FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The railway platform hadn't changed since the days that it had first come into being. No matter the time of day, no matter the weather, the season, the year, the century, it still felt of necessity and enforced patience. It wasn't "clean" in the way that so many modern places were designed to be sterile, gleaming tributes to the absence of anything remotely alive, scrubbed down into the constantly glaring metal and glass and tile that reduced every part of a building into feeling like some never-used public toilet. The platform existed as well-trod cement and the occasional borders of ceramic squares that were demarcations of one kind or another, a simple efficiency that didn't intrude upon one's thoughts, nor try to make them into anything other than what they were. The platform was its own place, with its own ideas, its job not to convince one of anything at all, not even with its partially-torn adverts that seemed never to change, never to fade past a certain point, and never to cry out with any promises that any ordinary mind would entertain for more than a moment, and that extraordinary minds would have long since dismissed.

Lighting was subdued here, unobtrusive and vague, sufficient to its task but nothing more. The tracks were near enough to the platform to be seen clearly, but beyond them was only a darkness and mist that never seem to move, to lift, to shift one way or another. The tracks were strong, straight, unyielding to time or change. The ties were symmetrical and symmetrically spaced, despite the mind's attempt to make them narrow, widen, turn parallax, hold some difference that would make one unique among the others. Spikes held the rails in place, just as evenly spaced, which is why the train wheels produced their regular, relentless ticking as they itched toward their destination. Beyond the platform to either end, the rails were invisible, swallowed by distance and distant memory. That's what travel was -- the going from where one was to where one wasn't, or at least wasn't yet. When There became Here, it started all over again, and that was why travel never seemed to end unless one simply stopped and let Here be all that was. The platform was only a place where the late train would pause to take on passengers, and it served its purpose well.

Behind the platform was, of course, the railway station itself. Doorways from the station led out onto the platform, and somewhere beyond the station was the rest of the world, behaving as it always did without particular regard to anyone or anything. The ceilings of the station were high, the lighting from above casting shadowless forms into the space below, light which was not allowed to spill out onto the platform itself, as that could cause confusion to the passengers. The station served its purpose of ingress well, and even egress when necessary. Nothing more was needed.

The old dog sat on one of the many wooden benches that lined the long stretch of platform, each bench capped with wrought iron bolted into the station wall behind and cement floor beneath. These caps, quietly ornate so as not to intrude upon the eye, were painted black, and painted black again, and no doubt again as bits and chips would flake off the be trod underpaw, to be ground into the cement or taken away on some train to explore some other place where they would be left behind, as unnoticed as they had been on the platform. The wood of each bench gave a little when one sat on it, as if expressing its own weariness, yet it could never break, never be allowed to break, because it had a job to do, and it was done, day upon night upon week upon year upon age upon age. It was what it did. It was what it was.

Thoughts of lying down to doze a little, perhaps to sleep, had crossed the old dog's mind, but that felt unseemly. It wasn't as if anyone would notice or complain. He was alone on the platform. There were many others scattered along the great length of the platform, but he was alone. He wasn't sure if it were due to the darkness, the lateness of the hour, the sense of consecration of place that the platform created. Silence was the main component here, a silence dominated only by one's own thoughts as one waited for the late train to arrive.

There is a difference, the old dog let himself muse, turning up the collar of his greatcoat, between alone and lonely. I am alone here, despite or even because of the presence of others on the platform. I was alone even when the other voices from so far away tried to reach me, tried to explain themselves to me, tried to reach me across hundreds or thousands of kilometers to tell me how I wasn't alone. I was more than alone. How few of us understand what Alone is.

Alone was a thing. Over all of his years, he had carried that thing with him, setting it aside from time to time, especially in his youth, when he had at least that component to make him wonder if he might have some chance of leaving Alone to be itself, apart from him. It had worked, sometimes, as long as someone thought that they could get something from the then-young dog that they didn't have for themselves. They took favors, food, money, affection, devotion, dedication, sweat, effort, time -- oh, the time that they took, those billions of seconds that could never be regained, always in increments so small that the old dog didn't notice until so much later. The someones took what they could and moved on. Some took by withholding, preventing, blocking; some took by promising, delaying, avoiding. And what no one, even the old dog, realized is that there is a limit past which all that was left was Alone, an invisible granite block, a blank gravestone waiting for an inscription that, like everything else, would never manifest.

The room, the workroom, was its own thing as well. He had called it sanctuary until its sacredness became profanity, which then merged together to became nothingness. The walls were sturdy, even when they changed and grew smaller, and smaller, and smaller still. He stayed, something within him chained to something without him, and he gave out whatever he could, even when there was nothing left. He cast about, finding so much comfort offered from so far away, finding so much ground glass and salt surrounding the workroom on all sides, until he scarcely dared to leave it. It was all his life was worth to venture outside for even the briefest moments, and then it was more than his life was worth, and then it became a price he could no longer pay.

It was in these times when Alone took on the veneer of Lonely, which was a variation of Alone, a variation which bore the terrible, agonizing component of hope. The last hidden thing in the box of evils and plagues found in Pandora's box, hope was so often viewed as the single gift that allowed people the strength to withstand the tortures inflicted upon them by the horrors released into the world. What it was, in truth, was the final and most grotesque of the horrors, the sadistic component of every other evil known. Life dangled that promise, that hope, of something that would finally fulfill, reward, cure, banish all the pain and misery, to make it all worthwhile. It was enough to make one think that maybe, just maybe, it would be possible to get, finally to get, what one had sought for so many years. What a joke. What a killing joke, fit for the tombstone that is Alone, polished with the gloss that is Lonely and set above the grave that is the legacy of all who ever were born.

The old dog would have given a rueful smile, if he were capable of it any longer. In these modern times, desperation of this magnitude was given full voice by the aetheric electronic siren, where screen after screen of impossibility and distraction make promises that could never be kept by any mortal entity. The gravestone at his side, the old dog let himself hope, just once more, even at the risk of trying to buy what he needed.

It was a failure, of course. The scrawny, scruffy otter was ten years older, twenty kilos smaller, and ten centimeters less endowed than advertised. Doffing his clothes revealed various other imperfections that, in a lover, could have been endearing; in the otter's case, it only revealed his apathy and detachment from anything remotely associated with his body or his life. His disinterest was demonstrated by the difficulty of his achieving tumescence and the terseness of his limited speech. "No kissing" came the first rule, and further restrictions were issued as time stretched. No sounds or words were uttered, no indication of pleasure or attentiveness, not even the courtesy of a perfunctory climax. After a mere twenty minutes, during which nothing at all was achieved, the hustler left, succeeding only in raping the old dog's wallet. A few prior experiences over the years had told him to expect little, but less-than-nothing was an unwelcome new discovery.

At this point in his recollections, the old dog realized that a sigh would have been an appropriate expression, but it wasn't worth the effort. Expressing oneself requires an audience, and none here or anywhere else would hear him. It seemed as if no one had ever heard him, although that was hardly their fault. He wasn't very good at saying what he really needed to say, nor saying it to who really needed to hear it, or at least who he really needed to have heard it. Even when he spoke, it was tentative, hesitant, because he knew that he was asking too much of them. To be wanted back, that was too much to ask, so he didn't. He didn't know how, at first, and then he couldn't somehow, and then he wouldn't let himself, and whose damned fault was that?

Whose fault? Oh, by the gods, that was a long list, with names, faces, accusing eyes, harsh words, snapping muzzles, physical attacks, mental terrors, spiritual rape, all of which could be bundled under the heading of "Experience." It was said that life must be lived forward yet could only be understood backward. Sifting through the sandy ashes of his past, the old dog could not understand anything that had happened. He could trace events, see patterns, link moments of experience that forged the shackles of his existence. He could even sense the greater shape of that which sucked out his attempts at joy, rotted his few tastes of success, but he couldn't actually understand them except in the abstract sense of seeing how a garden slug reacts to having salt poured upon it, or how a body reacts to a pernicious cancer. That which made up his life consumed him as surely as all else had been taken from him.

Is that what life is, he wondered? A process of things feeding off each other, heedless, without conscience, for the privilege of one more day's existence? Wasn't it the point of evolution, to discover how to do so without it being at the expense of others? Or is it that our evolution is actually about finding more efficient ways to obliterate others without having to deal with the trivialities of courtesy and conscience, without having to deal with the unpleasantness of looking our opponent in the eyes when destroying him? Is our growth nothing more than learning how to give in to the inevitability of being destroyed by that which is not willing to allow us to grow, even in our tiny, unobtrusive, underrated, not-asking-too-much-of-anyone way?

The old dog put aside such thoughts as he had put aside what few possessions he had left. It was better to travel light; encumbrances were a penalty in whatever game one was playing. Sitting patiently, he felt the curious dilation of time that all travelers feel, the sense that minutes fly by too quickly when trying to get to one's transport, too slowly when waiting for it finally to arrive. It was all too easy to become bogged down in thinking when one is forced to wait, no matter the location. Contrary to intuition, it was a toss-up as to whether it was worse to wait on a train platform or in a hospital; one always hoped for good news, but all around are indications of what bad news might await.

A distant sound caused the old dog's ears to twitch. It was familiar at a level that one might call primal, if one had to stick a label on it. Something in the noise was not so much heard as felt, through the pads of one's hindpaws, or perhaps somewhere in one's chest. It might have been blood rushing through one's ears, save that the sensation was one of bloodlessness. It might have been a rumbling in the earth, save that the earth could only be still in moments such as these. It might have been some kind of outcry, save that nothing alive had ever made that sound, and no one could speak for the dead.

The late train was arriving.

Standing slowly, the old dog peered down the track to see what the train looked like. For long moments, he saw nothing at all, and after that, he saw even less. Movement along the platform was as varied as the travelers themselves. Some jumped up eagerly with the sensation of the train's arrival; some seemed reluctant to ready themselves for boarding; some moved slowly, inevitably, toward the edge of the platform; some looked carefully up and down the track and moved inside the station building, or what was beyond it; some few bolted from the platform as if frightened. Turning back to the tracks, the old dog found the passenger car standing motionless directly in front of him.

For a moment out of time, he wondered if he had seen the car somewhere before. A photograph, or a painting perhaps. This was no sleek, modern construction, designed for the sense of speed and efficiency; this was the old design, more box-like, sturdy, defiant. Black, gold trim, with what could be wood or metal designed as bunting, dark and as clean as from a factory floor. A sense of deep red inside the windows, perhaps curtains, with no one from inside looking out of them, no one curious about the stop that was being made, and no one disembarking to the platform. A childish voice from a children's book told him that all was still as still.

Had the air not been so chill, he might have felt the fur on his back bristling underneath his greatcoat. His ears splayed, his tail moved uncertainly. He found himself wondering if a conductor would be stepping from the car to ask for his ticket. He remembered having one; he'd found one that he could use, not long ago, and this was the night to use it. His sensitive nose tried to detect something on the cool air -- coal, diesel fumes, smoke, fire, moisture, sweat, his own fur. Just as the passenger car before him had appeared without fanfare, so did all else vanish without notice or trace.

He glanced down the long line of the platform, checking both directions as if he were going to be crossing a street. No sign of the other travelers. Had they already boarded? Who else would be joining him in this car? He had no desire to talk to anyone else. Perhaps if he boarded and found an out-of-the-way seat, he could stretch out a little, pretend to be asleep, hope no one else would bother him. When the train was on its way properly, he might look out the window for a while, consider whatever he could see as the kilometers passed him by, as so much else had done. With that thought, he stepped onto the short flight of steps and moved into the warmth of the passenger car.

Within, the ambience was a strange yet pleasing combination of modern and classic design. The seats were wider than usual, only one to a side, upholstered in something looking very like a silky, soft velvet of deep crimson with leather-appearing appointments, brass fittings, and mahogany highlights. Each window was wide, for good viewing, and with not shades but, yes, curtains that could slide along parallel rails, above and below, to block out any unwanted light or sights. As the old dog slid off his greatcoat, he realized that the car was not too warm to sleep in, just warmer than it was outside. It was a feeling of being welcomed, being comfortable, safe.

He folded the coat carefully and placed it inside a convenient storage space above the seat that he had chosen, on the side of the train opposite from the platform. He took a last look out the opposite window and was surprised to see a good number folk there on the platform, waving to him, their faces concerned. Some few beckoned to him, as if they wanted him to return; others shook their forepaws, a negating motion. Several shook a fist, perhaps a dozen offered only a dismissive wave of the paw; several dozen more were nearer the station building, unmoving, their backs to him. He recognized some of those facing away by manes and headfur, as if that had been all he'd ever seen of them. The faces looking into the passenger car were easier to identify, even when maws yelled and moved with agitation, all without a sound being made, and even when paws frenzied and arms taffied, and in each face the same black, dead eyes that did not blink, did not match the emotion that everything else seemed to express. The old dog had but one feeling that passed through him -- that something was missing, although he did not know just what, nor how it had become lost, nor from whom. It, that elusive it, was simply not there. It used to be, he was sure, but it wasn't there now.

The old dog lowered himself into the seat, feeling as if it had been made for him, as if it were somehow exactly his size. No arms had held him half as close in half a hundred months or more. This time, he did sigh, settling himself into the place that would hold him until he had arrived, until whenever There became Here. He looked again toward the platform and saw no one. The bench remained, as it always would, and near to it stood the open door into the more brightly-lit station. On the other side of the doorway, a large rectangular travel poster that had seen better days encouraged its viewers to explore... somewhere, the words and the picture had faded enough at the bottom to obscure the recommendation. If one had imagination, perhaps it could be almost anywhere. If one had imagination, perhaps almost anywhere could be there. There, or perhaps Here. It had to be one or the other.

He was aware of the train being in motion, but not of it having begun to move. It was such an expected cliché, that rippling _thunk_of the cars being stretched taught against their couplings, of the long line of the train slowly overcoming inertia and beginning its steady chugging along until it reached what might be a cruising speed, were it an aircraft. Even the side-to-side rocking that one feels on a train was muted softly, as if the train itself were somehow loathe to disturb its passengers. It was still there, carefully side-to-side without a hint of bumps in the track, so smooth as to be as efficient as those magnetic transports were supposed to be. Was that what this was? He hadn't seen the wheels when he was coming on board, nor when the train was approaching. He had been expecting the late train, and that's where he found himself.

A sliding door opened at the far end of the car, and a bobcat in a conductor's uniform padded into the compartment on small, silent hindpaws. The navy-colored cloth and cap contrasted with the brown, spotted fur visible on his paws and face, and the short tufts of fur at the tips of his triangular ears gave the sense of antennae helping to locate any unusual sound in the otherwise quiet car. Compact in form, the whiskers of his cheekfur well-tended, the bobcat moved without hurry down the central aisle, as if taking count of passengers that the old dog couldn't see. After what felt like several minutes, the conductor stopped and smiled softly at his passenger.

"Good evening, sir." The unaccented voice, mellow, comforting, barely needing to be raised above the slight sounds made by the late train, came to the old dog's ears more clearly than he'd heard anything in years. "May I see your ticket, please?"

For a moment, he wasn't sure what he'd done with it. A mild concern chilled him as he patted down his clothing. The vest, he realized; inner pocket of the vest, where he would have carried a passport, zippered to deter pickpockets and ne'er-do-wells. He'd learned that lesson the hard way, like so many others. He removed the thick card and passed it to the conductor, who accepted it graciously. The bobcat seemed to study it for several seconds. The old dog expected the traditional hole-punch, which hadn't been used on modern rails for some years, yet it seemed like something one would expect in such circumstances, the mix of the old and new, the familiar and strange. Instead, the bobcat simply returned the card, smiling as he did so.

"Where are you bound, sir?"

The old dog blinked. "Doesn't the ticket tell you that?"

"No, sir. It's up to you. Did you have a particular destination in mind?"

No reply.

"It's only my business to know so that I can let you know when we arrive."

Considering, the old dog looked out through the window near his seat. It was dark, moonless, starless (overcast?), and there was nothing particularly distinguishable about the scenery in general. There was a horizon line of some kind, and something rose above it enough to help verify the feeling that the train was indeed in motion, but there was little else to see or notice.

"I don't know," he said presently.

"You got on board without knowing where you were going?"

"Away." The old dog looked back to the conductor. "I was going away."

His softly smiling expression unchanging, the bobcat nodded. "A journey can only begin by leaving."

The old dog nodded. "I left."

"A journey can only be completed by arriving."

"Does one ever arrive?"

"Yes. Not always where one expects." The conductor paused. "Where did you expect 'going away' to take you?"

"Don't you have other passengers to deal with?" the old dog growled.

"None in this car."

"And the others?"

"Other conductors will attend them well enough."

An irritated interval. "You are remarkably well-staffed."

"We have that privilege, sir. It allows us to be everywhere at once, so to speak. A very personalized service."

"That should put you in good standing with your clientele."

"Very much so. It can safely be said, sir, that no one who has journeyed on our train has ever registered a complaint."

"That's quite a record."

"One we are proud of."

The old dog considered yet again. "Do you have a destination that you could recommend?"

"Somewhere that you would be happy."

A weak, helpless snort. "I can't even imagine such a place."

The conductor considered this a moment as the late train continued its near-silent journey through the vast, unremarkable landscape. "You boarded hoping to find that place?"

"I boarded..." The old dog thought carefully. "I boarded to go away."

"Did anyone see you off?"

"I saw no one on the platform until after I'd boarded the train."

The bobcat nodded thoughtfully. "That's often the case. The platform is not a very hospitable place for those who aren't waiting for the train. Who did you see?"

"Some people I know. Some friends. Some people who seemed to know me."

"Seemed to?"

"Their reactions were..." The old dog let the sentence hang in the air as he considered whether or not he'd actually seen all he thought he'd seen, the dismissive gestures, angry paws curled into fists, protestations that did not seem to reach those dead, black eyes. He settled back into his seat, relaxing into the comforting arms that held him so closely. "...mixed," he finished lamely.

"That is also often the case." The conductor considered for a few moments. "May I ask, sir, who recommended our conveyance?"

"It's not as if you are unknown."

"Not unknown, sir, but we -- the management, that would be -- are curious about our clients' choices."

Memories tumbled in a free-fall for the old dog, decades of them, bundled in packets of dates, or places, or people, whichever ribbon seemed best to bind them with. Who had recommended this? Who hadn't, each in his own way? Over and over, time after time, so many different slogans and brochures and adverts, all different, all the same. Mentally, he pawed through the packets, searching for familiar or comforting labels, like Home, or Family, or Career, or Esteem, and nothing appeared to him. Plenty of ribbons had names, and he hardly needed any to unwrap any of the packages, as he had long since felt the pain of each piece of each package seep deeply into his tired old bones. Each had said this to be his best choice, as far as they were concerned, and after all this time, he had listened. He had decided that they were right.

"It's difficult to single out one recommendation. You might call it a majority opinion."

The bobcat thought this over briefly. "Did you do any research yourself, sir? There are, after all, other choices."

"There are," the old dog agreed. "They became..." What word did he want? What word described what drove his choice? Difficult? Unwieldy? Distant? No; nothing that simple, nothing that easy. He nodded slowly. That was the word. He inhaled slowly and finished: "...impossible."

"We were your last choice?"

"Yes." He looked into the conductor's eyes. "No offense intended."

"None taken, sir. This, too, is most often the case."

A very long moment passed as the train moved away from what was. The old dog held the bobcat's steady, comforting gaze. "I had nowhere else to go."

"Yes, sir."

"And now, I'm going somewhere."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm going away."

"Yes, sir. Yes, you are."

"And where am I bound?"

"We can take you wherever you wish to go. But you have to want to go there."

The old dog considered. "I don't know quite what to do now. I'm tired. I'm so very, very tired."

"You've been through a great deal. Perhaps a nap, sir?"

"As long as I don't sleep through my stop."

"And where would that be, sir?"

The old dog considered a moment longer, shifting into the soothing warmth of the velvet-lined seat. "There," he said. "Wake me when we get There."

He closed his eyes and knew no more.