Timepieces

Train of Thought

Train of Thought was the first short story I ever wrote. I wanted to explore a genre more fulfilling and immersive than the novels I was so used to writing, and that enthusiasm is certainly evident in the intricate detail of this story, and the way the depth of its meaning is slowly revealed. For context, this story was written before The Unskillful Thaumaturge.

I

The world: a vast array of bubbles, pale, dark, vibrant, muted, every tone that has been imagined. The collective experience, some would say, the minds of many joined as one. Between the bubbles, flashes, quick as thought, concentrated near the center but sparse near the hazy edges, where fog has obscured the farthest bubbles, lost in time, recalled by none, and rendered inaccessible. Every once in a while, one of the flashes near the outside begins to slow down, degrading, poco a poco; it clanks its way between two distant bubbles, and we see a long, exquisitely detailed train, four, five, or six cars, sometimes even less. It slows, coming finally to a stop; it lifts off the tracks, thin as strands of spider silk, and floats gently into the haze surrounding this world.

If we were to look closer at the center, press rewind, half speed, we would see trains of all lengths darting between the bubbles, one to another, but only a few trains at each: four or five at the very most, larger numbers on remembrance days. Zoom out. Past the center, the one-car trains are lost, and the two-cars soon after, but much farther out. Most all double-cars stay within the range of daydreams, the sphere that bounds middle school, and the domain of gossip and chatter, but if we expand our viewing range once more, we can find an exception.

Zoom in.

II

Almost a throne, with a sizzling, crackling metal frame, wickedly sharp legs, a tall back; the arms, of cracked batons, puncture the sinister feel, aided greatly by the papering of the back and seat: a collage of sheet music, the most recently visited composers, Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Clementi, Prokofiev, Telemann.

The woman seated there has conducted many trains in her time, all beyond the reach of memory but for this one. She came into existence some years ago, with a new one-car train, lifting off all too quickly. As she was drawn into the haze, another train formed around her and her crew and darted back to the center. More trains, always more trains: but she loves the ones she has conducted, just like her crew. Her current train is quick and sharp and has a certain quality about it that makes the ride feel strangely disconnected, flitting around from bubble to bubble like a phantom hummingbird, always too fast to be aware of the motion at all. In the controls at the front of the train, she fusses endlessly over a myriad of hair-trigger levers and brightly colored buttons, a master of parenting, a pilot of thought.

Her engineer pores over his manual, a comprehensive directory of the endless circuitry and complex wiring of the train's nervous system, pushing his crooked glasses up his nose, leaning back in his own office chair of blueprints and copper wire, shouting instructions to the woman who fuels the train, in the very back. Shoveling souvenirs into the fire, stoking it with an iron rod until the chimney belches out the cloudy smoke of memories, she looks toward him, wondering how much he knows about her job, imagining him stoking the fire, pushing levers; she often fails, but thought experiments are her bread and water, and she knows the engineer could never take on another's job.

The train slows to a near stop inside a bubble of promises, vows of repentance, love, friendship floating through the air and covering the ground in a fine mist. The fueler reaches her arm out the door of the train as they pass, to catch a few, but she knows most will pass through her hand, intangible cottonwood seeds on a warm autumn evening.

-Don't waste time, be practical and get some leaves, the engineer commands, looking up temporarily from his manual. He seems to be completely indifferent to the conflict between his vision and vestibular sense, the root of motion sickness, as the train trundles on. The fueler leaps out of the train, dashing over to the side of the tracks to rip a few leaves from their stalks, then leaps, gazelle-like, along the tracks. The engineer sticks out an arm to help her back up into the train just as it passes through the thin membrane of the bubble. He holds her hand for a bit too long before releasing hurriedly on a sudden insight, raising his metal arm to the light to see if her fire has overheated it. She ignores his worry and turns to shovel the leaves into the fire. Anything that will provide food for thought must be sacrificed to the dancing flames, so that the train will stay in motion for a lifetime...

III

-The screens are broken, the conductor complains.

The engineer flips to a dog-eared section in the manual.

-No they aren't. Those screens can't break. Maybe that's just what the screen is showing, He points towards the flat gray display at the front of the train.

The conductor has pulled over to the dreamtracks inside a bubble stacked full of old typewriter keyboards of all sizes, from fist-size to the length of a five-car train. The train will not start and gives no intention of moving. This would be normal but for the blank faces of the stubborn screens, instilling worry and anxiety into the minds of the crew.

-Has that ever happened, she asks. Those kinds of things are not supposed to happen. Even when it's following another train. And you know if it were following itself it would be outside of a bubble.

-No, it's never happened. Have you ever broken that seat?

-What does that have to do with anything, the fueler complains from the back.

-Are you doing your job, the engineer snaps back.

-Of course, it's not my fault the train isn't working, suddenly realizing what she has said, clapping a blazing hand to her mouth, where saliva nearly extinguishes it.

-Do you think it's, the engineer hesitates, not needing to finish his sentence.

-No, of course not, the conductor dismisses immediately. It can't be. Those kinds of things happen outside bubbles. Look around you. Ivory clicks together as she drums the arm of her seat to the rhythm of a beginner's piano sonata. A hint of worry escapes to the surface of her skin, where it traces thin lines, like naughty children sledding down a set of landscaped, snow-covered hills.

After half an hour of blank screens, a waning fire, and a strange hum emanating from the very back of the train, the conductor takes matters into her own ivory hands, climbing out of her train for the first time in five years.

Immediately, the train starts, a puff of smoke climbing into the air, but it doesn't move. The conductor jumps from V to C, both letters fully as tall as she is, to inspect the front of the train. No sooner has she moved than the train slides forward by the same amount.

-It's following me, she shouts into the train, for the benefit of her crew. I don't understand why.

-It's following you because you are the destination, the fueler cries back, it follows you like it would follow another train-

With no warning, the train begins moving again, and the conductor leaps across the keyboard to catch up. Vcxz, the typewriter prints out. She manages to seize the paper at one corner and tear a large piece of it off for the fueler; the engineer sticks his arm out to help, catching the rough edge of the paper and ripping it neatly with his wire fingers. The conductor makes one last leap and catches the very back of the train just as it exits the bubble.

She climbs around the side and drags herself into the empty second car, hitting the floor with a sigh. Scooting over to the connection between the two cars, she manages to enter the front car, squeezing past the relieved fueler and the annoyed engineer, back into her sheet-music throne, her button-studded home.