The Island's Swansong

XXV - The Last of The Hatts

The finality and truth of Anne's final line clipped my tongue. There was nothing to say. The reality laid broken all around us. We stood, with the choice of looking at the graves, or the horizon. To me, Anne seemed trapped in this space. Sworn to visit the memories of past lives, yet also forced to keep her foothold in a new, modern world. As long as one foot remained in each, she couldn't escape, nor could she forget. The Sodor Orchids shivered at the feet of the gravestones, tickled by the cold, Island-wide death. My mind slapped the thought into remission. It was the wind, nothing more.

"Did that answer your question?" Anne spoke, wiping her eye. I'd made her dredge up a lot of history, the hardest parts personal. And I'd nothing to offer in return. "It did, thank you."

"Not too surprising?"

"No," my voice trailed off. The truth was it surprisingly unsurprising. She hadn't lied. Sodor's demise was down to things other nations knew so well. Money, profits, climate change. There was no aliens, mystery or magic at play here. It was a numbing kind of real.

"It's funny," she sniffed out a half-chuckle.

"It is?" I squinted at the sea.

"Civilisations have risen and fallen in far grander fashion throughout the centuries. Rome. The Aztecs. Easter Island. Nations and countries have vanished to history, but we never think it possible in the modern age. It strikes us as unusual. But it's happened, and the world simply shrugs and moves on."

I couldn't disagree. The vanishing of Sodor from the public conscience had been unnoticed by many. It dwindled, over years, until it fizzled out. Global politics had bigger fish to fry. The loss of one quaint little island hadn't made a dent on the world stage. Those that did notice probably thought the island and it's addiction to steam traction was a lost cause. A stubborn relic of a bygone time.

"You saw it all deteriorate?" I asked, "While you were growing up?"

"I did," Anne nodded, "My earliest memories are the fondest. Going to work with my father during school holidays, seeing friendly faces pop in and out of Tidmouth. There was always a fresh face to have a conversation with, or an engine with a daring or fun tale to tell. I tried to record them in my own books, much like the Reverend did decades prior. I'd see more engines as we traveled the Island."

"Tell me about them. Where do you go when you think of those times?"

She shut her eyes, getting lost inside her head, dredging up the fond memories that reburied the pain she'd unearthed to give me closure. "The lakeside. The waters lapping against the gravelly shores as the whistles of Skarloey engines echo through the woodlands. The stringing kiss of the chilled air sweeping against me as a carriage crawls up Devil's Back on Culdee Fell. It was a paradise, a-"

"Land of wonder," I cut in.

"It was," the most youthful of smiles, innocent, returned to her face. "It was infectious wonder that's feverish to a child. The rocking and clacking of the express. The lingering smell of salt and fish in the morning after The Flying Kipper's passed through. That was the Sodor the world loved, once upon a time..."

"To you, was it noticeable what was happening?"

"No. It wasn't until we had several consecutive years of low tourist numbers that people got concerned. The railway workers were the same faces you saw every day. There was no shock at how much they aged. Then the businesses started closing. Everyone took notice then, and stockpiled every issue, major or minor. By the time I was old enough, and understood it all, it was too late. What I heard came from either my father or the engines. Soon I heard more about the engines at home than from the engines themselves. I don't know if that distance was a fortunate preparation for what was coming."