the Steam Revolution

The splintering wood of the aging bench bites into the backs of my thighs, causing me to shift around uncomfortably as I stare blindly out at all that is around me. To my left, a newsboy bellows the day’s headline for any and all passerby, chasing those who meet his eye, intent on selling them a copy of the paper; if he sells enough, maybe he can eat an actual three meals tomorrow. Slightly in front of me and to the right, a woman with a baby on her hip is sobbing out a tear-filed goodbye to a man holding a very worn-looking suitcase. The slightly younger man behind him keeps sighing loudly as he checks his pocket watch religiously. A sudden gust of wind blows from the north, bringing with it a plethora of smells.
Jayden would say that’s the smell of opportunity.
All I can smell is the dirty steam from the train, which somehow works to highlight and magnify the pack-animal scent of hundreds of people milling about a too-small space. It’s a lethal combination that makes my nose itch and my eyes water (I convince myself there’re no sentimental tears hidden in my leaking eyes, but who am I fooling, really?).
Thinking of Jayden makes my chest hurt, my heart slowing down and beating too fast at the same time. Papa would say I’m as confused as a drunk watchmaker at one of the Queen’s Balls, but he’s gone now, too. Everyone’s gone. Mama, Papa, Jayden, Stacee. The Steam Revolution came, but it brought that disease, too, claiming many. Of course, I hadn’t expected the town to give m a free ride or anything, but a little help would have been nice. Maybe an offer of room and board an exchange for work. I mean, I had lived there for all of my fifteen years of life…
Taking a deep breath of the metallic air, I shut my thoughts down. No use in worrying over the past (no matter how little ago it was). There’s nothing for me here. So I’m leaving.
VereNe can kiss my bloomin’ arse, for all I care.
Ha.
Mind staunchly decided, I stand from my splintering little bench just as the whistle sounds, two long, low toots reverberating through the air, causing my ribcage to vibrate. Dusting off the seat of my dress and grabbing my carpet bag, I then make my way to the loading area, vaguely noticing the newsboy has run off to pester people on some other platform, and the crying woman has handed her baby over to the younger man (much to his apparent horror), so she could throw her arms around, who I believe is, her husband, weeping into his shoulder.
My brown boots squelch in the filth of who-knows-what, and as I use the rail to make it up the steps, into the train car, my gloved hands come away sooty, which is strange, seeing as how this is a steam train. I think I lost a button somewhere back there, and my hair is coming out of its bun, little carrot-colored curls falling into my eyes before I can push them back.
But, I don’t care.
I’m going to London.

****

Who knew riding in a train would be so hard to enjoy? As soon as I board, I begin searching immediately for an empty cabin. Passing by room after room of merrily laughing people- families most likely- I am made acutely aware of how alone I really am. The walkways are incredibly narrow, too, and I’m forced to plaster myself against the fading and peeling floral wallpaper on more than one occasion as some merrily whistling wanker or two pushes by me, expecting me to get out of their way. The nerve. But, of course, I do.
Almost ready to give up my search and just go and sit in a familial setting, which will no doubt cause salt water to leak from my eyes, I spot a rather large man (who am I kidding, this man has to be as big as the old house) who stinks of a whole distillery and is staring at me in a rather openly lewd fashion as I slowly walk down the hallway.
Bollocks.
My heart is beating faster and every horror story about rape and perverted old man that my momma ever told me is lining to take a turn drilling itself into my conscience before flipping over and letting the next have a go before circling around to get in line again. The man starts walking towards me, and I panic, opening the nearest door and squeezing myself through as soon as it’s open enough, before slamming the painted-to-look-like-real-wood sliding door closed and locking it behind me. My breathing is labored, and my heart is sending extra bursts of blood to my head, making me feel dizzy, and my vision narrow, even as the adrenaline makes me want to bolt again, wandering why I locked myself in such a small room.
Footsteps sound outside, and my breathing hitches as I become still as one of those statues I’ve seen at the local park. The door shakes as though somebody is trying to open it, and I nearly swallow my tongue as I feel my nerve ending vibrate, every centimeter of my being poised, tasting my surroundings and ready to lash out should the man get through. One would be surprised what a person can do when they’re hopped up on adrenaline and fear. I will cause some major damage if the bastard gets through that door.
After a token attempt, at best, the door stops rattling, and I hear footsteps move away. He’s given up. Relief.
As I calm down and begin to actually notice my surroundings, the first thing that hits me is the sweetly-musty smell of a good book, bringing to mind memories of my father sitting in his many-a-time patched and repaired red wing-backed chair (the only piece of good furniture we owned), as he would read us stories of mystery and murder before bed, believing such tales would help us develop actual brains instead of fanciful minds prone to fantastical thoughts of unicorns and ponies and princes coming to save us from our life of poverty. It was comforting.
The second thing I notice is a light sound, deep in and out breathing punctuated every once in a while by a small snore-- the kind of sound a person makes when they’re in the deepest velvety-blanket of a good sleep brought on by sheer exhaustion.
Taking a deep breath and swallowing my nerves, I slowly turn around, barely registering that the compartment is a pale, dirty yellow, the heavy curtains blocking any light from reaching the interior an ugly floral pattern that reminds me of a dress Mrs. Flaubauxom wore daily, and the cheap, threadbare carpet is showing through to the wooden floor in some places.
Oh.
There’s a girl there.
Mousey brown hair fans over the back of the padded bench she rests on, obviously having come loose from the hasty braid it had been bound in, some stray wisps falling over her forehead and across her nose, getting stuck in her mouth on every inhale.
“Oh.” a startled gasp escapes my mouth, and the girl stirs.
“Who are you?” the groggy, just-woke-up voice jolts me, and I hastily introduce myself.
“I’m Stephani I’m on my way to London from VereNe where the plague hit and--” My inane rambling is almost immediately halted by the most pleasant laugh I have ever heard. Breathy, calm and flowing as a small stream meandering sinuously over smooth river stones, such as the one in my favorite secret place behind my Grandparents’ barn.
Well, what used to be their barn. Before everything went to hell in a cultured lady’s handbag and they were forced to sell, in order to pay for medical supplies.
And just look how well that venture turned out.
Before I can fall even farther into the misery pit which has consumed my usually optimistic thoughts, she speaks once again. Most traces of sleep gone, leaving only a trilling softness which hints at musical talents and is at pleasant odds with our decidedly stale surroundings. “Easy now,” she’s still laughing, and the smile on her face makes it quite difficult to take any offense at her words. “Why don’t we just with your name?”
“Oh. Okay, sorry then. My name’s Stephani.”
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Stephani, I’m Jeshika.”
Reaching out, I took the small hand she had held out, shaking it and noticing, with no small delight, that, though she talked in such an obviously educated fashion, she was anything but soft, as testified by the work-calluses on her slim fingers and the ready grin and mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
Smiling back, I can tell that we are going o be great friends.