballahoo, but I wanted to follow the main line to gauge the condition of the tracks themselves. Ballast crumpled underfoot like an oversized gravel path, punctuated by silence when my steps occasionally fell on the wooden sleepers. A handful snapped under my weight, rotting after years of neglect, but most held firm, not yet reaching that point of decay. Shrubbery and weeds cropped up at random. There had been no treatment of the line for some time. Some plants, particularly horsetails, reached up to waist height.

I soon approached a Wye junction colonised by greenery. The remains of a billboard stood to one side, the cab and wheels of what had been a picture of a diesel all that remained of what it had advertised.

Vicarstown Dieselworks was nearby.

An idea sparked in my mind. If there was any fuel left on Sodor that might power a car, it would be there. Mid-morning was closing in, but there was time to take a detour. I could stop over in Norramby for the night.

Two tracks led up to the Dieselworks gates. The depot differed heavily from what had featured in the animated show. The architecture and track layouts were much more in line with what I'd come to expect from book illustrations of Sodor. The show's grid of crisscrossing tracks was absent. Instead there were parallel tracks joined in places by points, all sat in a bed of ballast. The sheds at the end of the lines were shuttered, but the buildings were constructed of red brick with slate roofs. A siding peeled off to the right, leading to what would be the refuelling station. A tinge of diesel oil still lingered in the air, perhaps an engine or two remained as well. Drawn in by the possibility, I approached the shed less stealthily than I had the roundhouse.

Most of the shutters were rolled down, bolted to the floor by padlocks. One birth on the far right remained half-open. Slipping my pack off, I bent under it, climbing inside almost darkness itself. I switched on my torch, conscious about the batteries in it now, and gave a quick sweep of the interior. There was an engine at the far end, in the far left berth, but not one that I recognised. It certainly had never appeared on page or screen to my knowledge. The chill of the unknown wrapped its bony fingers round my spine.