The clanking noise was driving me mad. It seemed that every morning, as I customarily awoke before dawn and then fell back asleep, only to repeat the cycle several times before finally fully re-engaging with the material world, I would lie there and hear the sound of a train going by, the low growl of the wheels on the track and the metallic, rhythmic clank of whatever it was on the train that made that sound. I could quite clearly hear that old iron horse passing by under the pinkish cloudy sky of early morning.
Strangely enough, my little cottage was not located near any railroad tracks. The closest line was at least a mile away and no longer in use, or so I was told. Coincidentally, according to some research that I conducted at the public library, there might have been some old trolley tracks lain beneath the asphalt of the roadway that went by the cottage, but that obviously had not been heard or seen from since they paved over them a hundred years ago and shipped the trolley cars down to Mexico, where they’re still in use, or so I’m told.
So, from where was this sound emanating? Or, from whence? It was not loud nor abrasive as such, just a low volume yet clear and distinct collection of sound waves, indicating a train, a freight train perhaps. It might have been mistaken for the sound from a pre-programmed alert that might come from a computer or some other device; easy enough to do these days- wake up to the sound of a train going by- if that’s appealing to you as a way to start your day.
But impossible in my case, as I had no computers or electronic devices, and all of my clocks were mechanical in nature or were simple, primitive electronic contraptions that were only capable of buzzing or making basic bell sounds. I had not one train sound available, or any other type of audio file for that matter.
My grandma got spooked when I told her about the train sound. She was really shaken and said that it was the sound of death and dying, someone coming to fetch some poor soul whose time had come, and carrying them home, seemingly on a bed of coal or in an otherwise empty boxcar, so I imagined.
My grandma thought it could be coming for me. She said a lot of prayers and put out some things: offerings, substances that I had no prior knowledge or awareness of; as a way to protect me, she said. And once the train sound kept happening every morning and I didn’t go anywhere- I was still alive, meaning- she concluded that her interventions had saved me and the train was going to go find some other poor soul to carry to the underworld, because down below is really the only place a train can go; not up, up and away. If someone was glory bound to the good place, I think they would send a hot air balloon or something like that.
Meanwhile, that train keeps chugging along every morning at about half past five, and I’m still alive.
THE MOSSY BOG 