The Station Where Every Train Went Somewhere

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Else Nobody knew exactly where the station stood. Some claimed it was hidden in the oldest forest in the world. Others insisted it appeared only to people who had taken a wrong turn at precisely the right moment. Pipkin had no opinion. He was too busy dragging a suitcase twice his size across the platform. “Next time,” he muttered, “I'm packing fewer emergency biscuits.” “You said that last time,” said Tallow, the young goblin beside him. “Last time there was an emergency.” “You ate fourteen while waiting for a ferry.” “Exactly. Waiting is exhausting.” Above them hung an enormous brass clock showing seven minutes past midnight, although it had shown the same time when they arrived. The stationmaster, a silver-haired wizard named Ordan, waited beneath the clocks. Beside him stood Selene, a blue-skinned traveller from somewhere she called Beyond Tuesday, and Mister Croak, a well-dressed frog carrying an umbrella despite the absence of rain. There were no rails. Instead, five wooden carriages floated beyond the platform above ribbons of golden light. Their windows showed impossible destinations: a desert beneath two suns, snowy mountains, a field of stars, a brilliant green forest and the towers of a distant city. “Which one is ours?” Pipkin asked. Ordan held out his hand. “Ticket.” Pipkin searched his pockets, coat, hat and finally his suitcase. After removing two scarves, a compass that pointed toward cake and several packets of biscuits, he produced a blue ticket. Ordan examined it. “Where did you get this?” “Ticket window.” “There is no ticket window.” Pipkin pointed behind him. The wall contained nothing except ivy. “There was. A lady with a hat sold it to me.” “What sort of hat?” Selene asked. “A station hat. It had a tiny chimney.” Ordan stared at the ivy. “Destination?” Mister Croak asked. Ordan turned the ticket around. Printed across it was one number: 6. Everyone looked toward the floating carriages. There were five. Tallow grinned. “Excellent. We're lost before we've departed.” Ordan walked to the platform edge. “There has never been a sixth carriage.” “Perhaps it is late,” said Mister Croak. “These are not trains.” “That explains the lack of rails.” “And the timetable?” Pipkin asked. “That explains nothing,” Mister Croak replied. “Most timetables are like that.” Selene stared into the mist. “Something is coming.” A bell sounded somewhere in the forest. The brass clock moved backward by one minute. Another bell sounded. The clock moved backward again. Ordan raised his staff. “Everyone away from the edge.” The golden ribbons beneath the carriages began trembling. Their windows changed. Desert, mountains, stars, forest and city vanished. Every window now showed the station platform—but completely empty. Pipkin swallowed. “I dislike destinations containing places where I'm already standing.” A third bell rang. Mist gathered beyond the platform and something emerged from it. A carriage floated slowly toward them. It was smaller and much older, its wood pale with age and its brass fittings almost black. A tarnished number hung beside its door: 6. “Good news,” said Tallow. “Your carriage exists.” “And the bad news?” “Your carriage exists.” It stopped. The door opened. Inside was not a compartment. There was another station. Pipkin saw the same curved glass roof, lanterns and enormous clock, but everything looked older. Vines covered the platform. Several lamps were broken. Then a small figure appeared on the other side, pulling a battered suitcase. Pipkin stared. The figure was him. Older, perhaps, with a torn coat and a suitcase missing a handle. The other Pipkin stopped opposite him. “Oh,” he said. “You actually came.” “Was I not supposed to?” “You were. Eventually.” Ordan stepped forward. “What station is this?” The older Pipkin looked around. “The one after yours.” “Stations do not come after stations.” “This one does.” He opened his suitcase. Inside were dozens of blue tickets, every one marked with the number six. “Your station sends travellers everywhere,” he said. “Different worlds, different times, different possibilities. But nobody asked where the carriages go when their journeys are finished.” Ordan glanced at the five carriages. “They return here.” “Passengers return here. The carriages go somewhere else.” Selene looked through the doorway. “That station collects them.” “It used to,” said the older Pipkin. “Until something stopped arriving.” “What?” asked Pipkin. His older self pointed at him. “You.” Pipkin blinked. “I've never been there.” The older Pipkin smiled. “Neither had I.” The older station trembled. Far down its platform, an abandoned carriage flickered into view, then vanished, leaving an outline of golden dust. “Every finished journey leaves something behind,” the older Pipkin explained. “A little courage, a forgotten goodbye, the moment someone finally decided to go home.