Chapter 7
The land rolled by before them again.
The three cats sat as before in their open train car, watching the scenery loom and recede. They sat tiredly and painfully this time though; a little anxious, a little disenchanted.
The train jerked unfamiliarly along different sets of track as the railroad split and diverged in different directions. It wasn't long before they realized they were taking a circuitous route around the city, and not going straight back after all. The train must indeed be headed elsewhere.
Contempt narrowed her suspicious eyes and said nothing. Muse felt her heart quicken in her chest. A train going around the city must be headed out to the country. And indeed, as the hours passed, the land became more hilly and rocky and Muse expected to see mountains loom on the horizon around every bend. The train car dipped unsteadily through valleys and cut into tunnels through hills. Not quite the mountains though, not quite yet.
"Is this your stop?" Contempt asked Muse when the sun began to set behind a copse of hemlock trees, setting their delicate needles aflame with maroon light before silhouetting them altogether. The train was slowing, nearing a passenger station in a few miles. The whistle sang out above their heads.
Muse surveyed the countryside. Clusters of painted clapboard houses lay together, and a winding street connected them on hills before the railroad tracks. A general store, a post office, a tiny one-roomed school. She shook her head.
This is the country all right. It's a country town. It's still too…
"Too what?"
Too peopled. I'd still be a stray here. Not wild. She heard the word reverberate in her mind. Wild.
Contempt sighed, and Muse knew she was annoyed. She didn't understand, Muse knew, but Muse couldn't come all this way to settle for disappointment, as lovely as this rural small town seemed to be. She was looking for her dream. Dreams could exist, she wanted to tell Contempt, but she knew Contempt would just think her kittenish.
Just then, a soft sound escaped Watch. His eyes were glued to the top of a hill they were passing, just beyond the hemlock trees, as the train began to slow to prepare to stop at the passenger station, still a mile ahead.
It was a cemetery on a hill. Small tombstones, pink in the setting sun, formed gentle mounds on top of the hill and stone crosses jutted into the sky. A chiseled stone angel stood peacefully, a stone lamb slept, and dried flowers were scattered across graves. Grey clouds darkened overhead as the pink sun faded to purple. The train slowed and slowed.
One on side of the cemetery was a small, very old church with two round, stained glass windows that caught the last reflections of the failing sun on either side of its arched door. The steeple rose gracefully above the roof, and the borders of the gravel road that led to the church were becoming overgrown with shrubbery and saplings, encroaching upon the road itself. No one regularly drove up the road, it seemed, and nature was reclaiming it. The church did not look like a church that was used anymore; it had apparently served its tiny town for generations, before the modern world interfered with its cars and office jobs and bigger schools and working commuters, and the townspeople who still sought religion drove to a bigger church in a bigger neighboring town, where they were accustomed to driving for its supermarkets, malls, and businesses. This town, still so rural, offered little to its inhabitants other than a long drive to jobs, schools, and conveniences. But there was still a thriving population of families who loved the land and stayed, keeping the town a friendly community, though the old church was no longer their church. It was a historical landmark of times gone by, and cherished for its history.
The church's grounds were still cared for. The grass was trimmed and the flower bushes were pruned. The paint on its exterior was somewhat fresh and not peeling too badly. It had been years since the church had opened its doors for a congregation, but folks still visited the grounds to pay their respects to grandparents, great-grandparents, and other ancestors who had been laid to rest in the cemetery adjacent.
On the other side of the cemetery was a small cottage, covered with ivy, shaded by maple trees, with a lean-to shed beside it. Rakes, hoes, a trowel and gardening gloves rested near the door. It was the caretaker's cottage, where a man lived who maintained the grounds. White smoke piped from the chimney. The caretaker was done for the day and had settled inside.
Contempt understood. As the train slowed more, Watch looked at her and nodded. "Take care," he said quietly. Already his face was flooded with peace. Contempt closed her eyes and nuzzled his neck once, and turned away.
Watch moved to Muse and touched the tip of her nose with his. She trembled as she saw his deep eyes so close. How tired they were, and so dark. But he wore the relieved smile of someone about to go to bed for the first time in a long, long time.
He took a breath as if to say something but seemed to change his mind. They gazed at each other a moment longer, then he turned. Silently and lightly, he leapt off the train. Muse watched him go. He trotted up the hill towards the tiny cottage and looked back over his shoulder as the train continued to pass. Goodbye, thought Muse, in the quietest way she could, as he grew distant. He smiled slowly and nodded. He heard her.
In a minute, he was out of sight; the train had moved past. Contempt was still facing away from the open wall of the freight car with her head bowed.
He'll sleep now, you know, said Muse. Her heart ached already with missing him, even while she was joyous for him. She knew Contempt was struggling with emotion, too. He's probably already lying in the arms of that angel.
"I know," spoke Contempt, in a muffled voice.
He'll probably get fed at that cottage, too.
"I know," choked Contempt, without moving.
Muse left her alone.