Chapter One - The Stranger

The story begins with a stranger entering the town at night... the scene is set.

1

A small black passenger train, lightly dusted with dirt on its lower half and specks of soot on the roof near the front (from the coal that had been expelled during its travels), swayed steadily back and forth as it continued its way through the densening forest outside. The wheels of the small train clunked lightly on the tracks below, which were steadily becoming more unkempt with chips and deep scratches marking the aging steel, as the train made its way ever closer its destination. 

 

Through the frosted glass of a dull window near the front of the train, a man of about mid to late thirty sat reading a book titled The Way of the World by William Congreve that was slightly frayed at the edges, with pages folded over occasionally marking points of interest, but that was otherwise in relatively good condition. The man was resting his head lightly against his fingertips, his arm settled on the low metal pane that jutted slightly from the window, as he read silently to himself in the near empty train car. The train became increasingly more unsteady on the track as night began to fall and the stranger abandoned his attempts to further with the story, as the jostling and the clinking of the cart were too frequently interrupted his concentration, and set the book behind his travel bag on the seat beside him where it would be in no danger of falling on the dusty floor below.

 

He stretched his stiffening limbs that were beginning to chill from the cold and the journey’s length as he casually turned his attention to the country outside that was only barely visible to the human eye in the now twilight hour. Dim shadows soon gave way to a tiny speck of light in the distance that swayed gracelessly in the wind outside as the train approached ever closer. The man began fastening his dark winter cloak around his throat at this point, eager to set foot onto the frozen soil of the northwestern Canadian woods that he had traveled so far to reach.

 

At an old train station the small black passenger train shuffled to a halt as it approached a dark gray platform where passengers would be allowed to either enter or depart from the warmth of the train’s interior.  As soon as the train remained at full rest, the man stood up smoothly, his demeanor betraying none of his cool thrill of mild excitement at his arrival, as he exited the train, with traveling bag in hand. The platform beneath his feet was evenly spread with the graying of natural wear and tear, but unmarked by any off-color trails, made by the scuffing of shoes or luggage bags, leading to or from the station doors. The weatherworn boards making up the platform were slightly warped and splintering from being left unattended and victim to the elements, as no covering sheltered the heavy wood from the bleaching rays of the sun nor the scratches of the frigid late August wind that tore unconcernedly at the surrounding terrain.

               

The station house itself was frayed equally as much as the platform, as the once bright white paint that had clung to the house was now muted and chipping in the squealing wind. Though intact, it bore a strong resemblance to an old house that had been abandoned and forgotten after the inhabitants moved away in search of a more prosperous life. The single lit oil lamp that he had seen on the train during its approach continued to sway in the wind, shining a dim light outside the large front doors, which only made the shadows surrounding the building ever the more noticeable as the night continued to sink rapidly over the fading light of a cloudy red and purple sky. The stranger, taking in all of this detail as he made his way, alone, across the old platform, continued forward and pushed open one of the heavy doors to make his way inside the fairly dark station house. The stranger disappeared into the building as the train began to creep forward, emptier than before, save for the paperback book that made a muffled ‘thump’ as it fell softly to the floor inside the now abandoned car, forgotten in the man’s otherwise unnoticed haste.

 

Inside the building, a handful of candles set in the windows, the flames flickering slightly from the draft, and here and there a cobweb could be seen luminesced against the dusty glass. In the corner, away from the chill of the thin windows and rickety doors, the station master sat next to a low melting candle, dozing lightly in a chair as his chin rested on his chest, his hook temple spectacles slowly sliding ever more dangerously off the end of his nose. The man stirred slightly as the cold autumn night wind barged its way in through the temporarily open oak doors, but only enough to sleepily clutch his heavy gray cloak closer to his chest before drifting back into a dreamless doze once more. The stranger, still paused in front of the heavy doors, stared expectantly at the station master for a moment or so, as if waiting for him to notice the new presence and hastily awaken and attend to his guest.

 

He cleared his throat somewhat loudly in announcement, but to no avail as the older man’s nose began to whistle softly with the depth of his tired breaths. The stranger frowned slightly as he realized he would not be greeted; his countenance and stance connoted an aristocratic air of disapproval as his deep emerald eyes narrowed slightly in the faint light, exentuating(sp) the faint markings of crow’s feet on their corners, and his back stretched even straighter to bring him to full height. A moment or so later, he turned to the right side of the building, where there stood only a single smaller door and a small number of hard wooden benches and a time aged table or two that rested near or against the wall, and silently exited it through the smaller heavy oak door there. A candle went out in one of the middle left windows, the chill of the now dying wind that had entered before proving to be too much for its small, timid existence.

             

   Further back from the station, large candle lit lamps could be seen standing stagardly along the sides of a well-worn cobblestone road that made its way windingly around the outskirts of the town and reached into the darkness towards the forest wall that made up the towns boarders. A few of the lamps laid silent and black as the evening wind had made its way into small holes or hairline fractures in the old glass that had expelled the light that had been inside. Gypsy moths would gather at the lamps whose light remained intact and fly around incoherently as their soft brown bodies collided with the glass sending a light “tick-tick” sound into the surrounding night air with every attempt taken to reach the currently unobtainable flame inside. What light that could be seen through the moths, though, was dulled as a light layer of frost made its way from the edges of the glass towards the center, greedily trying to hide the shine from the frozen pebbles that lay here and there upon the silent road underneath.

               

The stranger walked lightly upon the ill lit pathway, the bottom of his heavy fur lined cloak fluttering wildly around his ankles in the still snarling wind, unsure of exactly where the place he was now searching for rested. The streets were barren of activity in this hour, which he found only somewhat peculiar for a small farming town such as this where farmers usually worked until last light, especially during the time of the harvest. As he walked on, the  further the road wound and stretched towards what he was sure was nearing the back half of the town, the more unkempt it became as uneven stones protruded from the ground at random intervals and steadily growing potholes could be seen littering the path onwards.

 

Further on, the cobblestone road trailed off into a simple dirt road that would eventually turn around and join the stone path again after encompassing the last of the town’s territory. To the left of the road, from the unkempt cobblestone and around the dirt path, farmland steadily grew more and more abundant as multigenerational farm houses, cattle barns, and recently turned up soil quilted the landscape. He found no need to trail so far in as that, however, as to the left of the pathway, where the cobblestone was uneven but still present on the roads path, rested a small, plain, wooden house with a sign posted near the front porch that marked the dwelling with little more than the words “WEBB’S INN” which were only barely illuminated against the last of the lampposts that still remained lit near the street’s edge.

 

Author's Note

First draft