Edward was sitting contentedly in the Wellsworth yard, or he would be if it wasn't for all the clay dust. Edward was by no means a vain engine, but even for him this was too much. From flange to funnel he was covered in the pale powder, and if he was honest, it was beginning to itch. 'Hopefully my crew will be back soon' he thought with a sigh. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the warmth of the sun rather than his irritating coating.
His attempt was pleasantly foiled by the sensation of a sponge being vigorously applied to his bufferbeam.
He opened his eyes and was greeted by the sight of the sponge moving seemingly on its own, attacking the dust as if it had personally offended it. A rag floated a foot or two away from it and a bucket of soapy water sat off to the side.
"Good morning Mr. Charlie," Edward smiled happily.
The rag was distinctly unimpressed, flick towards, well all of him really, with disapproval.
"The twins I'm afraid. They managed to knock over one of the hoppers while I was next to it."
The rag flicked angrily towards the cab.
"They went to wash off before washing me."
Edward chuckled as the rag managed to radiate sheer disdain.
"I'm rather glad if I'm honest." The sponge paused its attack and the rag tilted as if in question. "It fell just behind my cab and I'm afraid they got the worst of it. Had they tried to clean me first...well I'd probably have been better off before."
The rag seemed to accept this and began to scrub again.
"Does the misses know you've escaped to come clean your old engine?"
The rag flicked towards the water spicket, where a floating bucket was being filled.
"A most thrilling date then."
The rag flicked his running board playfull, and Edward chuckled softly.
A few moments later, "If it's not too much of a bother..."
Water flicked onto his nose in reprimand.
"Yes, yea I know it's not a bother to ask for something I want, but it's still polite to ask nicely."
The rag and sponge paused expectantly.
"Would you mind getting my face first? It's beginning to itch something awful."
The rag and sponge dropped back into the bucket which floated onto his footplate. He felt warmth in the shape of a large calloused hand grip the bufferbeam, then his front dipped slightly as if someone had pulled themselves up onto it. The dust showed footprints now, as if a larger pair of boots stood on his footplate.
The second bucket set itself down by his driving wheels, a rag leaping out of the buckets at them with determination.
"Hello Mrs.Sand," Edward felt the sensation of a smaller, cooler hand pat his side affectionately. A brush flew out of the cleaning shed and came to a stop in front of Edward's face. Soon it was being used to carefully clean around Edward's eyes. "Thank you for this," Edward sighed in relief as some of the itching spots were soothed. "I know this is nowhere as nice as..."
Edward was interrupted by the sensation of a large warm hard gently pressing against his cheek. Edward happily leaned into his old Driver's touch.
Summary - Culdee Fell was a lifeless rock, until Godred fell down it.
-
The Mountain was never given much thought. Its snow-capped peak towered over the land in such a totally dominating way that the Islanders thought that not even God could have put it there. It was, as more than one man put it, “bigger than life, and older than sin.” It had always been there, and was about as lively as, well, as a rock.
Man often wondered if the rest of the world was alive. After all, so much was already; animals, plants, machines, and so on. It made a comforting amount of sense, to assume that one was not alone in their own world. Natural events, such as storms and floods, growth and bloom, were all attributed to some form of life. Gods created thunder, encouraged the plants to grow, and responded positively to prayers and sacrifices.
In some theologic structures, everything had a god, no matter how minor, while others simply believed that there was a spirit inside each and every thing ever put upon the earth.
On the Island, however, divinity was not something the Islanders put much stock in.
Yes, in some years, a rain dance may bring a good harvest, or a standing circle would appease the river spirits and prevent flood, but just as often, the harvests would fail or be lean, and the river would burst its banks anyways. To blame this to any number of gods, or just one for that matter, seemed almost foolish - what were they, humble farmers and fishers, doing to attract such attention?
Until the Catholic & Anglican churches came, many years later, the gods were relegated to idle gossip, the mental wanderings of the terminally superstitious. Orry, King of the Sudrians, slayer of the Manx, and Starstrider of legend, was closer to godly status than any rain shower or bad harvest.
So, as they lived their lives, The Mountain was never something that occupied their minds for very often, in the same way that one does not actively contemplate oxygen or gravity. It was merely there. It was never anything beyond that. It wasn't alive. It was never a god.
Much like divinity, early Islanders did not put much stock in the concept of “because it’s there.” The Island would produce many great warriors, men of industry, fishers, farmers, scientists, and vicars, but few explorers would come from those whose lineage stretched to the time before King Orry’s wars. The mountain, with its imposing snow cover, high winds, and enticingly easy-to-climb faces, would remain unexplored until the age of Queen Victoria.
When Man eventually came to The Mountain, Machine was soon behind him. A small line of narrow steel, the first of several, stretched towards the Mountain and the settlement at its base. Man soon found that the peak of the Mountain had never been surveyed, and charged forth with abandon, much to the bemusement of the Islanders.
Man returned, starry-eyed from the incredible sights He had seen. It must be shown to the world! He cried exuberantly. And we can charge for it!
Only after improvements had been made, of course.
It was not feasible, Man argued, to walk to the beauty of the summit. A better solution must be found, He said.
And so there was. Men, accompanied by animals, slowly trekked their way up the Mountain, a triple ribbon of shining steel in their wake. They reached the summit shortly after the turn of the new century, and introduced Engines to the uncaring, unfeeling, un-living Mountain.
The Engines were young, and brought with them all the foibles of the young - arrogance, cowardice, ignorance, blind courage. They rolled up and down that mountain with no care, no thought, no knowledge of the danger that the Mountain posed them. That the only thing keeping them in the land of the living was a sextet of metal-on-metal contact patches the size of a sixpence.
It was an ignorance that would last a scant month.
-
In years to come, the now-eldest of the Mountain Engines would lie, and say that Godred had survived his final trip down the mountain, and due to lack of funds, was parted out over the following years, giving his life for the others.
That lie was based on the idea that there was any Godred left to salvage.
-
Men said a short prayer - to whomever they thought was listening - and carted away what little remained. Godred watched them go.
He was aware, in a quite detached nature, that he was dead.
What do I do now? He asked himself, not sure of the answer.
He tried the sheds, drifting down the mountain and through the walls like… well… like a ghost. His fellow Engines were silent, sad, in some cases weeping. They couldn’t see him, and after a short while, he departed, feeling altogether worse about his situation.
He missed his passengers, and drifted about the platforms next.
But they were shut.
“CLOSED DUE TO UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENT” read a sign posted on the station door.
It was unfortunate, he thought. And remained, hoping that one day the People would come back.
After half a season, it became clear that they might not. Godred felt sad, and slightly guilty. It was my fault, he thought, and he left the station with the first snow.
Despondent, he drifted up and down the mountain until the snow left, not sure of what to do with himself. Eventually, he came to rest at the top, near the summit station. The winds whipped and howled, but he paid it no notice for many days.
Eventually, the snow melted, and the clouds began to part each morning. He watched as the sun shined through him each morning like he wasn’t there. Each afternoon he drifted around the station, trying to remember what it felt like to be full of life.
One morning, before the dawn, he thought he heard a whistle, deep in the valley. The wind had grown especially cruel recently, making strange sounds as if punishing him for ignoring it, so he pushed it out of his mind.
Then it came again, much closer this time.
The sun rose over the mountain. Man and Engine alike said it was one of the most beautiful sights in all of God’s creation.
Godred didn’t care. To him, there was nothing more beautiful than seeing a workman’s train climbing up the mountain.
-
Just a few days later, the first passengers arrived at the top, and Godred nearly wept in joy. I hadn’t ruined it all! He cried, although nobody could hear him.
-
That night, as the last train left, and the sun slipped below the horizon, Godred felt at peace for the first time in his death. As darkness spread across the land below, he closed his eyes, and slowly began to descend, not down the mountain, but instead into the rock itself.
-
The mountain had no life of its own. It had never been alive, nor had it ever taken one. The first to die on its slope had been not Man, nor Beast, but Engine.
As the Engine descended through the rock, He understood.
The mountain was now a graveyard, of one.
And every graveyard needed a guardian.
Godred and The Mountain ceased to be separate, and instead became One.
-
Many decades later
Culdee and Catherine sat at the summit station, very shaken. Nobody else had noticed, as they ascended the Devil’s Back, the tremble in the rails. It wasn’t the wind, or a shake of the ground, but instead the rails very much giving way. They’d sounded the alarm (screamed it, really) and cleared the section in record time. Alaric and the workmen had come all the way up with the Truck, and they’d found that a rail had snapped completely in two.
“I don’t want to alarm you any further,” The permanent way foreman said over the radio. “But if you’d been a touch longer you’d probably have torn the gripper rail out of the sleepers and gone over.”
The driver, fireman, and guard all collectively thanked whatever god they held dear, but Engine and Coach knew better.
They had started tipping. The gripper rail had come off.
-
“What saved us?” He asked Catherine, as they sat outside the Summit station much later that night.
“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “We almost ended up like Godred…”
“Don’t remind me…” He didn’t particularly want to contemplate tumbling all the way down the Devil’s Back.
For a moment, all was silent, before a particularly strong gust of wind picked up, whipping its way past the two.
Don’t worry Culdee, Came a voice that seemed to be carried on the wind. I’ll keep you safe.
All the water in the Mountain Engine’s boiler might as well have flash-frozen to ice. “Please tell me you heard that.” He pleaded to Catherine.
“Yes.” The Coach’s voice was scarcely a whisper. “What-who- was that… him?”
“Godred?”
The wind seemed to laugh for a moment. “Yes. I’m here. Always.”
And then it was still once again.
Try as they might, Culdee and Catherine couldn’t help but believe what they heard.
And every night after that, before they went to sleep, they looked out at the mountain, and somehow knew that Godred would keep them safe.
It was a warm, sunny afternoon on the island of Sodor. Edward was having a nap in a siding at Wellsworth Station while his crew were on their lunch break. All of a sudden, the old engine woke with a start. He gasped aloud and he shook and shivered as if it was the middle of winter. BoCo, who was waiting with a train at the platform nearby, noticed this.
“Goodness, Edward, are you alright?” he asked, concerned.
“O-oh,” the blue engine said after taking a few deep breaths. “Y-yes, BoCo, I’m fine.”
“You are not fine, you’re shaking like a leaf. Was it another one of your dreams?” the green diesel asked in a quiet, yet firm tone. It was a bit of an open secret among the engines that sometimes Edward would have dreams about very unpleasant things. It wasn’t something he liked talking about with others, but BoCo was an exception. The steam engine looked down sadly at his buffers, and that told BoCo everything he needed to know. “What was it about?” he asked gently.
“It… it would take too long to explain,” Edward sighed softly, still not making eye contact.
“Oh dear,” BoCo said sympathetically. He was about to say something else to comfort his friend, but his guard’s whistle blew before he could. “Bother that guard… When I get back to the shed tonight, we’ll talk about it, alright?”
“Alright,” replied Edward, still a bit shaky.
“Good. I’ll see you later,” said BoCo as he began to pull out of the station. Edward sighed as he watched BoCo set off with his train. He wished his friend could have stayed with him, but he knew they both had work to do. He put on a brave face as his crew returned from their break, not wanting to worry them.
It was already dark by the time BoCo reached the shed that night. Edward was glad to see him. His dream had been weighing on his mind all day, making him very tense. He waited in silence while his friend’s crew shut off his engine for the night and said their goodbyes. Once they were gone, BoCo looked over at Edward.
“Tell me everything,” he said softly.
Edward took a deep breath to center himself and recounted his dream.
“It began simply enough. I was running along down a long stretch of track, pulling a train behind me. The sun was high, the wind rushed past, everything was lovely. But, all of a sudden, I started to feel a pain. ‘Driver, something’s wrong. We need to stop,’ I called, but there was no reply. I realized my cab was empty. I couldn’t feel anyone on my footplate anymore. The wind turned bitterly cold, stinging my face as I ran on, faster and faster. The pain just kept getting worse, spreading all throughout my body. I tried to stop myself, but I… I couldn’t. I heard a crack, and felt my crankpin snap in two. Then I felt a wobble, and two of my wheels flew out from under me. It kept going like that, parts of me breaking and coming apart as I rushed down the line alone. I screamed and begged for someone, anyone, to help me, but no one came. There were no people, no other engines, just me, unable to do anything as I literally fell to pieces. I don’t even think I crashed. I just kept going and going until… until there was nothing left of me.”
BoCo’s eyes were wide at the vivid description. “Oh, Edward, that’s… that sounds horrible,” he said once his friend had finished.
“It… it was. It felt so real, BoCo, I…” Edward trailed off. He shuddered again at the memory and blinked away a few tears. “I’m sorry, I know it’s silly to be so shaken by something that didn’t actually happen. I shouldn’t let it affect me so much, but…”
“Hey, none of that,” BoCo soothed. “It’s not silly at all. Nightmares wouldn’t be called ‘nightmares’ if they weren’t frightening. No one’s judging you for that.”
“I just hate feeling so helpless.”
“You’re not helpless. You’re one of the most capable engines I know, nightmares or no nightmares. And when things do get to be too much, well, you know you’ve always got me.”
Edward glanced over at BoCo. Seeing his dear friend’s warm, sincere smile, he felt like the weight he’d been carrying all day was finally lifted from his mind.
“Yes,” Edward replied with a small smile of his own. “I always have you.”
