Traintober 2023: Day 2 - Bridge
The Skarloey Railway was built partially on the bed of an old, horse drawn rail line that ran from the port to the quarries in the hills, along a steep incline. The little engines didn’t use much of that line – though they did use one old, wooden bridge. It crossed over a steep ravine, surrounded on all sides by desolate moorland and devoid of almost any life. Not even the grass grew here, only barren shrubs clinging to the jagged cliffs and moss that spread over the surface of the swamp below.
Rheneas didn’t like the bridge. It creaked when he used it, and sometimes when the wind howled, it let out ominous groans. But that wasn’t what he hated most. No. What he hated most was the fact that on cold moonlit nights, he could hear the sound of hooves treading on wooden sleepers. There were no horses out here, in this barren part of the island, where not even the hardy locals dared wander. The railway only came this far to access the veins of slate nestled deep in the base of Culdee Fell.
There were no horses out here. But there was the sound of the beasts dragging lines of trucks. It didn’t make sense; it wasn’t right.
Rheneas crossed the wooden bridge, not looking down.
He wished Skarloey was here. Skarloey was keen to do new things, he was bubbly and bouncy and not spooked by bridges that didn’t sound right. But Skarloey was away being given trailing wheels, and Rheneas was alone.
“Last train of the day,” his driver said. His voice echoed through the lonely gorge. It seemed to bounce off every crack and crevice, coming back as twenty different distorted versions of itself. Rheneas shuddered. It sounded wrong, as though his driver had been possessed by demons and sent flailing around the gorge, before being flung back into his open cab.
“Let’s get it over with,” sighed Rheneas. They rolled along in the evening dusk, passing by jagged boulders that seemed to loom over him, giving the land an ever-wilder feel. The wind began to pick up, brushing what little loose foliage there was up and against his wheels.
“We’d best be quick,” his driver noted, watching as dark clouds shifted high above them, swirling over the little line. “Or else we might just get stuck up here.”
“Better than crossing that bridge,” Rheneas muttered to himself grimly. The driver didn’t hear him, unable to due to the wind.
They reached the quarry and began to load up the slate trucks. It was hard work; the wind kept blowing the empty trucks off the rails on the winch, but still the men persisted. Rheneas watched with trepidation – he hoped that it would get too difficult, or too late, or anything! But instead, he watched as they stubbornly continued doing their work, not caring about all of the little incidents.
To Rheneas’ dismay, they finished loading up enough slate trucks to make the journey down, as well as the coaches for the quarrymen.
Rheneas slunk out of the quarry with the wind howling on all sides. It whipped at him, trying to lurch him off the rails and deposit him on his side. Rheneas battled against it, hoping that it would at least calm before the old wooden bridge.
As if to mock him, the wind only grew fiercer. The lightweight coaches swayed dangerously behind Rheneas; neither he nor his driver could see the state the trucks were in. They nearer the bridge, slowing to a crawl.
“Wait!” exclaimed Rheneas. “What’s that?!” On the other side of the bridge, the old engine could see a swinging lantern, suspended in midair. It was too dark to see what it was connected to, but it looked like no engine lamp he’d ever seen. It looked like the heavy lanterns that farmers affixed to their shire horse wagons, when they had to ride at night.
“We have to stop,” Rheneas said. “They look like they’re on our line!” His driver peered into the gloom. The wind had brought more heavy, dark clouds, which obscured the moon and lifted a dense fog up out of the ravine.
“Who’s on our line?” asked the driver. “All I see is an old lantern.” Rheneas groaned.
“Exactly! It looks like it’s coming towards us!”
Suddenly, there was an almighty groan from behind the pair. The driver span round, and watched in horror as the leading coach’s left wheels left the rails entirely, the entire wooden body tilting violently to one side before slamming back down.
“It’s not safe to cross that bridge,” the driver decided. “We’re going back.” Rheneas could have wept with joy. As they began to roll backwards, Rheneas thought he could hear the frantic beat of hooves on wooden sleepers. The lantern light flickered, then went out. Rheneas couldn’t help but believe that the lantern was half way across the old wooden bridge.
But they all heard the splash. It sounded like a boulder slamming into the swamps bellow. His driver’s eyes went wide.
“The wind has loosened the boulders! We need to get back to the safety of the quarry now!”
Rheneas couldn’t agree more, but for very different reasons.
By the time dawn broke, the wind had died down – but the damage had been done. The old wooden bridge had collapsed, leaving only wooden splinters in its wake. Rheneas stared down the ravine, spotting a smashed lantern in amongst the wreckage.
“It’s lucky we didn’t try to cross it,” his driver said. “We could have fallen to our doom!” Rheneas didn’t reply – he had a sinking feeling that someone already had.
They rebuilt the bridge with iron, making it stronger and sturdier – but narrower, as it was no longer needed to carry horses over the gorge. Rheneas continued to cross the Old Iron Bridge, but he didn’t like to look down. Looking down just reminded him of the sound of hooves on wood, and the splash of something heavy hitting the water.
