The Raven Post

In the passenger train heading to Gron at a late autumn hour the crush was enormous; the compartments were packed, the atmosphere was stifling and hot. Due to the lack of space, class differentiations had been obliterated; under an ancient illegal law one sat or stood where one could. Above the chaotic assemblage of heads, lamps were burning with a small, dim light that drifted from car ceilings onto weary faces, rumpled profiles. Tobacco smoke rose in sour fumes and was drawn out in a long, grey line along the corridors to billow in clouds and exit through the abyss of the windows. The steady clatter of wheels acted soporifically, inducing through their monotonous knocking a drowsiness that prevailed in the cars. Chugchug-chug…chug-chug-chug….

Only in one of the third-class compartments, the fifth car before the end, had the ambience not surrendered to the general mood. Here the throng was loud, lively, animated. The attention of the travellers had been entirely captured by a small hunchbacked fellow in a railwayman’s uniform of lower ranking who was intently narrating something and underlining his words with colourful and expressive gestures. The clustered-about listeners did not lower their eyes from this person; some, to hear better, got up from other areas of the car and came closer to the centre bench; a curious few had put their heads through the door of the neighbouring compartment.

The railwayman was speaking. In the washed-out lamplight that flickered with the tossing of the car, his head moved in an odd cadence, a large, misshapen head with dishevelled grey hair. The wide face, broken erratically on the line of the nose, paled or flushed purply in a rhythm of stormy blood—the exclusive, unique, obstinate face of a fanatic. The eyes glided absentmindedly about those present, glowing with the fire of stubborn thoughts strengthened through the years. And yet this person had moments of beauty. At times it seemed that the hump and the ugliness of the facial features disappeared, and the eyes took on a sapphiric radiance, infused with inspiration, and in the dwarfish figure breathed a noble, irresistible passion. After a moment the metamorphosis weakened, expired, and inside the circle of listeners sat only an entertaining but ugly narrator in a railwayman’s shirt.

Professor Ryszpans—a tall, lean man in light-grey attire, a monocle in one eye—had been passing discreetly through the attentive compartment, when he stopped suddenly to glance carefully at the speaker. Something intrigued him, some phrase thrown from the hunchback’s lips riveted him in place. He rested an elbow against an iron bar of a partition, tightened in his monocle, and listened.

‘Yes, ladies and gentlemen,’ the railwayman was saying, ‘in recent times puzzling occurrences have been happening more frequently in the train world. All this seems to have its own purpose, it’s clearly heading towards something irrevocable.’

He became silent for a moment, blew away the ashes from his pipe, then began talking again:

‘Has anyone heard of “the car of laughter”?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ cut in the professor. ‘I read something about it a year ago in the newspapers, but superficially, and didn’t attach any importance to it; the affair appeared to be journalistic gossip.’

‘Nothing of the kind, my dear sir!’ contested the railwayman passionately, turning to the new listener. ‘Nice gossip! An obvious truth, a fact ascertained by the testimony of eyewitnesses. I’ve talked to people who rode in this car. Everyone became ill a week after that ride.’

‘Please tell us exactly what happened,’ responded a few voices. ‘An interesting affair!’

‘Not so much interesting, as it is amusing,’ corrected the dwarf, shaking his lion-like mop. ‘A year ago some short-lived car briefly wormed its way among its solid and serious companions, and, to people’s delight and irritation, it roved on railway lines for upwards of two weeks. Its facetiousness was of a suspicious nature, at times resembling mischievousness. Whoever entered the car, immediately fell into an extremely cheerful mood, which soon developed into explosive hilarity. People would burst out laughing for no apparent reason, as if taking nitrous oxide. They held themselves by the belly, they doubled over, tears streaming down their faces. Finally their laughter took on the threatening characteristic of a paroxysm. In tears of demonic joy, passengers had endless convulsions; as if demented, they threw themselves against walls; and, grunting like a herd of swine, they foamed at the mouth. At various stations, one had to remove several of these unhappy happy persons from the car, for a fear arose that otherwise they would simply burst from laughter.’

‘How did the railroad authorities respond to this?’ asked a stocky man with a strong profile, a designing engineer named Znieslawski, taking advantage of the pause.

‘Initially, these gentlemen believed some psychic pestilence was involved that was transferring itself from rider to rider. But when similar occurrences began to repeat themselves, and always in the same car, one railway doctor hit upon a brilliant idea. Assuming that somewhere in the car resided a laughter bacterium, which he hastily named bacillus ridiculentus and also bacillus gelasticus primitivus, he submitted the infected car to a thorough disinfection.’

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ boomed a professionally interested neighbour, some doctor from W., in the ear of the matchless conversationalist. ‘I wonder what antiseptic agent he used—Lysol or carbolic acid?’

“You are mistaken, my dear sir; none of those mentioned. The unfortunate car was washed from the roof to the rails with a special preparation devised ad hoc by the aforementioned doctor; it was named by its creator lacrima tristis, or “the tear of the sad”.’

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ choked some lady from a corner. ‘What a precious man you are! Ha, ha, ha! “The tear of the sad!””’

‘Yes, my dear lady,’ he continued calmly, ‘for shortly after the release of the cured car into circulation, several travellers took their own lives with a revolver. These types of experiments revenge themselves,’ he concluded, shaking his head sadly. ‘Radicalism in these things is unhealthy.’

For a while there was silence.

‘A couple of months later,’ the functionary resumed the tale, ‘alarming rumours began to spread across the country concerning the appearance of a so-called “transformation car’—carrus transformans, as a certain philologist dubbed it—apparently one of the offerings of the new plague. One day, strange changes were noticed in the outward appearance of several passengers who had made a journey in the same ill-fated car. Families and acquaintances could in no manner recognize the warmly greeting individuals who had exited the train. The female judge K., a young and attractive brunette, repulsed with horror the poxed stranger with a pronounced bald spot who was stubbornly insisting that he was her husband; Miss W., a beautiful eighteen-year-old blonde, went into spasms in the embrace of a grey-haired and podagric old gentleman who had presented himself to her, with a bouquet of azaleas, as her “fiancé”. On the other hand, the already well-advanced in years lady councillor Z. found herself, with pleasant surprise, at the side of an elegant young man restored miraculously by upwards of forty years, an appellate advisor and her husband.

‘At news of this, a huge commotion arose in town. Nothing else was talked about save the puzzling metamorphoses. After a month a new sensation: the bewitched ladies and gentlemen slowly regained their original look, reverting to their time-honoured outward appearance.’

‘And was the car disinfected this time?’ asked some woman with interest.

‘No, my dear lady, these precautionary measures were waived. On the contrary, the rail authorities surrounded the car with special care when it became apparent that the railroad could derive great profit from it. Special tickets were even printed up to gain entrance to this wonderful car, so-called “transformation tickets”. The demand was naturally huge. At the front of the queue were long columns of old ladies, ugly widows, and spinsters insisting on the travel tickets. The candidates voluntarily inflated the cost; they paid three to four times in excess of the price; they bribed clerks, conductors, even porters. In the car, before the car, and under the car dramatic scenes were played out, sometimes passing over into bloody fights. Several grey-haired women expired in one skirmish. This horrible example did not, however, cool down the lust for rejuvenation: the massacre continued. Finally, the entire disturbance was put to an end by the wonderful car itself. After two weeks of transformation activity, it suddenly lost its strange power. Stations took on a normal appearance; the cadres of old men and women retreated back to their firesides and cozy sleeping nooks.’

The hunchback stopped talking, and in the midst of the din of stirred voices, laughter, and jokes on the subject presented by the story, he slipped furtively from the car.

Ryszpans followed him like a shadow. He was intrigued by this railwayman with the darned-at-the-elbow shirt who had expressed himself more properly than many an average intellectual. Something drew him to the man, some mysterious current of sympathy impelled him towards the eccentric invalid.

In the corridor of first-class compartments, he laid a hand lightly on his shoulder.

‘Excuse me. Can I have a few words with you?’

The hunchback smiled with satisfaction.

‘Certainly. Pll even show you to a place where we’ll be able to talk freely. I know this car inside out.’

And pulling the professor after him, he turned left, where the compartments broke off into a thin corridor leading to the platform. Unusually, no one was here. The railwayman showed his companion the wall enclosing the last car.

‘Do you see that small ledge at the top? It’s a concealed lock. It’s hidden for the use of railway dignitaries in exceptional cases. In a moment, we’ ll see it more clearly.’

He moved aside the ledge, took out from his pocket a conductor’s key and, putting it in the opening, turned it. At that moment, a steel blind smoothly rolled up, revealing a small, elegantly furnished compartment.

‘Please enter,’ urged the railwayman.

Soon they were sitting on soft, upholstered cushions, sealed off from the din and throngs by the lowered blind.

The functionary looked at the professor with an expression of anticipation. Ryszpans did not hurry with a question. He frowned, set in his monocle tighter, and sank into thought. After a moment, not looking at his companion, he began:

‘I was struck by the contrast between the humourous occurrences you had related and the serious elucidation which preceded them. If I remember correctly, you said that puzzling events have been occurring in recent times which are heading towards some goal. If I understood the tone of your words well, you were speaking seriously; one had the impression that you consider this goal as grave, maybe even decisive….’

A mysterious smile brightened up the hunchback’s face:

‘And you were not mistaken, sir. The contrast will disappear if we’ll understand these “amusing” manifestations as a mocking summons, a provocation, and a prelude to other manifestations, deeper ones, like tests of strength before the release of an unknown energy.’

‘All right!’ exclaimed the professor. ‘Du sublime au ridicule il n’y a qu’un pas. I suspected something of the sort. Otherwise I wouldn’t have initiated this discussion.’

“You belong, sir, to a rare few. So far I’ve found only seven individuals on this train who have comprehended these affairs in depth, and who have declared themselves ready to venture with me into the labyrinth of consequences. Maybe I’Il find in you an eighth volunteer?’

‘That will depend on the depth and quality of the explanations that you Owe me.’

‘Certainly. That is why I’m here. To begin with, you should know that these mysterious cars came onto the line straight from a siding.’

“What does that mean?’

‘It means that before they were let out into circulation, they rested for a long time on a siding and breathed in its atmosphere.’

‘I don’t understand. In the first place, what is a siding?’

‘A spurned offshoot of rail, a solitary branch of track stretching out from 50 to 100 metres, without exit, without an outlet; closed off by an artificial hill and a barrier; like a withered branch of a green tree, like the stump of a mutilated hand….’

A deep, tragic lyricism flowed from the railwayman’s words. The professor looked at him in amazement, as he went on:

‘Neglect is all about: weeds overgrowing rusty rails; wanton field grass, oraches, wild chamomile plants, and thistles. Over to the side the plates of a decrepit switch are falling off; the glass of the lantern is broken, a lantern that doesn’t have anyone to light the way for at night. And why should it? After all, the track is closed; you wouldn’t be able to go up more than a hundred metres. Not too far away the engine traffic is vibrant with activity, the railway’s arteries pulsate with life. Here it is eternally quiet. Sometimes a switching engine loses its way onto the track, sometimes an unattached coach reluctantly crowds in; now and then a freight car worn out by riding will enter for a longer rest, reeling heavily, lazily, to stand in silence for entire months or years. On a decaying roof a bird will build a nest and feed its young, in the cracks of a platform weeds will proliferate, a wicker branch will burst forth. Above the rusted rails, a broken-down semaphore dips its dislocated arms and blesses the melancholic ruins….’

The voice of the railwayman broke. The professor sensed his emotion; the lyricism of the description astounded and thrilled him at the same time. But from whence came that touch of mournfulness?

After a while, the professor said, ‘I felt the poetry of the siding, but I’m unable to explain to myself how its atmosphere could cause the aforementioned manifestations.’

‘From this poetry,’ enlightened the hunchback, ‘flows a deep theme of yearning—a yearning towards unending distances whose access is closed off by a landmark, a nailed-up wooden barrier. There, beside it, trains speed by, engines hurry away into the wide, beautiful world; here, the dull border of a grassy hill. A yearning of the handicapped. Do you understand, sir? A yearning without a hope of realization creates contempt and feeds upon itself, until it overgrows through the strength of its desires the fortunate reality of — privilege. Hidden energies are born, forces accumulate for years. Who knows if they will not explode with the elements? And then they will transcend commonplaceness to fulfill higher tasks more beautiful than reality. They reach beyond it….’

‘And where can one find that siding? I assume that you have a particular place in mind?’

‘Hmm, that depends,’ he said, smiling. ‘For certain there was a point of exit. But there are many sidings everywhere, by every station. It could be this one, it could be that one.’

‘Yes, yes, but I’m talking about the one from which those cars came.’

The hunchback shook his head impatiently:

‘We do not understand one another. Who knows—maybe that mysterious siding can be found everywhere? One only has to know how to seek it out, track it down—one has to know how to run into it, drive up to it, to enter into its grove. So far, only one person has succeeded in this….’

He stopped and gazed deeply at the professor with eyes opalescent with violet light.

‘Who?’ asked the other mechanically.

‘Trackwalker Wior. Wior, the hunchbacked, cruelly handicapped by nature trackwalker, is today the king of the sidings and their sad spirit, yearning for release.’

‘I understand,’ murmured Ryszpans.

‘Trackwalker Wior,’ finished the railwayman passionately, ‘formerly a scholar, thinker, philosopher—thrown by the vagaries of fate among the rails of scorned track—a voluntary watchman over forgotten lines—a fanatic among people….’

They rose and made their way towards the exit. Ryszpans gave him his hand.

‘Agreed,’ he said strongly.

The steel blind went up, and they entered the corridor.

‘Till we meet again,’ the hunchback bid his farewell. ‘I’m going to catch some more souls. Three cars remain….’

And he disappeared through the door connecting to the adjacent coach. Lost in thought, the professor went over to a window, cut a cigar, and lit it.

Darkness reigned outside. Lamplights peering out into space from quadrangle windows moved quickly along the slopes in a_ fleeting reconnaissance: the train was proceeding alongside some empty meadows and pastures….

A man came up to the professor, requesting a light. Ryszpans blew out the ashes from his cigar and politely handed the cigar to the stranger.

‘Thank you.’ The engineer introduced himself: ‘Znieslawski.’

A conversation was struck up.

‘Have you noticed how empty it has suddenly become?’ Znieslawski asked, casting an eye about. ‘The corridor is completely deserted. I glanced into two compartments to discover pleasurably that both had plenty of room.’

‘I wonder what it’s like in the other classes,’ replied Ryszpans.

“We can take a look!’

And heading towards the end of the train, they passed through several cars. Everywhere they noticed a substantial decrease in the number of travellers.

‘Strange,’ said the professor. ‘Less than half an hour ago the crush was still terrible; within that short period the train has just stopped once.’

‘That’s right,’ confirmed Znieslawski. ‘Apparently many people must have left the train at that time. I don’t understand how such a discharge of passengers could occur at one station—and an insignificant one, at that.’

They sat down on one of the benches in a second-class compartment. By the window two men were talking in an undertone. Ryszpans and Znieslawski caught a part of their conversation:

‘You know,’ a bureaucratic-looking passenger was saying, ‘something is telling me to get off this train.’

‘That’s odd!’ answered the other. ‘It’s the same with me. A stupid feeling. I must be in Zaszum today and must go this way— nevertheless, I will get off at the next station and wait for the morning train. What a waste of time!’

‘T’ll do likewise, though it is also inconvenient for me. I’ll be late for work by several hours. But I can’t do anything else. I won’t go farther on this train.’

‘Excuse me,’ Znieslawski cut in, ‘what exactly impels both of you gentlemen to make such an inconvenient departure from this train?’

‘I don’t know,’ answered the official. ‘Some type of vague feeling.’

‘A sort of internal command,’ explained his companion.

‘Maybe an oppressive, unknown fear,’ suggested Ryszpans, winking his eye a little maliciously.

‘Maybe,’ countered the passenger calmly. ‘But I’m not ashamed of it. The feeling which I’m now experiencing is so special, so sui generis, that it can’t be defined by what we generally call fear.’

Znieslawski glanced knowingly at the professor.

‘Maybe we should go farther up?’

After a while, they found themselves in a nearly deserted third-class compartment. Here, in the fumes of cigar smoke, sat three men and two women. One of the latter, a comely townswoman, was talking to her companion:

‘That Zietulska is strange! She was going to Zupnik with me, and meanwhile she gets off halfway, four miles before her destination.’

‘She didn’t say why?’ questioned the second woman.

‘She did, but I don’t believe her. She supposedly grew faint and couldn’t ride the train farther. God knows what the truth is.’

‘What about those fellows who were so loudly promising themselves a good time at Gron tomorrow morning—didn’t they get off at Pytom? They became quieter after we left Turon and began pacing about the car—and then it was suddenly as if someone had swept them out of the compartment. You know, even I feel strange here….’

In the next car both men became sensitized to a mood of nervousness and anxiety. People were rapidly taking down their luggage from overhanging nets, impatiently looking through windows, pressing against one another towards the platform exit.

‘What the devil?’ muttered Ryszpans. ‘A thoroughly distinguished group—all elegant ladies and gentlemen. Why do these people want to get off at the nearest station? If I remember, it is some out-of-the-way little place.’

‘Indeed,’ admitted the engineer. ‘It is Drohiczyn, a stop in the middle of a field, a God-forsaken hole. Apparently there’s only the station, a post office, and a police station. Hmm…interesting! What are they going to do there in the middle of the night?’

He glanced at his watch.

‘It’s only two.’

The professor shook his head. ‘I’m reminded of some interesting conclusions a certain psychologist reached after thoroughly studying fatality Statistics in railway accidents.’

‘What kind of conclusions?’

‘He claimed the losses were not as great as one would suppose. The Statistics showed that trains that met with an accident were always less occupied than others. Apparently people got off in time or else they completely refrained from a ride on the deadly trains; others were stopped right before their trip by some unexpected obstacle; a portion were suddenly seized with ill-health or some longer sickness.’

‘I understand,’ said Znieslawski. ‘Everything depended on the increase in the instinct of self-preservation, which, according to the tension, assumed various hues; in some persons it was emphasized strongly, in others, weakly. So, you believe that what we see and hear now can be explained in a similar manner?’

‘I don’t know. This association just occurred to me. Yet even if it were true, I’m glad an opportunity has arisen to observe this phenomenon. I actually should have got off at a previous station that was my destination. As you see, I’m going farther of my own free will.’

‘Splendid!’ remarked the engineer with approval. ‘I also will maintain my post—though, I admit, I’ve had a peculiar feeling for a certain time, something like an unease or a tense anticipation. Are you really free from these?’

‘Well… no,’ the professor said slowly. “You are right. Something’s in the air; we are not completely normal here. In me, however, the result manifests itself in an interest as to what’s ahead, what will evolve out of this.’

‘In that case we both stand on the same platform. I even believe that we have several companions. Wior’s influence, as I see, has encompassed certain circles.’

The professor gave a Start.

‘So you know this man?’

‘Naturally. I sensed in you his follower. Here’s to “The Siding Brotherhood!”’

The engineer’s cry was interrupted by the grind of braking wheels: the train had stopped before the station. Multitudes of travellers poured out through open car doors. In the station’s pale lamplights one could see the faces of the railway official and the sole switchman for the entire way-station observing in amazement the unusual influx of guests for Drohiczyn.

‘Stationmaster, will we find sleeping accommodations here for the night?’ some elegant gentleman in a cylinder hat asked humbly.

‘Maybe on a block on the floor, my most-esteemed sir,’ the switchman offered in answer.

‘It’s going to be difficult getting some lodging, my dear Madame,’ the stationmaster explained to some ermined lady. ‘It’s two hours to the nearest village.’

‘Jesus Mary! We’ve fallen into it!’ lamented a thin feminine voice from the throng.

‘All aboard!’ called out the impatient official.

‘All aboard, all aboard!’ repeated two uncertain voices in the darkness.

The train moved. At the moment when the station was slipping into the obscurity of the night, Znieslawski, leaning out from a window, pointed to a group of people at the side of the station’s platform.

‘Do you see those persons to the left of that wall?’

‘Why, yes. They’re the conductors of our train.’

‘Ha, ha, ha! Periculum in mora, professor! The rats are deserting the ship. A bad sign!’

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ joined in the professor. ‘A train without conductors! All hell’s broken loose!’

‘No, no, it’s not that bad,’ pacified Znieslawski. ‘Two have remained. Look there—one has just closed the compartment; the other one I saw jumping on the running board at the moment of departure.’

‘The followers of Wior,’ explained Ryszpans. ‘It would be worthwhile finding out how many people have remained on this train.’

They went through several cars. In one, they came across an aestheticfaced monk deep in prayer; in another, two clean-shaven men bearing the look of actors; a few cars were completely empty. In the corridor running lengthwise through a second-class compartment, several persons with luggage in hand were milling about, their eyes uneasy, their nervous movements betraying agitation.

‘For sure they wanted to get off at Drohiczyn, but at the last moment they changed their minds.’ Znieslawski threw out the assumption.

‘And now they regret it,’ added Ryszpans.

At that moment the hunchbacked railwayman showed up at the platform of the car. A sinister, demonic smile was playing over his face. Behind him was a drawn-out file of several travellers. Coming to the professor and his companion, Wior greeted them as if he were a familiar acquaintance:

“The revue is over. Please follow me.’

A woman’s cry reverberated at the end of the corridor. The men glanced to that side and caught sight of a passenger’s body disappearing through an open door.

‘Did that person fall or jump?’ asked a few voices.

As if in answer, a second passenger plunged into the abyss of space; after him hurried a third; then the rest of the nervous group threw themselves in wild flight.

‘Have they gone crazy?’ someone asked from inside. ‘Jumping out of a train at full speed? Well, well….’

“They were in a hurry to know Mother Earth,’ said Znieslawski casually.

Not attributing greater importance to the incident, they returned to the compartment into which had disappeared the trackwalker. Here, aside from Wior, they found ten people, among them two conductors and three women. Everyone sat down on a bench and gazed attentively at the hunchbacked railwayman, who had gone to stand in the centre of the compartment.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, taking in those present with the fire of his glance. ‘All of us, including me, comprise thirteen individuals. A fatal number! No…I1’m mistaken—fourteen including my engine driver, and he is also my man. A mere handful, a handful, but it is enough for me….’

These last words he finished saying half-aloud, as if to himself, and he became momentarily silent. One could only hear the clatter of the rails and the rumble of the car’s wheels.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ resumed Wior. ‘A special moment has arrived, a moment when the yearning of many years will be realized. This train already belongs to us. We jointly took possession of it; foreign, indifferent, and hostile elements have been eliminated from its organism. Here rules the absolute atmosphere and power of the siding. In a moment that power will manifest itself. Whoever does not feel sufficiently ready should withdraw now; later, it may be too late. Space. The space is free and the door is open. I guarantee safety. So?’ He threw a searching glance about. ‘So no one is withdrawing?’ In answer came a deep silence vibrant with the quickened breathing of twelve human chests. Wior smiled triumphantly. ‘Good. Everyone remains here of their own free will, everyone is responsible for their own decision at this moment.’

The travellers were silent. Their restless eyes, smouldering with feverish light, did not leave the trackwalker’s face. One of the women suddenly got an attack of hysterical laughter, which under the steady, cold glance of Wior quickly passed. The railwayman drew out from his breast pocket a quadrangle paper with some drawing on it.

‘Here is the road we have so far been travelling on,’ he said, pointing to a double line that blackened the paper. ‘Here, on the right, this small point— that’s Drohiczyn, which we passed a moment ago. This other point, the large one at the top, is Gron, the last station on this line. But we will not reach it— that destination is of no concern to us now.’

He paused and stared intently at the drawing. A shudder of terror shook his listeners. Wior’s words fell heavily on the spirit like molten lead.

‘And here, to the left,’ he further explained, moving a pointed finger, ‘appears a crimson line. Do you see its red trail winding ever farther away from the main track? That’s the siding line. We are supposed to enter onto it.’

He became quiet again and studied the bloody ribbon.

From outside came the clangour of unleashed wheels. The train had apparently doubled its velocity and was speeding along in maniacal fury.

The trackwalker spoke:

“The time has come. Let everyone assume a sitting or lying position. Yes…good,’ he finished up, passing a careful glance over the travellers, who had fulfilled his instructions as if hypnotized. ‘Now I can begin. Attention! In a minute we’ll be turning onto the siding….’

Holding the drawing in his right hand at eye level, he fixed his eyes on it one more time with the fanatical glare of his suddenly widened pupils. Then he stiffened like a board, letting the paper drop from his hand, and stood frozen in the middle of the compartment; his eyes rolled up so strongly that one could only see the edges of the whites; his face assumed a stony expression. Suddenly he started to walk stiffly to the open window. He propped himself against the lower frame and bounced off the floor with his legs, leaning out half of his body into space; his figure, stretched out beyond the window like a magnetic needle, wavered a few times on the edge of the frame, then placed itself at an angle to the wall of the car….

Suddenly a hellish bang resounded, as of cars smashing, a ferocious crash of crushed scrap-iron, a din of rails, buffers, a rattling of riotous wheels and chains. In the midst of the tumult of benches splitting into fragments, doors tumbling down, in the midst of the rumble of collapsing ceilings, floors, walls, in the midst of the clashing of bursting pipes, tubes, tanks, the locomotive’s whistle groaned in despair….

Suddenly everything receded, was driven into the ground, was blown away, and the ears were filled with a great, powerful, boundless noise.

And this noisy duration enveloped the world for a long, long time, and it seemed that every earthly waterfall was playing a song of menace and that all earthly trees were rustling scores of leaves. Afterwards, even this died down, and the great silence of darkness spread over the world. In the still and silent heavens, someone’s invisible, someone’s very caressing hands stretched out and stroked the palls of space soothingly. And under this gentle caress, soft waves were tossed about, flowing in by quiet pipes and rocking one to sleep…to sweet, silent sleep….

At some moment the professor woke up. He glanced half-consciously at the surroundings and noticed that he was in an empty compartment. A vague feeling of strangeness seized him; everything beyond him appeared somehow different, somehow new, something one had to get used to. But the adjustment was oddly difficult and slow. In effect, one completely had to change one’s point of view and the way one looked at things. Ryszpans gave the impression of a person who enters into the light of day after a lengthy wandering in a mile-long tunnel. He looked with eyes blinded by darkness, he rubbed away the mist covering his sight. He started to remember….

In his mind faded recollections followed each other, recollections that had preceded…this. Some type of crash, din, some type of sudden impact that had levelled all sensations and consciousness….

An accident!—his haziness told him indistinctly.

He glanced carefully at himself, ran his hand about his face, his forehead—nothing! Not even a drop of blood, no pain.

‘Cogito—ergo—sum! ’ he pronounced finally.

A desire arose within him to walk about the compartment. He left his place, raised his leg and—was suspended a couple of inches off the floor.

“What the hell!’ he muttered in astonishment. ‘Have I lost my proper weight or what? I feel light as a feather.’ And he drifted up, until he reached the ceiling of the car.

‘But what happened to the others?’ he asked himself, going down to the door of the neighbouring compartment.

At that moment he discovered Znieslawski at the entrance, who, likewise raised a couple of centimetres above the floor, shook his hand warmly.

‘Greetings! I see you’re also not in complete accordance with the laws of gravity?’

‘Ha, what can one do?’ Ryszpans sighed out in resignation. “You’re not injured?’

‘God forbid!’ assured the engineer. ‘I’m in the best of health. I awoke just a moment ago.’

‘A peculiar awakening. I wonder where we are exactly?’

‘So do I. It seems we’re tearing along at a terrific speed.’

They looked out the window. Nothing. Emptiness. Only a strong, cool current blowing outside gave the impression that the train was running furiously along.

‘That’s strange,’ remarked Ryszpans. ‘I absolutely don’t see a thing. Emptiness above, emptiness before me.’

‘How extraordinary! It’s supposedly daytime, because it’s bright, but one can’t see the sun, and there’s no fog. We’re moving as if in space—what time could it be?’

They both glanced at their watches. After a moment, Znieslawski raised his eyes to his companion and met a glance that said the same thing.

‘I can’t make anything out. The hours have merged into a black, wavy line… .’

‘And the hands are wandering around, not telling anything.’

‘The waves of duration flowing one to the other, without beginning or end….’

‘The twilight of time….’

‘Look,’ Znieslawski suddenly called out, pointing to the opposite side of the car. ‘I see someone from our group through the wall, that monk— remember him?’

‘Yes. That’s the Carmelite, Brother Jozef. I’ve talked with him. He’s already spotted us—he’s smiling and giving us signs. What paradoxical effects. We’re looking through that wall as if through glass!’

‘Our bodies’ opaqueness has completely gone to hell,’ the engineer concluded.

‘It?s no better, it seems, with our impermeableness,’ answered Ryszpans, passing through the wall to the other compartment.

‘Indeed,’ admitted Znieslawski, following his example. And they went through the wall and several others, until in the third car they greeted Brother Jozef.

The Carmelite had just finished his morning prayer, and, restrengthened, was sincerely pleased with the meeting.

‘Great works of the Lord!’ he said, raising distant eyes clouded over with the mist of meditation. ‘We are living through strange moments. We’ve all been wonderfully awakened. Glory to the Everlasting One! Let’s go and connect up with the rest of our brothers.’

‘We are with you,’ echoed back several voices from all sides, and through the walls of the car ten figures passed and surrounded the talkers. These people were of various occupations and professions, including the engine driver of the train and three women. Everyone’s eyes were involuntarily looking for someone; everyone instinctively felt the absence of one companion.

‘There are thirteen of us,’ said a lean, sharp-faced young man. ‘I do not see Master Wior.’

‘Master Wior will not come,’ said Brother Jozef, as if in a dream. ‘Do not look for trackwalker Wior here. Look deeper, my brothers, look into your souls. Maybe you’ ll find him.’

They ceased talking, and they understood. Across their faces flowed a great peace, and they glowed with a strange light. And they read their own souls and fathomed one another in a wonderful clairvoyance.

‘Brothers!’ resumed the monk, ‘our bodies are given to us for only a little time longer; in a few moments we may have to abandon them. Then we will part company. Everyone will go their own direction, carried by their own destiny that was forged in the book of fate ages ago; everyone will make their way on their own path, to their own area, which was preordained on the other side. Multitudes of our brothers’ souls await us with yearning. Before the moment of parting arrives, listen once more to a voice from the other side. The words that I’ll read to you were written ten days ago, measuring time in an earthly manner.’

Finishing this, he unfolded some newspaper sheets, barely rustling them, and began to read in a deep, penetrating voice:

‘NW., November 15, 1950. Mysterious Disaster. A mysterious, unexplained event occurred yesterday, the night of the 14th—15th, on the Zalesna—Gron railway line. It concerns the fate that met passenger train number 20 between the hours of two to three after midnight. The actual disaster was preceded by strange fears. As if having a presentiment of ominous danger, passengers had been getting off in droves at stations and stops before the place of the fatal accident, even though their destination was considerably farther. Asked by station officials about the reason for cutting short their journey, these people were vague in their explanations, as if not wanting to reveal their motives for this odd behaviour. More characteristic is the fact that at Drohiczyn several on-duty conductors deserted the train, preferring to risk severe punishment and the loss of their jobs rather than riding farther; only three persons from the entire train personnel remained at their posts. The train left Drohiczyn nearly empty. Several undecided travellers, who at the last minute had drawn back inside the cars, jumped out fifteen minutes later while the train was in motion through an open field. By some miracle these people came away uninjured, returning to Drohiczyn on foot around four in the morning. They were witnesses to the last moments of the ill-fated train before the disaster, which had to have occurred several minutes later.

‘Around five in the morning, the first alarm signal came from the booth of trackwalker Zola, situated five kilometres beyond Drohiczyn. The manager of the station got on a trolley and in half an hour stood at the place of the accident, where he met an investigating committee from Rakwa.

‘An odd picture greeted those present. In an open field several hundred metres beyond the trackwalker’s booth, a severed train stood on the tracks. The two rear cars were completely untouched, then came a_ break corresponding to the length of three cars; and again two cars in a normal state connected by chains—a one car gap—and finally a tender at the front, its locomotive missing. There were no traces of blood on the tracks, the platforms, or the steps, nowhere were there any wounded or killed. Inside the cars it was also empty and quiet; not one compartment contained a corpse, and not the slightest damage was discovered in those cars present.

“The visual particulars were written down and sent to headquarters. The railway authorities do not expect a speedy clearing up of this mystery.’

The Carmelite became silent for a moment, put aside the paper, and then started to read from a second one:

“W., November 25, 1950. Amazing revelations and details concerning the train disaster of the 15th of this month. The mysterious events, which were played out on the railway line beyond Drohiczyn the 15th of this month, have not been explained to the present time. On the contrary, ever-deeper shadows fall on the incident and cloud any understanding of it.

‘This day brought a series of astounding bits of information in connection with the accident that darken the affair even more and give rise to serious, far reaching reflections. Here is a summary of what telegrams from authentic sources tell us:

‘Today at daybreak, the 25th of this month, those cars of passenger train number 20, whose absence was noted ten days ago, showed up on the exact spot of the disaster. Significantly, the cars turned up on that space not as one solid train, but disunited in groups of one, two, or three, corresponding to the gaps noticed visually on the 15th of this month. Before the first car, at the distance of a tender, the locomotive turned up completely intact.

‘Terrified at this sudden appearance, railwaymen at first did not dare to approach the cars, considering them phantoms or a result of hallucinations. Finally, though, when the cars did not vanish, they plucked up enough courage to enter within.

‘Here their eyes were presented with a terrible sight. In one of the compartments they found the bodies of thirteen individuals stretched out on benches or in sitting positions. The cause of death is so far undetermined. The bodies of these unfortunates do not exhibit any external or internal injuries; also there are no traces of asphyxiation or poisoning. The deaths of the casualties will apparently remain an unsolvable puzzle.

‘Among the thirteen individuals who met with a mysterious demise, the identity of six has so far been ascertained: Brother Jozef Zygwulski, from the Carmelite order and an author of several deeply mystical tracts; Prof. Ryszpans, an illustrious psychologist; Engineer Znieslawski, a respected inventor; Stwosz, the engine driver of the train; and two conductors. The names of the other persons are thus far unknown.

‘News of this mysterious event flew like lightning throughout the entire country, bringing forth startling impressions everywhere. Already numerous, sometimes profound, interpretations and commentaries have appeared in newspapers. Voices are heard, branding the defined “railroad disaster” occurrences as false and naive.

‘The Society of Psychic Research is apparently already planning a series of lectures, which several distinguished psychologists and psychiatrists will deliver in the upcoming days.

‘This matter will probably drag on for many years in the sciences, revealing new and unknown possibilities.’

Brother Jozef finished, and in an already fading voice he addressed his companions:

‘Brothers! The moment of parting has arrived. Our bodies are already Separating.’

“‘We’ve crossed the border between life and death.” The professor’s voice resounded like a distant echo.

‘To enter into a reality of a higher order….’

The walls of the cars, misty like clouds, started to part, dissolve, deteriorate…. Indistinct sheets of roofs were sawn off, ethereal coils of platforms were deflected forever into space, together with gaseous spirals of pipes, tubes, buffers….

The figures of the travellers, limp and completely transparent, weakened, disintegrated, came apart in pieces….

‘Farewell, brothers, farewell!…’

Voices faded, died out, were dispersed…until they became silent somewhere in the interplanetary distances of the beyond….

 

Originally published 1918