Roundhouse Stories:Roundhouse Stories:
"Again?"
The question hangs somehow, as if trapped within the circle. The fire snaps, the river whispers, mumbles, but still the spell remains unbroken. No one speaks. No one rises. All eyes are fixed on the old man, Pat Gordon. The moment stretches impossibly, and then he speaks.
"Well, folks. That's all for me. Hope you all enjoyed yourselves. Come back next week. a young friend of mine's talking about the old Willamette Timber `Road. You shouldn't miss it. Night, all. Thanks. Thanks for coming. Thanks again."
"Again?"
The crowd stirs, but for you the word still seems to linger, whispering softly with the night air, fading slowly with the light from the dying bonfire. Around you, the crowd stretches, shakes itself, begins to rise. You watch the motion, the gathering of blankets, the groups of two and three that walk slowly from the circle. You watch from a distance. Car doors open, close. Headlights flash and wheel like searchlights. Gravel audibly resists the passage of a dozen sets of wheels. You watch and then you listen until they are gone.
The fire flickers, snaps loudly and, finally, you come back from wherever you've been, from the sky above the Island Faraway, to a blanket on the ground beside a fading fire, on a night that is no longer warm. You shiver and then start at the touch of hands on your shoulder.
"Stranger?" asks a quiet voice. It is deep and warm, but not as strong as the voice of the storyteller. "Stranger," asks Pat Gordon, "have you got somewhere to go?"
That's the question for which you have no answer. You had thought that perhaps this was it. Your destination. But it seems that more is required of you. Though Pat Gordon's story has reached an end, it is apparent that yours has not.
Where does your story end? No sooner has the thought escaped you than you wish it undone. There's no point in getting metaphysical. What you want to know is when this story ends. This story that you find yourself a part of. This. . .
Call it a Roundhouse story. A Soggytown tale.
"Do you have a place to stay?" The question again. The night seems thick with echoes. You feel your own words join them as you speak.
"No. Nowhere."
That much seems clear--to you, to the children, to old Pat Gordon. You notice the children again, for the first time since the end of Pat's story. A boy and a girl, both young and blond and dressed in rolled-up overalls, though more than that is hard to say. And you see Pat Gordon. Or do you, really? The fire is dying more swiftly now. Is it just the shadows that show off the lines on his face? That make him seem thinner, more stooped? The darkness is deep beyond the firelight, and creeping in slowly.
"You can come back with us," says the boy. "We have room."
"Yes. Come with us," echoes the girl. "There's really no place for you here."
Pat Gordon smiles at that, and maybe the fire burns just a little more brightly. It is a wise, sad smile, it seems to you, but it is strong, bright, like his voice when he was the storyteller.
"No," he says. "I can't very well take you where I'm going. You go back with the young ones. Here, let me light that lantern." And he is tall again, unstooped, his face unlined, but there was a tenseness about him. "And a blanket for you, Stranger. It's getting cold in the old woods tonight, so bundle up. We can't have you catching cold now. C'mon, kids. Up and at `em. It's time you were getting back."
And you are swept away, back across the fields, in a brief flurry of blankets and good-byes.
"So good to see you, Pat."
"So good. . ."
". . . enjoyed it so much."
"Glad you could come, Stranger."
"Bye, Pat."
"Bye."
"Good-bye. Take care."
"Take care. Good-bye."
Good-bye, children."
"Sleep well."
From the edge of the clearing you turn to see the fire die. There is a final snap and a spark shoots high, and then the dark. In the woods the chill is less severe and beyond them the clouds part to let moonlight stream through.
Back at the crossroads there is a bridge. Not the trestle of oiled timbers that lay, lies, scattered along the banks, but a footbridge. Two ropes, thick as a man's forearm, support a swaying lattice of rope and board. The children steer their course towards it. The boy steps up onto the stone step, puts a hand on each rope.
"I've always loved this."
Stop. This wasn't here before. Say it.
"Hey. I was here before. This wasn't. This wasn't here before."
"Of course it wasn't." It's the girl who replies. "That's why we had to come back.
"You really aren't from around here, are you?"
"We're sorry," says the boy. "We keep forgetting you're really a stranger. Anyhow, its here now and we have to cross it. C'mon. Just follow us."
When the span fails to snap, to vanish, to tumble from beneath your feet, you find the crossing fairly simple. Three moving bodies produce waves and sways that seem to threaten your grip several times, but you gain your sea-legs quickly, riding the last few swells with little effort and finally stepping back onto solid ground across the river.
"It's just a little farther now."
"Yeah. Just up the path a bit."
Another ancient rail cut takes you through deep woods and then into a large moonlit meadow on the edge of foothills. At the meadow's edge, your guides turn west and soon your are amidst structures again.
"This is our camp," says the girl, pointing to a lean-to, and then to its nearby twin. "That can be yours. Do you need another blanket?"
The night has grown warm again and the bed of cut grass and leaves seems welcoming. You wonder about that crude mattress. For whom was it prepared? But such thoughts cannot hold you long from sleep. Covering your nest with a borrowed blanket and rolling yourself up in Pat's gift, you settle quickly and comfortably and are soon asleep.
In the night you wake to the sad, sweet note of a western freight. It is clear and unmistakable, like the song of a bird. Like the thin shrieking of the bats that wing through clearing skies as you drop slowly back to sleep.
Morning arrives with a rising burst of sound. A Thrush calls in the distance, faint and indistinct as last night's echoes. Silence, and then it is answered, closer. And then another bird voice enters the choir. And another. In a moment the woods and fields ring with the dawn chorus.
And then the sunrise.
"Stranger, are you awake?"
Yes. awake and unusually aware of your surroundings. The now-receding torrent of birdsong. The morning light glowing through the treetops. The smoke of a nearby fire. . .
The children are cooking. You rise, stretch, shake off dew and drowsiness. The night has been pleasantly cool, but the morning air is damp and the fire is welcome. You sit on a log stool and watch breakfast progress.
Where has the food come from? You never learn. But there are eggs, bacon, pancakes, butter and warm maple syrup. The children split the cooking, playfully brushing you aside when you offer help.
"You're a guest, you know."
The food is delicious, particularly with its hint of woodsmoke flavor. And there is more than you can eat. Then there are dishes to be washed, but again you are excluded. Perhaps its just as well, you muse. It seems hard to imagine that you could match the ease with which they breeze through their chores. It is as if they have been doing these things forever. How long, you wonder, have they been camping here? Or is such a question even meaningful. you know the rules are different here. There is much you do not understand. Something about time. Going "back" to a bridge that wasn't there. It is beyond you. Perhaps it is enough to know that it is different, magic, like dishes that seem to clean themselves in the hands of laughing children.
"Well? What now?" And laughter.
What now, indeed. Where will this story take you? To Soggytown? You remember the sign scratched in the earth. You still haven't reached it, if it is indeed reachable. From what you learned last night, it seems clear that Soggytown is a fiction, a place in a story. It is not a real place. And this place? Is this place real?
"Hey, Stranger. Can you read?"
It seems like a silly question. Doesn't it?
Not so silly, perhaps. The little scoundrels. A proposal is made. A deal is struck, and hidden costs emerge. Prevented from working for your supper, you are to sing for it. Or, rather, you are to read for your breakfast. The brings out a book, from nowhere you can discover. Another of the conjuring tricks of this place.
"You see, it's early and our business in town isn't pressing. And this book, it's one of our favorites."
"It's not that we couldn't read it ourselves."
"Oh, we could. Of course."
"But it is so much nicer if someone else reads to you."
OK. The book. Let me see the book.
It's old, but well preserved. Its pages are yellowing slightly and its wrapper is worn, but it is still intact and snugly bound. Four boys watch a train pass on its dustjacket. they are rendered in watercolor. Dark green binding cloth peeks through at gaps and edges. Bold black type proclaims the title and author. The Railroad Drifters: An Adventure of the Soggytown Gang, by Patrick W. Gordon.
OK. I'll read your story. Let's all get comfortable.
--The book, hold it in your hand.
--Read the dustjacket blurb:
A Soggytown Gang Adventure:
THE RAILROAD DRIFTERS
Dick Dently and the Soggytown Gang have had their fair share of adventure and they've met more than a few odd characters, but they've never seen anything like the excitement they find when Cecil and the Kid, The Railroad Drifters, come to Soggytown.
In their newest exploit, the boys must deal with mysterious young vagabonds, a raging river and a man who has forgotten his own name. "Bear" Burr and his lunch money bandits also return. And before the action is through, the gang must solve a mystery from their first adventure, a case they had considered closed.
It's another thrill-packed Soggytown adventure, sure to inspire kids everywhere.
(Please see back flap)
--Open the book.
--Turn the page.
THE SOGGYTOWN GANG
ADVENTURE STORIES
BY PATRICK W. GORDON
The Soggytown Gang
The Railroad Drifters
Trouble Down Around the Bend
The Hobo Convention
The Fastest Freight
--Turn another.
A Soggytown Gang Adventure
THE RAILROAD
DRIFTERS
Patrick W. Gordon
Rover Books
Portland, Oregon
1944
"C'mon, Stranger. Read us the story."
A Message from the Soggytown Gang
Dear Reader,
If you're like me and my buddies in the Gang, then you've probably read some other books like this one about kids who have adventures and you've probably wondered whether they were reql and if they did the things in those books. I can't say for sure about most of those guys. Jimmy Jenkins used to live over in Junctions, before he got mixed up with those B-Movie Boys, so I know he's for real. And I can vouch for Polly and Red. Some of the others I just don't know about.
Anyway, you don't have to worry about that when you read the books about us. I guarantee it. I really do live in Soggytown and the things in the stories really did happen just about the way theyu're written down. Mr. Gordon stretches a few points, but all in all he pretty much tells the truth. Scout's honor.
We hope you enjoy the stories of our adventures and if you're ever in Soggytown look for us down by the tracks.
Your Friend
Dick Dently
--Read the story.
THE RAILROAD DRIFTERS
CHAPTER ONE
THE 3:45 PASSES
"Look at her go! Isn't she a beauty?"
"Eleven, twelve, thirteen, . . ." The numbers clicked through Tim Paulsen's head as the railroad cars rolled by, one after another. The 3:45 was pulling out of Soggytown. The engine had already passed, picking up speed on its run north toward Portland, and now the big cars rocketed past in a long line. Each one seemed to pass more quickly and sway more dangerously from side to side.
"Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, . . ."
The ground pitched beneath Tim's feet as each set of wheels rumbled over the raised wooden ties of the Taylor Street crossing. He crouched close to the tracks, but well below the level of any of the swaying cars. He was small anyway, and slight even for a ten-year-old.
"Hey, listen! Isn't she a beauty?" Tim's brother Jim almost shouted. Tall and lanky, dressed in new denim overalls, he stood a little behind the younger boy. "Hey, Imp, I said. . ."