It was now 5:43
The village sparkled in the morning dew, having woken languidly lethargic as if after a deep restful sleep. The sun began to outline black brush on the hills in rosy gold, hills high enough so that the railway tracks led to a tunnel through one of them.
Would there be a 5:47 today? It was Saturday again, the day the excursion train would come, with predictable regularity, almost always. It was precisely punctual, so if it did not arrive at 5:47, then there would not be one today; to compensate, there might be one at 5:47 tomorrow, or the next day, or certainly next Saturday. But there would be no special, unexpected trains at other times - that too was predictable.
No reasons were ever given when the expected 5:47 did not come - that too was predictable. Maybe there were mechanical difficulties, or maybe the crew just did not want to make the scheduled run.
It was now 5:44
The train had several luxury cars with large, wide windows and comfortable, spacious seating so that passengers could enjoy the scenic views at their leisure. There was a dining car in which breakfast and lunch were served. The menu had been the same for a very long time, so everyone had the convenience of not needing to consult a menu and to make a choice. There were toasted English muffins with preserves for one meal, and superbly prepared broiled salmon in dill sauce for the other.
No one seemed to mind the lack of choice, muted enthusiasm outweighing any latent grumbling. The more varied menu of the dim past was hardly remembered and certainly not missed.
It was now 5:45
It was always exciting to see the train glide by, aerodynamically sleek, still with a coal-fired locomotive emitting thick white flowing smoke. There was the marvelous mechanical motion of rods, shafts and wheels executing a perfectly synchronized dance, reciprocating, rising and falling, forward and backward, turning and rotating smoothly. The bare and polished metal, enhanced by its film of oil, glistened and reflected the rising sun in glowing highlights.
It all never ceased to be a wonder, a wonder that ended only as the train disappeared fully into the dark tunnel, leaving evanescent wisps behind. But next Saturday there would always be another 5:47. Unless it did not come.
It was now 5:46
Many years in the past, maybe even decades, the train arrival had not been so predictably regular. At some other day, at some other time during the day or evening, there might be a vague pleasant tension in the air, and then a quiet whistle could be heard far in the distance. An almost palpable excitement would grow as puffs of smoke separated from white clouds, as a distant dot smoothly morphed into a finely detailed living machine, as the whisper of its motion and energy loudened to a roar.
There was a special joy in the unexpected, even as the train inevitably disappeared the same way it always did and always would. After all, there would be another time.
It was now 5:47
The train was still sitting on a distant siding, unmoving, facing in the other direction. Light puffs of smoke from the locomotive continually rose lazily and rhythmically, like breath in a deep sleep, and rose slowly upward into the still air. If the train did not begin to move and turn around now, then there would be no 5:47 today. Could one see an engineer or a conductor or a dining room attendant moving, or was that an illusion? Tension and expectations grew as the second-hand ticked,
ticked,
ticked,
ticked,
ticked,
ticked inexorably around the clock face and then, as it approached the top again, relaxed and dissipated.
It was now 5:48
There would not be a 5:47 today. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day, or almost certainly next week, although it was always possible that it might be canceled altogether one day.
Peter E. Schmidt