THE WITNESS The mortal body is but a shell for our immortal one.
Sandor Sommers’ weekend was only hours away, but his thoughts were miles away, as he neared the completion of his dayshift in the Enola train yard. “Hey, Sandor,” shouted the engineer, “How about checking out the air lines on those last three cars, while I take these four over to the holding track.” Sandor glanced back over his shoulder as the powerful diesel engine roared, casually acknowledging the engineer with a wave of his hand as he started walking the track. The giant wheels spun in place until the slack of the four cars transferred their weight to the engine. Slowly the yard engine pulled away with its heavy load leaving him to the silence of his thoughts. Treading carefully along the gravel-filled tracks; the oily smell of the creosote-soaked timbers reminded him of last night’s candles. Sandor thought about the surprise birthday party his wife and kids had thrown for him and of his many friends from the train yard in attendance. Yes, my life has been truly full. Travel, friends, forbidden love, marriage, children, and the cave. I’ve never regretted one minute of working hard or coming to live on this planet after what had happened. Life is an adventure. It was his fortieth birthday, the one for which you receive over the hill gag gifts and cards; special shampoos to hide the grey or lotions to replace lost hair; vitamins for energy, diet pills to reduce the spare tire that seems to magically appear. Sandor snickered. In reality, he didn’t look forty, no grey hair, no pot belly. He was muscular and trim with an athlete’s build and energy. With a full head of dark, wavy hair, he didn't look a day over thirty, yet his face belied an age and wisdom beyond mortal man’s comprehension. Nearing the three train cars, Sandor stopped momentarily to stare out across the yard at the chain link fence with its red danger sign. A memory of sixteen years ago flashed in his mind. Do you accept the keys as Guardian of the Books, and the duty as the watcher of the cave? He knew his answer would be yes, it was his duty, it was in his bloodline to accept, until his own heir would inherit the gifts. “It is my life to give, that I accept this obligation,” he spoke out loud, turning away from the fence. Sandor reached the first of the two train cars. With the ease of many years’ practice he checked the airbrake lines and knuckle couplings for damage and debris. He walked to the other end of the second car to finish his inspection. Rounding the corner of the second tanker he noticed a string of tangled wire on the airbrake lines of the third tanker and immediately began trying to unravel it. Because of his ability to block out other people’s thoughts and sounds while concentrating, his superior mind automatically focused on dislodging the twisted junk wire, which placed him precariously in front of the tanker’s couplers, making him unaware that the yard engine had returned. Please do not reproduce text from these pages without permission. | On a nearby track, a yardman just happened to look in Sandor’s direction as the yard engine was making its deadly final run. To the yardman, everything seemed to happen in slow motion as he shouted, “Stop! Stop the engine! My God, stop! Please . . . stop.” The roar of the powerful diesel motor drowned out his shouts as the engine continued its lethal course, slamming into the first tanker car and forcing it forward into the next and the next, crushing Sandor between the coupling jaws. His thoughts and life-force suddenly ceased, so did his two hearts. Eight-year-old Ian stood rigid in the cool autumn morning as the minister began the eulogy. In the distant valley below, the air was filled with crying sirens, clanging bells and train air horns howling their mournful wails, announcing that one of their own, Sandor Sommers was being laid to rest. Ian glanced about. There were hundreds of railroad workers and close friends in attendance. He looked up at his mother, Michelle Sommers, who fought back her tears. She held in her arms his six-month-old baby sister, Krystyn, whom he knew would never know her father. John, his thirteen-year-old brother, stood at his mother’s side for support.When the minister spoke the final “Amen”, Ian again looked up at his mother. A single tear appeared in the corner of her eye and slowly streamed down her face, stopping momentarily on her chin before dropping onto a petal of the red rose she was holding. The red rose of love, Ian thought. He held back his own tears as she leaned forward and gently placed the perfect flower onto the casket being lowered slowly into the grave. At the very moment the rose touched the casket, silence replaced the cacophony of train whistles and sirens. It was a time to mourn, a time to remember-it was time to experience life. Mourners filed past, offering their condolences to Sandor’s bereaved family. Young Ian hugged his mother’s waist as tears trickled down his face. Through bleary eyes, he watched his brother wipe away tears of his own. Ian stared at the casket, feeling some comfort in his brother’s hand embracing his shoulder as John now stood between him and his mother. John leaned forward and kissed baby Krystyn’s forehead. In the distance, a solitary figure watches as a family is brought into his fold, and another one of his own passes on a legacy. They were now a family of four–a family with a heritage of the ages.  |