The Island's Swansong

XXIII - The Men In The Hills

I clawed for an explanation, but Anne refused to give one. She'd done it on purpose to tease me, either jokingly or truthfully. After a check of her watch, she told us to call it a day. "We'll need all our strength for tomorrow."

I obeyed, downed more pain-relief tablets, and laid, the best I could, on the sofa bed as Anne turned out the light.

My night's sleep was restless. My leg's cast was bulky, preventing me from tossing and turning. And that revelation about the Men in the hills...

My dreams went mad. Visions of a council, each member with a magic lamp, imbuing the power to give life to the Island's machines...

...or take it away.

What made them decide to bring Sodor's time to a close? Why were they still here? What did Anne have to do with them, or for them?

My thoughts spiralled away, my mind saving itself from the fall, waking me back into the cruel reality. I was on Sodor. I had found no one else, besides Anne, and I'd found no evidence of magic. I'd found no evidence of what happened on the last days of the North Western Railway either. Why had the population left? Why was it dwindling even before the railway closed? There were too many questions.

I sat up, seeing Anne fast asleep on the other side of the room. I wanted to take a walk, to cool off and collect myself for a proper rest, but my leg shackled me in place. Lying back down, I stared up at the ceiling. Shutting my eyes, I drew on memories of my time here, trying to find any hidden clues. But not even Sir Handel, who knew the stories best, had ever seen the Man in the Hills, let alone Men...

At some point my puzzlement gave way to slumber, and I awoke to birdsong and sunlight filtering in from outside. I woke up, head groggy, and my calf stung within my cast. There was no moving it without more medication. Sitting up, I saw Anne's bed was already sheeted over again. Something, breakfast, was cooking in the kitchen.

Anne came back into the living room. "Morning," she said, popping down some grilled bread on the end of my bed. "How did you sleep?"

"Well enough," I answered, surprised I'd slept in any capacity. She popped down some more painkillers. My hand clawed them closer. "I'll pay you back for all this when we get back to a functioning town," I insisted.

"There's no need," she wafted the offer with her hand.

Swallowing the painkillers, numb motility soon returned to my limb. As Anne set about returning the house to how she'd found it, more questions brewed within me. "You grew up on Sodor?"

"I did," she tucked a sheet round a table, "I didn't leave until we had to. My mother forced it as my father refused. He's was most attached to this place." She stopped, looking around the nostalgic room. "But we needed to survive, to rebuild our life. My mother found another job, and I pursued further education."

"And your father?"

"He tried, bless him," she sniffed, "But he was never the same. We took his body away from this place, but his mind, essence, whatever you want to call it, was left behind. Those two days a year, when we came back, that was the only time he was ever truly himself again. But even that's beyond him now."

I asked no more. It must have been some life left behind, judging by the stately house that had been their home.

"Today's going to be hard for me," Anne said, giving another stern, serious look that had an heir of familiarity about it, "I expect you won't judge. And I will help you where I can."