Tales From The Rail

In the pale dark dusk, where shadows spread like spilt ink into the dry hard ground, he looked up on reflex, in his element and three moves ahead by the time I saw him, leaning into his first stride.

He moved faster than I’d ever seen and tracing his line of sight, mine fell upon his objective.

She was a sleek silver blonde coyote silhouetted by a sun just set and the amber light of that moment.

She watched, initially with amusement and surprise, then bewilderment as the distance from her spot and the fast galloping golden was rapidly evaporating.

Decision time.

Blondee darts off to my right with lightning speed … Oceaee having anticipated this, has already cut off an angle behind the neighbors house…

I hear my voice shouting very loudly using commands and words for ‘treats’ in languages not spoken for many years …

Then they were gone.

As I moved through the surrounding neighborhoods, I went towards every barking sound, only to find yards fenced in, with the chained restless.

Then, turning the bend, off in the distance, beneath a lamppost, I saw Blondee strut across the street, tail all fluffed and distinctive.

Our eyes locked for a moment and my phone rang.

Oceaee had come back home & so would I.

The Bottle

Only 1/2 a block, not far…keep moving.

The street was deserted and in the distance he heard the rumble of an approaching freight train.

The blood warmed his upper leg, absorbed by denim and began trickling down his leg. Some 20 feet to go now.

No trail, he cannot leave any trail of blood.

At five feet to his left he saw the curtain open slightly and in two labored steps, the front door opened for him and shut.

Inside it was dark, very dark and no one breathed a sound. In the far corner a match flickered and an old man in a chair, silently lit his pipe.

His eyes never leaving yours.

A shadow passed the window right to left with pace and after a few seconds, all inside exhaled and lifted their pints of mead with nods and grins.

The tiny stone danced across calm water darkened only by a setting sun.

It skipped fast once, three, five times or seven – too quick in the end to count, with each skip shallower and shorter than the preceding.

Then the stone was gone altogether.

There was a draft of air, cool and dry that swept her shoulders and enveloped her.

Looking down at her submerged feet beneath the warmer water, she saw only her own reflection illuminated by a bright star high above her head.

She smiled in contentment, fully at peace and pondered time.

Where had it all gone?

Memories flooded past her in a flash of reel both slow and fast. It was not chronological nor was it choreographed by any discernible reason except each frame was distinctive, important, crystal clear and beautiful.

Somewhere to her left, in the shadowed darkness just beyond the dim illumination of the light, she heard a fish rise and slap the surface.

Seconds later she felt the soft gentle thumps of bait fish running through her ankles as they hugged the shore in safe haven.

Perhaps, just perhaps, time had gone nowhere at all.

Looking towards that distant star directly overhead she smiled, closed her eyes and was ready.

Like most evenings in late November when the sun sets before the post office often does, this was as midweek routine as the previous seven- until … This evening there was a building howl about 43 degrees with a spitting mist from the East, and we exited from the Northwest back door, to keep the house warm and the front door locked.

The walk was efficient from the normal complacency of a homebody dog, our Oceaee. The normal sniffs were quick and moving – it was cold and damp. Seldom was the slack drawn from a lengthy leash.

His gait quickened as I suspect did mine, now into the wind, with porch lights in sight. Instinctively we bypassed the front locked door, and I remember thinking: excellent recall on his part. But I was wrong.

The slack quickly zipped out of the leash and in the darkened Northern corner, I saw a flash of shadow, a tint of white and the soft whimper of my pup. In recoil and into the light he went full reverse, and he rolled his eyes in the grass and squirmed into the soil.

 ! SKUNK

New town, fresh sites. Slightly warmer climate and the usual bustle of folks just living their everyday life. Awoke early and slipped out into the sunshine for a stroll. Saw a churchyard on the way in and not too far.

This town like so many others, appeared to have become a sanctuary depository for the homeless, dejected and forgotten among our society. Pepper it with all the struggling migrants on the move in search of an elusive dream and these early morning strolls are not always solitary.

I see him emerge slowly, overly casual, from the side alleyway across the street in my left peripheral. My gait remains constant while his hastens crossing the boulevard and behind. I do not turn around nor quicken pace. I can almost perceive the distance closing between us as I count in my head. I cross to the left onto Ashbury avenue and in the window of a closed deli, he does as well. The church comes into view now, some four blocks away. It sits up on a hill facing West and the rising sun is just hitting the façade. I stop, pause and say a thankful prayer for this day delivered.

“vacía tus bolsillos y dame tu dinero!!” The command accentuated by the definable sharp click of his switch blade opening. Instinctively, I raise my hands and turn slowly around. He stands close, two to three feet at best and I cringe at my momentary lapse of awareness.

‘pero no tengo nada, ni dinero’

I calmly reply, not letting my eyes deviate from his. The knife is easily four to six inches, shiny and looks brand new. His grasp is taught, full of strength and his eyes red with venom. I pick up no tremble, waver nor indecision on his part and rapidly conclude that he is ‘all in’ on this vacant alley.

“dinero ahora!!” He spits through teeth long neglected.

‘No tengo dinero.’ I say again and in English: ‘I am on my way to visit the church’, tilting my head to the left and up the hill. ‘What is it I can do for you?’ His eyes follow briefly before he moves in close in one quick fluid motion. The blade pricks my neck as his hands run through my empty pockets. He is a good foot shorter than but wired, alert and wholly unpredictable. He pushes me slightly and steps back as I lower my arms.

“zapatos, quítate los zapatos” he demands.

‘Walk with me, come visit the church’ I calmly retort now that my heart rate has subsided and my calm restored and distilled.

‘What can I do for you?’ I again repeat. His eyes soften and drift to his right as he slowly lowers the knife, retracting and concealing all in one motion.

‘Walk with me up the hill’ I hear my voice saying. Over his left shoulder moving right to left I see a black and white patrol Crown Victoria slowly pass the entrance to the alleyway.

‘Walk with me up the hill. Por favor, camina conmigo a la iglesia ahora.’ I deplore to an uncertain stranger before me who only moments ago was going to stab me and still might.

The patrol car slides back into view, backwards now and out of view again. The young man before me turns and follows my eyes but misses seeing the police.

‘policías’ I mutter. ‘We need to go, Walk with me up the Hill.’ I almost plead. His hesitation vanquished instantly and he who deftly caught me off guard a few minutes ago, now is geared into pure survival mode. His eyes came alive,urgent but not panicked and then in a practiced street taught protocol he threw the blade deep into an adjacent dark alley.

The patrol car clicked its siren and pulled into our space. “Tranquilo, ¿vale?”

It is he counseling the calm.

‘No problems’ I fein a smile.

The cops, two of them, searched us and finding nothing reluctantly accept a tale of two Christian strangers making an early morning pilgrimage up the hill to Church, let us continue on. One officer went into the adjacent alleyway and came out shaking his head.

We did walk those four blocks up the hill, though few words were spoken. Each seemed preoccupied, pensive and grateful.

We hit the steps in stride and inside, as the heavy door swung behind us in the cool air of sanctuary, our eyes met and he nodded. “gracias hombre.”

I half smiled and replied softly: ‘Que estés bien y que tengas una Semana Santa tranquila.’

We knelt in separate pews and he was long departed when I stepped out into the midmorning sun.

I have transversed several aisles, mostly aided by memory, occasionally succumbing to the list.
Having made the final turn, the homestretch from my left’s peripheral – I stare at the choices: smoked turkey slices; cured turkey or honey turkey…

‘Pardon me’ he politely refers as he walks in front slowly and passes.

He has long hair, well on its way to all grey. He walks on his heels to compensate for the large belly that draws him forward. But he slides, almost effortlessly and had he not said a word, might have gone unnoticed.

Regular turkey it is, provolone cheese, chicken thighs and up to the register I move with haste – for I despise shopping.

‘Excuse me, would you mind if I went ahead?’

It is the same polite, soft voice. He has only a few items: energy drink, snickers & frozen dinner.

“Of course, by all means..” immediately leave my lips, as I stack my weekly items, in an odd curious thought.

His eyes are a soft blue azure with the left slightly a skewed from the right. It is his demeanor of calm though, a voice overly polite and not quite reconciled by his appearance that wholly expects to receive my answer, before even asked.

He pulls out a crisp $100 bill for his few items, as his eyes take a walk up and down the check out girl.

She is nondescript with a soft white pasty complexion usually derived from poor diet and she barely glances up from the scanner.

‘How you doing, we’ve met?’

‘Maybe, ok’

‘How’s life?’

‘Ah you know…’

‘what’s your name?’

At this point, the line behind me builds and I am staring straight at the guy who now chats up someone he is pretending to have met.

But she is perhaps lonely and looks up to him to deliver his $89.32 in change with a soft smile that reveals teeth, long neglected.
‘Sofia’

‘Cool, I am Ron’.

With an assured tone intended so that she would not forget.

‘I hope to see you again, real soon’

He says slowly with total assurance while wholly aware of the line behind me.

He has just succumbed a potential target – populates my impatient mind.

With haste now, I push my carriage though the sliding doors into the freedom of a day that awaits from shopping.

To my left, calmly leaning in the shadows some forty feet away, he looks up as I emerge. Our eyes lock and for the first time I discern some discomfort in his demeanor.

Surely he must observe the same in mine, for I am unsettled.

I turn away, load the groceries and give my cart to an elder woman and drive away …

…wondering if I just came across a serial killer in our midst and if anyone would ever see a simple cashier named Sofia after today . . .

 

 

 

Present Day: June 1944

 

In mid-June where the days are almost arctic in length, Gunther rose with the sun, having slept for two hours. The rain and fog, once to be his cover, had ceased to be. Thus he decided to walk the North sands of the salt pond towards town – with the cool dawn mist swirling around him. On his back, his duffel weighed some sixty pounds, yet his stride was swift in the soft sand as his confidence was high. 

It was 5:05 am.

Having not seen a soul upon reaching Rt 1-A, he then doubled back on Noyes Avenue to the South to kill some time and paused at the end, where he saw a ‘room for rent’ sign obscured by growing grass.

On the porch, a woman swept with silent efficiency, deep in thought. 

“Good morning ma’am . . .sorry to disturb you, but I saw the sign and am looking for a room, several weeks to a month, I should imagine.” His accent was thoroughly British, perhaps even Oxford educated in tone. The woman was impressed, “I am Sarah, good morning.”

The room was above the rafters in the garage and was spacious with two South facing windows to the sea, which was perfect. Sarah apologized for the dust and explained that sometimes the nephews, when not playing baseball in the front yard, like to come up and play ping pong. Gunther, who had by now introduced himself as Terrence Riddle, a writer from England on assignment to capture the essence of a war-torn America, said that he would much enjoy a game ‘here and there’.

Satisfied, Gunther paid forward a month in USD cash and for the first time since leaving Kristiansand, he rested his head on a musty pillow and relaxed.

 

The 93 Eastbound had only two passengers on this cold May twilight, which was unusual – yet everything seemed to be unusual in the recent months. High upon the distant hills, there remained snow that glistened against the setting sun and the shadows rose to chase the locomotive, as it raced Eastward.

 To the hum of the rails beneath and the passing of each idle town, his fist gently clenched with increasing strength. 

Hours ago, he had left the abyss, on a mission of desperate hope for some help, of any sorts.

It was seven-thirty in the evening,

Day 154.

To his right, on the vacant seat, a satchel sat unopened. In his breast pocket, there were papers and a passport that few could obtain.

This evening, he was traveling East, then North through the pass and into The Town.

In restlessness, he walked the five cars rear to front, passing seventy empty seats in each. The cafe car, normally populated by an underpaid but enthusiastic patron facilitating a commuter’s usual journey back to the eventual reality, was dimmed, empty and quiet.

All of this he took in.

The 93 careened around the pined forested cliffs and ascended the final vertical through the wafer thin clouds with all its effort. Eventually, it slid to a gentle stop, exhausting  steam.

No conductor announced the station, for it was not necessary and the only other passenger, sitting stoically in the front seats, did not stir.  

Stepping out into the crisp air, it was immediately noticeable. 

No one wore a mask.

A baker on the far end of the platform was hugging an elderly woman while handing fresh cupcakes to gathering children. Beyond the platform, there was foot traffic on the streets, an open barber shop and food stands also serving beverages. All of the establishments were congregated by the chatter and laughter that is so associated with customers, without a care in the world.

From his left, wearing jeans and a sheep-skin leather vest, with outstretched arms was the Man whom he had come to see. 

The Man was older than himself, that he knew before stepping aboard the train six hours ago. Yet he looked younger, with a sturdy build, a broad smile and welcoming deep blue eyes. His effortless gait was as fluid as his long white hair, while his grasp when they shook, was firm and reassuring. 

They walked through the village and no one looked their way, though he could feel the Man’s presence. He also noticed in the reflection of a shop window that the other lone passenger on his journey here, followed twenty steps behind. 

The Man picked up on this observation and chuckled, while thanking him for not bringing his cell phone, nor any other nefarious gadgets of communication. 

They then followed a narrow alley way up to a small cabin overlooking the village. When they stepped into the room alight with a roaring fireplace, he handed the unopened satchel to the Man. 

The Man refused however, saying that the contents were fully known to him. The travelers’ bewilderment was by now complete, so they sat and talked.

The Man explained to the traveler before him with the wax-sealed satchel, that it was a message of good faith, now being delivered. Adding that he had traveled up into an unknown part of this world at his peril and that it was his Faith that was most appreciated. Additionally, the Man explained that the details within the satchel had been discussed within the Town for some days.

 While the Man would welcome him to stay another night, week or even months, the Town had decided that it was time to move with haste, as the situation outside of the Town was spreading with grave concern for all humanity.

It was decided that the traveler would return tonight with three-hundred and fifty of the Town’s people, all 100% immune from the deadly spreading global pandemic. Upon reaching the six-hour destination, their papers would facilitate domestic and international travel around the globe.

Their interaction then, merely speaking with others, along their varied journeys would create the contagious antivirus that would exponentially facilitate putting out the ‘fire’, as fast as it had started. 

The Man then presented him with the Town’s Medallion and urged him to go catch the train. The traveler thanked the Man with the white hair, not for the medallion, but for what he was doing, leaving the satchel at his feet.

As they stood, the Man replied with a hug:  ‘it is all taken care of, be well my friend’.

He then walked alone down the narrow path and through the village, thinking that he was in a dream. 

However train 93 was facing in the other direction and was indeed full of passengers! The cafe car too, was also now open. 

It was on that clear May night, in the year 2020, that the tide turned. 

The beginning.

 

In the quiet half light of Winter’s departure, a lone Osprey has swept across the sea, returning from his distant hunting grounds, far to the South.

Rhythmically he moves through dawn’s cool damp fog, his feathers long and dark, a solitary silhouette rising against the warmth of the Eastern light.

His flies with swift strength that resonates a purpose and his wings radiate as he dances upon the now awakened waves that seem to reach up and say:
‘welcome back my old friend’.

 

 

 

 

A dark gale cascades across the vast barren field. 

Each yard passed, it gathers a greater momentum. 

 

It’s inertia pushes it down upon a frozen stubborn ground and 

forward it leaps upwards in an explosion of ice and snow. 

 

All wintering beneath, are at once awakened.  

 

Upon reaching the waiting coniferous forest, 

it shatters aging pine and the trees moan as one. 

 

For a long breath the woods, once silent, 

are enveloped by an unseen fury of splintering whines and frenzied sparks.

 

It was never clear, when this might start.   

 

High above the canopy of chaos, 

far above the glow of embers, 

silent stars mingle and dance upon footless halls, 

suspended in the brilliant moonless sky. 

 

From their loft of shining stillness,

a gentle calm illuminates and 

descends softly over all the land

and 

we remember.  

 

 

Karl began slowly, “My every bone in my krieger (warrior) body hopes that your primary objective be as inconclusive as our own progress on Deutsche heimat.  Such a bomb would change the world forever, regardless of whose hands it was held.  I am a tactical fighter much like your father. In the hope and eventuality that no one can develop such an atomic bomb, this war can be won by our Soldaten, Luftwaffe and Kriegsmarine.  This I feel very confident of and why the other mission objectives in this file, are of equal importance.”

    

 

Gunther listened and watched the blue smoke from his Belinda waft above the  head of the closest Rottweiler and slowly drift towards the the fire.  He was a keenly observant man with a photographic memory.  Often, in times such as this, he would allow that combination to portray a relaxed persona, in order to let others reveal.  Gunther was the consummate good listener with an astounding rare gift of retention. Tonight, given his privileged audience, he would let Karl Dönitz do all the talking, only injecting subtle questions to elongate the narrative.  For he already knew that this evening and the week ahead to study the file names, numbers and addresses would be more than he needed.  He suddenly felt a flush run through him, not by the wine, tobacco nor the fire but by the vision of the mission ahead.

 

Oberbefehlshaber der Kriegsmarine Karl Dönitz preferred, in his words, the Maine coastline for Gunther’s insertion onto enemy shores.   Specifically, he cited Frenchman’s Bay situated in close proximity to Brooklin Maine. There, on property owned by a man of German descent, named Luders, Gunther would be met by a caretaker on the desolute vacant grounds. Gunther, instinctively felt this was too far East, given his timeline for the first coded transmission and after some discussion, he let it go.    

 

Luders, apparently was a renowned naval architect with a son Alfred E. Luders Jr. (Bill), operating a government funded shipyard in Stamford, Ct.  Visiting this shipyard was to be objective #1 according to Dönitz. Additionally, Gunther was to gather intelligence from Edmund Cromwell of the Boston Naval Yard.  There, it was important to ascertain the fleet strength of American LST (Landing Ship Tank) production rollout that could be used for an eventual suspected allied invasion of France.   Moving westward via public transportation with legal and current English documents, he was to connect with a yard worker at a local Stamford pub and arrange access to The Luders Shipyard. Of the highest priorty was to establish the extent of their subchaser production and vessel specific capabilities. It would be at Gunther’s descretion to manage the time neccessary to accomplish this.  It might perhaps even take several weeks to gather this high level intelligence. Gunther concurred that it likely could even with several social introductions. He had never met this Alfred (Bill) Luders Jr while visiting America before the War and suspected that the man would not only be highly intelligent, but also a very cautious and guarded man given his lineage, coupled with the times, towards strangers.  Dönitz thus assured him that the Luders’ dossier file was quite thorough and facilitating a connection, was of paramount importance.      

 

The dogs, then sat alertly up and Leutnant zur See walked in to add logs to the fire and replenish the wine.   It was now approaching half past ten o’clock in the evening and Karl Dönitz, with a relaxed and cordial authority, instructed his Leutnant that he would see him for the morning.  Perhaps adding for Gunther’s consumption, that the Japanese contingent from Tokyo was due to arrive by noon.  The Leutnant zur See nodded and ackowledged that the visitors from Tokyo were reported to be on schedule.

 

A CHRISTMAS MOMENT