The Scottish Highlands are vast and ancient,
Mountains shaped by ice and time,
Standing watch over glens and locks that have weathered a thousand storms.
Tonight,
Rain sweeps quietly across it all,
And cutting straight through the heart of it is an old steam-powered carriage train.
Tonight's sleep story begins on board,
As you settle in comfy and warm inside your cabin for the long ride north.
Closing the blind halfway,
Listening to the rain on the glass,
Watching the steward's trolley pass one last time,
And letting the sway of the carriage ease you into the sheets before you finally let your eyes close.
My name is Michael and I'll be your narrator for this gentle sleep story.
Your birth is narrow,
But neatly fitted.
A single bunk made up with crisp white sheets.
And a soft tartan blanket folded at the foot.
As a small reading light glows above the pillow.
And a fold-down sink sits tucked into the corner,
Beside a shelf just wide enough for a paper bag and a bottle of water.
The window beside you runs the full length of the birth.
Rain chasing itself sideways across the glass.
And long silver streaks.
Catching the carriage's own lights before spilling off into the dark beyond.
Well every few seconds.
A droplet breaks loose.
And races down to the cell.
Joining a dozen others already gathered there.
Outside,
The land has begun to rise.
The last flat fields of the lowlands giving way to hillsides that press close against the tracks.
Their upper slopes lost somewhere above in cloud and rain.
Until only their black lower shoulders remain visible.
Glistening wets where the train's lights catch them for a moment before falling away again.
A burn runs somewhere close by.
Swollen with the night's rain.
Is white water flashing once beneath the passing bridge?
As the wheels changed their note briefly.
Drumming hollow over the ironwoods.
Before settling back into their lungs.
Steady rhythm.
On the open track.
Further along the carriage.
A woman in the next birth has left her door not quite closed.
And through the narrow gap.
Her reading light still burns over a paperback laid open and forgotten on her chest.
Her breathing already slow and even.
As the train rocks her deeper into sleep.
The book's pages staring faintly each time the carriage sways.
Across the corridor.
A man sits upright in his own birth.
With the blind raised all the way.
His forehead nearly touching the cold glass.
As he watches the dark hills slide past.
A flask of tea balanced on his knee.
And steam still rising faintly from its open lid.
Though he seems in no hurry to drink it.
Two births down.
A large silver muzzled dog lies curled tight against this owner's feet.
One ear twitching faintly every time the wheels catch a joint in the rail.
While the man himself has already drifted off,
Sitting upright.
His newspaper folded neatly on his lap.
And his glasses slipped halfway down his nose.
The pair of them rocked gently together in time with the carriage.
Somewhere ahead.
A door slides open with a soft hydraulic kiss.
And the steward makes his way down the corridor.
For what will likely be his last round of the night.
His torch dimmed low,
So as not to wake anyone.
A set of keys chiming quietly at his belt as he checks each door is properly lodged.
Pausing now and then to glance out at the rain himself before moving on.
His reflection ghosting alongside him in every dark window he passes.
Earlier in the evening,
He'd carried a tray of whiskey miniatures and shortbread the length of the train.
But now his hands are empty.
And he stops for a moment to look around to see who's still awake.
And whether he needs to get some more supplies.
The train begins to slow.
Its wheels easing their rhythm as it threads through a small station platform.
Unstaffed and empty at this hour.
A single lamp swinging faintly in the wind.
Above a bench that nobody's sitting on.
Rain hammering the corrugated roof on the tiny shelter.
Before the platform slips away again.
And the train picks up speed once more.
Back out into the open country.
Somewhere ahead.
The driver sounds the horn once.
Low and long.
As the train crosses an unmanned level crossing.
It's warning lights blinking red through the rain over an empty single track road.
A farm gate swinging loosely on its hinge.
The only thing that's a habit.
Before the sound fades back into the steady drum of the wheels.
A little further on.
The hills fall back just enough to reveal a lock lying flat and black in the darkness.
Its surface pocked all over with rain.
The trains own lit windows scattering briefly across the water.
In long broken lines.
Before the trees close in again.
And the lock is gone.
For just a moment.
Out past the rain streaked glass.
A pair of eyes flashes green low against the fence line.
And the shape you take to be a deer lifts his head briefly from the wet grass to watch the train go by.
Before the darkness and the rain close over it again.
And he's gone.
Swallowed back into the hillside.
As quickly as it's a pet.
High on one slope.
Half lost in the rain.
A single light burned steady in the window of a small stone bothy.
And for a moment.
.
.
You wonder who might be up there tonight.
Before the hillside curves away.
And the light disappears behind it.
Sheep huddle here and there,
Along a dry stone wall lower down.
Backs to the weather.
Barely stirring as the train rattles past.
Their pale shapes the only thing visible against the wet,
Black grass.
Before the darkness swallows them too.
For a little while,
The darkness outside softens into something closer to warmth.
As the train slows through a small highland village.
A scatter of stone cottages huddle close along one street.
Whilst windows dark,
Put a few still lit gold behind curtains.
And one pub sign swinging hard in the wind above a door.
Before the last cottage slips past.
And the village gives way again to open moor The rain closing back over everything like a curtain drawn shut.
Back toward the rear of the train.
The lounge car sits dim and empty now.
Its little cafe tables wiped clean and its high stools tucked neatly beneath the counter.
A single low light left burning over the bar.
Were earlier in the evening.
Passengers had gathered with drums of whiskey and packets of shortbread.
The windows there streaming with the very same rain that now runs down yours.
The gradient steepens as the train climbs higher into the hills the engine working harder somewhere up ahead.
This low diesel note deepening beneath the carriage floor while the rain outside seems to thicken too.
Driving now,
Almost level with the ground as the wind catches it and flings it hard against the glass.
Cloud presses down close over the highest slopes.
Swallowing whatever peaks might be there.
Until there is nothing left to see but rain and rocks.
And the occasional stunted pine bent sideways by the weather.
Call it for a heartbeat.
And the trains passing lights.
Before falling back into the dark.
The ground begins to fall away again on the far side of the pass.
The train picking up a little speed as it drops down into a sheltered glen.
By the rain for a while.
Eases into something softer and gentler on the glass.
The wind no longer pushing quite so hard against the carriage.
A river runs alongside the track here.
Wide and slow looking in the dark.
Its surface dimpled all over with the last of the rain.
While here and there.
A stand of birch leans out over the water.
Pale trunks catching the light for a moment before slipping past.
Back in your birth,
The corridor beyond your door has gone fully quiet now.
The steward's footsteps long since faded toward the front of the train.
And the only song left.
Is the rain finding its rhythm on the glass beside you.
And the steady,
Patient clatter of wheels crossing rail joints after rail joints beneath the floor.
You draw the blanket a little higher.
The tartan wool warm and slightly rough against your skin as the last of the reading lights along the corridor.
Clicker.
One by one.
Leaving only the low blue safety lighting.
To glow along the floor outside your door.
Your own window has fogged faintly at the edges.
Blurring the rain even further.
So that the hills beyond become little more than soft grey shapes drifting past.
One after another.
Each indistinguishable from the last.
While the carriage rocks on beneath you.
In that same unhurried rhythm it has kept since the lowlands.
The hills continue sliding past outside.
Dark and rain streaked and endless.
The lock and the bow of the lights and the sheep at the wall.
All already far behind you now.
Replaced by more hills.
More rain.
More blends you'll never quite see the shape of.
Until even that blurs and softens and the rocking of the carriage carries you the rest of the way to sleep.
The rain still tracing its long,
Silver lines down the glass beside you.
All the way through the dark hearts of the highlands.
