13th March
The train had been rumbling along for a second full day. By now, everyone in the carriage had introduced themselves, shared multiple cups of tea, and completed a fair few crossword puzzles. The chitchat had grown deeper, turning to conversations about life and fate itself. There really is something about trains that draws out these storiesthings people reveal only when theyre passing through, nowhere to stay, just fellow travelers for company.
I was sitting on one of the aisle seats. Next to me, in the adjacent compartment, three elderly ladies were swapping tips for baking scones and secrets for knitting socks. Just then, the train rattled onto a bridge, offering a glorious view. The sky was a crisp, uninterrupted blue; the sun warm and gentle. Below, the river gleamed, its wide surface rippled with light breezes. On its far bank, thick with silken grass, stood a white-stone church, its spire gleaming gold against the sky.
The ladies fell quiet. One of them crossed herself. Then her companion leaned in, speaking with that familiar mix of mischief and sincerity, Let me tell you somethingbelieve it or not, as you please.
She began her story. It happened several years back, in spring. I live by myself, no children, my husband passed away long ago. Our village may be small, but its split on both sides of the river. To reach the shop or post office, one must cross to the other side by the footbridge. That morning, my brother ranghe was on a work trip up north and planned to make a detour just to visit me. Wed not seen each other in five years since he moved away.
I was overjoyed! Thought I ought to nip to the shop, buy some flour and sugar, bake a proper pie for my dear guest. On went my old coatcouldnt be bothered to button it up, just pulled it tightand my wellies. Off I scurried.
I stopped short by the river, pondering: it was a walk to reach the footbridge, quite a long detour. What if I took a shortcut across the ice? True, the days were warmer, but the nights still brought a heavy frost. Besides, there were fishermen out by the bridge, big burly blokes with rods and gear, no danger thereso why should I worry? Im small, spry; what could possibly go wrong?
I gingerly made my way down to the edge. I took a step, then anotherthe ice seemed stout enough. Thought Id slip across in no time, as the river narrows at that bend.
Well, would you believe it, I didnt even register that Id gone through until I felt the shockthe water burning cold, all the air knocked from my chest in a gasp. I struggled upwards, but the coat I hadnt bothered to fasten weighed me down, dragging me. Thank goodness for forgetfulness: I shrugged it off, and found I could rise more easily. Its horrible, grabbing for the frosted edge as it splinters beneath you, slipping back under, too cold even to cry for help.
I spotted my neighbour, Mrs. Simmonds, on the bank, watching me. I waved desperately, hoping shed fetch the fishermen. But she just… backed away and left me there! I remember thinking, Well, this is how it ends. My brother will arrive, and Ill just have vanished without a trace.
One last effortagain, the ice gave way. But then, from nowhere, a man was running towards me. Id swear there hadnt been a soul nearby a moment before. How did he see me? Where did he come from?
He flung himself down, reaching out on his stomach, shouting at me, Come on! You can make it!
Ive no idea where the strength came from, but right then, the ice beneath him began to creak ominously. He scrambled up, darted to the bank, yanked out a young birch tree in one go, then returned to me, lying flat again, thrusting the little tree my way.
Grab the root end! The root! he called.
I clutched for the trunk, but the branches were slick with ice, my hands kept slipping. He steadied the tree, gave it another push, shouting again. This time, I managed to latch onto the root, and he hauled me out of the water like a stubborn weed. There I was, crying icy tears, sprawled across the ice as he crouched close.
Safe now, madam? he asked gently.
I just nodded, unable to speak at all.
Thank the Lord, he said. Go on now, get home. Youll be all rightno ill will come.
I wiped my tears and got to my feet, turning to thank him properlybut he was gone. Vanished! Nowhere he could have gone that I wouldnt have seen, as the rivers bare for ages till the bend. I saw the fishermen running over even as I stood dumbstruck.
One of them helped me stumble home. I changed clothes, sipped countless cups of tea. But no use sitting about frettingI still needed to do my shopping.
So, over the footbridge I marched, and who should be standing by the shop door but Mrs. Simmonds. She looked at me like shed seen a ghost, crossing herself.
I say, you didnt drown?
And why didnt you raise the alarm? I asked her outright.
Well, I thought if I came near, Id go in tooand I couldnt fetch the fishermen quick enough. If you drowned, it was just… fate. But you didnt, did you? Alls well that ends well.
My brother visited just for the dayI never told him a word of what had happened. When he left, I found myself wandering the village, asking neighbours if theyd had visitorsthe stranger certainly wasnt local, the way he dressed, almost like a cape with a hood.
We have few cottages, and hardly any guestseveryone knows everyone, even those with visiting family. I’d definitely seen that man somewhere before, but I couldnt place him. And strangely, none of the others saw him at all.
Soon after, I went to the next village over, to the old church, to light a candle in gratitude. When I stepped inside, I stopped dead. On the icon, staring straight at me, was the very same manSaint Nicholas. I just collapsed before the painting. Later, the vicar and I sat talking for ages about miracles.
And its trueI never even caught a sniffle after that, not a sneeze, nothing, finished the lady as the train rattled along. Whether you believe it or not, there it is.The carriage hummed with the hush that follows an honest tale. Sunlight danced in little tremors along the walls as the train left the bridge behind. A seagull swept past, shrieking, chasing its own wild business.
One of the other ladies let out a soft sigh, her ball of yarn forgotten in her lap. Well, she whispered, it seems some journeys truly are blessed.
The rest of us sat back, each quietly sifting through our own memories for those uncanny saves, for the moments when the world seemed to bend kindly toward us. There, on a rattling train between nowhere and anywhere, it was as if each story and secret was allowed to float free, untethered by explanation.
As tea was poured again and biscuits were passed, the train clattered on, headed for places old and new. Over the fields and shining rivers, into towns where people waited on sunlit platforms, holding out flowers, waving handkerchiefs, hoping for miracles or simply a kindly face.
And all across the carriage, a strange hush lingeredhalf gratitude, half wonderbinding us together for the journey, for that day at least, as if we too might find our saints or strangers waiting, just around the next bend.
