Read Online The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1) by Sarah Wathen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sarah Wathen
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it was forced to take right before the hillside opened up onto the wicked Wattahnga Gorge, the train ran more slowly as it passed the diminutive downtown. And it was always on time, one of the only dependable characters in Sam’s life those days.
As he left Buffalo Square, he could still hear the clinking of silverware and the mumble of chattering diners on the outside deck of Big Joe’s dining patio; a guitar gently strumming a meandering tune, in and out of the shushing of water over rocks.
“Crazy as it gets in Shirley.” Even on a Friday night such a bustling crowd was rare.
The noise of the restaurant was swallowed by the steep hillside. As he moved closer to the foothills of the Eastern Mountain, the air became still. The sounds of the river were replaced by wary scuffling and an occasional hoot or chirp of some night creature. Walking quickly, he brushed against the side of a bush and caused a cacophony of squawking from a quail covey. Sam jumped back in reflex and clutched at his thundering heart.
“Damn birds,” he muttered, ashamed of his own skittishness.
There was nothing Sam had seen in a dozen cities across the states that came close to the creepiness of Shirley Valley after nightfall. There was something tense, malevolent, in the air itself that he couldn’t quite name. It felt alive—which seemed a ridiculous thought—but still, he could feel it. Something. He tried to shrug it off as silly, superstitious metaphysical crap that he sometimes recognized in other people he met, especially in small towns. But, it was hard to ignore how similar the damp, warm air of the valley felt to breath in the summertime. The hair on his neck stood up at that repulsive thought, as he tramped even further into the dark field.
A whistle shrieked in the distance, and Sam said a little prayer of thanks to no one in particular. Why do I still pray, when there’s no one to pray to?
He picked up his pace, knowing the engine always sounded farther away than it was, echoing and ricocheting off rocky outcrops, thick stands of trees and receding passages. Jogging closer to the tracks, the train came into view, clamoring around a jut of stone cradling the valley of Shirley.
Sam gauged its speed. Freight train.
“Faithful as an old friend,” he whispered in welcome, and ducked behind a stand of elm trees as the train’s headlights whipped by.
Once the engineer’s window was safely past him, Sam cleared the trees and ran at a steady clip along the tracks. Gradually, the boxcars slipped beside him, and he picked up his pace to match their speed. Looking backwards, he spotted a cattle car and couldn’t believe his luck; the open wooden slats were perfect to hang on for a quick ride, and cows rarely bit, though sometimes licked with strong, sandpaper tongues. As the cattle car approached, he lunged and his callused hands found their grip. He hauled himself up to cling onto the side, his shoes finding purchase against a corrugated metal floor.
“Hi guys, how’s it hangin’?”
The docile cows stood mesmerized by their gently swaying wood and steel prison. He peered into the dim car at the massive, rounded haunches and drooping udders. Dairy cows.
“Oh sorry. Ladies,” he apologized, tipping an imaginary hat.
The breeze whistled through the slats, over the warm bodies and damp straw that covered the floor. Sam stretched his arms to hang away from the car, turning his face into the wind and closing his eyes to enjoy the ride. The wind whipped his hair into a tornado, a tunnel of sound enclosing him within the earthy smells of the cattle car. He felt disconnected, protected. He thought of the cavernous gorge that lay ahead, maybe sixty miles past his destination, and craved that clankety-clank of the rusty wheels over the skeleton trestle bridge; waterfall spray obscuring the river below. Crossing the abyss.
Sam had ridden the train past that abyss once, a few months ago, and landed just beyond it at a monstrous
As he left Buffalo Square, he could still hear the clinking of silverware and the mumble of chattering diners on the outside deck of Big Joe’s dining patio; a guitar gently strumming a meandering tune, in and out of the shushing of water over rocks.
“Crazy as it gets in Shirley.” Even on a Friday night such a bustling crowd was rare.
The noise of the restaurant was swallowed by the steep hillside. As he moved closer to the foothills of the Eastern Mountain, the air became still. The sounds of the river were replaced by wary scuffling and an occasional hoot or chirp of some night creature. Walking quickly, he brushed against the side of a bush and caused a cacophony of squawking from a quail covey. Sam jumped back in reflex and clutched at his thundering heart.
“Damn birds,” he muttered, ashamed of his own skittishness.
There was nothing Sam had seen in a dozen cities across the states that came close to the creepiness of Shirley Valley after nightfall. There was something tense, malevolent, in the air itself that he couldn’t quite name. It felt alive—which seemed a ridiculous thought—but still, he could feel it. Something. He tried to shrug it off as silly, superstitious metaphysical crap that he sometimes recognized in other people he met, especially in small towns. But, it was hard to ignore how similar the damp, warm air of the valley felt to breath in the summertime. The hair on his neck stood up at that repulsive thought, as he tramped even further into the dark field.
A whistle shrieked in the distance, and Sam said a little prayer of thanks to no one in particular. Why do I still pray, when there’s no one to pray to?
He picked up his pace, knowing the engine always sounded farther away than it was, echoing and ricocheting off rocky outcrops, thick stands of trees and receding passages. Jogging closer to the tracks, the train came into view, clamoring around a jut of stone cradling the valley of Shirley.
Sam gauged its speed. Freight train.
“Faithful as an old friend,” he whispered in welcome, and ducked behind a stand of elm trees as the train’s headlights whipped by.
Once the engineer’s window was safely past him, Sam cleared the trees and ran at a steady clip along the tracks. Gradually, the boxcars slipped beside him, and he picked up his pace to match their speed. Looking backwards, he spotted a cattle car and couldn’t believe his luck; the open wooden slats were perfect to hang on for a quick ride, and cows rarely bit, though sometimes licked with strong, sandpaper tongues. As the cattle car approached, he lunged and his callused hands found their grip. He hauled himself up to cling onto the side, his shoes finding purchase against a corrugated metal floor.
“Hi guys, how’s it hangin’?”
The docile cows stood mesmerized by their gently swaying wood and steel prison. He peered into the dim car at the massive, rounded haunches and drooping udders. Dairy cows.
“Oh sorry. Ladies,” he apologized, tipping an imaginary hat.
The breeze whistled through the slats, over the warm bodies and damp straw that covered the floor. Sam stretched his arms to hang away from the car, turning his face into the wind and closing his eyes to enjoy the ride. The wind whipped his hair into a tornado, a tunnel of sound enclosing him within the earthy smells of the cattle car. He felt disconnected, protected. He thought of the cavernous gorge that lay ahead, maybe sixty miles past his destination, and craved that clankety-clank of the rusty wheels over the skeleton trestle bridge; waterfall spray obscuring the river below. Crossing the abyss.
Sam had ridden the train past that abyss once, a few months ago, and landed just beyond it at a monstrous
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