Waving

    They were there, lonely and desperate and full of hope, waving at us as we hurtled past. They could have been anyone, and were surely someone, but who exactly is irrelevant. What those people were doing out in the wilderness, at the bottom of a valley so deep they were in constant shadow, is irrelevant. The mountains were their neighbors, and the snow on the heights was cold even in the brilliant sunshine, the distant sunshine. The slopes were so steep they were impossible to climb, the grass slick and growing downhill like the feathers of a bird.

    To our left, to the south, a wild cascade of frigid water pranced down the mountainside, a child of some hidden spring, beloved by her mother. It giggled and slapped the stones, flicking spray out over the tracks. I saw it hit the valley floor with tremendous force, and it appeared suddenly violent. I knew that this momentum was born of rage, not love, and I saw the stream for what it was, a bastard child of the snowcaps, born not of the earth but of the distant, uncaring sky.

    The people standing by the tracks, their strange little cabins behind them, could feel the mist drifting down from the battered rocks. It chilled their faces as they stood in shadow at intervals along the tracks, waving their tiny hands. I could see their faces getting sucked off their bodies by the wind of the passing train, and they swept upwards through the windows and settled comfortably in their seats, like passengers returning to their car after stretching their legs for a moment outside. The faces were the picture of longing, sad and pinched in around the eyes.

    It took only a moment for each person to whip past in the gloom, and when the last figure had disappeared behind us, I looked and the empty seats were empty, the sad faces back in the wet air by the side of the tracks, looking after us and hoping. They hoped the sun would peer over the peaks and touch them, hoped the mist would stop drifting down, hoped they might be warm and dry. Mostly they hoped the train would stop.

    Beyond the cabins, following the curve of the valley, we hurtled on. A family of deer, startled by the noise, leapt from the tracks and through the brush. I turned in my seat and followed them with my eyes, and I saw them running and afraid. They climbed the slopes, their pointed feet flying over the slick grass. They headed straight upward, running towards the peaks and the sunshine.