As Toruk watched, millions of blue pollen beads were released from the Tavatu into the air, their blue the color of a pale blue sky on a summer day, dazzling, nearly transparent, reflecting the dawning heavens above. The beads were small enough to hold between the fingers and large enough to see with the naked eye. Toruk watched the flowers release the pollen from within their colorful florets, flower by flower, down the line, across the bed of hundreds of thousands of Tavatu standing tall, wrapped around the Mountain base like mini soldiers exclaiming a war cry in perfect unison.
“Those flowers are indeed significant,” Uncle Quinn had said, “very significant.”
“What did they do to you, uncle?” Toruk had asked. “What was it? Tell me.”
Uncle Quinn sighed, looked away momentarily as if thinking, then turned back to face Toruk, the young Lijian’s dead eyes staring into space.
“Well,” began Uncle Quinn, “you see this scar?”
He drew up his right sleeve to reveal a long, black scar on his upper arm. The scar was thick, raised, resembling that of a strange branding as if he had been branded like an animal.
“Uncle, I can’t see it,” said Toruk, “but I can feel it.”
“Here,” Uncle Quinn said, taking Toruk’s hand and guiding it across his scar. “You feel that? That’s what the Tavatu did to me.”
“It feels like a burn. They burned you? With what?”
“I watched the flowers with my own two eyes. Something puffed out of them, little beads, like something you’d see on a woman’s necklace. And those beads flew into the air and stayed there, right over the Tavatu, hovering over them. It was all very strange.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, my boy, the beads started moving, just like those Mountains rocks moved. The beads started moving, joining together, melting together to make bigger beads, then bigger beads. And it wasn’t all just one big bead they were making. Ah no, there were clusters of beads of all sizes and shapes spinning, twirling, morphing into things. And this all happened right there, right in front me, right out of thin air.”
“What did they morph into?”
Uncle Quinn looked away.
“Uncle,” asked Toruk, sensing the old man’s despondency, “what did they morph into?”
“Oh, my boy,” said Uncle Quinn with a sigh, “it’s not that important.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, they eventually changed into coals.”
“Coals?”
“Yes, hot, flaming coals. The kind you’d see under a stove or in a fireplace. And they started shooting those coals at me, aiming them right at me. I ran for my life, my boy! I ran until I couldn’t run anymore, until I returned to the Chena River and swam back to Satqin Forest and returned right back here to Ceto. It wasn’t until I made it home when I realized I had been burned.”
“That’s impossible. Flowers made coals?”
“Toruk, anything is possible in Matla. I tell you again. I saw it with my own two eyes. Those little beads turned into big black coals, glowing red as if they had been in a furnace somewhere. How the flowers threw them, I do not know. All I know is that they were flying up from the Tavatu, through the air, aiming directly at me!”
“I just can’t imagine it, uncle. Flowers creating things are just unreal.”
“The magic is in those little beads that puffed out of them and into the air. I saw it with my own two eyes. Ah yes, the Tavatu made coals out of nothing, out of thin air, my boy.”
“I hope they don’t do that to me.”
“They won’t, Toruk. They won’t.”
Toruk watched as the pollen cloud broke into smaller clouds which in turn morphed into different components. Just as Uncle Quinn had described, the clouds of beads morphed into different shapes and sizes. Some became rectangular, others square, others circular, others of irregular shape. The beads began transforming into things Toruk soon recognized from his studies in school.
To his relief, he did not see hot coals or any type of flaming weapon that could be used against him. Instead, he saw slabs of mixed concrete pouring by seemingly invisible hands then hardening into a narrow, horizontal base about eight miles long winding around the Mountain just above the Tavatu. Then he saw substations and their components. He saw busbars alive with electric current, hundreds of transformers buzzing with various measurement of voltages, conductors and inductors regulating electron flow, hundreds of mechanically operated isolator switches, lightening arresters, circuit breakers, relays, high frequency wave-trappers, and thousands of wires and cables.
Each cloud of beads was working independently yet making cohesive parts. The parts were silver, shining, brand new, perfectly constructed as if they had just been manufactured. They hung in the wintry air, hovering over the Tavatu, spinning, twirling, moving into each other where their components fit.
Soon, Toruk saw what appeared to be a perfectly created system of electrical substations, brimming with electrical current that seemingly came out of nowhere, moving in the way the parts were intended to move, pumping, pulling, blocking, unblocking, opening, closing, clasping, unclasping. The entire system was suspended in the air, hovering just above the Tavatu while other clouds of beads continued in their work.
Then he saw train tracks of new carbon steel laid down one by one in the concrete beds and affixed with iron fasteners melted down by a blow torch seemingly powered by an invisible force and held by invisible hands. Then some of the parts of the electrical substation fell into place, the insulator, the protective cover over the third rail, railway switches, fish plates, steel spikes. The steel tracks were magically laid, sparkling new metal embedded within clean freshly poured concrete sleepers, the metal glinting in the dawning sky. The tracks were electrified, buzzing as if hungrily awaiting to perform their purpose.
Toruk stood stunned, dumbfounded, unable to speak as he watched the flowers work. Indeed, the little beads created things out of nothing, out of the thin air as if in a dream where gravity lost its power, and the ordinary rules of science were suspended for the fantastical.
The tracks reminded him of the tracks in Ceto’s sole line situated in downtown. He recalled taking the train many days, especially before he lost his sight, going to and from school or from home or to Rona’s house. He loved sitting in the window seat to look out, watching the train wind itself around its tracks, hearing the carbon steel of the train’s wheels and axles grind against the carbon steel tracks, smelling years of hot electrical currents and metal sparks mixed with the scent of dust and dirt and rotting food and human sweat, feeling the rumble of the train moving and jerking and grinding beneath his feet, listening to the muffled, nearly inaudible speech of the conductor through the intercom announcing the next stop, checking his watch as the train repeatedly slowed to a stop then speed up to race to the next one, watching the sunlight or streetlight strike through his window when the train reached above ground, careening through Ceto cities and towns, the air conditioner or heater whirring inside the ceilings of the train car, the mindless chatter of the riders speaking in Cetan, Lijian, Ulan, and other dialects, the occasional whine of a crying baby, the cheerful banter of young adults on a night on the town, the sighing of tired workers as they wordlessly entered and exited the train once reaching their stop, the scuffs and thumps of countless shoes against the rubber flooring, the repeated opening and closing of the electronic sliding doors.
Then Toruk saw the Tavatu’s pollen beads create the train itself. A large cloud of beads swiftly manufactured an elaborate five-car train, silver with fiberglass windows on each side of the car, with eight rows of two seats inside each car, with sliding doors, with bell chimes, ramps, caution signs, and even rubber floor maps.
Toruk had never seen such a beautiful train. It was brand new, sleek in design with dazzling silver and gold trim, with bright fluorescent white headlights, with whisper quiet brakes and steel castings, with an electric sign affixed to the outside front of the first car reading ‘C Train - Next Stop: Peak,’ blaring a soft horn as the Tavatu set the train on the tracks.
Dawn was slowly rising, the sun yawning across the horizon, coloring the winter sky with pinks and oranges and blues. Around Toruk, Matla Valley was likewise awakening. The living snow jumped, flitted and fluttered around each other as if excited to see the morning sun. Small Valley animals of every sort began scurrying about, foxes, rabbits, deer, gophers and hedgehogs. Wintered trees swayed in the periodic breezes flowing through the Valley.
All were watching the Tavatu work, waiting with bated breath at what the magical flowers were creating. They marveled at the flowers’ precise work and technical skill, all in obedience to a secret command from the Voice Upon the Mountain.
The Tavatu worked confidently, perhaps even a bit arrogantly, never disturbed by a nosy fly or curious butterfly that wandered over, never dismayed by the intrinsic difficulty of making this part or that, never waning in their steadfast allegiance to the Voice. Even while the Tavatu puffed out their magical pollen beads, their stems stood tall and strong at attention, their open petals facing upwards as if gazing at the Peak.
What the Tavatu eventually created was indeed mesmerizing, stunning in exquisite detail, precise in mechanical technology, beautiful to behold. I don’t think they’re going to run me over with this train, Toruk thought, musing to himself. Seems like the Valley’s not going to reject me like it did Uncle Quinn. He could not help but to feel excited, quickly realizing that this was the vehicle the Yuli Wind had earlier told him to “board.”
He wondered how the train was going to move, whether winding around the Mountain in an upward spiral until it reached the Peak or racing up a tracked hill somewhere, stopping once it reached the Peak’s precipice. Toruk figured the train was indeed equipped for anything and could probably tackle steep hills and sharp turns that no train made by human hands ever could. He thought maybe the Tavatu were likewise making carbon steel railroad tracks up and around the Mountain that he had yet to see. He expected that the magical flowers were creating and paving a hidden road to lay the additional tracks on, ensuring that it would eventually carry the train all the way up to the Peak. Wouldn’t take much time, Toruk thought, to reach the Peak. Mountain’s tall but not too wide; just wide enough for a train like this to wind around without falling over. And its electric, so it has enough power to push up the Mountainside with no problem. Wouldn’t take much time at all.
“Oh, when I ran out of Matla, I was devastated, my boy, just devastated,” Uncle Quinn had said. “It was embarrassing because I never thought of myself as a bad person. Weird, eccentric, even strange, but never bad.”
“Well, I don’t think it had anything to do with you being bad, uncle,” Toruk had offered.
“Ah, Toruk, your heart is made of gold,” Uncle Quinn said, chuckling, “but there is a different code of good and bad that lives in Matla. I felt it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Matla’s good is not the goodness of regular people scraping by in life, going about their everyday lives doing the best they can. No, Matla’s good is higher, cleaner, much straighter, much more significant. I suspect that even a well-intended, occasional liar would have been rejected by Matla, too. I suspect that even someone who stole food to feed their own family would have been rejected by Matla!”
“But uncle, you were just a young man then. You did what you thought you had to do.”
“It was hard, my boy. Ah yes, it was very hard in those days being a new immigrant and all. I had to learn the Ceto language before I could find work. Trying to climb that Mountain was the first job I was ever offered.”
“Have you ever tried to go back?”
“Hah!” laughed Quinn. “My boy, if Matla rejected me then for my little badness, they would have certainly rejected me later.”
“But no one is perfect.”
“But some are cleaner than others, eh? Some are good, very good.”
“Good how?”
“Well, they rarely lie and if they do, they say sorry immediately. They share what little they have with others. They take on responsibility boldly and gladly. They obey their parents and love their little brother. They would do anything to save their countryman no matter the hardship. And they are strong and tough on the outside but simple in nature and loving on the inside. And they obey the mysterious Voice when he calls. I suspect those are the cleanest of hearts, the kind Matla would never reject.”
“Uncle, I’m no better than you,” said Toruk, thankful for the compliments. “I don’t think anyone is really better than any other. I think we all try in our own way.”
“Suit yourself, my boy,” said Uncle Quinn, leaning back. “This journey of yours will be a journey to remember, something that will live on in legend and passed down to the young ones. You are much cleaner than you realize, or at least clean enough to pass through that Valley. Yes, you are, Toruk.”
Toruk stood back when the flowers were seemingly all done, when the magnificent train stood on the tracks, all suspended in the air, hovering just above the Tavatu, the brand-new metal glinting like diamonds in the dawning sky. The train was feet away from him, buzzing with electrical current, awake and alive, trembling with energy.
Toruk could not see a train driver. Though the front cab was outfitted with seats and a full control board, no one was there. He could hear the hum of chatter coming from inside the train cars as if many people were already seated, talking, laughing, chit-chatting as train riders do just before the train takes off. The hum of their voices echoed throughout the Valley, against the Mountainside, reverberating against the metal train.
Toruk sensed something usual yet unusual about the voices, for they sounded human and were seemingly speaking human words, but the voices chimed like one collective bell. The hum of those voices sounded beautiful, glorious, melodic even, triggering his curiosity, inciting a strong urge within him to go to them, to learn what this was all about, to join in their little conversations. Toruk wondered who they were, imagining them to be people from the Peak, perhaps traveling on this magical train to return home to their magical houses and yards next to the castle where the Voice Upon the Mountain probably lived.
He was still standing in the middle of the bed of Tavatu, his back against the Mountainside, his tools having since vanished, his body strong and healed. Just beyond a cluster of pine trees in the distance, Toruk saw the first rays of morning sun, pouring golden light over the dazzling white Valley, touching every leaf, every snowflake, every blade of wintered grass in its wake. The golden light seemed to dance just as the living snow did, bouncing, reflecting, swirling across the landscape. He saw beautiful birds awaken and take to the golden sky, soaring through Matla Valley, singing, streaking the sky with color.
Though he could not see the Peak from where he stood, he imagined that it, too, was graced by the glorious golden sunlight, flooded with its precious beauty. He saw the living snow continue its playful dancing, swirling, twirling, dazzling beneath the golden light wherever it lay, on the treetops, in the Mountain crevices, scattered across the Valley floor. He saw living snow atop some wintered tree limbs melt beneath the beautiful sunlight than immediately freeze in mid-drip like a spectacular, dazzling crystal ornament. It was a glorious moment, one that Toruk knew his father would have loved to see. He took a picture of the scene with his mind, vowing to tell Tame, Rona, and especially Uncle Quinn of this magnificent sight.
Then a small gust of wind situated just behind Toruk’s feet pushed him forward towards the train. Immediately knowing who it was, the young Lijian said “yes, Yuli, I’m going,” while moving towards the floating train. As he walked, he noticed both the Tavatu and the living snow magically bend or jump out of his way so as not to be crushed by his boots.
“Wow,” was all Toruk could say when he approached the side of the first train car, its new paint gleaming beneath the early sun. The moment he reached it, the car doors slid open and a blast of warm, inviting air immediately greeted him. Again, the small gust of Yuli’s wind pushed Toruk towards the open doors. He smiled, even chuckled, then, after grabbing one of the vertical railings on the doors, stepped in.