After watching the world go by for a time...

After watching the world go by for a time, I stood, walk around him and began pumping along with him. He gave me a brief smile and a nod, then commenced to stair through and beyond me, apparently lost in the work and the scenery. He smelled a little, a spicy pungence that made me feel I was a little too close to him, but I pumped on. I felt somehow I shouldn't speak, though I wasn't sure why. So we rode along, the steady clang clang of the tracks and squeak squeak of the pump creating a drown which turned hours into minutes. I had a strange view of the passing land since I faced away from the approaching scenery. Each new site leapt into view suddenly and without the slow approach of recognition. The land alternated quickly, from forest to field to marsh and back. Hills constantly rose and fell around us, yet we staying perfectly level, going around the fluctuating earth, or else through deep, rocky fishers dug into the hill sides. Creeks, rivers and bridges, and occasionally dwellings popped into view from time to time. The homes always startled me at first, looking alien and wrongly shaped, but as they dwindled into the distance, they seemed more and more normal and familiar. We passed shacks put together with any number of cast off objects from fridges and tires to automobiles and air plane parts as well as mansions of marble with sweeping, elaborate gardens looking like ancient ruins brought back to life. Many of the dwellings faced the tracks, as if they used the tracks often. Yet we had seen no one on the tracks, and there was only the one set.

I'm not sure exactly when or how, but I lost track of time. I might have even fallen asleep, I don't know. But suddenly we were stopped and it was night. I was on the track car, hands gripping the pump bar tight, and the small man was a few yards away cooking something over a small fire. My body ached with stiffness and I had to stretch my arms and legs before attempting to climb down and approach the fire. I walked over, suddenly glad for the warmth of the fire, and sat down across from him. He grinned up at me and offered me a baked fish on the end of a roasting stick. I noticed for the first time that his front most top teeth were both gold. They and many brass buttons along the front of his strange green jacket gleamed and flashed brightly in the firelight. I smiled and took the stick, not really sure how to eat it without utensils, but hungry enough to try. I said thank you as I did so, and the small man made a strange grunt sound. At this point I decided to introduce myself and ask the man's name, but he shook his head and spoke briefly to me in a guttural, didactic language that sounded somewhat Irish. So, conversation was out, though he chuckled softly as I did my best to mimic his fast and aggressive way of tearing into the fish. As we finished, he produced a small whistle and played a slow, lilting melody which flooded into my mind like a fog and I grew drowsy. He finished, lowered his whistle and with eyes closed spoke loudly what seemed to be a prayer. He then opened his eyes, said "night night" in a raspy, slightly accented english voice, and quickly laid down, his body parallel with the fire. He was snoring within seconds. I followed suite, minus the snoring. I think.

I awoke with a start to the man's guttural language hollering from the tracks. It was a dim, grey mourning, the sun unseen behind gray clouds. He was atop the cart, a pack on his back, and was making large grand gestures as he spoke. I quickly deciphered from his gestures stay here or go ahead and decided he was asking if I wanted to continue on with him or not. I looked around. Behind him a sloping field with many types of cattle milling about met a creek and thin forest. To my back rose a wall of raw dirt, brick, and roots toped with a line of trees, another field apparently beyond its top. Ahead the ground sloped up sharply to meet a bridge which the tracks ran under. It looked very much like a highway, but seemed to be made of very large stones rather than concrete. Something about the road interested me. So, for some reason, without fear and without questioning the wisdom of abandoning my only potential guide, even a very sketchy one, I shook my head and gestured that I would be walking solo to the bridge. He grinned, nodded his head and began pumping. The rail cart squeaked and groaned as he gained momentum quickly and was soon lost to sight.

I rapped myself tightly against the cold mourning breeze in a blanket I just now realized I had (dark green like the small man's jacket), and breathed in the clear air. All yesterday had been moving moving moving, and I began to reflect on exactly how many ways I had moved. It was clear to me from the myriad of small details that I was not in the metaphorical Kansas anymore Todo. "So where am I?" I mused as I began to watch the cattle and again found myself looking at an odd shift in reality as I knew it. The cattle where small and moving like horses, trotting and cantering fluidly rather than in the slow, girthy sway of a heavy laden cow. It was a very strange sight, yet, like much of what I had seen, not so completely odd that I thought I might be loosing my mind. It was just there and seemed to have no direct bearing on me. Just another odd vision, and with that my musings seemed just as unimportant. So, I shook off the rest of sleep, downed a small piece of bread my small friend had left me, rolled my "new" blanket up and began walking towards the bridge, the blanket held to my back by a strap that was sown into it.