Then Beggars Might Ride (full length)

“She’s a beaut’ alright.”
The dumpy engineer affectionately slapped a thick hand on the glistening chrome of the new engine, heedless of the greasy print left behind.
“3,227 drawbar horsepower,” he boasted, “clocked it myself jus this mornin’.”
“Yessirree,” he continued, tucking his thumbs into his belt and rising up on his toes, his paunch so close it nearly bowled me over, “this baby can pull just ‘bout any load ‘sever been stuck on the back of a railcar, ‘an faster’n any other engine to boot.”

WHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

The sound was my salvation, and with an apologetic glance I turned hurriedly to the stream of customers walking, tripping, and bawling their way onto the crowded passenger train one track over. Practiced smile, confident greeting, a wink for the kids; don’t worry, my lined face seemed to say, I care, and wish that your day crammed into a noisome little compartment is as pleasant as my own: leathery skin soaking up the fall rays, sipping from a frosty jug of hard cider home-brewed from last year’s apples.


“Raymond,” I said after the passengers had gone and I’d used the last of the bustle to evade the searching eye of the strutting engineer, “you ever think of doing something with yourself one these days?” I passed him the jug.

He stared meditatively at the beads of water glinting in the golden sunset before taking a long swig and plopping the jug back into the stream we were sprawled by under the tracks.

“Oh sure, I got a dream, ‘an a plan too,” he announced matter-of-factly.


The stream chuckled to itself. A dragonfly borrowed fire from the sun and was extinguished by a lurking toad.


“And that dream is…”


He looked up, surprised we were still on the same subject.

“Why, I’m gonna follow in the footsteps ‘o my ancestors and ride on the back of a great ‘n mighty herd ‘o horses.”

“Raymond, you’re father was a plumber from Wisconsin and your grandparents were Irish. Your forebears couldn’t have had more than a draft horse to pull a potato cart.”

“I don’t mean those ancestors,” he scoffed, “I mean my spirit ancestors.”

“Your what?”

“My spirit ancestors,” he repeated, peering at me with a cross eyed expression he thought looked mysterious. He reached down and pulled up a handful of dirt, letting it slowly play through his fingers and whisk away in the evening breeze.
“We are connected through the land,” he intoned.

I stared at him for an instant, then slowly inched the jug out of sight behind a rock.

He seemed unconcerned, and turned to contemplate a maple leaf caught in an eddy, absentmindedly clutching at his tin begging cup with one hand.


Crickets chirped, and the far bank faded into a violet gloom. An errant gust enveloped me in a warm cloud of steam from the nearby station. Still playing with his blasted engine, I thought darkly, but a steady cool breeze from the stream soon carried steam and thought away.


“Ray,” I said softly into the twilight, “how can you ride an entire herd of horses?”

“‘s what my ancestors did,” he muttered, face buried in his knotted beard. “The ancients loved the land, and their spirits grew great ‘an mighty ‘an when they got too big for their bodies they flung themselves out ‘of em and went racing with their herds. Thousands and thousands of ‘em, in a great thunderin racket.” [rush of noise]

His voice grew faint as he slumped down against his rock.

“know ‘s true. heard it from a man down the river. ‘n why can’t my spirit be as big as theirs? ‘s my dream… I got a plan…”

He trailed off and presently a racket ensued that proved his spirit was already too big and seemed to be trying to escape through his nose, but had gotten stuck halfway through and was none too pleased about it.

I started from the half doze into which his words had lulled me and carefully climbed to my feet. Then my I picked well known way up the path to my cottage by the station.



The days shortened and the trees competed earnestly to paint the canvas at their feet with a riot of carefully placed color, shaking their bare branches in ineffectual rage whenever the wind decided to dance with their work.

Raymond plied his trade with the passengers and kept the long-winded engineer at bay with a constant barrage of questions about his baby. Sometimes Ray disappeared for a few days, and then I was forced, again, to listen to what a technological marvel the big beast was.

The day of my nemesis’s defeat dawned bright, crisp, and clear. Today was the day his big machine would enter active service, and I would be rid of his nasal voice forever. I put an extra jug of cider into the stream and looked for Raymond to invite him to my celebratory revel.

He wasn’t at his post near the passengers, nor in his nook by the stream. As the last load of black coal was placed on board the great freight, and my arch enemy laboriously wedged his ample self into the front compartment, I caught a glimmer from the bridge. There was Raymond, on the edge, looking solemnly at the beast. It wasn’t until I saw the handful of dirt slowly leaking through his clenched fingers that I began to worry.

“Raymond what are you do-”

WHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

My shout was lost in the scream of the engine as it shifted into gear.

The train picked up speed, black smoke pouring from the huge stack in front. Raymond eyed the approaching monster, grinning as the dark cloud engulfed him. Then the engine was past and car after car accelerated below him. As the last car approached I began to hope, but just as reached the bridge a shudder rippled through Raymond and he seemed to fling himself in one giant leap directly onto the exposed mountain of coal.

The last I saw of him he was standing astride that black mountain, legs apart, arms thrown wide, a fierce expression etched on his craggy features, and straggly hair streaming behind him like a wake.

Just before the car rounded the corner he turned back and shouted at me – I couldn’t hear him but I saw his lips – “three thousand horses power!”`