“The train is perfectly safe,” I repeat hastily. “And fast. I promise I’ll be all right—I’ll send you a telegram the moment I arrive, so you won’t have to worry.”
“Very well.” He sighs. “But I’ll worry anyway. Don’t open the window on the train. And take my knife.” He nods at the decorative box on the shelf above the stove in the living room, where his hunting knife has resided for as long as I can remember. I don’t think he’s ever used it.
Then he’s out the door in a rush and I put my bara brith in the oven and brew tea, obediently adding the hunting knife to my pack. The star charts I’m taking to the library are ready, bundled together in a waterproof cylinder and fitted with a leather strap to make it easy to carry.
Awela toddles into the kitchen just as I’m about to go and wake her. She gobbles down a thick slice of bara brith, and gulps milk and porridge as if I never actually feed her. Then I’m bundling her into my arms and slinging my pack and the star chart case over my shoulder. We start on the path to Blodyn Village.
It would be vastly easier if we had a horse, or even a donkey—Awela grows enormously heavy after only a short walk. But animals don’t like being so close to the Gwydden’s Wood. We had a goat for a while, when Awela was a baby—her milk dried up, and she jumped the fence and was never seen again. Even chickens don’t last at our house; they stop laying after a week or two, then molt all their feathers and die off one by one. We gave up keeping animals altogether, and get our milk and eggs and meat from Brennan’s Farm now.
At least the garden grows, so we’re never short on fruits and vegetables. Sometimes I swear plants grow faster in our garden than they really ought to, as though they pull some kind of invigorating magic from the soil that feeds the Gwydden’s trees.
What I really want is a bicycle. I don’t travel long distances often enough to really need one, and I couldn’t ride one with Awela, but I want one all the same. The newfangled contraptions are all the rage in Breindal City, according to Father’s newspapers, and there are a few in our village now, too.
It’s faster to carry Awela than to let her walk, even if my arm muscles are screaming by the time Brennan’s Farm comes into view. I leave her with Efa, Brennan’s wife, and then trudge into the village alone, waving at my father, who’s hard at work in the fields and probably doesn’t even see me.
The air smells fresher and the sun burns hotter the farther I trudge away from the wood. Dust swirls beneath my feet, and I’ve grown quite hot by the time I arrive at the village train station. It really doesn’t warrant the word station, being more of a small wooden platform sandwiched between the telegraph relay station and the inn, which is where you purchase your ticket.
I step inside the squat stone building. It’s dim and cool, a welcome relief from the sun. I wait for my eyes to adjust before stepping up to the counter. A dark-eyed girl stands behind it, polishing glasses with a rag, her long hair tied back at the nape of her neck with a bright ribbon. Her cream blouse has puffy sleeves with cuffs tight at her wrists, and her high-waisted skirt has buttons running all down the front of it. The sight of her makes my face warm. There aren’t many young women in Blodyn Village, but Mairwen Griffith is by far the prettiest. Smartest, too. She’s a poet, and has had several pieces published in the Breindal City newspaper. Someday I’m going to work up the nerve to talk to her. Properly. About astronomy or music or books. Maybe marry her—I haven’t quite figured out all the details yet.
“Morning, Owen. What can I do for you?” She smiles at me, and for a moment I lose the power of speech.
“Uh … ticket,” I remember. “For the nine o’ clock train to Saeth.”
“Barely made it,” says Mairwen, glancing at the small clock on the wall behind her. She pulls out a paper ticket from the till and writes in my name.
I hand over the fare. For a moment I don’t move, just stand there awkwardly, trying to think of something clever to say.
She smiles at me again, her eyes bright and laughing. “Better hurry, Owen Merrick. You’ll miss your train.”
I stammer something nonsensical in reply and step outside and onto the train platform, upbraiding myself for being such a coward.
But there wouldn’t have been time to properly speak with her anyway, because she’s right—the train rattles up that moment and I climb aboard, handing over my ticket to the dark-skinned steward in the blue and gray cap. I slide into a seat by the window.
The car is at the very end of the train right before the caboose, and it’s mostly empty, the only other passenger a pale-skinned old man in a tailed coat reading a newspaper. The headline says something about King Elynion drafting soldiers into his army. The old man’s top hat sits in the vacant seat beside him, and I realize I’ve forgotten my own in my hurry to make the train. I’m not in the habit of wearing it—it’s still stuffed in the coat closet somewhere. At least I put on my one and only suit, although it’s rather too small for me now—I’ll have to ask Father about getting a new one. Mostly I just wear Father’s castoff shirts and trousers—I haven’t been to school in a year, and Awela doesn’t care how I’m dressed.
I settle deeper into my seat and take a book out of my satchel. The train lurches into motion, the village and farms passing in a blur. It’s not long before we plunge into the wood, the leafy green swallowing us whole; I push away my uneasiness, try to lose myself in the book.
The old man across from me momentarily lays down his newspaper to pull his window shut.
I wonder how many passengers are riding in the cars ahead of us. I wonder if the engineer has wax stuffed into his ears. I try to comfort myself with the thought that perhaps the noise of the train is loud enough to block out the song of the Gwydden’s daughters.
Yet I can’t help but feel we’re hurtling into danger.
Hours pass. I eat my lunch: another piece of bara brith, with a fat slice of ham and hot tea from my thermos. The train clatters on, the motion of the wheels on the rails dragging my eyelids down.
A horrific SCREEEEEECH of metal jolts me awake. The train car wrenches sideways and I’m thrown hard into the seat across the aisle, inches from the old passenger who lies limp against the shut window. His neck is bent at an odd angle, and there’s a smear of red on his temple. I stare at him, my thoughts dull and slow with shock. This is a nightmare, and in another moment I will wake up.
But I don’t.
The train car shudders as it settles on its side, causing me to slide into the old passenger’s body. He is stiff and cold, and a scream tears from my throat as I frantically, desperately, pull myself back into the aisle. I am shaky with horror, with the dawning awareness that gnaws at my mind.
The train windows are over my head now. Branches press against the glass. They scratch and they scrape, like they’re trying to get in, and I know, I know, even before the music twists suddenly through glass and metal and puts its claws in me.
A tree siren derailed the train, and she’s going to kill us all.
The music calls me, commands me. The barbs dig deep and pull. Something inside my head thrashes, screams, fights.
But my body obeys the siren’s call.
I pull myself across the seats, toward the door that leads to the next car. It’s sideways now, bent and jammed from the crash. The tree siren’s song clamors in my head, yanking me like a beast on a chain. I don’t want to leave the train. I want to hide from her. I want to tuck myself into a shadowy corner and pray she passes me by. The music doesn’t let me. I put my shoulder into the door, throw myself against it again and again. I’m dimly aware of the pain in my arm, of the wound in my side from being thrown against the seat. The music writhes in every part of me. It’s splitting me apart. I do not want to go to her. And yet—I do.