Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“This is madness!” hissed the lizard-woman.

“It ain’t madness, Francesca,” Everett replied. “It's an opportunity. Just follow my lead.”

When you didn't have much of anything, being resourceful was the only way to survive in the world. Everett Kirk knew this very well, as his childhood was defined by scarcity. The American frontier was a harsh place. Making it through the winter on his family’s farm depended on their ability to make the most of everything they had, which was little better than nothing. But they managed, despite their fortunes never improving. Growing up recycling bullets with his father, Everett knew how to value every scrap that came into his possession. Which ended up serving him well in his nomadic lifestyle on the wormhole judgment line. And now, it was going to secure him a place to live.

Francesca huffed, pulling her skirt above the metal ‘rocks,’ as they trekked up the side of the enormous bronze mountain. “I ask you, Everett, to explain how a shotgun and some gravel are to be converted into a substantial sum of money. Without undergoing mental gymnastics.”

“Francesca, you’re thinkin’ too straight.”

“Straight? What do you - oh!” One of her heels slipped on a lump of metal, and Everett grabbed her arm.

“You’re thinking too honest. You see, this locomotive may be your territory, but this here place is a mining town. I’ve lived in a mining town for years, and I know every trick in the book.”

“You live in a mining town? I thought you grew up on a ranch.”

“That I did.” Everett replied, surveying the mountainside for an ideal place to launch his plan. “Hey, that over there look like a cave to you?”

Francesca squinted in the direction Everett pointed. “Unless it’s a trick of the light, it couldn’t be anything else. Now what is it you were saying about mining towns?”

“Some two years back, some lucky feller found gold in California. Lots o' folks, including yours truly, decided that they were gonna try to make a fortune.” He sighed, picking up a piece of bronze and tossing it down the mountain. “I learned that rivers in California ain’t lined with gold. So I reckoned I’d make my fortune another way.”

“Could you perhaps describe this ‘other way?’”

“Trickery.”

Eventually, the two reached the cave. Everett stared into it, sizing it up. “Narrow, long, dark - this is perfect! You’ve got a good eye!” He grabbed his shotgun, loaded it, and to Francesca’s bemusement, dumped the gravel into the barrel.

“One of the best ploys back at Coloma is the gold gun trick. You see, to make a killing, you spot some worthless hole out in the middle of nowhere and stake a claim. You scrape some gold dust from the floors of saloons and shops, and pour it into a shotgun much like this one.”

Francesca gasped. “And you shoot it into the cave! The powder flies everywhere, and the cave appears priceless!” She nailed Everett with a glare. “And you find some poor half-wit and convince him to buy it from you.”

“That’s precisely it. Cover your ears now, missy!”

Everett fired the gun. Gravel powder erupted from the barrel in an ashy plume that instantly covered the cave’s entrance. A cloud of dust hung in the air, drifting lazily as the sharp echoes of the blast died off. “It’s funny that stone is so precious here, while bronze is like dirt. This locomotive is crazy as a loon.”

Francesca watched the dust settle. “Are you certain this will work?”

“I’m sure as sure can be. If you’re desperate enough, you’ll believe anything.”

The two turned around and began to walk down the bronze mountain. Francesca looked back to the cave. If you’re desperate enough, you’ll believe anything, she thought. Like the notion that this is right.

Chapter Text

The clicking of the door, usually so banal, was music to Blake Walker’s ears. The car he had just left was the most irritating he had encountered by far. He never liked pool, especially not if the pool cue was a flying machine he was piloting and the balls were as big as houses. Seriously, he was still amazed that it managed to make flying stuff irritating.

At least his walking turnip friend was there through it all.

Yes, his walking turnip friend. His walking turnip friend named Willard, no less. Basically a stick figure with a turnip for a head. It was scary how quickly he was getting used to this absurd place.

“They should get new paint jobs on those balls,” remarked Willard.

“Yeah. Remember when I got that asshole’s ball in by accident?”

“You mean The BilliardMaster?”

Blake paused for a moment, basking in the comfort of knowing he would never see that megalomaniacal general-type ever again. “Yeah. Not gonna miss him.”

“Me neither. What a poser.”

They arrived at the door. “I bet it’s gonna be some sort of renaissance car,” predicted Willard. “Those pop up now and again.”

“How do you know about human history?” Blake questioned.

“I once traveled with a historian who never shut up,” came the curt reply, making them both laugh. Blake spun the handle, and stared at the new car in awe.

“Well, there’s a giant eye in the sky.”

“Astute observation, Blake.”

The two walked onto a large cartoonish cloud, the surface squishy, like how a kid might imagine a cloud would feel like. They’re so magenta, he thought. It almost hurts to look at them. The door was placed in the middle of an expansive cluster of the clouds. There were lots of them, but they were pretty far apart. Far in the distance, dwarfing the clouds in front of it, was an enormous eyeball. It could have been as big as a city - no, a small planet. It was easily the largest thing he had ever seen. “How are we supposed to get across?” Willard asked, looking about. “The door is so far away!”

Blake was barely able to see the second door far in the distance, set in a massive cloud. The other clouds were few and far between, and there was absolutely nothing beneath them, which posed a problem.

“How am I supposed to know? I’ve only been here for a couple of days!”

“Weeks,” Willard corrected. God, time was flying. At this rate, it was gonna be another year when he got back. His number, stretching around his wrist like some kind of demented bracelet, had only decreased by a single digit at this point. How long was he going to be here?

He shook his thought away from that and focused on the immediate problem: Somehow crossing an abyss. “Are the clouds moving?”

“I can’t tell,” Willard replied, squinting. “Maybe?”

“Yeah, they’re moving!” Blake exclaimed. “Just real slowly.”

“Way I see it, this is a waiting game.”

“Dammit,” he sighed, leaning back against the door. “That can’t be it.”

The two sat there for a moment, looking at the eye. Though he hated to admit it, Blake began to realize that Willard was probably right. Stupid turnip stickman.

“So, we just sit here and wait for something to happen?”

“I think so.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah.” Willard put a hand to his ‘chin.’ “How about some animal-vegetable-mineral?”

“Hell no.”

Eventually, he decided to start some small talk.

“How many people did you follow exactly?”

Willard sighed, a faraway look forming on his face (turnip? No, face). “I’ve accompanied four passengers so far, counting you.”

“I’m your favorite, right?”

The turnip took on a playful look. “Least favorite, actually. Your hair’s bad and your head is too big.”

“Go sauté yourself, turnip boy.”

As his friend chuckled, a question occurred to him. “Who was your first companion?”

“That was a long time ago. He was older than you, and a lot less fun. A sullen guy. Name was Ronald.”

“How long ago?”

Willard shrugged. “I don’t know. He said that the year was 1973.”

Blake’s eyes widened. “Whoa! You’re ancient!”

“What?”

“I thought you were my age! You’re thirty!”

“Jennifer said I wear it well.”

“Jennifer?”

“My third companion.”

A somber thought occurred to him. “You’ve only seen four of us since the seventies? Oh my god.”

“Only four of you?” Willard shook his head. “No no no, lots more pass through without me tagging along. And usually, my brothers are the ones to go on journeys. They always came back with great stories, and I wanted to be like them so badly.”

Blake chuckled. “My older brother’s got great stories too. You won’t believe the stuff he’s done. Once, he straight-up stole a whole six pack. Just walked right out the door.”

The two exchanged tales for what seemed like forever.

But eventually, the novelty wore off and boredom set in again. And with boredom came impatience. God, this car was stupid!

“Won’t you need to get food at some point? We might have to go back and request water from The BilliardMaster.”

“Hell no!” Blake declared, slamming a fist into the cloud for emphasis. “When I said I never wanted to see him again, I meant it. I really meant it!”

‘Blake! Look! The clouds!”

“I see them, and they haven’t changed.”

“No, not those! These clouds!” Willard shouted, pointing at the place Blake had struck. He shifted over and peered down, and his eyes widened. Floating above the surface were a few tiny magenta wisps, stirred up by Blake’s punch.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he mused, pushing them about in the air experimentally.

“I think so! Scoop up a handful. I want to test something.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“Blake, my hands are literally sticks.”

“Fair point.”

It took more effort than he expected, but he dug up a good chunk of cloud and lifted it into the air, letting it go. As they hoped, it stayed aloft. Blake pushed down and was met with a slight resistance. Praying to whatever deity ruled over this insane train, he removed his wallet from his pocket and placed it atop the cloud. Both remained aloft.

The solution was clear.

“That’s it! We make our own cloud and ride to the other side!”

“Now we’re talking!” cheered Blake. “God, finally!”

“What an annoying car!!”

The two high fived. “Willard,” Blake said dramatically, “It’s time to make a cloud.”

“I’ll bet that’s a sentence you never thought you’d say.”

If Blake were to explain this to his friends, he’d say it was a bit like making a giant ball out of wispy mashed potatoes that didn't stick to his hands. He grabbed clumps of cloud, slapping them together into a chunky mass that hovered two feet above the ‘ground’. Soon, he had fashioned a platform that was clearly large enough to accommodate both of them. He never paid too much attention in physics class, so it was lucky that the unit on forces stuck well enough for him to realize that without external forces and in a closed system, one push was all it would take to send their cloud sailing to the other door. After conducting experiments with tiny wisps, he determined that wind resistance didn’t influence the clouds. Armed with that fact, they were ready to set his plan in motion. “I’ll get on first,” he directed as he applied the finishing touches to his practical masterpiece. “You give it a push to set it going, and I’ll pull you up.”

With a careful step, Blake mounted the mini-cloud, finding that it supported him perfectly. Willard expertly held its side, and after determining the perfect angle, gave it a good shove. The moment he felt motion, Blake quickly yanked him up by the head, eliciting vocal complaints.

“Never do that again! Do you have any idea how much that hurts?”

“Okay, jeez! I had to act fast! It’s not my fault your head’s so bulbous!”

“...Fair point.”

Sitting up straight, Blake looked around at the car again. The enormous eye hovered some vast distance away, its inconceivable stare oddly accusatory. “I’m not used to a sky that looks back at me.”

“Nor am I.”

“Bro, you live here! How are you not used to this?!”

“This isn’t my car, is it?”

“I guess.”

The two leaned back on the cloud, ‘chillaxing’ and staring into the sky. Now and then, Blake looked to the door to see how much progress they made. And it was never much.

Who knew travel-by-cloud was so damn boring.

Stupid train car.

Finally, Willard broke the silence.

“Blake?”

“Yeah?”

“How did you get on the train?”

The teen groaned, slumping back on the cloud. “I was outside the hospital. And it just appeared. I don’t know how. It wasn’t like it is here. Mine was covered in graffiti, like it was abandoned. I love exploring stuff like that, you know? Old places. The outskirts of the city have some cool places to hang. My brother takes me there sometimes.”

“Why were you outside a hospital?”

Blake took in a breath. “My grandma was sick.”

“I’m sorry. I hope she gets better.”

“Me too.”

They fell quiet again. Willard whistled a tune, and Blake turned around to stare at the eye.

As the journey dragged on, the eye bothered Blake more and more. No matter which way he turned, no matter how intently he looked away, it was out there, watching. Watching him. He was adrift in a void, and alien sky, and he could not hide.

Turning his head to meet its gaze, he wondered what it was. Did it have a mind? Could it truly see him? What was it thinking? Its vastness scared him.

“Blake? You’re moving around a lot.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, still staring into the eye.

He was being watched here. Always. And whatever it was, it watched him lie to his friend.

“Blake? Are you alright?”

“No. No, I’m not alright, because there’s this giant fucking thing in the sky!”

Willard jumped back, a little alarmed by Blake’s anger. “What? The eye? It can’t hurt you!”

“It’s watching me! I know it is! Look away, whatever you are! Just look the hell away!”

“Blake! Calm down!”

He wanted to scream at it, to get it to somehow listen.

But it was only an eye, and impossible eye, and in his heart of hearts, he knew that railing against it was pointless.

“I - " he fell back onto the cloud, shutting his eyes. “I lied to you, Willard.”

“What?”

“My Grandma’s not sick. She’s fine.”

“Why were you at the hospital then?”

Blake took a long, shuddering breath, staring into the vivid blue sky. “I was there for Clyde.”

He had told him lots of stories about people he knew, but Clyde was a new name. “Who’s that?”

“He was just some dude at my school. Smart guy. Jack - you remember him? My friend? - he asked him if he could cheat off his test. He said no. Jack got pissed. He got me and the others together. We were gonna get back at him.”

Willard could only shake his head.

“He was going home from a Science Olympiad meet when we found him. It was dark in the neighborhood. No one was out. It was just us and him.”

“Blake… What did you do?”

In a departure from his usual detachment, Blake’s eyes shone with tears. A moment later he was sobbing.

“I - I didn’t - I didn’t wanna hurt him bad, I - I swear! I swear on my life! We - we only pushed him around a little! That - that was all!”

Willard laid a hand on his heaving shoulder.

“He slipped. I pushed him and he… he just slipped… and he - he hit his head…”

He turned to the eye. “Are you happy now, you bastard?” he shouted through his tears. “ARE YOU SATISFIED?”

The eye didn’t react. What did was his number. Blake watched as the whole thing faded into a whirr, dropping digit after digit and finally resting at 1721.

It didn’t feel like a victory.

“So that’s why I’m here, I guess,” he said after a bit, voice soft. “God.”

“I don’t think you’re a bad person, you know.”

“You don’t?”

“People can change. I should know. What you did was very wrong and very bad, but you didn’t want to hurt him the way you did. Just because you did something really bad doesn’t mean you’re evil.”

“I know th - ” he cut himself off. “No, I didn’t know that. Who am I kidding?”

“Please believe me. You’re not unforgivable!”

“No, it’s not that! I’m such a fucking idiot! I’m so damn stupid!”

“What? That’s absurd!”

“No. Ever since I was little, my parents told me not to bully people. They showed my tv shows and books where kids hurt other kids, and I always hated the bullies. I thought I would never be like that.”

“Why did you start then?”

“I didn’t even know I started. I made a couple of friends, guys like me who didn’t do well, and we started to play pranks, and… Jesus, I’m a caricature of a bully. A walking cartoon. Stupid, mean… god, I even have a low voice!”

“Blake! You have shown me nothing but kindness, and you’ve solved half of the puzzle cars we’ve been in! I don’t know why you did what you did, but it wasn’t because you’re mean and stupid!”

He didn’t know how to reply. After a moment’s thought, he decided that that was the question he had to answer to escape. But that could wait.

“Willard?”

“Yeah?”

“I wish I had a friend like you back home.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you.”

He sat up, arms resting on his knees and stared into the distance, Willard sitting beside him.

“It’s funny. This is the most boring car we’ve been in, and yet it’s helped you more than any of the others.”

“You know, that is weird.”

“I guess every car is helpful.”

“Except the pool table car.”

“Yeah.”

“FUCK YOU, BILLIARDMASTER!” Blake shouted into the sky, causing him and his companion to burst into laughter.

A nanosecond later, the cloud hit something. The two spun around, finding themself on the giant cloud with the second door.

“How did I not notice that?!” Willard exclaimed.

“Come on. Let’s get outta here.”

“Yeah.”

As the two clambered across the marshmallow-ish surface, Willard leading the way, Blake took one last look back at the eye. Its stare felt gentler, less accusatory. It looked almost curious. As if it were asking, ‘What will you do now?’

Blake decided he would figure that out.

Chapter Text

The man had been walking in the field for quite some time, and he was very confused.

His name, pronounced as a series of grunts, roughly translated to ‘Tree.’ He was given this name as he had always been large. Large as an infant, large as a boy, and very large as a man. His hair was terribly unkempt, and a great beard covered his face in a robust mass. But in spite of his intimidating size, his eyes had a kindly twinkle to them. His hands had many scars from many hunts (which he was very good at, so it stood to reason that he should do the lion’s share of hunting for his tribe), and he was missing a number of his teeth (an unfortunate side effect of all that hunting). But in place of the furs strapped across his body was something very different. Very new.

Tree had no real words to indicate his confusion. One moment, he was standing outside the home cave at night, and the next, a green light shone upon him. He gazed in awe as something large and loud he had never seen before snaked past him. It was long, glowing, and made of a material he couldn’t identify. A hole opened on the side of it, and there was darkness beyond the threshold. He had crept forward, peering into a void, and was greatly frightened. No animal was capable of this. And then, a glowing circle flew at him, and he woke up here.

There was nothing in the field. He had screamed and cried for his tribe, his children, but there was no response. Just the whistling of the wind.

He was covered in something the color of stone, but shockingly thin and very comfortable, with odd black flat sticks on his wrist. He could feel another one on his neck. He could still feel his feet, only they weren’t there. Instead, he had new cold stone feet. No, his feet were inside the stone. Bizarre.

And oddest of all, his hand was glowing. Tree had peered at his palm, eyes wide. It was covered in counting lines of green fire. If he understood the commonly accepted numeric system that would be used thousands of years in the future, he would have counted 18 counting lines. He had shouted in shock, as it seemed that his hand was burning, only to find that somehow the glow wasn’t fire. He didn’t know what it was.

After coming to terms with the situation as best he could, he stood up, marveling at how heavy his footfalls sounded, and made a ‘hmph’ noise. There was nothing to it but to walk. That was what anyone would do when they were lost. Walk until they find familiar land, and hold the fear away.

But it seemed that there was nothing familiar.

Just sweeping plains, dotted with the occasional tree and boulder.

Despite his best attempts, his fear eventually took hold of him and he began to cry. Nothing made sense! Where was everyone? He needed them, and they needed him! Who would lead the hunts?

Then he heard a noise behind him.

Tree turned around, and watched incredulously as a smallish rock rose from the ground. And on two stick-like legs, no less. The tribe had traveled far, but they had never seen a rock with legs. Or a mouth. Especially not a mouth that made a grunting sound that Tree recognized as something that translates roughly to ‘hello.’

He blinked, and rubbed his eyes. Then lightly slapped himself. Was he dreaming? No. This was far too vivid to be a dream. He made a ‘huh?’ noise, something that translates roughly to ‘huh?’

The rock repeated the greeting, and it sank in that it was actually alive. Tree felt relief wash over him. Maybe the rock man knew where his tribe was. He made gestures that indicated a group of people, and the rock indicated that it hadn’t seen anyone. Wait, how could it see? It didn’t have eyes! Whatever. There were more pressing matters.

To Tree’s confusion, the rock indicated that there was a cave exit nearby. Now that was absurd. Cave exit? He wasn’t in a cave. But whatever it was, it was worth checking out. Even if he was certain that the rock was delusional, at least he wasn’t wandering aimlessly. Picking up the rock-person, he began to walk to the ‘cave exit.’ Sure. He’d believe this was a cave when snakes flew.

As he walked, the rock told him his name. Apparently, it (He? She? No, they) was called ‘greatest rock.’ This made Tree almost break out in laughter. Greatest Rock? As if! Sure, they had legs and could talk, but that didn’t make up for their diminutive size. They were little more than a spearhead! Despite his attempt to conceal his amusement, the rock - no, Greatest Rock - managed to sense his mirth, and took on an annoyed disposition. To make up for it, Tree picked them up and carried them the rest of the journey.

As he walked, he was reminded of the plains back home. When he was a boy, he loved to run as fast as he could, feeling the grass brush against his legs. He was careful not to laugh, as he didn’t want to attract a predator, but he had a silly grin plastered across his face the whole way. He wished he had the energy to do that nowadays, but the burden he carried was heavy. Hunts and scavenging left him drained. The food, the happiness of everyone, made it all worth it. But sometimes, he wished that he could lay down his spear for a while. Relax.

A whirring noise snapped him from his thoughts. He glanced at his hand and watched one of the glowing counting sticks fade into nothing in shock. Why did that happen?

Was it the walking? No. He had been doing that for a while, and it made no sense for it to happen now.

Was it Greatest Rock? Not possible. Rocks couldn’t put out a fire. Besides, they were equally confused.

So it must have been him. Thinking of home, thinking about his life, made the counting stick go away. And if every counting stick went away, his hand would go back to normal. And if his hand went back to normal, everything else might go back to normal too!

Tree tried to articulate this to Greatest Rock as he walked, but before he could finish explaining, he saw something beyond the hill he had just climbed. It was red, and oddly shaped. Greatest rock told him to go forward, as that was the cave exit.

Approaching it, he spun a cold shape on the front, and it made an odd noise and opened.

As it turns out, Greatest Rock was right. He was in a sort of cave.

Tree didn’t even try to understand what he was seeing. But as he stepped into the unknown, his companion at his side, he took great comfort in the fact that he at least had an idea for how he could get back.

Chapter Text

Author's Note: For context, I first wrote this after reading and having my heart broken by All Quiet on the Western Front.

Wilhelm’s first thought was that he must have slept in late. Ever since he and his classmates - no, comrades - had begun training for the front, a good night’s rest became a thing of the past. But as consciousness crept back, he thought that something was off. Why was the bed so hard? His tiredness vanished, replaced by confusion as he realized he was lying on a cobbled path of some kind. He opened his eyes.

And screamed, convinced he had lost his mind.

The sky was pink, and there were clouds of fairy floss. Around him stretched an absurd parody of Earth, something from a child’s book. It was a world of candy. Panicking and rattling off hail Marys, he turned to his side. Lying next to him, fast asleep or unconscious, was Dietrich, his best friend and fellow newly-ready for war infantryman. Taking little notice of the bizarre gray uniform he was dressed in, he grabbed his shoulder and shook him violently.

“WAKE UP! DIETRICH WAKE UP RIGHT NOW!”

Dietrich groaned. “Wilhelm… let me sleep…”

“WAKE UP!” Wilhelm shrieked.

Dietrich pulled himself up, groaning. He opened his eyes and all exhaustion vanished.

“Wilhelm,” he whispered, unable to process what he was seeing, "what the hell is this?"

"Does it look like I know?”

“Look! There’s Otto!” Dietrich shouted, pointing past Wilhelm towards another member of their company/former classmate. He was wearing the same gray uniform and was just shaking himself awake.

The two raced to his side as he opened his eyes. “What is this?” he screamed. “What the hell are you wearing?!”

“What are you wearing?” Dietrich shot back.

“What?”

“You’re both -” He stopped mid-sentence, noticing his sleeve. “We’re all dressed like this!”

“You’re right - THERE’S A NUMBER ON MY HAND!” Wilhelm cried, rubbing it frantically on his uniform.

Dietrich looked at his palm, only to see a green glow as well. “I have one too!”

“So do I!” shouted Otto. He began to pinch himself. “Wake up, Otto! Wake up!”

“How are they glowing?!”

“It won’t come off!” Dietrich said as he furiously dragged his palm across his sleeve.

“It was that train!” Wilhelm accused, turning to Otto. “I told you we shouldn’t have investigated that noise!”

“How was I supposed to know that this was going to happen?”

“The windows on that train were glowing green! Why did I follow you?” Dietrich ranted. “I should have known you were going to get us into trouble! Always messing about in school, always planning those infernal tricks on Herr Weber… You’d have been expelled from our gymnasium if it wasn’t for me!”

“Do you think I planned this? Are you mad?”

“No!”

“Why did I get on that train?” Wilhelm cursed himself. “I saw you two get dissolved, but I kept walking! I couldn’t stop! It was as if my legs had a mind of their own!”

“We were dissolved?” Otto said disbelievingly. “Do I look dissolved to you?”

“Yes! By that ring of fire!”

Dietrich turned away, taking it all in for the tenth time, still trying to comprehend it. “It’s all candy!” he observed, hoping that by saying it aloud it would somehow make sense.

They were on a path cobbled with peppermint candies and chocolate instead of stone and cement. It snaked through a bizarre field where instead of grass there were ropes of licorice, instead of stones there were candy wafers, and instead of shrubs there were bunches of candy sticks and lollipops. Rich milk chocolate took the place of soil. Dietrich gazed at it, the voices of Otto and Wilhelm fading into the background. Incredible, he thought to himself. It’s like a fantasy. He had experienced dreams similar to this as a young boy, where he joyously frolicked through landscapes of sweets, but even then something in his subconscious told him that it was a dream. But this… this felt so real.

Suddenly, he saw some of the licorice grass near the path rustle a little. That could only mean…

A rather large wine gum frog hopped onto the path in a single leap. It turned and gazed at Dietrich inquisitively, and the young man’s heart almost stopped.

“Comrades… look over here…” he said quietly, pointing with a shaking finger at the frog. Wilhelm and Otto fell silent and crept forward, careful not to startle it. The three Imperial German soldiers stood in a row, staring at the creature.

“Well, the candy’s alive,” Wilhelm said.

The frog croaked.

They all screamed.

Wilhelm immediately leapt behind Dietrich, wrapping both arms around him in a terrified embrace which he barely noticed. Otto whirled around and broke into a run, and his companions soon started after him, tripping over each other as they struggled to catch up. The three of them bounded across the field, shattering candy sticks and tearing up licorice, not daring to look back. Leaping over a fizzing creek of soda, they got back onto the path, metal boots slamming against the peppermints and scraping chocolate from the ground. After much running, they collapsed at the foot of a chocolate tree, panting.

“Wilhelm…” Dietrich said breathlessly, “you’re squeezing my hand awfully hard.”

“...Sorry.” He loosened his grip but didn’t let go.

The three eventually regained their breath.

It took a little longer for the hysteria to drain from their systems.

“We can’t keep screaming at each other,” Dietrich eventually announced. “We’ll never get anywhere.”

“You’re right,” Otto agreed. “A proper soldier wouldn’t panic.”

“Remember our science classes.” Wilhelm advised. “We should try to make sense of this in a rational way.”

“Alright.” Dietrich cleared his throat. “Let’s all agree on a sequence of events. We were just out of training, and we were ready to go to the front. We had put on our uniforms, and the trucks were due to arrive at any minute, and this idiot -” he pointed to Otto, who looked affronted “- hears some kind of bizarre train whistle, and we all follow him.”

“I was guided by curiosity, not stupidity,” Otto retorted. “Besides, if I’m an imbecile for starting this undertaking, then you lot are just as stupid for following me.”

“...Fair enough,” Dietrich conceded. “So we followed Otto and saw a train station where there was nothing yesterday.”

“Who built it?” wondered Wilhelm. “Did it just materialize? That’s impossible.”

“Wilhelm, a living candy frog is impossible,” said Otto. “Carry on.” He gestured to Dietrich, who nodded.

“We heard the sound again, and a train came into the station, a troop and supply transport. But there was green light coming from inside the cars. I could see it through the boards. Was I the only one who saw that?”

“No, we saw it too.”

“A door slid open, and there was nothing inside. Only darkness. Me and Otto looked inside together, and we saw something in the distance.”

“The ring of fire,” Otto clarified, looking visibly uncomfortable at the memory.

“It rushed at us, and we were frozen in place. I don’t know why I didn’t jump away. It hit us, and I woke up… here.” He gestured at the fantasy land around him.

“What did you see, Wilhelm? When it hit us?”

“You vanished. Burnt away into nothing,” he said, haunted. Dietrich and Otto shared a disturbed look. “There was a flash of light and a fizzling sound, and you were gone.”

“Why in god’s name did you follow us then?” Dietrich asked incredulously.

“I don’t know! I just kept on walking. Like something was making me walk. I got on, stepped into the ring, and woke up with you.”

“We all agree that that is what happened?” Dietrich asked. The others nodded. He sighed, and they leaned back on the tree, looking into the pink sky and trying to collect themselves. Wilhelm picked a few blades of licorice grass and passed them around. It had been some time since they had tasted anything other than bland army rations, so the sweetness of the candy was a great delight. Soon, they ended up plucking candy from the environment, bringing their gatherings back to the tree and savoring the taste.

“You know, that train we saw reminds me of the Glühendekette.” Wilhelm mused. “Do you remember it? The fairy tale? The glowing chain?”

“My mother used to tell me stories about the Glühendekette,” said Otto. “She told me that if I misbehaved, it would wrap itself around me and pull me into the earth.”

“That is what my father told me, only he told me it was a fairy tale from the start. You’re not going to start believing in fairy tales, are you? Believing in the glühendekette is like believing in the kingdom of dogs or the speaking ocean. It’s all nonsense.”

“We’re in a candy world, Dietrich. We’re far past plausibility.”

Dietrich’s head started to hurt as he considered all the bizarre old stories he read as a boy. Was there really a place where your reflection could talk to you? No way. “I’m going to wait for evidence. That’s what a sane man would do.”

“What do you believe the numbers mean?” Otto wondered, gazing at his glowing palm. “Mine is 236.”

“So is mine!” said Dietrich.

“Mine as well,” said Wilhelm. “Perhaps they’re some sort of score.”

Dietrich raised an eyebrow. “A score? For what?”

“I don’t know!”

“Forget the number. What are we wearing right now?” Wilhelm said as he pulled at his sleeves. “I’ve never seen fabric like this before. It’s like it came from one of Dietrich’s silly science fiction magazines.”

“I don’t care for those anymore!” he protested. “They were for children. I’m a man now. I’m done with silly things.”

Suddenly, there was a whirring noise. All three of them looked about, trying to determine the source, only for Dietrich to discover that it was coming from his palm.

“My number… it’s changing!”

“What?!”

Dietrich watched in shock as the numbers whizzed by on his palm. “Now it’s 241! What does it mean?!” he asked pointlessly, directing his confusion at nothing in particular. “How in god’s name can we get home?”

“Oh, I can help you with that,” said a voice with a British accent.

The three turned around to see the candy frog.

“You!” shouted Wilhelm.

“Yes, me,” it replied calmly.

“So the frog can talk,” Otto said incredulously. He turned to Dietrich. “What were you saying about fairy tales?”

“Name’s Cecil,” said the frog.

“You followed us!”

“And it took me forever. I’m not sure why you took off running when you saw me. It’s not like I can do anything to you.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I was sizing you up. I haven’t seen folks like you for a while.”

Wilhelm stood up. “What is this place? What are you? How do we get home?”

“I don’t know about the first two, but I can help you on the third. I’ve seen this before. Folks like you with numbers on your hands. You need to get them to zero to go home. Otherwise you’ll be on the train forever.”

“On the train? We aren’t on a train.” Otto swept his hand, indicating the landscape. “Does this look like a train to you?”

“It’s the inside of one of the cars. So yes, it does.”

“That’s madness. I don’t believe you.”

“Suit yourself. Door’s over there if you want to check it out though.”

All three of the soldiers turned in the direction the frog indicated. Sure enough, standing some distance behind the tree was a doorway.

“How didn't we notice this?” asked Dietrich.

“It doesn’t lead anywhere. Are you certain that that’s the door?” Otto asked skeptically.

“Do you see any other doors?” asked Cecil the British candy frog.

Wilhelm gazed at the golden symbol. “It looks like a sort of lemniscate.”

“Lemniscate?”

“An infinity symbol.”

“Oh.”

He pushed at the door, then gave the symbol an experimental tug. It spun about 180 degrees, and the doors flipped open. Wilhelm’s breath caught in his throat as he gazed at what looked like a metal box car, only one that towered higher than Berlin palace.

He and the others didn’t say a word as they filed onto the platform and took it all in: The wasteland, the wheels, the cars, the absurdly tiny bridge. Wilhelm clutched Dietrich’s hand again as he stared at the rust colored sky.

“I told you that you were on a train,” noted Cecil, who had hopped up behind them. “And mind the platform. It’s quite a long drop.”

Otto took a look at the enormous wheels and promptly flung himself as far away from the edge as possible. “Where are we?” he asked hopelessly.

“I’m afraid I’m in want of the answer to that question myself.” Cecil sighed.

Dietrich and Wilhelm walked onto the gangway and gazed at the wastes as they passed by. “It’s in another world,” the latter said solemnly. “No place on earth is like this. How are we supposed to reduce these numbers?”

“I’m not entirely sure. It’s something about a problem you have.”

Otto groaned. “Cecil, the problem we have is that we’re stuck in this place, whatever and wherever it is, while our country needs us. We can’t miss the war!”

The frog looked horrified. “War? You’re soldiers? You’re little more than boys!”

“No, we’re men!” Otto responded. The other two nodded. A second later, all of their numbers rose by 20. The two on the gangway glared at Otto, who turned away with a guilty look.

“Wilhelm?”

“Yes, Dietrich?”

“Why do you keep holding my hand?”

He turned away as he blushed, letting go immediately. “No reason.”

The three of them continued to take it all in.

Eventually, Cecil cleared his throat (it sounded more like a croak, but the others got the point). “If I may, I have a proposition.”

“Yes?”

“I have wanted to travel the train ever since I can remember, and you are looking to go home as fast as possible. I know that folks like you who stay in the same train car for long periods of time make little to no progress. So I recommend that you travel from car to car, taking me with you. I get to see the train, and you get your numbers down. What do you say?”

“Er…” Dietrich turned to Wilhelm. “Do we trust him?” he whispered. “He is a brit.”

“He’s our only guide in this place. And he’s never set foot - no, flipper - in Britain. For someone so smart, you can be shockingly stupid.”

“Alright.” He turned to the frog. “I accept. You’re coming with us.”

“Fantastic!” chirped the frog endearingly. In one jump, he leapt onto Otto’s shoulder, giving the young man a start. “Sorry about that, dear fellow. Onward!”

“Onward? Already?”

“Are you attached to this car?” asked Dietrich. “Besides, we’ll need to get food somewhere. Proper food.”

“Good point.”

The three crossed the gangway. “I’m on a train in another world with my classmates and a talking frog is on my shoulder,” Otto mused as he walked. “Either this is a real life fairy tale, or I’m having the most vivid dream of my life.”

“A talking British frog made of candy.” Wilhelm corrected.

“I still won’t believe in fairy tales,” Dietrich proclaimed defiantly.

The four of them faced the door of the next car. Wilhelm took a deep breath as he stepped forward and spun the symbol about. His eyes grew wide as he gazed at the unbelievable world within.

Notes:

TL;DR, three Imperial German recruits share a braincell while slowly realizing that running into war is a bad idea, in the process dodging a massive bullet. And Wilhelm totally hasn't had a crush on Dietrich for basically forever. Totally.

This was going to be a lot shorter, but as I wrote it I liked these three more and more.

Updates will be infrequent and of varying length. And nobody, not even me, can predict which time I'll choose next. From the Paleolithic era to the 2000s, anything is fair game.

Chapter Text

It was one of the great conveniences of the infinity train that every passenger received clothing suitable for the conditions its wearer would be subjected to. After all, a man taken in his swimming suit would find crossing the iceberg car to be an excruciating venture, and a woman in her sunday best would surely fall victim to the traps of the jungle temple car, her beloved hoop skirt the cause of her demise. Passengers with more refined sensibilities often resented their jumpsuits at first, but quickly learned that when it came to pertinent concerns, social mores were around the bottom of the list. Of such individuals, twelve year old Edith Abinger found the change in perspective particularly jarring.

It happened a few days ago. Her father periodically enjoyed constitutionals through Kensington gardens, and one morning insisted that the rest of his family join him. Edith, who much preferred the comfort of her room despite its simplicity, wasn’t inclined to feel the same way about the proposal. Walking with her family sometimes felt like marching in formation. She was much happier lounging on a chair with a book in hand than strutting through the paths in her best dresses. However, her father was not to be defied, and Edith simply grinned and bore it. At least the gardens were pretty. Notebook and pencil in hand, she decided to get some sketching in along the way.

So off they went. Her father, picking up on Edith’s annoyance, tried to persuade her to his cause, but the inherent awkwardness of his attempts sunk that ship before it sailed an inch. Their walk went uneventfully, and Edith looked about to see if any of the trees were remarkable enough to pique her interest. They were beautiful, of course, but beautiful in a predictable way. However, when the impossible sound of a locomotive’s whistle reached her ears, she was destined to find a much more interesting subject to draw.

Before her eyes, a cluster of trees along the way faded into nothing, and the sound of wheels rattling on rails became audible. As if it were baffling enough, nobody else in her family seemed to acknowledge it. Deciding to investigate, she raced across the lawn, curiosity overriding her father’s orders to come back at once. When she reached the anomaly, a passenger train sailed across the field, windows glowing green, and then…

Then she ended up here. On this train. This insane, impossible, terrifying train of biblical proportions. With the number 647 glowing on her palm, no less.

At first she felt indecent in her trousers, but she understood why they were given to her when she had to run from a lava mole. On the train, the only thing that mattered was survival. Having read Swiss Family Robinson recently, she understood she had to acclimate to her new world in order to survive, and did so with remarkable efficiency. It still astonished her.

“Is anything the matter, Edith?” Her companion’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “You look preoccupied.”

“I’m considering my experiences. Only a few days ago, I was convinced I was in an obscure circle of the underworld Dante neglected to mention.”

Hortensia, a living tailor’s mannequin, hummed in understanding. “If there’s one thing I learned about passengers, it’s that they are adaptable.”

The two reached the platform of the next car and spun open the handle, eagerly gazing inside. Edith would have said something along the lines of “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” but that went for every car she’d been in so far. Nevertheless, she was still in awe.

The new car was vast. Truly vast. It appeared to be some sort of blue-ceilinged dome, only the sides were nearly indistinguishable from the sky. She wondered if it was a room at all, or if the faint blue rectangles were floating panels giving her the illusion of a surface. Scattered about the car were enormous purple shapes, from simple spheres to complex amalgamations of rectangles. In the middle of it all was a sort of enormous clocktower, only instead of numbers, it had five brightly colored sectors.

“Amazing!” breathed Hortensia.

Edith sized the tower up. Despite its absurd proportions, it actually wasn't that massive compared to clocktowers on Earth. “For once, England outdoes this place! If only you could see the clock tower in London!”

Before Hortensia was able to inquire further, a silly voice at their feet sung a quick fanfare. The travelers whipped their stares away from the landscape and were met with a tiny clock-man with arms, a face, legs, and even a puffy bow tie.

“It’s purple o’clock!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Welcome, friends and future friends, to the color clock!” chirped the clock-man, gesturing to the tower. “You can call me Roy, ‘cause I’m your boy!”

It laughed a little, and Edith could only stare, baffled. “Purple is not a time.”

“It is here! Just watch!”

The hand, with a click, moved a little to the right, crossing the line between the red and orange sections on the clock with a chime. Edith watched with wide eyes as the purple shapes all around them vanished abruptly, red shapes taking their place. “It’s red o’clock!”

“Where on earth did they go!?”

“Questions like that won’t get you anywhere.” Hortensia sighed. “Things here just happen.”

“Like friendship!” added Roy. “And teamwork!”

“Do you by any chance know where the exit could be?” Edith asked.

“Right on the tower!” with a sweeping motion, he pointed to a bridge connected to the side of the great clock.

Edith and Hortensia marched up the steps, making sure to stay away from the edges of their path up. There weren't any guardrails, and the fall was a considerable one. After a short trek, they reached the door, Roy at their side. A cherry-red lock blocked the handle.

“Excuse me, Roy?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know where the key for this lock could be found?”

“Oh, I can’t tell you that! It’s a secret!”

The audacity of this clock-man! “How ill-mannered you are! Are you a host or a gaoler?”

Roy went from convicted to conflicted in an instant. It only took him a second more to cave completely and blurt, “You have to use teamwork to find it!” He covered his mouth. “Oh, I’ve said too much!”

“Teamwork? What could that possibly have to do with-”

Before she could say another word, Roy turned around and cartwheeled down the steps, laughing gaily. Edith and Hortensia faced the vast expanse of red shapes. The former was overwhelmed by the scale of the task at hand, but quickly pushed her feelings aside. “Right. Where shall we start?”

“Roy told us that teamwork is key to solving this car,” Hortensia reasoned. “So we cannot split up.”

Edith nodded. But before she could head off, a thought occurred to her. “Perhaps we search for the key independently. Whoever finds it first calls the other.”

“That’s- that’s a great idea!” the mannequin praised. “We can reconvene at the clocktower. Just don’t climb on anything high without checking the clock first. If the shapes vanish beneath your feet, the fall could be fatal.”

That was a sensible concern. Goodness, was there a car in this wretched train that didn’t contain a deadly threat of some sort? “Understood. Godspeed, Hortensia.”

“You too, Edith.”

They parted at the steps, Edith heading to the right. Taking a breath, she wandered off the steps and into the brightly-colored geometric expanse before her.

Hortensia briefly considered trying to climb one of the larger shapes, but quickly decided that it was impossible. Not only were there no surfaces for one to gain a solid footing, but if it vanished under her, she would surely die. Though she could withstand a much greater drop than a passenger, there came a point where even she would be dashed to pieces. Changing course, she looked past it and was met with a cluster of walls. A labyrinth! Perfect! It was a clear indicator of a challenge, which meant that something had to be inside it, and there wasn’t a chance of getting lost, as it would disappear soon anyway.

At first, she stumbled through the paths carelessly. Once certain sections began to grow familiar, she realized that it would be best to take a more methodical approach. Though she wracked her mind, she couldn’t think of anything.

But Jean could.

Thinking of Jean came with no small amount of heavy emotions, which was a pity, because the aspiring mathemtician’s advice came in handy quite often. Solving a simple key car could become very saddening as memories of him popped up in her mind. Though it had been many, many years, his enthusiastic grin never faded in detail. She could see him in her mind’s eye as he swiftly but sloppily scrawled down answers to a set of puzzles, explaining the solutions enthusiastically.

“If a fellow were to journey through a labyrinth, he wouldn’t need breadcrumbs to mark their path, nor a ball of yarn. As the walls are connected, all he must do is place a hand upon the wall’s surface and take care to never lift it. If he marches forward, never allowing his hand to leave the surface of the wall and thus ensuring he remains properly oriented, he will eventually find himself at the end. Astonishingly simple, is it not?”

Hortensia chuckled sadly. “It is.” She placed her hand on the wall and began to jog through the maze. She concentrated on her breaths, ignoring the fact that Jean had told her the year on earth when he was taken was 1802.

Slowly but surely, she proceeded through the maze until she heard a great chime. The walls vanished, and she found herself standing in a mostly blank expanse, a few scattered shapes floating above her. It was over so quickly, and she was back to square one.

It was a very familiar feeling.

When Edith was a young girl, she once swiped an extra pastry at the dinner table despite the clear objections of her parents. Taking her aside, her mother reminded her sternly that the Lord was watching her at all times, and misbehavior greatly vexed him. A child’s role was to obey her parents, and breaking the rules set in place for her own well-being was to sin. The speech greatly upset the young Edith, who desperately prayed to un-eat the pastry. As she and her sisters went to bed, she tried to make it up to God by saying a particularly ardent prayer, hoping she wouldn’t burn in hell for her crime.

To the observer, the memory of the pastry seemed entirely disconnected from the present situation. Edith was faced with a climbing wall, and she’d have to scale it to advance. But the idea of scrabbling at the footholds and dragging herself up in an ungainly manner didn’t rest well with her. Her mother would scold her for being in this position, and the Lord was always watching.

Why couldn’t the car be full of those slides she encountered when the clock was yellow? They were a delight, and she didn’t have to make a fool of herself. She groaned. There was nobody here to humiliate herself in front of save for Hortensia and Roy. Besides, God probably didn’t know about this place. It wasn’t like there was a forever-train mentioned in the bible. Ignoring her discomfort with a grumble of ‘Bah, humbug,’ she began to pull herself up the climbing wall.

Then it vanished into thin air with a chime, and she fell to the ground painfully.

Clutching her bruised hip, she shook her fist at the clock indignantly with a shout of ‘fie!’ But any further gripes froze on her lips when she saw none other than the key floating above her. It was terribly high up, but even from a distance the shape was unmistakable.

“HORTENSIA, I’VE FOUND IT! COME HERE!” She rose to her feet, wincing a little at the fading pain, and surveyed the new surroundings.

A vivid red stairway to her side led up to a floating rectangular path like the frame of a titanic painting. The key hovered squarely in the middle. Her burst of hope vanished as suddenly as it had come. How was she supposed to reach it? Even if she stood on Hortensia’s shoulders, she wouldn’t get anywhere near. And since it seemed to be fixed in place like the other floating shapes, it probably didn’t matter.

As if on cue, Roy raced by. “It’s red o’clock!” He turned to her and added, ”You’ll need your teammate for teamwork!” and cartwheeled away, laughing joyously. Edith sighed, wishing she could enjoy this car as much as he did.

“Where is it?” Hortensia huffed, running towards her.

“That was terribly quick! How fast are you able you run!?”

“I was already close by. Where’s the key?”

“Up in the heavens,” sighed Edith, pointing at it hopelessly.

Hortensia was taken aback for a moment, but collected herself immediately. “There’s always a solution. Let’s get atop the shape and see if a solution presents itself to us.”

If there was a solution, it had taken care to conceal itself. Aside from a guardrail around the outer side, it looked the same above and below. Edith walked along the entire path, but at no point was the key even slightly closer to the edge. The rail rattled a little as she ran her hand across it, but she thought nothing of it.

“Well?” she asked her companion as they regrouped.

“Nothing so far. But we have time. It won’t be orange o’clock for a while.”

The two leaned against the rail and thought. As Edith watched Roy jump about gleefully in the distance, a formless mass that could become an idea popped up in her mind.

“...Did you ever read storybooks when you were young?” she asked.

“If you count manuals on tailoring, yes. Why do you ask?”

“The key reminds me of a fairy. Do you know what those are?”

“Those tiny flying women? I ran into a few in the mushroom forest car. Profoundly annoying things.”

“They are akin to the key, are they not? I believed that the key was fixed there, but that cannot be. It is meant to be taken. Whatever force holds it aloft ought to be overwhelmed with ease, just like the delicate wings of a fairy!” She stood up straight, animated by her eureka moment. I know what to do!”

“You do?”

“We can catch it, just like in the stories! If a fairy can be caught in a bag, then this key can be brought to the ground with something similar. Give me your shawl!”

Unwrapping the fabric, Hortensia handed it to Edith, who flung it at the key as hard as she could. It tumbled to the ground far below, never coming close.

Hortensia retrieved it and threw it herself, but it just wasn’t enough. Seeing that the clock’s hand was halfway to orange, Edith tried again. Even with all her might, the shawl didn’t even reach the halfway point. Turning away, she gripped the guardrail and stared into the distance, wracking her brain furiously for inspiration. The rail rattled as she put her weight on it.

Hold on. Was it attached?

She pulled at it tentatively. Though it hardly moved at all, she could feel it shift a bit. She gave it some welly and it lifted off its supports a little. In a flash, she realized the answer was right in front of her.

After a moment’s planning, Edith took one end of the pole and Hortensia took the other. Straining considerably, they walked along the red path in tandem with each other, carrying the pole over the opening. At last, it reached the middle of the frame. It took some maneuvering, but they managed to nudge the key with the middle of the bar. It fell to the ground as if a string had been cut.

“To the door!” shouted Edith, already dashing to the stairs. “There’s not a moment to lose!”

They picked up the key and raced through the car, Roy cheering them on. Edith half sprinted, half tumbled, feeling almost wild. Her boots slammed against the sleek surface of the floor, and her hand gripped the key like a vice. Glancing at the clock, she saw that the color hand was frighteningly close to orange.

The two dashed up the steps, rising above the shapes. The door lay right across the bridge. In a very literal sense, victory was in sight. As she put on an extra burst of speed, fixating on her destination, she let the world around her fade away. It was just her and the door.

This proved to be a great mistake.

As she stepped onto the bridge, she didn’t notice the abrupt incline. She stumbled, and driven by her momentum, went sprawling to the surface of the bridge. In the moment of panic, her grip loosened on the key, which went flying towards the edge of the bridge. Edith scrambled to her feet, but it was too far away.

Just as it sailed off the edge, a wooden hand seized it in midair.

Hortensia, panting even though she had no lungs, pulled herself back on the bridge. Edith, stunned, had to force herself to move and take the key. Heart pounding, she sprinted across the bridge and reached the door at last, thrusting the key into the lock and giving it a great twist.

Both lock and key vanished into a burst of golden light the moment the clock hit orange.

Edith slumped against the door like a puppet whose strings had been cut, her exhaustion finally catching up to her. As the shapes of every color appeared alongside the orange ones, she felt relief wash over her like a tidal wave.

“Did you get it?” Hortensia called.

“Yes!” she half-whispered breathlessly. “Yes! We did it!”

The two embraced, laughing in exhilaration.

“You’re not half bad at this!” Hortensia complemented once she had regained her breath.

“Nor are you! I can’t believe you were able to catch it!”

“Now that’s what I call teamwork!” At the unfamiliar voice, the two whirled around and were faced with the clock man. “Name’s Roy, and I’m your boy.”

“We're entirely aware of that.” Edith smiled. Just for a moment, she felt as light as air.

Chapter Text

Edwards, Johnathan. Excerpt from Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God [1742] Retrieved from the Library of Congress.

“The sinner who holds in his heart hellfire hath no escape from the wrath of the Lord, which shall descend upon him without mercy, be he enclosed in a mighty fortress or aboard a great vessel far from shore. There is no sanctuary, no chance of escape, for not even the fastest chariot can deliver him from the just wrath of God. The Lord shall let loose from the depths of hell a daemon, an iron serpent of infinite hunger. The voracious beast shall appear to the sinner, whose fate is sealed the moment its awful cry reaches his ears. The wretch will be devoured whole, the green light from the many eyes of the beast the last sight he shall ever see, and no more shall be heard from him. So is the unforgivable crime of sin rewarded by God, whose patience has long since been exhausted.”

Muller, Klaus. Merry Stories for Boys and Girls [Frederick Warne and Co., inc. New York, 1845] Translated 1919 by C. Weber, Retrieved from the Library of Congress.

The Story of Dishonest Paul

What makes Paul so very bad,
Is that he seems so nice a lad.
But since he looks like a good boy,
Our faith his cunning can employ.
At school he is a different youth,
A wicked, nasty wretch forsooth.

“Paul,” says Ma, “It can’t be so!
Are you not the boy I know?”
The little beast, feeling sly,
Tells his poor Mamma a lie.
“Of course, my Paul, I doubt you not!
It seemed such an awful thought!
I’m glad I have no cause to fret
about the scary Glühendekette.
The Glühendekette, if you don’t know,
Is a beast that lives below.
Far under the earth it waits,
For lying children, which it hates.
If they ever hide the truth,
The Glühendekette, like a sleuth,
Shall find them when they are alone,
And take them far, to lands unknown.”

Paul believed his mamma not,
And laughed inside an awful lot.
He indeed had cause to fret,
For he enraged the Glühendekette.

When mamma went up the stair,
Noone else but Paul was there.
It was time for the attack.
The monster came. Alack! Alack!
Neatly passing through the door,
The Glühendekette let out a roar.
Paul knew at once his time had come,
Yet he was not able to run.
Now there was no turning back.
He vanished with a fearsome crack.
Poor mamma, not upstairs for long.
She knew at once that he was gone.

So little children, one and all,
Hide nothing from parents at all.
If you dare to tell lies, then
Like Paul, you won’t be seen again.

Chapter Text

Warin hadn’t thought that an encounter with higher powers would have gone like this. In his fantasies, he’d be hunched over his desk at Oxford, working on a Latin manuscript in flickering candlelight, and an angel of the Lord would appear to him, answering his deepest questions about man, the holy trinity, and so much more. Instead he was walking through rolling boxes, each with its own dreamscape. Needless to say, it was disorienting.

As he crossed the bridge between two cars, he mulled over a more recent question he had been unable to answer: What did the number on his hand mean? At first he’d assumed it to be demonic in nature. But as far as he knew, 28 had no significance. Like everything else since that fateful night a spirit took him away, it simply made no sense at all. Maybe if he continued his pilgrimage to nowhere, he would find the truth.

When he opened the door to the next car, a terrific light blinded him. Shielding his eyes, he squinted through the glare.

It was heaven.

The door opened onto a shining expanse of clouds. Brilliant sun played across their wispy surfaces, making them almost glow, and classical sculptures on pedestals littered the sky-scape. Atop a smaller floating cloud rested a sparkling golden gate, inlaid with hundreds of gemstones. Thin beams of golden light hung in the sky. It was so much more wonderful than any of the illustrations in the books! Scarcely daring to believe it, he knelt down and laid a hand on the clouds. It was like cotton, but so much softer. Finer than even the finest of silks and linens, more delicate than the garb of kings and lords.

Was this real? Had he, Warin Richardson, been admitted into the kingdom of the heavenly father?

Warin took a shaky step into the car, still in disbelief. He stood on the threshold for what felt like hours, slowly processing the truth of the situation, before the most intense joy he’d ever experienced flooded his chest. Driven by euphoric happiness, he laughed as he ran through the grounds of paradise. A feeling of magical lightness swelled in his chest. He felt like a boy again, running through the fields outside the city with his friends, a beaming smile across his face. “O father!” he near-wept. “Father who art in heaven - no, who art here - Hallelujah! I am unworthy of this blessing!” He fell to his knees. “O lord, hallowed be thy name, I am truly grateful for this miracle!”

“Thanks!” said a jolly voice nearby.

A small man, face entirely covered by flowing white hair, leapt from a cloud above and landed neatly on his feet. He wore a flowing white robe knit of light, and a golden halo floated above his head.

Warin was truly, completely, utterly speechless. A sound slipped from his mouth, a barely audible chirp that spoke louder than words.

“It’s me. I’m God!”

Warin’s jaw moved a little, but no sound came out this time. He almost forgot to blink.

“Well, aren’t you gonna say something?”

For the rest of his life, Warin would live with the knowledge that the first words he said to the heavenly father were “Where is Jesus?”

“Not sure. What’s your name?”

“W-Warin Richardson, Lord.”

“Pleased to meet you!”

Warin’s mind short-circuited. He had just met God. God. A few weeks ago, he was only a student of theology, and now he had joined the ranks of the apostles. Out of the greatest thinkers of scores of generations, he among millions was chosen. He knelt, overwhelmed.

“O father, I-”

“You don’t need to do that,” God chuckled. “It’s hard to hold a conversation when you’ve planted your face in the ground.”

"I- But- Truly?" He didn't think God would be so cavalier.

"Yup."

"Lord, am I permitted to question thee?"

"Sure."

“Are-are you the embodiment of the holy trinity?” Warin stammered.

“I’m whatever power you believe I represent.”

“But there can be no power separate from thee!”

“Have a seat, kid. We have a lot to talk about.”

“...I am nineteen years of age.”

“It’s a phrase. Hey, are you committing my words to memory? Stop that!”

“What does it all mean?” blurted Warin, unable to hold back any longer.

“It?”

“Forgive me for my impatience, Lord. The earth, the sky, the nations, mankind… What does it all mean?”

God sighed. “So you want the answer.”

“Yea.”

“Are you sure there is an answer? Really sure?”

His curiosity, intense as a star, managed to compete with his awe. “There must be!” Warin insisted. “I have read the scriptures, the manuscripts, the words of saints and martyrs alike at Oxford! Amidst the words lies a deeper meaning! If we study the scripture a sacred answer will surely reveal itself!”

“Dude, you're looking at all this the wrong way.”

“But… it is the word of the Lord!”

“Cool down, hotshot,” chuckled God kindly. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

Warin didn’t expect the conversation to go in this direction. “Why dost thou wish to know such information? For that matter, how can my life be unknown to thee?”

“We’ll talk about omniscience later. I’ve seen that telling one’s life story helps them out. Go on!”

Warin stammered for a moment, then cleared his throat. “I am an Englishman. My father is a farmer, as was his father before him. As a youth, I was sure I would be a farmer as well. But when I was twelve years of age, a school was founded nearby which would accept a select number of scholars from the less fortunate. It prepared students to learn to become priests, many of whom had perished in the plague.”

“So you studied there?”

“Yea. I am thankful for the opportunity it gave me. I attended with my father’s blessing, and graduated into the New College of Oxford. I love my family, but I have a more important calling now.”

“I see. You want an answer because you’re learning to look for it?”

“I am. But if you have an answer, the true answer of answers, then our quest for knowledge will be completed! If I return with a divine understanding of the world, I can enrich the church beyond all reckoning, and enrich the lives of people in all kingdoms!”

God smiled, and a small flock of doves flew overhead. “Why do you want it? And I mean you in particular, Warin. How will it help you?”

“We were created for a purpose, were we not? I must know what that purpose is.”

“I think I see where this is going. Come with me.”

The two walked across the clouds. The metal boots fixed to Warin’s feet sank into the delicate surface slightly. He felt like he was walking across a vast slab of dough. God’s golden sandals seemed to touch the ground, but unlike Warin, his feet didn’t squish it. It was just like Jesus, walking on water. He tried to say something, but intense awkwardness held his tongue.

Soon, the two arrived at a great tree. Hanging in its boughs were scores of the most delicious apples Warin had ever seen. God sprang into the air, jumping far higher than a normal human could possibly leap, and retrieved one. He drifted down and offered it to his guest.

Warin took a step back, raising his hands. “Be this a test?”

“What do you mean?”

“When last an apple was accepted in Paradise, mankind was banished from God’s presence.”

“Oh! Sorry about that. No worries. Nothing like that’s gonna happen now.”

Warin took the fruit. Was this the answer? When he bit into it, would celestial knowledge fill his mind? Would a tongue of fire appear above him, as with the disciples?

He bit into it. It tasted great.

“It’s a very good apple, right?”

“Verily, it is so. Has it granted me divine knowledge?”

“No, it’s just a really good apple.”

“Oh.”

“Would you like another one?”

“Prithee, I would be among the happiest of men if I had the answer.”

“Ah, yes. The answer. You saw this tree and believed it had a clear, higher purpose. But it’s just a tree. And these are just apples. Terrific apples, but apples nonetheless.”

A terrible thought came to Warin, and he rejected it instantly. “Be there - be there an answer at all?” There must be. There had to be.

A whirring noise directed his attention to his palm. His number rose, now at 31.

“There’s a sign. You’re thinking in the wrong direction.”

“A sign? From whom? You?”

God shook his head. The beard rustled. “No, not me. Something else. But you don’t need to worry about that.” He took Warin’s hand. “You’ve talked so much about an answer. But tell me, what is the question?”

“I beg thy pardon?”

He made a sweeping gesture with his free hand. The sleeve of his robe billowed like a sail. “The question. What is the question of the world?”

“Is… is it sin?”

“You’re still hung up on the garden of Eden. Why do you want an answer?”

“I seek an answer because I… I seek to understand the world.”

“There’s your question!” cheered God. “Want another apple?”

“I do not understand -”

“Have an apple!” God tossed Warin a particularly plump one, which the baffled student barely caught.

“You want to understand the world. The question is too complicated to put in terms of who, what, where, when, or why. It’s hardly even a question, just like the answer is hardly an answer.”

“So - so my desire to know the world is itself the fundamental question?”

“The desire, that burning need, that primal feeling you get when you wonder why something happened, that’s the question. I asked you once why you wanted the answer, and you didn’t respond completely. Why are you in particular so desperate to seek it out? Others live out their lives untroubled by the matter. What drives you?”

Warin thought. What drove him? Where did the burning need to know come from? When had he first felt it?

A flash of a memory brought him to a small cemetery. In a flash, his heart filled with hope. “Lord, are there others here?” he asked suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“This is heaven, is it not?” Warin pled. “Where are the souls of the departed, the ones who entered the kingdom of God? Can I see them?”

God turned back to the tree. “This is heaven, in a sense. But you won’t find anyone else here. This part is for the living alone.”

Warin nodded.

“Have you lost someone?” God asked, his voice gentle.

“I was to have many siblings. But only me and my eldest sister lived past infancy.” He looked at the tree, much like the one next to the small field of graves.

“I’m starting to get a better picture of you.”

The two sat down by the tree. Warin worked his way through the second apple, and God fetched him an uncalled-for third. “You want to know why they died.”

Warin turned the apple over in his hand. “I must know.”

“Not even I can tell you.”

A ripple of anger passed through Warin. He quickly suppressed it and prepared a calm reply.

“I see,” God noted. Warin blanched. “I beg thy pardon, Lord! Stay thy hand -”

“Hold on! I’m not angry!” said the deity. “I was about to say that being angry is fine. Right now, you probably feel anger towards me, because you believe that since I created everything, I am responsible for every tragedy. Even now, I appear to be holding back information that would explain your deepest, most existential question. Is that right?”

Warin nodded.

“You assume that there is some kind of answer. But what answer could possibly explain away the senseless deaths of infants? What answer could possibly be so specific? What answer could possibly account for your survival and justify your existence succinctly? Many before you tried to think of something, and they all believe they failed. They failed in that they were unable to find a sentence which perfectly summed it all up. But I don’t think they were met with nothing but failure. They found more than they might have believed. The answer, Warin, is the search for the answer itself.”

There it was. Here, laid out before him, entirely cut and dry. No dissection of biblical passages needed. It was nothing short of the word of God himself, in remarkably plain english. But it wasn’t exactly what he’d expected. He hadn’t transcended, nor had he ascended. He wasn’t a new apostle. He didn’t have a tongue of fire. He was still Warin.

“I beg thy pardon?”

“The answer, the meaning of life, is the search for meaning. You, your countrymen, and mankind the world over, no matter the race or the religion, give meaning to the world by searching for meaning. You work to understand the world you live in, you come to peace with tragedies, but you won’t find a sentence or a paragraph or even a book that explains it all. It’s not that easy. The answer was inside you the whole time. Instead of combing through your bible, hoping that an ancient passage will tell you how to feel, you must feel yourself.”

Warin held up his hand. His number whirred, dropping to 18.

“It’s just like that number there. No one answer can bring every number to zero. Each person must work through their own. You can get help, and as a matter of fact, you probably should. But in the end, it’s your answer. Your question. Your journey.”

Warin stared at the glowing digits on his palm. He thought of the brothers and sisters he’d never know, but this time without the painful certainty of the reason for their loss existing just out of reach.

“I truly have no sacred purpose?”

“Not quite. Everyone has a purpose. You must be. You need to live your life. The search for the purpose of your life gives it all meaning.”

“So their purpose was to die?”

“I can’t control that. Their lives ended early. Yours didn’t. That’s all.”

He considered them again, and they felt so hollow. Their graves were no longer quests for enlightenment. They were just graves. Graves that were far too small.

Warin couldn’t help himself. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He turned away, but God put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

In one moment, one glorious, agonizing moment, he released them and the pain of their unfulfilled potential with a heart full of love for the people they could have been.

His number whirred again, and Warin watched through a blur of tears as it settled, at last, on zero.

There was a mighty shudder and a sound of metal grating on metal, of a million iron millstones screeching against each other. Paradise shook, and Warin had to brace himself against the cloud. His boots suddenly became fixed to the ground. He cleared his eyes as a beam of golden light streaked through the clouds toward him. A shape of a door was traced in green light, and space itself rippled like the surface of a pond as the door somehow opened. Beyond a vortex of brilliance lay Warin’s family house. He could see his father far in the distance.

“I bet your family’s been worried sick about you,” said God. “The steward will be here with your clothes soon.”

“I - I -” Warin struggled to speak, emotions choking him. “Thank you Lord. Thank you for this wonder you have worked upon me. I swear, upon my father’s good name and upon the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, that I shall live a life of gratitude. I shall bring to the men and women around me this revelation, and ensure that all who walk this earth do so with purpose and clarity. I shall help all I meet walk their own journeys. I swear it, Lord.”

Somehow, he could tell that God smiled under his thick beard. “Thanks, Warin. It means a lot. And it’s really good of you.”

A strange creature, a mass of tangled metal affixed to a mask with eyes of fire, presented a metal box with his clothing inside and told him to put it on. It removed Warin’s metal boots, beneath which were his leather shoes. God looked away as he pulled off the gray jumpsuit and put on his stockings and doublet. Warin fixed his cap to his head confidently, and pulled God into an embrace.

“I thank thee.”

“Anytime, man.”

The two let go of each other. Warin gave paradise a final lingering look. With a teary smile, he stepped through the door and returned to his family.

Chapter Text

When the party of four finally made it to the platform, they felt like even their bones were frozen. Wilhelm blew on his knuckles, shivering, as the others shook snow off their boots. “By all accounts, that car was the worst yet.”

“I’d like to have a word with the imbecile who designed these uniforms,” scowled Dietrich. “I’ve worn paper suits that were warmer!”

Their reluctant hike through the snow forest car had only lasted ten minutes, but it had left its mark on the band of travelers. Gusts of wind swept across the thick banks of snow, scraping up flurries that crashed into them like miniature blizzards. Otto had nearly run straight into a tree twice, and Wilhelm had stumbled on a root, colliding with Dietrich and plunging them both into a snowbank like dominoes. By the time they’d made it to the platform and slammed the door behind them, snow clung to their jumpsuits like powdered sugar on pfeffernusse, and Cecil was almost an ice cube.

“At l-least it wasn’t as bad as training camp,” said Otto. “Remember when Corporal Rauch had us drill in our nightclothes?”

Wilhelm shook his head. “No, this was much worse.”

“Even when we had to crawl through mud and march for an hour afterward?”

“Absolutely! My hands are still entirely numb!”

Dietrich, still shivering, checked his palm. “If my memory serves, it’s been about a dozen cars since any of our numbers have changed. Cecil, what will it take for them to change again?”

“I told you, it’s different for every passenger. You have a better chance of predicting it than I do.”

“Even so, there must be a place where change is more likely!”

“If I knew of such a place, I’d have told you long ago. I’ve met scores of passengers, but I’ve never been out of my car this far before.”

“May we move on?” Otto interrupted, gesturing toward the next car. “I think I can feel the cold even out here!”

The party crossed the gangway. The wasteland wind blew most of the melting snow off their wet jumpsuits in a fine spray. They were only slightly damp by the time they made it to the other side.

“Are we still taking bets on the cars?” asked Otto.

“Ten marks says it’s nighttime in there,” said Dietrich.

“We’ll see about that.”

Wilhelm pulled the door open. It was indeed night inside, but they were too stunned to resolve the bet.

The door opened onto a network of pathways suspended in the heavens, floating without supports in complete defiance of gravity. Most were flat, but others twisted and curved in graceful arcs. The paths were sheets of brilliantly colorful crystal that formed a rainbow gradient more vibrant than the stained glass windows of Berlin cathedral. Around them twinkled a sea of stars, pinpricks of light against inky darkness. A particularly wide path formed a loop in the center.

“My god… It’s a racetrack! For motorcars!” gasped Dietrich. “Look! I can see them lining up!” Sure enough, dozens of shining race cars were lined up in front of a line marked Start, tended to by scores of figures with pigeon heads in racing suits. A grandstand facing the track bustled with people.

“A rainbow road! Magnificent!” Otto gushed. “Do you think we can watch free of charge?”

Despite himself, Dietrich found Otto’s enthusiasm infectious. “When have these cars ever bothered with money? Let’s go!”

The path from the door rapidly widened, eventually connecting with a large floating courtyard adjacent to the racetrack. The grandstand gave spectators a sublime view of the race. Against the bleachers was a row of small buildings. One of these was a small booth marked with an English phrase. Wilhelm, having done rather well in his English studies at their gymnasium at home, was able to translate it. “It says, ‘Register here.’”

There was a breathless pause of disbelief. “Do you think…”

Otto broke from the group, sprinting towards the booth. Dietrich followed moments later, and the remaining travelers watched them recede into the distance, dumbstruck.

“Can either of them drive?” asked Cecil.

“No. They’ve never touched a motorcar in their lives.”

Despite Otto’s lead, Dietrich put on a burst of speed and reached the booth moments before his friend did. He ignored Otto’s scowl and rapped on the glass. The denizen behind the desk, a woman with a pigeon’s head, looked up from a book she was reading. “Are you looking for seats?”

“I’d like to join the race!” he blurted.

“Me too!” Otto shouted behind him, waving his hands to get noticed.

The two fidgeted impatiently as the bird woman checked some papers. “We’ve got room for… let me see… two more participants.”

The two cheered, and Dietrich leapt into the air giddily before restraining himself. The bird woman remained nonplussed. “Do you both have at least two years of experience with motorcars?”

Otto’s enthusiasm was violently curbed, and he opened his mouth to stammer an excuse, but Dietrich interrupted him. “Absolutely,” he replied without missing a beat, leaning jauntily on the counter to drive the point home. “We’ve worked with them for years!” Otto caught on and nodded eagerly.

“Excellent!” chirped the bird woman. “Your names?”

“Dietrich Schweppenstette.”

“Otto Rosenfeld.”

“You’ll be driving cars 19 and 20 respectively. What names can I give them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Every car ought to have a name. For example, 3 is ‘The Silver Beast’ and 14 is ‘The Red Arrow.’”

Dietrich recalled Germany’s national anthem. “Call mine Über Alles.”

Otto thought back to the army’s slogans. “And mine will be Gott mit uns.”

The bird woman looked confused, but shrugged and wrote their requests down. She pointed them to equipment racks for safety gear. “Best of luck.”



Wilhelm and Cecil met them just as they finished putting on their caps and goggles. “They didn’t stop you?”

“No!” Otto laughed. “All we had to do was lie! Isn’t it fantastic?”

“Fantastic?” Cecil sputtered. “What you’re doing is dangerous! Look at that track!”

“We’ve read through motorists’ magazines at home, and we’ll read through the manuals before we drive!” Dietrich protested. “We’ll be fine! Besides, it has guardrails.”

“Absolutely! We’re trained soldiers, we can handle this.”

“Did they give you driving lessons as part of your training?”

“It’s fine, Cecil. “We know what we’re doing.”

“No you don’t! You just admitted you don’t!”

“Well - ” Dietrich sighed. “We’re men, Cecil. Soldiers of the German army don’t need to be protected.”

“Are you really set on this?” asked Wilhelm. “I was at that race in 1912, and the cars were awfully fast.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“Well -”

“We’re doing this, no matter what. No German backs down from a challenge!”

They started for the front line, grinning ear to ear. Cecil shouted “A wise German would pick their challenges better,” as they left, but they didn’t heed a word.

“They’ll get themselves killed,” the candy frog declared, expression grim.

Wilhelm shook his head. “I mean - the track has guardrails. They aren’t going to fall off.”

“I’ve heard stories from passengers about these ‘motorcars,’ and I can’t say I’m impressed by their safety record. But they’ll probably be stopped once someone realizes they can’t drive. Hopefully.” Wilhelm began to feel worried as well, becoming less and less able to brush his concern away.

Resigned to their inability to rein in their companions, they made their way to the stands. Surprisingly, they weren’t packed to the brim. Many of the bird people liked having a bird’s eye view, so there were plenty of seats to choose from on the bottom rows. Cecil insisted on picking the row second to the bottom, satisfied that they’d get the closest view without being put in danger by any possible accidents.

Wilhelm relaxed in his seat, resting his forehead on his hand. The more he thought about the situation, the more uneasy he felt. It’ll be fine, he told himself. They’ll chicken out and leave the field. No, that was absurd. Those idiots would never allow their pride to be injured like that! The only thing that could convince them to drop the race was a broken bone. “God… I must tell someone they’re not qualified for this! But they’ll never forgive me for denying them this experience… Damn them and their stubborn flights of fancy!”

“You can’t tell anyone even if you wanted to.”

Wilhelm spun around. Next to him was a white cat, dressed impeccably in a pinstripe vest, a starched dress shirt, and an emerald green necktie. “Why not?” he asked her.

“Do you see that building to your left? That is a betting booth. The fortunes of many in this car now depend on the victories of the racers, including your friends.” Wilhelm paled. “The last time a major upset happened here, there was almost a riot. Imagine how the bettors would react if your friends walked out now, leaving them penniless without putting up a fight.”

“There can’t have been much money placed on them,” Cecil reasoned desperately. “They’re too new, right?”

“I’m afraid you're mistaken,” corrected the cat, voice dripping with false sympathy. “Passengers are seen as wildcards here. And the truly disappointing ones are not well received.”

Wilhelm blanched. “Don’t tell anyone!”

“Goodness, no! I wouldn’t dream of it!” She smirked. “But my silence has a price.”

“I don’t have any money on me. Not a single mark!”

“Oh, I’m well aware, kitten. But I don’t want money from you. I want a favor.” She lowered her voice. “I have big plans for today. And you are going to help them go as smooth as silk. Tu comprends?”

“O-of course. What must I do?”

“Nothing, for now. Just watch the show. It’s a three-lap race with the standard set of items. Classic, but a delight to watch nonetheless.”

Wilhelm raised an eyebrow. “Items?”

The cat gasped. “You don’t know? And your friends don’t know either?” She laughed. “They’re in for a very interesting race.”

Wilhelm put his head in his hands. One second, everything was alright, and the next, they were stuck in some insane predicament where their lives were at risk. And now his two best friends were busy endangering their lives, and it was up to him to bail them out of their mess. In other words, just a regular day on the train. He groaned. “A French cat, an English frog… Where are the German animals?”

After they met their respective pit crews, Dietrich and Otto swiped the operation manuals for their race cars and gave them a quick skim. They didn’t have much time, but they felt satisfied by the time the racers were called to assemble in the front of the pit for the race to begin. At a referee’s cue, the door lifted open, and the racers marched triumphantly onto the track. The crowd went wild. The viewers rose in the stands, waving their handkerchiefs in the air and chanting the names of their favorite racers.

The track felt so much larger now that they were on it. Their boots clinked lightly against the crystal of the ground, and Dietrich was grateful it was shatterproof. Electric excitement rose in his chest. Driven by the mood, he gave the crowd a proud military salute, the heels of his boots clanking noisily, and Otto followed suit. And the cars… They were somehow more wonderful than he’d expected. They were shining and new, as if they’d been delivered straight from a factory. Car 19, the Über Alles, gleamed bright red in front of him like a fairytale carriage, as if he’d wished upon a star and it leapt from the pages of an automobile magazine.

The crowd seemed particularly fixed on the racer who drove car #1. He wore a bright white racing suit instead of the usual gray. The top few buttons were left open, revealing a shirt and tie underneath. His car was slightly larger and fancier than the others, with a brilliant white coat of paint, and parts like the headlights were made of gold. He raised his arms as if he’d already won, and the cheering somehow increased in volume. Many in the crowd began a chant.

“LIGHT-SPEED! LIGHT-SPEED! LIGHT-SPEED!”

Speakers facing the grandstand crackled to life, and a pigeon man in a red and white candy-striped suit spoke into a microphone on a podium. “Esteemed ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 37th interim race of the inter-season trials! The field is set, the items are ready, and the racers are raring to go! We have a real treat for you tonight - Earl Wilshire, the Lightspeed Lance, is playing in his first match since his victory in the grand prix!” The crowd roared.

“Of course he’s English,” Otto grumbled. “It seems as if two-thirds of the denizens we meet are English.”

“We must beat him.”

A woman with an exceptionally good throwing arm managed to hurl a bouquet of red roses at Earl’s feet, and he made a show of swiping them up and taking an appreciative sniff. He plucked one of the flowers from the rest and threw it back to the crowd. A lady swooned, as did a man next to her.

“I’m sure you’re as glad as I am that he’s back in the fray. But he’ll be facing some stiff competition, like last race’s winner. Give it up for Max Langford, the golden chariot!”

The second driver raised a fist in the air and was met with cheers, but they weren’t as loud as before. It was the same with racer 3, racer 4, and so on. Dietrich could hardly wait for his turn as the announcer went through the list. By the time racer 18 was introduced, he was trembling in excitement. Only a week ago, being cheered by scores of people was a distant fantasy. But in a few seconds, it would be reality. He stood at parade rest, arms locked into position, blond hair as neat as it could be, jaw set. He was a model of Germany’s iron youth, a man with the blood of warriors coursing through his veins. He and the Über Alles would make his family, fatherland, and Kaiser proud, and show this train the might of the German people. He imagined an iron cross first class pinned to his uniform, and puffed his chest out as if the field marshal himself was about to award him with one.

“And here, we have some new faces - two passengers, who registered moments before the race! Give it up for Dietrich - Er, Dietrich Schwepp- Dietrich Swine-in’stet, and his car, the Super Olives!”

The crowd erupted not in applause, but laughter. Dietrich’s mind struggled to process the overload of humiliation he was experiencing. His arms flopped to his sides limply as his pride was vaporized. It took a few moments for his uncomprehending horror to turn into fury, and his face went tomato-red. “You - You miserable pig!" he screamed at the announcer. "It’s not that hard to pronounce!"

Otto, once standing at parade rest as well, was on his knees, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Face red, he tried to choke out some kind of joke, but he only succeeded in shakily pointing a mocking finger at his friend. In the distance, Wilhelm fell on his side, roaring with laughter. Another racer cackled, “Pig? You’re the swine, Swine-in’stet!”

The announcer waited for the crowd to die down, and Otto staggered to his feet, sucking in desperate breaths as he guffawed. If looks could kill, Dietrich’s furious scowl would have ripped him into atoms.

“And alongside him, we have Otto Rosenfeld, driving… the Got Mittens? The Got Mittens!"

The crowd erupted again, wiping Otto’s grin off his face in an instant. Dietrich, despite his situation, managed to chuckle, savoring the futility of his friend’s indignant cries of protest.

The announcer spoke up when the crowd quieted again. “Those are certainly some strange names, folks! I mean, I knew this race was going to be interesting, but - ” he chuckled, earning sharp glares from the two “ - Nevermind all that. The race will be held with the standard set of items!” Dietrich and Otto overcame their embarrassment enough to share a baffled glance. Items? What could he possibly mean by that? “There will be shells, mushrooms, and flowers of all varieties, as well as coins, stars, super horns, bananas, squid, crazy eights, bombs, and lightning bolts. Some longtime attendees in the audience may miss Bullet Bill, but I shall again remind you that it was removed after the collision three seasons back.”

Up until now, Dietrich thought he knew what he was getting into. But this? This was out of left field. Did they expect he’d be eating mushrooms and counting coins as he drove? What could any of those things have to do with a race?

“But enough dilly-dallying! Drivers, enter your cars!”

Dietrich leapt into the driver’s seat and looked over the controls. He didn’t know what all the levers and pedals did, but he knew which was the brake, which made the car go faster, and which made it go slower. Surely that was enough, right? He tucked the manual into an accessible spot on the door just to be sure. He grasped the wheel and sucked in a breath. Relax, he told himself. Those ‘items’ probably aren’t important! All I need to do is hold down whatever makes it go and try not to steer it into a wall.

A member of each team’s pit crew ran to their respective car, starting crank in hand. With sharp twists, the cars’ engines sputtered to life one after the other. Dietrich’s racer rumbled, and he felt like Sigurd atop a dragon. The engine seemed quieter than the ones at home, and there wasn’t as much exhaust. It was probably a train thing.

The announcer began the countdown. “On your mark…” Dietrich pulled his goggles over his eyes.

‘Get set…” Otto took a breath. In the stands, Wilhelm sat ramrod straight, unable to look away. Beside him, the cat grinned deviously.

A denizen at the starting line waved a black-and-white checkered flag.

“GO!”

Chapter Text

Nguyen, Peter, host. “Dubious Disappearances,” Accounts of the Unexplained: The Weirdest Unsolved Mysteries in History, Season 2, Episode 12, Kickstarter, 28 mar. 2014. Accessed [REDACTED].

Transcript

PETER NGUYEN: Picture a mansion, colonial style, blanketed by snow. It’s getting late. The sun has dropped almost completely below the trees, and long shadows from the forest reach toward the house. Inside, a party has been going on for some time.

KATE WILLIS: The year was 1791, and the mayor of a New England town was holding a great ball for the most affluent of its citizens. Singing, dancing, piano performances, and all sorts of entertainment have kept the guests busy for hours, but they’re getting tired, and would like to go home before the night truly sets in.

NGUYEN: As the others wrap up their mingling, one of the guests excuses himself, waves goodbye to his friends, and steps into the snow outside to wait for his carriage. Nobody thinks anything of it until they walk out as well. The moment they look down, they freeze in their tracks.

WILLIS: The man’s footprints just… stop. Right in the middle of a field of otherwise pristine snow. They don’t loop back, they don’t retrace their steps, and there aren’t any tracks left by a carriage. They just stop. As if their friend was there one moment, and gone the next. Nobody would ever hear from him again.

[INTRO MUSIC]

NGUYEN: Welcome to the show! I’m Peter Nguyen!

WILLIS: And I’m Kate Willis!

NGUYEN: And this is Accounts of the Unexplained: the Weirdest Unsolved Mysteries in History!

WILLIS: There’s nothing like a good vanishing, right? Curdles the blood.

NGUYEN: Yeah, there’s something special about those. We can talk about cold cases all we want, and those are creepy as well, but there’s something special about a disappearance. There’s no motive, no context, and for all we know, nobody committed any crime. They just happen, and you never learn why. It’s the open-endedness, isn’t it?

WILLIS: H.P. Lovecraft did say that the greatest fear is fear of the unknown.

NGUYEN: Absolutely. Today’s episode, if it isn’t clear by the title, is about unexplained disappearances. Instead of covering one event, we’ll be talking about a bunch of them, sprinkled throughout history.

WILLIS: Like sprinkles on a cupcake.

NGUYEN: We all know that history is sweeter with tragic mysteries.

WILLIS: They add a special crunch, you know? [laughs] Enhances the texture.

NGUYEN: So we aren’t going to do one big thing only. That means no Roanoke.

WILLIS: Roanoke deserves its own episode. Scratch that - four. Maybe even five. If we play our cards right, we can milk a whole season out of it!

NGUYEN: If there’s one good thing we’re good at, it’s beating dead horses into mush.

WILLIS: You’re listening to Horse Mush: the podcast -

NGUYEN: [through laughter] Shut up!

WILLIS: - where we get desperate for new subjects, and scrape the bottom of the barrel so much we break into another barrel below that one!

NGUYEN: I - alright. So let’s break into that barrel. Shall we start with the intro story?

WILLIS: Sure.

NGUYEN: Today’s episode’s cold open was the disappearance of Thomas Fletcher. He was a relatively affluent man, owning two of the three textile mills in town, and was well known for his nervousness.

WILLIS: Once, convinced the woods outside of town were haunted, he refused to attend a business meeting, and instead demanded that it be held in his home. So about a dozen merchants had to pack their bags, cancel their reservation at the inn they would have met at, and trek to the town to meet in Fletcher’s parlor.

NGUYEN: One such guest, Alexander Olsen, was frustrated enough to mention it in his diary. “On account of the paranoid delusions of our host, we were made to settle in a wretched parlor and discuss matters over candlelight. It was an abysmal room, with scarcely enough space on the table for each of us, which impelled me to sit some feet back on a rickety stool and rest my papers on my lap. Will the buffoon next seat us in a stable?”

WILLIS: Strong words.

NGUYEN: Yeah.

WILLIS: He doesn’t seem like the most stable guy. Do you think that had anything to do with his disappearance?

NGUYEN: I’m not sure.

WILLIS: Should we go over his disappearance again?

NGUYEN: I think our listeners remember the details. Footprints leading to nowhere. Scary, huh?

WILLIS: Like it was pulled out of a ghost story.

NGUYEN: After Fletcher’s disappearance, the partygoers had the presence of mind to record the details of the night, which is why we have such a good picture of it. They rode back to town, careful to drive the carriages single file, and quickly gathered a search party. The men and women scoured the forest, but found nothing. They gave up after a week of searching.

WILLIS: But there was one detail that stuck out. One of the footmen, waiting at the door, said he heard a faint clattering. He described it as the sound of ‘metal on metal.’

NGUYEN: Maybe a ghost with a chain abducted him.

WILLIS: Maybe.

NGUYEN: Fletcher’s story swiftly became local legend, and it still sort of sticks around to this day. There are a few alleged sightings of a man in 18th century garb and thick makeup on. Some folks on the internet call him plasterface.

WILLIS: Sounds like a bond villain.

NGUYEN: Yeah. Men back then wore makeup, and it tracks that Fletcher might have given himself a liberal application for the party. But if they’re calling him plasterface, it sounds like he laid it on a bit too thick.

WILLIS: Wanna move on to the next one?

NGUYEN: Sure.

WILLIS: This one’s a doozy. I see Peter’s colonial ghost story and raise him a disappearance that almost started world war 3.

NGUYEN: That’s a very hyperbolic way of putting it. Tensions never rose to the point of, say, Able Archer ‘83.

WILLIS: Well, excuse me for having a flair for the dramatic. So, it’s July 12, 1971, and the Soviet Union is still alive and well. The Politburo is going to have a big summit the next day, with lots of politicians, diplomats, military officers, and pretty much everyone of influence. It seems like a pretty routine event, but things don’t go according to plan. The day before, Volya Kovalev, the head of the state planning committee, vanished from his hotel in Moscow. And things went about as well as you’d expect.

NGUYEN: It took the Soviets all of five seconds to blame western agents for Kovalev’s disappearance. The US denied all involvement, obviously. But what makes this interesting is that, judging by the documents made public after 1991, the Soviets actually believed it. They didn’t admit it, using the event as propaganda, but they actually thought it wasn’t the west.

WILLIS: That’s not typical of the cold war, is it?

NGUYEN: No, it isn’t.

WILLIS: Kovalev had rented one of the best rooms in the Rossiya hotel, which was at that point the largest hotel in the world. He’d checked in a day prior to his vanishing, and stayed inside, working on business and taking calls. Just before he vanished, he called room service to ask for breakfast. By the time it was sent to his room, he’d vanished. The maid knocked on his door, only to be met with silence. Eventually, police broke the door in. They found his room completely empty. The door was locked on the inside, and he didn’t show up on any of the CCTV cameras in the hallway.

NGUYEN: His room was on the top floor, so in order to escape undetected, he’d need to have locked the door while outside the room, sneak past all the cameras in the hall, climb down around 12 flights of stairs, and sneak past all the staff inside, all before hsi breakfast got to his room. And keep in mind, the Rossiya was built to make it hard for guests to leave undetected. That’s why the fire in 1977 was so catastrophic.

WILLIS: He couldn’t have climbed down from the outside. No helicopters came anywhere near the building. And the police scoured every potential hiding place. The case baffled everyone, from the police to the KGB. Even the prying eyes of the CIA couldn’t make sense of it.

NGUYEN: What made it all the more confusing was the lack of a motive. Why would an important government official who deeply valued his work run away without warning?

WILLIS: There are a scant few clues. Kovalev took one last call before he disappeared. His young daughter had called him to ‘ask if he could come home.’ In her interview, she says she missed him and wanted to talk, but he told her he didn’t have the time and hung up.

NGUYEN: Poor kid.

WILLIS: Absolutely. The only other piece of information they had was from the guest in the adjacent room. She thought she saw a green glow from under Kovalev’s door.

NGUYEN: Definitely a ghost.

WILLIS: Well, he was staying in room 13. Up until the hotel’s closure in January of 2006, no one ever used that room again. The last people inside were a pair of young Russian ghost hunters, who broke inside in February, days before the hotel would be dismantled. You can see the footage on youtube.

NGUYEN: What did they find?

WILLIS: Nothing. It was just a room.

NGUYEN: They appointed someone to replace Kovalev the day of the summit, and the poor guy only had two hours to memorize everything. Khrushchev added a reference to the disappearance in his speech, warning the west against any ‘hotheaded acts of sabotage and interference,’ and there was a diplomatic frenzy through the rest of month. They worked things out, nobody declared nuclear war, and both sides moved on.

WILLIS: But nobody ever heard from Kovalev again.

NGUYEN: And on that note, we’ll be back after a short break!

Rosenfeld, Madison. Unearthly Machines: Industry and Late Proto-Surrealism in Victorian Painting. London, Phaidon Press, 2018.

Excerpt from Chapter 2

…Just as Taylor’s Iridescent Tropics was defined by its subversion of impressionism, the paintings of others made use of the movement without subscribing to it fully. One such artist who made striking use of light was Edith Abinger. Born in 1849, almost a decade after the end of the industrial revolution, she created much of her body of work from 1868 to 1902. Due to the rigidity of the gallery system at the time, the vast majority of her sketches and paintings never saw the light of day, but unlike others in similar predicaments, she preserved nearly everything she worked on right up to her death in 1925. This collection, remarkable for its size and completeness, was rediscovered in the 1950s by collectors to little fanfare. The pieces were criticized for their ‘lack of thematic consistency,’ ‘garish, wanton abruptness befitting a patient of a sanitarium,’ and ‘clumsy overuse of the train as an emblem of progress.’ However, I consider them worthy of reexamination.

Born to a middle class family in London, Abinger’s life was profoundly shaped by a mysterious incident in her childhood. At the age of twelve, she went missing, having seemingly vanished off the face of the earth. She reappearing four months later, unscathed save for a scar across her cheek. The case had baffled Scotland Yard, and Abinger herself never explained what had happened. In her words, this created a “chasm” between her and her family. This chasm is reflected in her art. Much of it focuses on the intrusion of industry into the natural world, a theme that was outdated by her time. What sets her work apart is the dreamy atmosphere her pieces provide. The connection between nature and childhood is a common one, but Abinger uses light to subvert this.

In many of her pieces, landscapes are dramatically interrupted by rails, train stations, and trains themselves. Abinger uses a consistent shade of sickly green to light the trains, but sticks to a realistic color palette for everything else. This disconnect gives the trains a dreamlike feel, as if they represent some distant childhood fantasy. The scant few who pay any attention whatsoever to Abinger’s paintings largely agree that this allusion to childhood is the intent of these pieces. Thus, we can assume the chasm she struggled with is represented by the juxtaposition of the dreamlike nature of the train and the naturalistic depiction of the surrounding landscape.

Many would balk at including Abinger in the proto-surrealist pantheon, but I justify it on the following grounds: The spontaneity that ostracized her from the broader art community is a hallmark of surrealism, and so is the dreamlike atmosphere of her landscapes. In addition to her paintings, the collection includes a great number of sketches, the vast majority unreleased and likely made at Abinger’s pleasure. They depict a variety of bizarre scenes, animals, and objects, using fantastical imagery ahead of her time. Furthermore, many works are clear mythological allusions. One of the largest sketches, titled “Morgan at rest” depicts a castle at the center of a vast maze, a reference to the labyrinth of Crete…