The lake was blue. It was very blue, as if someone had plucked the purest sapphire from the deepest mine in Australia and carefully placed it into the place where the Skarloey lake was meant to be. It shimmered in the sun, barely a single ripple in the surface to betray the mirror that the lake seemed to pretend to be. It was gorgeous, and yet Duke couldn’t help but avert his eyes.
Rheneas liked gazing out towards the lake. He claimed it healed something within himself, that it made him feel at harmony with the world. It was one of his favourite topics, when he got the chance to get a word in edgeways in between Duncan’s complaining and Peter Sam’s chirpiness. Rheneas seemed to think it was the water, as if it had bubbled up from the earth’s core purely to soothe his soul and bring peace and serenity to the world around it. And sure, it had done just that – Skarloey Lake was surrounded by the lushest greenery on Sodor, thick oaks and vibrant flowers blanketed the banks of the lake where humans hadn’t cut them away to dot their resorts and villages along its coastline. The lake was their lifeblood, it’s waters a siren luring tourists and locals alike up to gaze upon it.
And yet, Duke could barely look upon the lake without feeling like spitting out all his coals. He knew there was something wrong with that – something truly wrong with a steam engine disliking water. It singled him out in a way that just… wasn’t normal. At least the lake was crystal blue or aqua green, depending on the season. Such colours were bold, natural.
It was the inky blackness of the lake at night that made Duke feel truly ill. The darkness of the water, the way that it rippled just enough to remind him of that day. Duke would do whatever job was asked of him, of course, but he tried his absolute best to avoid being out past dusk. This worked out well for him – he got the morning train, when the rising sun would blind him and made it impossible to see the lake for the glare reflecting off it – and in return he was back before the sun had dipped beyond the horizon.
It wasn’t the lake itself that was the problem, no. It was the water. Duke was fine with winding rivers and rushing rapids – the Rheneas Waterfall was really quite beautiful when Duke saw it – but when water was still, it was wrong. It was uncomfortable, it drew memories up from deep under the surface, ripping them out from where they’d been shoved deep down between his boiler tubes and taking everything with them. Duke knew he needed water to run – he was not like Henry, with such an intense phobia that it blinded him from his duties like the rain blinded engines when they were forced to run in it. He was merely… uncomfortable with it.
A new boat was unveiled on the lake. It was a bright, eye-catching red. Duke instantly hated it – red and water did not mix well within his mind. Nothing good came of the two mixing. Red-painted metal was not meant to touch water, not meant to come into contact with the very substance that would corrode it into nothingness. Water was a powerful force, after all. It rusted and it eroded. It pulled entire embankments down when it so desired; it flooded the valleys and left people with nothing left but broken dreams and sodden houses.
It left Duke with nothing.
The boat was shiny – it was not quite the same colour as James, or even any of the other Skarloey Railway engines. It’s red was entirely different, in a way none of the others recognised. Of course Duke was the only one to make the connection, he was the only one who could have ever known. No one else was alive who could say the same thing, they’d all been buried deep under the earth or torn to pieces by scrappers long, long ago. Duke was the only one left, the only one cursed to bear the burden of knowing, of caring.
Peter Sam and Sir Handel liked the boat way too much. Said it was oddly familiar, in a way they just couldn’t quite place their buffers on. Duke hoped they would never remember – not that they would be able to, he had only really been a story and a small hole in a brick wall to them. They’d not been witness to any of the truth, not been around for what really happened. At one point, Peter Sam almost found out, but Duke had been able to redirect him, protect his young puffling from the ugliness of reality. Sure, Peter Sam had suffered in his life – but at least the images that haunted Duke’s nightmares were confined to him alone. Peter Sam could be free, could live his life without ever knowing.
They all could.
Only Duke remembered.
Only Duke knew.
The red boat was not as waterproof as its owners had intended. When the autumn storms rolled through the mountains, thunderclouds beating their chests and hurling rain and lightning down upon the railway and all it served, the rain got into the red boat. It hadn’t been roped to its jetty properly, and one evening it got loose, floating out into the lake as rain pounded it from all sides, tearing at it and trying to find a weak point.
Duke had been the one to find it, on his early morning train. It had capsized, revealing its hull as it smashed against the craggy rocks and sunk until only a small chunk remained visible. Duke had gone as white as a sheet, his eyes far away from the scene of destruction.
They’d had to hoist the red boat out with a crane. By then, the water had begun its natural process, ripping into the boat and rusting anything not waterproofed properly. It happened so fast, aided by the unnatural number of contaminants in the water from the harsh rains. Or maybe they were only seen by Duke, who wasn’t really seeing the red boat at all, but rather something else far, far away and a good fifty years ago. It was placed in the back of the yards, awaiting some unknown order to repair or dispose of it. Duke could only spare sympathy for the poor pleasure craft – the water had done it in.
Water was all too cruel.
The rains left great muddy puddles everywhere; Duke begged off mine duty, desperate to avoid the murky, dirty waters of the mine.
Desperate to avoid the memories.
Duke managed to get his way, taking trains anywhere but the mine. He did the army-camp trains, leaving loaded vans at the entrance to the formerly abandoned slate quarry and picking up empty ones in their place. One time, he was even directed into the slate quarry when the little WD ‘Beetle’ broke down, steaming into a military camp and being oh so thankful for the huge tarps that were strategically hung to keep as much of the camp as possible dry, directing the rain to distant, out of sight drains.
Duke had never been allowed back inside that camp though, not that he wanted to after he spotted an old steam boiler in the corner of his eye and been punched out of his own mind and into memories he was trying to avoid.
Still, the rains continued. The red boat was taken away, and never returned. Scrapped, or so Skarloey said. Peter Sam held out hope for its return, the optimist he was. Duke couldn’t find it in himself to do the same. Not when the red boat had been in such a sorry state, great gashes torn in it by the rocks and creeping rust beginning to form on its interior, now open to the world due to the way it had been tossed around and ripped apart.
Not when it was too similar to before.
The trains ground to a halt, tourists not wanting to venture far from their hotels and the mine not wanting to attempt any major work in the dangerously wet conditions. The entire railway slowed to only its most essential services, and only the fewest engines possible were called upon to handle the work. Duke was one of them, a fact he privately was thankful for – he couldn’t stand being inside the shed for too long, not when it would only ever remind him of those years spent underground, unable to see the outside world, confined to the darkness without even a hope or a prayer of rescue.
Instead, Duke handled the bulk of traffic along the Skarloey Railway’s ‘main line’ while Rusty handled trackwork and Ivo Hugh the few trains needed at the mine – mostly made of equipment runs and hauling away what amount of the rock had been dug out. It was not much, and Ivo Hugh got enough time in between his runs to help Duke out. Sandbags were supplied to the villages in danger of flooding – not that Duke thought they would. Duke knew flooding, and these were not the right conditions.
And Duke was right. The weather cleared up right before the river could burst its banks, leaving the valley to breathe a collective sigh of relief even as Duke kept his eyes determinedly on the way forwards.
The intervention of the rain had distracted Duke from the time of year, and by the time he remembered, it was already too late.
Duke started seeing him everywhere, in flashes of red that ensnared Duke’s attention and drew him in like a moth to the flame. Duke hated it. Duke hated the rain. Duke hated water. Duke hated knowing the truth and never being able to repeat it. Duke felt his boiler tighten with stress, the steel contracting even as his fire tried vainly to warm him through.
It was a losing battle.
And then finally, Duke simmered over. It was that day, after all. It was fifty years exactly. Duke said nothing as the day progressed, leaving the other engines worried for his health. And then he volunteered to pull the last freight of the day; a line of empty trucks for the mine. The others all were stunned. They couldn’t even find a way to voice their shock – or perhaps that was Duke being unable to hear them. He couldn’t hear anything over the scream that had rattled in his smokebox for fifty years, anything over the words that had haunted him since they’d been uttered.
The trip up was quiet. The afternoon was cooling into night, and the trees had only just finished having all their leaves turn brown and red. Within the week, they’d be barren – but for now it was a festival of colour that broke up the traditionally green landscape. The river babbled along by the line on one side while a few cars rumbled by on the other, racing to get home for the end of the day. Only Duke seemed to know what day it was. Only Duke seemed to care what day it was.
Then again, only Duke knew what happened. Only Duke every truly saw it.
Duke slowed to a stop at the mine, shunting away the trucks. Dirty pools of water littered the lineside, him reflected in each. Of course he was – dirty water was what took him in the end. Duke waited until his driver had gone inside to log their arrival before creeping forwards to the beginning of the mine itself.
There were two entrances to this mine: one was a large vertical shaft with elevator that hurtled down deep into the earth, while the other was a long, twisting tunnel dating back centuries. The tunnel was just slightly too small to fit Duke, but the perfect size to push long lines of trucks in. Once upon a time, horses would have hauled the trucks from deep in the mines, but now a conveyer belt ferried everything up to the surface elsewhere.
Duke gazed down the tunnel, and sighed. Fifty years truly did go by fast, and it was everything he could do not to cry.
“I’m… sorry. Stanley.”
***
Once upon a time, there was a little engine named after His Grace, the Duke of Sodor. The little engine worked hard, and kept his little railway in order – but it was clear to all he needed help.
The engine they brought was named Stanley, not that many used his name. To the manager and his crew, he was simply “Number Two”, a rough-riding scoundrel of an engine who never really did anything but derail. Stanley and Duke knew better – they knew something had gone wrong when Stanley had been regauged to work on the little line.
Despite their worries and pleas, nothing was done and Stanley’s condition deteriorated. Crashes and derailments became more common, and Stanley lashed out at Duke in frustration. He hadn’t meant to – goodness, even Duke knew that! But the manager didn’t, and he didn’t care. To him, Stanley had simply been a nuisance who needed to be dealt with. And when Duke tried to keep them from selling Stanley off, they got creative.
Stanley was locked away behind the shed as a pumping engine, Duke spent a year without a new coat of paint – and then the old engine had a pair of new younglings dumped on him. They were so young, and so eager, and so good, but Duke feared for them. He feared what would happen if they too acted like Stanley or even showed a hint of being incapable.
So he went to Stanley, and the pair made up their story.
It worked – Stuart and Falcon behaved impeccably, and all was peaceful on the little railway. Duke and Stanley breathed a sigh of relief, and life settled into place. Sometimes, when the young engines slept, Duke would creep around the back to spend time chatting with his less fortunate friend. He did his best to hide these visits, both Duke and Stanley afraid of what wrath the manager would bring on them if he discovered that they were fraternising.
And for a time, all seemed well. But fate is not that kind.
The pair were discovered one evening during the war, when the manager came out late one evening to warn them of the increasing workload. His punishment was swift and harsh – he made Duke unearth Stanley in the middle of the night and cart him down the line to the biggest mine on the little railway, where they needed a new pumping engine to look after the water in the deepest parts of the mine.
Duke was forced to watch as Stanley was lowered down, down, deep into the mine where he would be run forever more.
Time continued on. The new pumping engine helped the mine reach a new vein deep underground – however to do so they had to constantly pump away a ruptured spring which gushed water constantly. The river the railway ran alongside grew weaker above where the mine’s outflow pipe dumped gallons of water into its rapids; Duke feared that the spring the miners had hit was really the source of the river, though he was unable to voice his concerns.
Duke would never forget his friend, buried alive in the deepest depths of the mine and unable to call for help. The manager made sure of it too – he put Duke on all the trains heading up to the mine, no matter how busy his schedule was. Duke took it all on without complaint – he could see the direction the wind was blowing. When His Grace returned from the war, Duke would plead his case, try and rescue Stanley and the two young engines he’d come to see as his own and make a run for it – maybe get His Grace to transfer them as far from the little railway and its sadistic manager as possible.
Life was not fair though.
It was a cold morning when Duke arrived to chaos.
“There’s something wrong with the pumping engine!” bellowed a miner, sprinting across the yard. “It’s gonna blow!” Then came the scream. It was guttural, full of agony and completely unlike anything Duke had ever been forced to hear before. It echoed through the mine, stunning the men into silence. A thick cloud of smoke belched out of the tunnels all at once, followed by miners running for their lives while hacking and coughing.
The smoke was blown away by the wind, and Duke peered into the mine. He wanted to venture in, to try and find his friend and save him from what he knew to be coming next.
The water that Stanley had been dutifully pumping flooded the mine in a great gushing wave. It’s force caused the entire yard to tremble, and Duke was forced away from the entrance to the mine in fear of it all collapsing. Duke watched on in horror as the mine flooded right the way to the top, the second pumping machine breaking under the strain. Dirty, sludge-filled water began to trickle out of the mine’s entrances, revealing tools, equipment… and one dirty, grime-ridden nameplate.
Stanley’s nameplate.
Duke felt a sob break free. He couldn’t let his youngsters see this. He couldn’t let them see the damage, see what had become of Stanley.
But worse was to come.
Two weeks later, the water level dropped, the spring flushing back out into the river and draining out of the mine. Duke brought a flatbed up, confused.
“Sir? What’s this for?” he asked the manager carefully. The manager didn’t answer. Instead, he simply nodded to several miners. A large crane winch was lowered into the mine, and attached to something.
The crane heaved with all its might, and the something was lifted up into the dusk light. It was what remained of Stanley. His dusty red paint had been washed clean by the surging water – but that same water had also rusted poor Stanley right through. And then Duke saw it. Stanley’s firebox had been blown clean off when he’d broken down, pipes mangled and sticking up at jarring angles. Poor Stanley’s boiler had exploded from the pressure, the dome flying off and his firebox blowing out. He’d been in agony, and then the water had come rushing in.
The water had drowned him slowly, then rusted away at what had been left.
Duke was forced to drag Stanley’s remains to a scrap merchant’s barge at the harbour; thankfully neither Stuart nor Falcon saw him. He wouldn’t have been able to survive them seeing his face twisted in pure sorrow, sobbing as he brought Stanley’s remains to the harbour and watched as they were taken away.
Duke was never quite the same since. He’d been even more protective of those he had left, running himself into the ground for Stuart and Falcon. He’d watched them get sold off, then watched as the world was reduced to a small shed and nothing more.
Stanley never got the recognition he deserved, the manager saw to that. He embellished the story Duke had told Stuart and Falcon and ensured the Reverend heard it. Stanley’s name was forever tarnished, and Duke was left with the guilt.
Duke wasn’t sure if he would ever stop seeing Stanley’s twisted remains and haunted expression gazing up at him from in the water.
"So..." Lexi said, polishing Skarloey's funnel with a rag. "How long did it take you guys to fall out after Rheneas arrived on the Island?"
"Do stop fussing, child!" complained Skarloey. Lexi ignored him and turned to Rheneas.
"Care to enlighten me, Rheneas?"
"Oh, I hadn't been on the Island ten minutes before my brother and I fell out." Rheneas replied.
"What did you two even fight about?" Lexi asked, aghast. "My brothers are a pain, but I rarely fall out with them that quickly!"
Rheneas raised an eyebrow.
"OK, I lied! We argue after getting home from school, or when one of us gets back from something else." Lexi protested. "But you hadn't seen each other for what, a year? And you both fall out in ten minutes? Impressive. What did you even fight about?"
...
*Over 160 years earlier*
Skarloey was waiting for his brother to be unloaded from Neil's flatbed. "Ah, hello! How was your journey?" He called out to his brother.
He hadn't remembered this, but Rheneas had a sombre, thoughtful expression on his smokebox, which did not bode well for the eager, excitable Skarloey.
"It was... pretty uneventful. But I was left on the ship's derricks for ages." Said Rheneas, disgruntled at the memory.
"Same, but I was hanging upside down when I arrived." Skarlley replied, shuddering at the memory.
"So I heard." Rheneas looked over at Neil, who smiled warmly at Skarloey. Skarloey blushed and quickly glanced back at his brother.
"I thought I'd fall off on top of poor Neil."
"Yes, poor Neil indeed! I couldn't beat the thought of my dear friend being crushed by your fat bunker."
"Excuse me?! Need I remind you that you're the saddletank, not me!" Rheneas took a deep breath, and smiled at Neil. "Sorry about this."
"Its fine," smiled Neil. "I'm used to sibling arguments, I do have brothers myself." He winked, and with a blow of his whistle, trundled away.
"Thanks for the lift!" Rheneas called, and looked over to see his brother scowling at him.
...
"Needless to say," Skarloey admitted. "I had some choice names for Rheneas before long."
"Mostly the vulgar names he himself earned when he refused to steam on his first week." Added Rheneas.
"Naughty!" Lexi chortled, using her rag to tickle Skarloey's nose.
Skarloey wrinkled his nose in disgust, and Rheneas just chortled.
Just a bit (a lot) of re-imagining of the finer details of Duke's rescue and the episode Sleeping Beauty. I haven't exactly posted my writing publicly before so don't expect stellar content lol. I also took some liberties between the tv series and RWS canon, but most of the inspiration is from the tv series. Also crediting @/ryan1014n2 for the aluminum works HC for Stuart and Falcon!
“...and that’s why they call you a hotbox!”
“Hotbox?! At least I’m not the one with steamroller wheels!”
Rheneas watched the two new engines bicker with amusement as he waited for his own departure, passengers still slowly filing into the coaches attached to his back buffers. The two new engines, Sir Handel and Peter Sam were double-heading a heavy freight train, passing by the station slowly.
“Steamroller! Wait until Duke hears about this one!”
Sir Handel proclaimed, and the bickering had all but stopped. Rheneas couldn’t see the expression on either engine, they had already passed the station by then, and were speeding along the line once more.
A familiar whistle sounded across the platform, Rheneas whistled back as Skarloey pulled into the station.
“Rheneas! How does it feel to be back on the line?”
“Just wonderful, is that even a question? I was so glad to finally get overhauled, but I’m even more grateful to be back.”
The two old engines shared a laugh, before settling into the buzz of the busy station. Tidbits of the earlier conversation between the two new engines resurfaced in Rheneas’ mind.
“Say, Skarloey. You know that Duke person that Sir Handel and Peter Sam bring up? Who are they?”
The red engine froze, before returning Rheneas’ gaze, a hint of bitterness in his eyes.
“Duke is…an engine. He was on the old railway that Sir Handel and Peter Sam used to run. It closed after some time and…they couldn’t find Duke a new home.”
Rheneas felt dread pool at the bottom of his boiler.
“Was he…”
“Oh, no, they didn’t scrap him. They just…sheeted him. But who knows what happened to the poor old engine?”
Rheneas opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of guard’s whistle kept the words on his tongue. Pursing his lips, Rheneas simply whistled back as he pulled out of the station, left to ponder about this mysterious engine’s fate.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Several years had passed since their conversation, and Rheneas would have forgotten, if he didn’t hear passing mentions of Duke whenever the two new engines were around.
No, calling them new would imply they were strangers, Peter Sam and Sir Handel had far outgrown that title.
Sometimes, when the rain was heavy and the trees rustled against the brick of their sheds, the two engines would recount tales on their old railway. It was from these stories that Rheneas and Skarloey would learn more about the mysterious engine named Duke.
Duke, or as Sir Handel and Peter Sam liked to call him, Granpuff, was the old faithful of their old railway the Mid-Sodor. When they were still called Stuart and Falcon, Duke was the one to keep them in check and out of trouble. They talked of the time that Duke gallantly pulled Sir Handel back up the mountain, or the time Duke humbled Peter Sam by roaring loudly on the mountain as though he were the one with a packed passenger train and an engine pulling on his coupling. The two told of many stories, some more savoury than the others, but not once had they spoken Duke’s name without love.
And, as Rheneas would later recognize in their voice, grief.
One day, after returning to the sheds for the night, with Skarloey being the only other engine present, Sir Topham Hatt approached Rheneas and Skarloey along with a group of men holding rolls of paper and small suitcases.
“Starting from tomorrow,” announced Sir Topham Hatt, “I’d like the two of you to assist in a special job,” and he quietly explained to the two old engines the visitors’ proposal.
“They want to find Duke!” Skarloey exclaimed as the men left with the Fat Controller, “Goodness! Wait until Sir Handel and Peter Sam hear about this, they’ll be ecstatic!”
But Rheneas shushed his brother, “Best keep it a secret until we actually do find him,” he replied, “It would be such a letdown for them if we build up all this hope only to end up finding nothing.”
And so, the two engines and their crew agreed to keep this operation a secret. In the following days, either Rheneas or Skarloey would take the visitors and some workmen into the faraway mountains, going through old tunnels and over high bridges, trying to find the old shed that still housed the lost Duke. Every day, they would go deeper and deeper into the hills, and with each day their hope dwindled, but the search carried on, the crew refusing to give up.
Skarloey waited on the old rails, watching as the search crew climbed further and further into the old station, looking like ants as they scrambled over the overgrown ruins. Bored, Skarloey observed the mountains around him.
From the moss-covered tracks to the rusted barrels and rotting wooden crates that strewn about the grounds paved with gravel, Skarloey’s gaze trailed to the empty decaying shed, the first thing they had found upon arriving. Pieces of the roof had broken off and fallen onto the ground, the glass on the windows cracked and filled with holes, and vegetation ate away at the bricks and wood that still struggled to keep the shed intact.
Skarloey’s observations were interrupted by the sound of a distant crash. Returning his attention to the search crew, they were rushing towards the top of a particularly shallow cliff. Skarloey squinted his eyes. Was that…smoke?
The men crowded around the clouds of dust, and Skarloey was too far away to hear their conversations, but soon cheers and laughter erupted from the crew.
“We found him! We found our sleeping beauty!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Skarloey and Rheneas waited patiently as the crew secured the old engine to the flatbed, chains pulling over the engine’s dusty, worn brown paint. Some of the men discussed among themselves what to do with the decade-old coal that still remained in the old engine’s little tender, but neither Skarloey nor Rheneas caught the end of that conversation as their crew prepared for departure.
Rolling along the old track, Skarloey was coupled up to the flatbed, curiously observing the old engine they had just rescued. Duke’s eyes were wide and filled with glee as he watched the mountains pass. Soon, the old engine’s gaze landed on Skarloey.
“Oh? Hello there, I don’t believe we’ve met before,” Duke inquired of Skarloey.
“No, we haven’t. But I’ve heard a lot about you,” Skarloey replied, and the two began chatting, with Rheneas soon joining in from behind. They talked of the stories that Peter sam and Sir Handel would tell, now hearing Duke’s perspective as well, chuckling over how the two had been such cheeky engines in their youth.
“Really now? Seems like Peter Sam hasn’t changed a bit!” Rheneas retorted, and the three laughed once again, though a sadness settled in Duke’s tired eyes.
“Peter Sam, is it? Everything does change, I suppose.” The old engine murmured solemnly.
“Perhaps, but I’d say the joy I hear in their voices when they told your stories was all genuine, and so was the sadness they'd tried to hide,” Skarloey said in return.
Duke contemplated Skarloey’s words in silence as they passed over the viaduct. With his gaze trained on the ravine below, Duke smiled tenderly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sir Handel bit back a retort, imagining all the ways he would one-up Peter Sam once given the chance. As he waited for his coaches to be uncoupled, Skarloey rolled into the station, strangely muddy for a day at the quarry and barely contained excitement.
“Hello Skarloey, what’s got you all excited?” quizzed Sir Handel.
“Oh, has the Fat Controller not told you yet? There’s a surprise waiting for you and Peter Sam at the sheds!”
“Surprise? How nice of him! What is it?” Peter Sam replied.
“Well, I’m not one to spoil surprises, but there’s someone you’ve been longing to see, just as he’d been longing to see you again.”
…huh?
“You mean…Duke?”
Skarloey’s grin widened. Next to him, Peter Sam bounced about on his tracks, shaking with joy, but Sir Handel remained frozen on his spot, disbelief still rampant in his mind. Distantly, he could hear his driver’s comments about his fire going on and off, unstable and incapable of producing good steam. Skarloey spoke again, but his words faded into a buzz, settling into the background with the rest of the bustling passengers at the station.
…
Glimpses of the mountain cliffs flashed through his mind, the pull of gravity on his buffers and the drafts of wind from the bottom of the mountain, the sheer cry of the eagle that pierced through the screeching and humming of his Granpuff’s wheels as he pulled and pulled against the tracks. Then, the comfort of the ground, of being pushed back to the station, standing safely next to his Granpuff as he shushed him to sleep later that night with a rare softness to his gruff voice.
…el…
Then there was the bitterness, the painful panging in his boiler when their old railway closed. The gut-wrenching fear, clawing and clambering at him as he was driven away from his Granpuff, who stood faithfully to the very end at his shed at the foot of the mountain.
…alco…
Short flashes of those brief years at Peel Godred, the coldness of the factories where he found his only comfort next to his brother, wishing and hoping everyday that maybe, just maybe, someone would be nice enough to bring their Granpuff back.
Drip. Drip.
Wishing, praying, oh he’d have done just about anything to have his Granpuff back, if only just for one day-
“Falcon!”
Sir Handel was snapped out of his thoughts, Peter Sam had stopped just before his buffers, with Skarloey looking on from the side with concern.
“...Stuart?”
Tears welling in the corners of Sir Handel’s eyes splashed onto his footplate, only then did he notice how blurry his vision had gone, muddled by emotion. Blinking rapidly, Falcon cleared his eyes and took a good look at his brother before him, just to make sure he didn’t mishear.
It was like they were back at the aluminum works, where Stuart would feign bravery and act strong for both of them, keeping a smile on his face as he pushed on. But Falcon always saw the fear in his brother’s gaze, the trembling young engine who just wanted to be comforted too, but had put on a brave face because one of them had to.
Now, wearing the same expression that Stuart had on when he tried to calm Falcon down the same way their Granpuff used to, there was still a fear that had long since lodged itself within him, but there was also something new. Like their very first night at Peel Godred, Peter Sam had hope, and maybe just a little bit of his own tears.
“Come on, Falcon, looks like we have to keep Granpuff in check.”
For one last time, Sir Handel dared himself to spare a glance at Skarloey. The old engine, now joined by Rheneas, smiled at him assuredly. Squeezing out all his remaining tears, Sir Handel beamed at Peter Sam.
This is my piece for Sodor Lightshow this year! I decided to focus it on Hannukah, as I am Jewish myself (but please note that I am VERY much anti-IOF/Israeli settlers/the Israeli government) and wanted to lean into the theme of light in dark places. Please enjoy.
Summary: On Christmas Day of 1946, Skarloey is left behind as Rheneas works. However, he soon discovers that a miracle has, perhaps, still found him.
Characters: Skarloey, OC, the Thin Controller, Mr. Ivo Hugh, Rheneas
Christmas Day of 1946 saw the snow raining down in fat, heavy flakes, a far cry from the delicate snowfalls often depicted in the films and advertisements. It blanketed the rails in pristine, paper-white coverlets, soft yet deceptive in its pristine purity. Evening had fallen, the bleak blackness of the Sudrian winter all-encompassing, void-like in its reach. Not even the stars were out tonight, it seemed, the clouds too thick and quilt-like for such a delicate glow to pierce through.
Despite the pervasive dim, however, there was still a certain brightness to be found, all across Sodor. As far as the eye could see, streetlights and lamps lit up the night, pushing back the darkness like a river of light, winding its way through Crovan’s Gate like an ephemeral twin to the Hawin Dooiey as, unimpeded by the winter weather, it continued its rush toward the sea. This picture postcard of a landscape was truly a sight to behold, especially as families dressed in their festive best made their way to church for the evening prayers, braving the snows to embrace the warmth of the soul’s salvation. It was a return to normalcy after many a difficult year, and the entirety of Crovan’s Gate—as well as the Skarloey Valley as a whole—was determined to do so.
For the Skarloey Railway’s No. 1 engine, however, a return to normalcy this was not.
“I’m sorry, Skarloey, but Rheneas will be solely responsible for pulling the Christmas train this year.”
For a long moment, Skarloey thought that he’d misheard. He stared for several seconds at the Thin Controller, who was dressed in his best suit (an elegant navy blue) and overcoat, trying desperately to stand away from the blowing steam in his best attempt at preserving their color. Perhaps the longer Skarloey looked, the greater the possibility that the shrill creaking noise brought on by his hyperventilating might magically stop.
“Wha—what do you mean, sir?” Skarloey finally replied, trying desperately and failing miserably to keep his voice from warbling.
“I mean what I said, old boy. Ivo’s looked you over, and said that you should only be run in emergencies,” Mr. Peter Sam sighed, sharing a glance with Mr. Ivo Hugh, who was already standing at Rheneas’ footplate. The engineer looked on gravely, sorrow clouding his eyes even as his lips pressed shut in a firm, stern line. “The Christmas train is important, yes, but we can’t risk you damaging yourself in this snow.”
“But… I… Rheneas, please! Tell them that—”
But the protests died in Skarloey’s tubes at the sight of his brother, who was giving him the same sad expression as their engineer. “I’m sorry too, Skarloey, but our Controller is right. You’re already in dire condition; what if something happens to you? And if it did, what would we do about the passengers?”
“...”
Skarloey truly, deeply wished that he could come up with a retort, a rebuttal, or even a reply, but he had nothing. The resulting silence spoke for itself.
“...Alright. I understand,” Skarloey managed at last, forcing himself to calm. “It’s for the best, really. With all this snow, it would just be an uphill climb, even downhill. Heh. I’ll just… wait here.”
“Thank you, Skarloey,” Mr. Peter Sam smiled gently, delivering a light pat to his bufferbeam. “Now, if you’re ready, Rheneas, we’d best be off. Let’s go!”
“...Right, sir,” the No. 2 engine replied somberly as Mr. Hugh eased off the brake and he began to inch forward, headlamp shining as he pushed his way forward into the storm. “I’ll be back soon, Skarloey! I promise,” Rheneas called, and his brother forced his lips to lift into a wan smile.
“Please give everyone my best regards!”
“I will!” With that last shout, Rheneas, bearing the last of the shed’s light with him, was soon out of sight, heading off to gather the coaches. The Thin Controller watched him go, then gave Skarloey one last pat.
“You’re a good sport. Wait here, and we’ll be back soon. Merry Christmas.” Without another word, he quickly headed off, bustling toward the platform.
In his haste, he didn’t even hear Skarloey’s mechanical refrain.
~~~
Now alone in the shed, Skarloey had nothing to do but wait. More and more lights appeared, illusory stars dancing on the water until the ripples hurried them along. The warm golden lamplight, however, didn’t quite reach the shed, and so, the once-golden engine of the line had only the company of the long shadows carpeting the wooden walls. Outside, the storm had picked up in its intensity, howling in its triumph. Slowly, Skarloey allowed his eyelids to flutter shut, trying to push the tide of unrest at bay and perhaps indulge in a nap.
Crunch crunch crunch. The sound of footsteps in the snow caused Skarloey’s eyes to snap open, darting all around as he struggled to pinpoint the source of the noise. Who in the world would be visiting now, at this time of night? Especially on Christmas, no less!
For a moment, his mind conjured the image of a burglar, coming to take advantage of the fact that the entire valley and a great majority of the town would be holed up in church. What could he do? He hadn’t the steam to whistle, and without his fire burning and air rushing through his tubes, his voice wouldn’t carry. His brake was securely set, meaning he had no hopes of moving anywhere either. Did he really have no recourse beyond bluffing his way through?
Steeling himself, Skarloey attempted to put on a brave face in the hopes that he might intimidate whoever was coming, but the sudden brightness of a lantern in his face caused him to flinch instead.
“Gah!” he winced, eyes reflexively closing in response, but at the thought of a possible burglary, forced them open once more, and tried to adopt the sort of voice that the Owner used when speaking with insolent Sodor Island Council members. “I don’t know who you are, but you are trespassing—”
“Easy! Easy, Skarloey! It’s me!”
The sharp lamplight finally freed Skarloey of its piercing glint as the visitor (likely no longer a vandal, in Skarloey’s estimation) set the lamp on the floor of the shed. As his vision cleared, the engine was left meeting the eyes of Jakob, one of the cleaners. Jakob was still in his work uniform and overcoat, despite the late hour, and his thick, bushy beard was rather unkempt, proof of a hard day’s work polishing both the engines and the coaches until they gleamed. “Oh, Jakob! I’m so sorry; I thought you were a burglar!”
The cleaner laughed, the sound light as it seemed to carry through the entire shed. “No harm done! I was planning on heading home a while ago, but this storm isn’t one I’d like to travel in.”
“Head home?” Skarloey questioned, eyes wide. “I’m shocked that you’re not at church already!”
“Ah, well,” Jakob chuckled, although this time, his laughter was slightly less bright. “I, uh, don’t actually celebrate Christmas. I was supposed to finish my work and be home by sundown, but given the weather, that wasn’t happening. I’ve already phoned my family, and I figured that while I wait for the storm to die down, I’ll just… wait here with you, if that’s alright.”
“Oh, yes! Of course!” Skarloey blurted out, looking around frantically for a chair or some other equivalent, until his eyes settled on a sturdy crate sitting in a corner of the shed. “Erm, there’s a crate over there that you can use. Please, you’re more than welcome to stay! For however long you’d like.”
The cleaner paused, then gave a quiet, grateful smile. He bent over, picked up his lantern, and hung it up on a hook halfway up one of the support beams, better illuminating the sheds before pulling over the crate to sit beside the old engine. “Well, thank you, Skarloey. Better to have company on a night like tonight than none at all, right?”
If Skarloey could nod, he would have. Instead, he did his best to channel the less-than-physical warmth sparking in his firebox into his smile. “I couldn’t agree more.”
After a moment of comfortable silence, though, curiosity got the better of him.
“So, Jakob, I will apologize in advance if this ends up being an awkward subject, but…” Skarloey took a quick breath, trying to think of how to word his thoughts. Beside him, the 40-something looked on, a slight tilt to his head as his eyes widened, waiting for the engine to continue. “If you don’t celebrate Christmas, then… do you celebrate anything at all? I mean, the Owner always talks about how the whole valley’s ‘Methodist,’ which I think is the same as ‘Christian,’ and I’ve also been told that ‘all good Christians go to church on Christmas.’ But you’re not going to church, so… I mean…”
Skarloey decided that he really should have stopped talking a thought or two ago, so he let the words die off there. Jakob, however, didn’t look particularly offended, although he wasn’t quite in good humor, either; rather, his expression was one akin to thinking through how to explain something that people generally considered to be common knowledge. It was a face that Skarloey in particular was quite familiar with.
“Well, erm… I’m not a Methodist, or a Christian, for that matter. I’m Jewish, so my family and I celebrate Hannukah. Are you familiar with that at all?”
“Jewish… Jewish…” Skarloey chewed on the word a moment, trying to place it. He’d heard it recently, he was sure, but where? Suddenly, it dawned on him, and his eyes widened in grim horror as he stared at the cleaner, who was meeting his gaze with a guarded, yet resigned expression. “Oh, Jakob! The war! You… oh… I’m… so, so sorry. I—”
“Hush! None of that now,” Jakob retorted sternly, cutting Skarloey off before he could say another word. The silence that followed was no longer companionable, but fragile, glassy. The lamplight loomed, the shadows lengthening.
Still, Jakob forced himself on. “It’s true that I lost family during the war. My parents came here when I was very young, and we left much of our family behind. But I still live. My daughters still live. We are here. And on this night, we are celebrating that fact the way my ancestors did during their war, by rebuilding and living and proving that life, and light, continue, even in the darkest of places.”
Skarloey wasn’t familiar with which historic war Jakob was speaking of, but he could hear the emotion thick in his voice, tears clogging his throat. The engine couldn’t possibly begin to relate to Jakob’s particular situation, but the desire to live, to celebrate living, all while mourning those who had passed—appreciating that he was still here, and still had family, amidst tragedy—that much he could empathize with. It made his own loneliness feel somewhat less overwhelming. “...I’m glad you’re here, Jakob,” the old engine murmured softly, and the cleaner, his shoulders shaking, gave Skarloey a wide smile as the lamplight glinted off the rivulets running down his cheeks.
“Me too, Skarloey,” Jakob managed, reaching out a hand to pat Skarloey’s bufferbeam while wiping his face with the other. “Working on this railway is one of the best things to have ever happened to me.”
Once again, a breath of silence fell, not quite as easy as the first or fragile as the second, and Skarloey took the opportunity to change the subject, perhaps toward something a little happier. “Jakob, you mentioned that you celebrate something called Hannukah earlier. I don’t know much about it, but why don’t we… I don’t know, do something? To celebrate?” The engine’s eyes lifted to where the storm was still roaring away outside, seemingly unlikely to lift anytime soon.
With his tears finally stalling, the cleaner blinked the last of them away, his brow furrowing in thought. “That’s not a bad idea, but I’m not sure how.” Suddenly, Jakob gave a quick gasp and leapt to his feet, looking eagerly at Skarloey. “How about this? Let’s light some lights, hmmm?”
“Lights?” Skarloey echoed, a questioning lilt to his voice. “Whatever for?”
“Hannukah is also called the Festival of Lights,” Jakob answered, walking away from the crate and starting to search the shelves. “We’ll need nine of them for this, as tonight is, in fact, the last night of Hannukah!”
“Oh!” Skarloey exclaimed, his interest piqued as he watched Jakob bustle around.
With a triumphant grin, the cleaner finally found what he was looking for. The shed was well-stocked, and as part of its provisions, spare lanterns and a box of candles all stood ready, as if waiting for this very moment. “A-ha! Here they are! Although…” Jakob’s lips pinched together in frustration as he counted up the lanterns. “There’s only six of them here! And worse, we don’t even have a table to put these on!”
The cleaner’s disappointment was clear, and Skarloey felt a pang of anxiousness shoot through him. No! They were so close! The engine cast his gaze down, trying to think, when suddenly, the obvious solution presented itself.
“Jakob!” Skarloey cried. “We can arrange them on my bufferbeam!”
Jakob’s head whipped around to stare askance at the engine, who was staring back at him with fiery determination. “Look! We can attach my headlamps alongside the ones you’ve found. That makes eight. And there’s also the one you brought in! That’s nine!”
At the realization, Jakob’s eyes seemed to sparkle. “That’s brilliant! But… what if they topple over?”
“I couldn’t move a meter, even if I wanted to!” Skarloey replied, his voice brighter than it had been all day, his tongue almost tripping over his words in his excitement. “A-and, there’s no wind here! So long as you’re mindful of your elbows, I think we’ll be quite alright!”
Once again, Jakob’s lips lifted up into a blinding smile. “Well thought! Give me just a moment!” Quickly, the lamps were arranged on Skarloey’s bufferbeam, spaced as well as they could so that they’d all fit. Once that was done, Jakob took the lantern he’d initially brought off of its hook, bringing it over to the others as Skarloey watched on, absolutely entranced and, fortunately, quite unable to shiver with the anticipation he so keenly felt.
“I’ve never had the honor of seeing such a large menorah before. That’s what we call the candle holder that we use for Hannukah. But then again, I’ve never done anything like this before, so this is quite the honor either way!” A slight tremor had made its way into Jakob’s voice, nervousness warring with eagerness, but he forced himself to breathe. This too could not be rushed.
With all the solemnity of performing a rite, Jakob opened his lantern and pulled out the candle within. “This is our shammash,” the cleaner explained reverently. “It’s known as the attendant, and I’ll be using this to light the others, from the lantern representing the first day to the one representing the last.” His explanation concluded, Jakob then began to light the lanterns, from right to left. With each one lit, another flame sparking to life, the darkness fled a little farther until the entire shed was awash in light, brilliant and beautiful, just short of blinding.
Once he’d finished, Jakob returned the initial candle to its lantern, and set it in the middle of the beam, right in front of Skarloey’s face. Slowly, Jakob brought his hands to his own face, covering his eyes, and Skarloey closed his as well.
“Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner Hanukkah.”
Skarloey didn’t know what the words meant, but he could hear the reverence, the gratitude, the sheer joy in Jakob’s voice. Skarloey knew that joy; it was the same joy that he could hear on church days when the parishioners sang loud enough that, as the pastor claimed, their very voices could reach Heaven. “My goodness,” Skarloey breathed. “What was that?”
“It’s a prayer of thanks,” Jakob replied simply. “A prayer of thanks for the miracle that is these lights.”
“Thanks for a miracle…” Skarloey mused, thinking that it was fitting indeed, given the events of tonight. “Is ‘amen’ used by Jewish people as well?”
“It is.”
“Then… amen,” Skarloey replied, his voice delicate and reverent. Jakob simply smiled in response, both engine’s and cleaner’s expressions bright.
The shadows would be back soon enough, of course; but by this small miracle, at least for tonight, their hearts were light, another flame on the river.
Summary: Two times when Skarloey tries on sunglasses, and how views can change even over a century later.
Author's Notes: Oh look, I did some writing.
I just wanted to slip some sunglasses onto Loey and Neas, and ended up writing this. I like it, so I hope you do too!
Original tags have my thoughts regarding time and world setting.
“Hey, Rheneas!”
Rheneas was wrenched from his thoughts, wondering why on earth Skarloey would be calling to him. He was very tired from the day’s excursions and he really didn’t feel like talking to him.
But … they were still brothers. And nothing would change that fact.
Reluctantly, the younger engine looked up at his elder brother -
“What … in blazes?”
To say Rheneas was taken aback would be an understatement. He was utterly baffled at the sight that stood before him.
Skarloey was standing on the track next to his, a cocky smile gracing his lips. Upon the bridge of his nose rested a pair of dark tinted glasses, with a second set of lenses flipped outwards to reduce glare from the sides. He was practically beaming with pride, his teeth glinting in the light.
“Well?” asked Skarloey proudly. “What do you think?”
Rheneas was stunned. And not the least bit impressed.
“... why …?” he managed to splutter out.
Skarloey’s wide grin faltered and descended into a scowl. “Oh come on, you fuddy-duddy,” he huffed. “These are cool, right? The humans seem to like wearing them, so why shouldn’t we?”
“Skarloey, I’ll be honest with you,” sighed Rheneas; if he'd had a head he would have shaken it. “They look ridiculous; I suggest you get your driver to take them off.”
Skarloey’s eyebrows furrowed and he let slip a growl. Behind the lenses, his gaze shifted to the tracks. “I should have known better than to ask your opinion,” he grumbled, puffing past his brother and into the shed.
“For Lady’s sake, Skarloey!” exclaimed Rheneas, exasperated. “You asked for my opinion and I gave it. Just because I don’t agree with you does not give you the right to get all huffy about it!”
“I’m not listening! La-la-la ~” came the childish reply from the shed.
Rheneas rolled his eyes. “You’re such a lump of coal,” he muttered to himself before rolling back to join his brother.
-----
In the present day, Rheneas was busy shunting some empty trucks into a siding at the Depot. He carefully pushed them into place, making sure they were good to go.
“Finally,” he sighed in relief. “Every truck is where it should be.”
He was just steaming out of the siding when a familiar voice called out to him.
“Oh Rheneas bach!”
Skarloey came puffing into the Depot, and as Rheneas looked at his brother he couldn’t help but get a sense of deja vu. Memories suddenly flew into his funnel when he saw what the older engine was sporting.
A pair of black, thick-rimmed sunglasses adorned Skarloey’s face, the shiny finish glistening in the sun. A huge grin was plastered all over his face and his eyes twinkled with glee behind the dark lenses.
“Well?” he asked, relishing the shocked look on his brother’s face. “Give me your honest opinion. Do you like them?”
Rheneas cracked a smile, chuckling as he did so.
“You really want my opinion?” he repeated, not unkindly. “They still look ridiculous.”
Skarloey pretended to look hurt, but a snort escaped his lips and he couldn’t help but smile.
“However … they’ve grown on me,” continued Rheneas, chuffing forward. “They do suit you, now that I look at them.” The corner of his mouth tilted upwards to form a smirk. “They cover up those old eye creases quite nicely.”
“Hey!” Skarloey cried out indignantly. But he knew Rheneas was only teasing. He laughed again, and Rheneas joined him.
“Fancy a pair of your own?” the crimson saddle tank offered jokingly.
Rheneas feigned deep thought for a moment before replying, “You know what? Sure.”
Skarloey beamed as his fireman hopped out of his cab carrying a second pair of sunglasses. Rheneas hadn’t actually expected his brother to have a spare pair, but he couldn’t go back on his word now. With a chuckle, the fireman slipped the black pair onto Rheneas’ face and hopped back into the crimson engine’s cab.
There was a brief moment of silence before Skarloey began to laugh uncontrollably.
“Well don’t we look a right pair!” howled the older engine, tears of mirth falling down his cheeks.
“A pair of loony engines, you mean!” sniggered Rheneas before he, too, descended into a fit of laughter.
To the rest of the fleet the two old engines looked to have lost their marbles, but Skarloey and Rheneas knew the truth. They couldn’t help but laugh at their memories and at the fact that, even after so many years, they could be just as silly as ever.
Figured I might as well share one of the softer things I've written lately. Sir Handel and Peter Sam take a nap. Some vague human au.
<><><><><><><>
Duke had been working with Peter Sam all morning. Now, Duke needed his help with yet another task around the railway, but Peter Sam had disappeared around lunchtime. None of the others knew where he had gone.
He knocked on the door to Peter Sam’s bedroom. “Stuart? Peter Sam? Are you in there?” He asked. “We still have a few things we need to pick up and drop off a ways down the line, if you could help with that.” Duke heard nothing from inside the room. “Peter Sam?” Duke slowly opened the door and peeked in. Peter Sam was nowhere to be found.
Duke was stumped, but only for a second. He glanced a short ways down the hall at the door to Sir Handel’s room. Surely he would know where Peter Sam had gone.
So, he knocked on his door instead. “Falcon? Sir Handel? Do you know where Stuart’s gone? I can’t find him anywhere.” There was no response this time either, but that wasn’t unusual. Sir Handel preferred to be alone in his room instead of out in the common area, and he didn’t like to be bothered. He usually ignored any attempts to talk to him. “Sir Handel?” Duke said again, not caring for Sir Handel’s usual attitude.
Duke cracked open his door too, and he quickly forgot his irritation as he found the answer to his question. On the bed snuggled up close to each other were Sir Handel and Peter Sam, both sound asleep. Neither of them had heard Duke knock, and both were softly snoring away, not a care in the world, with Peter Sam’s head gently rising and falling with Sir Handel’s chest as he breathed.
Duke’s expression softened, and he smiled as he watched his boys. They seemed so much closer than he remembered them being when they were younger. But then again, they had been through an awful lot with only each other to lean on.
Backing away, Duke quietly closed the door. “You two get some rest,” he whispered, “It looks like you need it.”
He ended up getting Rusty’s help with the work that day, at least until his boys woke up.
“Wasn’t Peter Sam supposed to help with this?” Rusty asked Duke.
“He was, yes. But I thought it would be best to get your help instead. Let him rest a bit. He’s been working himself awfully hard lately.”
“Oh. Did you find him, then?”
Duke laughed and then lowered his voice, “Yes, and all snuggled up with Falcon, if you can believe it!”
Rusty chuckled, “I can. Those two are quite close.”
~~
An hour or so later, Peter Sam and Sir Handel reemerged, Peter Sam rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and Sir Handel trying in vain to tame his horrible bed-head. To their surprise, they found Duke at the table, reading the newspaper.
“Sleep well, you two?” He asked, not even looking up from his reading.
Sir Handel spluttered, and Peter Sam blushed. They were both unsure how to answer and unaware that Duke knew about their little nap break.
Duke looked up to properly address them. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to embarrass you. I just went looking for Stuart today so we could finish up our work, and I happened to find you two. I thought it was best to let you sleep,” he explained. “Besides, I think it’s rather sweet.” He chuckled and went back to the paper.
After a few seconds of silence, Sir Handel huffed, “Thanks, Granpuff,” and he and Peter Sam set to work making what was either a late lunch or an early supper.
Duke couldn’t help but smile to himself as he listened to the two of them arguing over whether or not it was okay for Sir Handel to put an empty jar of peanut butter back into the refrigerator without telling anyone.
I just wanna say I love this comic so much, and you're doing an awesome job putting it together, and you're such an amazing artist and an interesting person!!
I'd like to ask you; what's been your favourite (and least favourite) part/s about working on Engines?
Also, a quick ask for Skarloey, how do you cope with being the leader at a difficult and terrifying time such as this? (Love you!!) ❤
Thank you so much! 🖤🖤
I think my favourite part has just been seeing the idea in my head slowly getting realised on paper. The part I like least is definitely my inability to stick to a constant schedule/keeping the comic updated regularly! I have a problem where I tend to hyperfixate on stuff where it ends up taking up all of my time and not leaving room for anything else. Which is fine if the hyperfixation is on my comic or what I'm supposed to be doing... but bad when it isn't. 😅
Thank you so much for answering!! This made my day yesterday when I opened Tumblr and saw this. I enjoyed reading your answer to my question (absolutely wonderful!) And Skarloey's response was hilarious!! 🤣
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