The Little Train That Went Where No Tracks Should Go

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The Little Train That Went Where No Tracks Should Go
Every night at exactly eleven o’clock, the Little Lantern Express left Fernwhistle Station and carried the smallest inhabitants of Elderwood home. Its engine was barely taller than a badger, its carriages looked like mushrooms that had decided to become houses, and its conductor, Mr. Tumblewick, was a mouse who considered punctuality the highest form of civilization. He wore a blue coat, polished his pocket watch twice a day and had followed the same timetable for twenty-three years. There were six stops: Mossy Bend, Acorn Hill, Frogwater Crossing, Hedgehog Hollow, Firefly Meadow and Old Oak End. Nothing ever changed. Mr. Tumblewick liked it that way. On this particular night, however, there was another line on his timetable. 7. LAST ROOT — 12:07 A.M. Mr. Tumblewick cleaned his spectacles. The words remained. “Nonsense.” He turned the timetable over and held it toward the station lamp. Last Root remained exactly where it had no business being. “There are only six stations.” “Perhaps they built another one,” suggested Pip, the squirrel who tended the engine. “Without telling the railway?” Mr. Tumblewick looked horrified. Nevertheless, at eleven o’clock precisely, the whistle sounded and the Little Lantern Express rolled into the forest. Fireflies danced beside the tracks while glowing mushrooms illuminated the roots of ancient trees. At Mossy Bend, two rabbits stepped off. At Acorn Hill, Mrs. Bristleberry the hedgehog left carrying three parcels and a pie. Everything seemed normal. But shortly after Frogwater Crossing, Mr. Tumblewick counted the passengers. Nine. He checked his ticket book. Eight tickets had been sold. He counted again. Nine. “Pip! Did anyone board without my seeing them?” “Not unless they climbed down the chimney.” Mr. Tumblewick began inspecting the carriages. In the first sat a frog and two dormice. In the second were Mrs. Prickle and her young hedgehog. The third appeared empty. Then he noticed a small figure in the darkest corner. It was a young mole wearing an old green coat. Beside him stood a battered suitcase. “Ticket, please.” The mole handed over a yellow card. Mr. Tumblewick stared at it. FERNWHISTLE RAILWAY — LAST ROOT — SINGLE JOURNEY. The date beneath it was ninety-nine years old. “Where did you get this?” “My mother gave it to me.” “When?” “This evening.” Mr. Tumblewick swallowed. “What is your name?” “Oliver.” “And where did you board?” Oliver pointed toward the rear. “I was already here when I woke up.” Mr. Tumblewick decided he disliked mysterious passengers almost as much as unauthorized stations. At Hedgehog Hollow, all the lanterns flickered. At Firefly Meadow, the train failed to stop. “Pip! You missed the station!” “I didn't! The brakes won't work!” The train accelerated.