The night train across the plains

The night train left the city a little after nine, and by the time the last lights had slipped away behind it, the plains had opened out on every side, wide and dark and still.

You have a small compartment all to yourself. It has a narrow bed made up with crisp white sheets and a thick grey blanket folded at the foot. There is a little lamp above the pillow with a green glass shade, and a window with a blind you can pull down or leave open. You leave it open.

Outside, the plains roll past under a sky full of stars. There are no towns out here, only long grass silvered by the moon, and now and then a lone tree standing by itself, and once a farmhouse far off with a single yellow window. The land is so flat and so wide that the sky seems to begin almost at your feet.

The train has a rhythm. You notice it as soon as you lie down. The wheels pass over the joins in the rails, and each one makes a soft double sound, a gentle knock and its echo, over and over, steady as a heartbeat. The carriage sways, only a little, from side to side. It is like being rocked.

Somewhere down the corridor, the attendant is making her last round. You hear her footsteps, soft on the carpet, and the quiet click of a door, and a low voice wishing someone a good night. Then her steps come past your door and fade away toward the end of the carriage, and it is quiet again except for the wheels.

You have a cup of warm milk on the little fold-down table, brought earlier in a thick white mug. It has cooled enough to drink now. You hold it and sip it slowly, watching the dark grass slide past. It tastes faintly of honey.

There is nothing you need to do on this train. You cannot make it go faster, and you would not want to. It will cross the plains all night at its own steady pace, and in the morning there will be mountains, and breakfast, and a small station with flower boxes on the platform. But that is a long way off. For now there is only the night and the grass and the stars.

You set the mug down and turn off the little green lamp. The compartment goes dark, and the window grows brighter, filled with that soft silver light. You pull the blanket up to your shoulders. The sheets are cool at first, and then warm.

The wheels knock softly. The carriage sways. Far out on the plains, the lone trees drift by, one and then another, like slow thoughts passing.

You find your breath has matched the rhythm of the train without your asking it to. In with one knock. Out with the next.

The stars move slowly across the window. The train hums low in its long iron body. Every mile carries you further into the night, and every mile is smooth.

You close your eyes. You can still feel the sway. You can still hear the soft double beat of the wheels.

Knock, and knock. Sway, and sway.

The plains go on. The train goes on. And you, warm under the grey blanket, drift down into sleep.