The Island's Swansong

VIII - Legends of the Hills

"I'm not an engineer hobbyist," I quelled their optimism, "Just an urban explorer. I wanted to see what became of Sodor, to figure out what might have happened here."

"Oh," Peter Sam's mouth and eyes dropped, "I guess its not been long enough. Mud hasn't buried our shed yet. Now I know how Granpuff must've felt for all those years."

"Rotten and forgotten," Sir Handel mumbled, "Sleeping most certainly doesn't pass the time."

"All's not lost," I did my best to reassure, though I'd already trampled their dreams, "There were many a child who loved the stories of the little engines. Your steam roller wheels, Peter Sam's special funnel. Old Faithful Skarloey, Gallant Old Rheneas and Duke the Bulldog. Even Duncan the Rock'n'Roll star! Then there's the stories you told each other-"

"Fat lot of good that's done us," Sir Handel grumped.

"It's true!" I sat on an old oil drum, "The Old Iron Bridge, Proteus and his magic lamp, The Man in the Hills, The Old Warrior... Your folk legends have captivated so many!"

"But that's just one legend," Peter Sam raised an eyebrow, "Except Bertram. The Old Warrior was here and gone as if never there. I can't recall any other stories."

"Wait," I blinked, "They were all the same story? The show used them as three separate tales."

"The show also kept us in our old coats of paint!" Sir Handel piped up, "Peter Sam's right. There's only the one legend."

My heart somersaulted. Never in my wildest expectations had I expected such a revelation. A narrow-gauge tale never told in its entirety, and I was the only person around who would hear it. "How does it all link together?" I drew out my notepad and pen.

"Well," Peter Sam began...

"The Old Iron Bridge has stood on the island ever since railways first snaked their way into the hills. The first engines to work along its line were Granpuff, Proteus and Stanley, who's reckless demeanour often led to him smudging up his tasks, earning him the nickname 'Smudger'. Granpuff ran the passenger trains, while Proteus and Smudger handled shunting and quarry duties.

One misty, moonlit night, Proteus was on his way back from the quarry after a late shift. He worked the latest out of all the engines because of his bright lamp, so bright you could see it from miles around. He joked it was magical and could grant the wishes of the engine who wore it. Confidence in hand, Proteus was returning home on that fateful night. As he crossed the Old Iron Bridge, a rail, buckled by the warm summer sun, had come loose as it cooled. Proteus derailed, losing control, and plunged over the sides into the swamps below. The fireman was thrown clear, landing in some reeds, but Proteus and his driver were never found. The swamp waters were too thick and murky for boats or cranes to search. But workmen chattered that when the moon was full, they could see Proteus crossing the bridge, but he never made it to the other side.

"One particularly hot summer, the swamps dried up. Curious railway workers went to see what had been uncovered. There was no sign of an engine, only a lamp recognised as belonging to Proteus. It was gifted to the family of his driver, who kept it in the window of the driver's bedroom, facing out so it could shine its light out onto the narrow-gauge line that passed by their house. From that day on, sightings of a yellow engine with a bright lamp began appearing up and down the line, not just on the bridge. People and engines who passed the house often felt a gust of wind, like an engine rushing past, along with creaking of rails, like an engine was passing by. Some even swore they saw the lamp in the window, flickering on and off, off and on, by itself.

"At the same time, sightings of the Man in the Hills began. He was said to be a very tall man, dressed all in white, and no one has ever found him. Some said he was the ghost of Proteus' lost driver. A guardian, or guide, who helped engines and hikers, preventing them from getting lost up in the mountains, and avoid dangers in the dark such as the one that befell him and his engine on that tragic night. He would leave a white outline on rocks and hillsides showing the lost which way to walk or turn. Many speculative folk thought he came from the lamp at night, and returned there during the day."