I'd found myself dreaming of ghost lights in skull sockets riding the length of the line as the sound of the ghost train death whistle was blowing in my head, when, *Wake up.* …. *Wake up.* …. It's her voice—Caspitella. My mind reels from intoxication, from the circadian drowse of a somber night's darkness. The first thing I notice as my eyes flutter open is the sensation of my body lying against the windowside of the cabin, alone, rain pelting the train. I am without care in the moment at Geddon's absence, I hardly remember that he had been there at all. Yet the public embarrassment of being rejected or abandoned, the kind that is in particular reserved for women, crosses my mind as I consider what the scene of Geddon's departure might have looked like, yet upon my lips I feel an impression, as if made by some parting gift of Geddon's. Those moments I spent with him were so pure, that for some time Caspitella had evaded my awareness, and only now do I hear her speaking to me, *Wake up,* she says, and I feel the deceleration of the train closing upon a station. I glimpse outside to see the ghost lanterns of Videlma's suburban squash farming communes passing by, striated and dense rains falling fast.
Why are you helping me? You know what I'm bound to do. She doesn't respond, and quite frankly I wasn't expecting a response. She knows this, I'm sure, and tends to steer clear of my thoughts knowing how brisk my mood can turn. I enjoy my privacy very much, therefore this goddess who has made an abode of my mind almost always comes as an unwelcome presence, especially when in my personal feeling I still do not understand why she chooses to be here. I have had at least two mothers in addition to this goddess; first, my birth mother, who enjoyed very much the status that came with being the mother of the reincarnated child, who along with my father I scarcely had positive feelings towards, and two, Orcysha, who though a mentor was much more like my true mother. The feelings that I have or have had towards Orcysha are very much like those I have toward Caspitella. While I greatly cherished them at times (more so Orcysha than Caspitella, but can not deny the gratitude I felt towards her guidance in our escape from Prixia), those feelings either faded or were replaced, and I've felt an overwhelming desire to escape their matronizing guardianship since. Besides my mothers, I had a bevy of peers to worship with. I understand that's a vague sort of statement. But frankly it's something I'm struggling to understand myself. In the peaceful wake of the midnight train's ride into Videlma, quiet is as is quite polite, making these trains rather deadly, often in the dark. Yet with my feet up on the seat with me, and feeling now the true absence of Geddon, of love, that of loneliness, I must confess that I feel rather weak and in memory of Geddon I can genuinely say that I'm grateful for the good people on this train who have welcomed the spirits so well. Things are getting more dangerous, now, the farther that the train moves north around Abraxia. As beautiful as these thoughts are, they betray worry. I try to lose these thoughts in the ghost lanterns passing by, and my thoughts stray towards Geddon, in bewonderment of his power, if not a charlatan he should be.
It feels unreal, but memory holds, at least for now, that the events from earlier, in my slogging mind, hold true. I try to remember what Geddon was like. Ulotrichous hair, a robust frame, broad shoulders. An angular chin and piercing eyes. And sartorial to boot—the vision sits with me now, his beige seersucker garbadine greatcoat, the gray undershirt with gold figaro chain with a small gold emblem of a dove at his collar. Memory of his physique shocks me into awareness. How attractive he is, to think that he had been what I've been looking for, the one who I have reserved my virginity, who would be worthy of my virginity. Yet, I know nothing of him; he's a young man, certainly—that is, if he was real, and now I'm beginning to seriously doubt if he was, or if he was an elaborate invention of my mind, some perverse dream to baffle me, to sow mistrust between myself and my own faculties. I should trust that he was real, but even if so, how should I know that he could be the one? My one love? Again, I am not a superstitious woman, but if I'm to believe in true love, then I must believe in a soul mate. How could any man be that great, truly, though? For all I know, he's a real lothario—and not only that, but he claimed he had been inducted into the Empire's knighthood—am I really to believe that he was granted godlike powers? Certainly, he must have thought that I was spinning a yarn when I told him my tale; he was likely riffing off of that, and came up with a story he knew would titillate me.
No, not now. Not while it's fresh in my memory—I can't believe that what I felt, what I saw, what I trusted, was false. To see him squirm the way he did, in psychological horror, observing some internal struggle, some infernal machination churning like the irons of Gildalga's ruinous bowels. Did I not see Geddon struggling with madness? I try to grasp for it, for faith, for the answer—Caspitella!—anything?
Silence…. Quiet misery…. Shame upon myself for asking for help when I've been so uninviting. Hope fades to jaded black, the train arriving at the station, and only now am I stirred to action, thinking, my luggage which I always keep close to my chest—is it still here? Provoked by this paranoia, I get up before the train has settled to check to see if my luggage is still up there, and it is. Yes—'ol Granny Annie's still safe and sound, I imagine. It would be a shame to lose my favorite rifle. Without much ado, and feeling somewhat the stupor of drunkeness weakening my knees, I bring my luggage down and set off down the way of the train, to shimmy past unfamiliar figures—who knows who among these overheard or oversaw what, but I'm reluctant to ask, and I suppose my scowl gives it away. By god! I gave my lips to that man! Surely I'll regret kissing him, too, as I've regretted kissing every forsaken man who has crossed ways with me.
Where am I even supposed to be going right now? Stepping off the train to the station platform, I see before me Yethic arches spanning the way and run to them, taking refuge beside a ghost lantern, the eerie glow of the will'o'wisp within captured and kept alive with decaying bog fleshes, galls that form naturally here on Abraxia. Lights from cars by the road pass through slowly, casting long shadows, threatening to illuminate things that I would rather be be left in the dark. I find myself bereft of direction, forgetting my mission here, until I recall the instructions, the lay of Videlma, remembering where the safe house will be, remembering the identity I'm to assume while I'm here, and the inn where I'll be seeking lodging. Looking up into the rain, I'm reluctant to start on my journey, thinking that I'll walk into the city to avoid carpooling with anyone who might clock me from the train, meaning that I'll be soaked beyond wet, a prospect that admittedly is growing on me. Instinct sets me off on a path of my own design, low platform heels clogging over sodden concrete in a splash, a brisk petrichor smelling of auspicion coming up off the road, unafraid of being cast in the light. Jets of rain hammer down on me. The sound of an engine stirs and I notice the lights of the car parked behind me starts to roll forward. Thinking I'll let it pass, but the car continues rolling right beside me, and that's when a feeling of paranoia arouses me. I do not turn around, and instead I keep walking. The car has rolled right up beside me.