Overnight train journeys feel like another country, I’ve always thought. First, you set off from a city terminus, a vast edifice echoing with its muffled sound-track of sparse activity mixed with occasional dolorous announcements that sound like spectral chants in a long-abandoned abbey, then you gain speed through a monochrome slideshow of disappearing reality, and finally you plunge into black nothingness. In hope? In expectation? Or maybe just to sleep. Aroused occasionally, perhaps, by a breakneck streak of light in the dark – a flash, the clanging of a bell, a momentary remission of the gloom – but only for an instant, before the shroud envelops you again.

Night trains south from Paris leave from Austerlitz terminus. A long cold wait. Then a scramble for a private space, and, if you’re lucky, one of those semi-compartment sections, which some older French trains boast. This time, yes!, facing bank seats, well-worn, a fairly dirty grey, threadbare in places, should be for eight, but just for me tonight, with luck. It looked like an abandoned corner, across from an exit and completely bare, as if it wasn’t really expecting to be needed, and certainly not preferred. I took one side. I suppose I should have put something to ‘occupy’ the other side, but I didn’t. Just left it empty. Perhaps I was hoping for an attractive young female to share the lonely night, and maybe she would get off at Toulouse as well, a stranger to the city and seeing her looking lost, then – “I know this place a little, can I help you to find your way?” – you know the drill.
 

Before we departed, the familiar routine – an untidy procession of zombie-like figures lumbering past me, glancing, jealous and curiously hesitant, before moving on in hope of a more congenial space. Occasionally a lively group of revellers, and then I disport my sternest aspect: then you’ll not see a more fearsome ‘dog-in-the-manger’ than mine. That is, unless you’re the attractive young female whose destination I might happen to share.
 

I can’t go to the loo, though, because I can’t risk leaving my haven unattended, so I have to sit it out until we are underway. And then a bit, for safety.
 

We start with a jolt. Shock and after-shocks in fact. This train pre-dates the continuously connected ‘rames’. This one has an engine and separate coaches, which jerk in succession as they string themselves out to their full length launching us into the night. The platform slides past, occasional loved-ones left standing, in sorrow and hope. I can see past our platform and look out over parallel launching pads, all deserted, for we are the only voyagers into this night, it appears.
 

We seem to gather speed quite quickly – less traffic at night? – emerging from the walled-enclave of the station approach, I find myself grateful for the tag-end of the city and its passing glimpses of commuter stops, Ivry-sur-Seine, Vitry-sur-Seine, Les Ardoises, and soon the airport (but that seems like a whole other materiality), and then almost uninterrupted darkness, and my own insubstantial image staring back at me out of a black mirror.
 

There’s no movement in the carriage now. Safe to get up.
 

Out in the corridor, which isn’t really a corridor because for most of the carriage length it’s not divided from the table seating areas, even so, standing just outside my ‘haven’, I can see the length of the carriage, and, mostly, activity has subsided. Right at the far end, even the group of revellers have settled down, some lying across each other, others curling up in solitary nests of packs and coats, a couple playing cards. Halfway down the carriage towards me, in a doorless ‘compartment’ like mine, a shock of bright yellow settling into a corner, bending over to re-arrange, now relaxing into the back of the seat, resting her head back against the cushion – yes, it’s a young woman – and looking straight at me. I’m too far away to see if there’s a smile. Then the lights go down. Night lighting. Is it safe, so little light? Of course the eyes adjust. I stay facing down the carriage, as dark shapes start to reappear, but even then it’s the shock of bright yellow, hardly dulled by the gloom, that glimmers. I can’t see whether she is still looking towards me, though, as I turn to find the loo.
 

I could not believe that I was in there very long.
 

When I think back, and most likely it was no more than the sudden roar as we entered a tunnel – quite unnerving with this old and noisy rolling-stock – but I felt a sense of something having changed, when I emerged. Looking down the carriage there was now nothing visible except dark shapes. The revellers at the far end had been lost in the penumbra when the lights dimmed, and now no figures at all were distinguishable. The shock of bright yellow halfway down must have dulled. I screwed up my eyes to be sure it was still there. I nearly gave way to the impulse to walk down the corridor, and on down the train maybe, just to check… but I didn’t, and I turned into my own space and sat myself down in a corner. Unsettled. Because now I wasn’t sure whether I had ever seen her. And if I hadn’t, then this night-train was starting to revive ghoulish childhood images of ghostly trains clattering through empty stations, mindless of their hapless passengers.
 

It was a while before I blinked and brought myself back into my little sanctuary, allowing my eyes to properly re-focus, as it happened, on the bench seat opposite. Before, I had thought it empty, devoid of any traveller’s encumbrances, but now I saw that in the corner by the window there was a book. For a while I just sat staring at it. No, wondering about it, and not just as some detail noticed and disregarded. Tell me it’s what the spookiness of a night-train in a foreign country does to you, by all means, but this book seemed to have its own presence in an existential sort of way, like the disregarded clue in a crime film, that the camera keeps going back to.
 

Having decided that it had definitely not been there all the time, it became a question of how long to wait to see if the owner came back. After 20 minutes it was looking fairly unlikely that they would reappear. But there were no services on this train, so why move if you were settled? And then I had one of those lightning thought intrusions… what if the book’s owner had no intention of coming back… can you get out of this train on the move… or something even worse… I remembered the shock of bright yellow, which I could not be certain about still being there…
 

One of those involuntary dozing nods and my head jerked back as my neck cracked. “Wake up Robert, this isn’t Murder on the Orient Express”, I told myself, and, now fully awake, I reached across to pick up the book. Even from where I was sitting I could see it was not your usual trashy novel (roman de gare as the French aptly call them). The cover was dark blue and mostly taken up by a mythical style of illustration emblazoned with “Russian Fairy Tales” (in English). Definitely not my usual read, but these were not my usual surroundings. It was a new hardback copy and had a nice feel, so I went to the contents and came to a list of five stories, of which the “Firebird” in the last title caught my eye. The name resonated because of Stravinsky’s ballet music, which I had heard several times, but without paying any particular attention to the story behind it. Here, now, was the story. With a frisson of excitement I turned to the page and found… not one story, but two. Arriving at the start of “Tsarevich Ivan, the Firebird and the Grey Wolf” I found a collection of small tear-off sheets completely covered in a diminutive, rather wayward, handwriting and addressed at the head of the first page to a “Zephyrine”. A journal? Jottings? A love letter carelessly abandoned? I hesitated, slightly churlish at prying into another’s personal affair, though wondering, nevertheless, whether I would read the story or the looseleaf addendum first.
 

I was also vaguely conscious that the vibe around me had changed again.
 

~~~
 

There are many versions of the Firebird story. This is one.
 

In a poor village on the Russian steppe lived an orphan girl who scraped a living by embroidering onto fine cloth, which rich people brought to her for her special designs. Her skill at embroidery was renowned and recognised far and wide, because somewhere in every design was a bird with red and yellow and gold feathers, which meant that important people  could show off their garment for its unique origin. The bird became known as the Firebird for its deep red body and its long bright yellow tail-feathers.
 

There also lived an evil sorcerer, whose name was Kaschei, who, to the misfortune of all the people in that part of the country, was immortal. He heard about the orphan girl, whose name was Maryushka, and how her embroidery was the finest that could be found in all of Russia and better than anything that he had in his castle. Of course he had to possess such a marvel for himself and, more than that, he had to possess its source as well, so he went to find Maryushka and commanded her to make a cloth with the most magnificent firebird she had ever created and in return he would make her his Queen. She duly made the fabulous cloth for Kaschei, but before she gave it to him, she told him that she would not leave the village of her parents and so she could not come as Queen to his castle, though of course he could come and live in her village. Kaschei was enraged and when he saw that the girl was defiant and that all the people of the place were standing with her in support and he was powerless to change her mind, he cast a spell, and, tearing the embroidered firebird from the cloth, he gave it Maryushka’s own life, so that it flew high above the village, red and gold and yellow in the blue sky. But he was not finished, for he turned himself into a great black falcon and swooped and caught the firebird in his talons to carry her away to his castle. But the firebird could not bear to be forgotten in her home village and so she shed her yellow tail feathers onto the land below, magic feathers that would never go dull and would be prized for their colour. Then, as the last feather fluttered to earth, she died.
 

But this is not the end of the story, for Kaschei learns that the tail feathers have been scattered and he cannot re-create the firebird as his Queen without them. So he sends hunters out onto the steppe to look for them, and occasionally a hunter comes back with one of the feathers. Each time he adds the new feather to the firebird’s tail to try to complete the magic, but each time nothing happens and the firebird lies lifeless because its tail is still not complete. Now all the hunters have returned and still the bird has no life. Kaschei rages at anyone who comes into his presence and when he is not raging he becomes sullen and depressed. He believed himself to be omnipotent and immortal, and, maybe he is still immortal, but he can see no future in that if he is not omnipotent as well.
 

Now, in many versions of this story the yellow tail feathers have a special significance, because they mean that the person who finds them is faced with a long and arduous journey, by which we must also understand that a journey does not always mean travel but can mean instead the accomplishment of difficult tasks.
 

One night Kaschei has a dream in which the firebird appears and tells him that she will marry him and be his Queen, but first he must throw his book of spells and magic into the castle’s great well and renounce immortality and omnipotence, and, after he has done this, he must go back to her village and make it his home. He must give the people all they need to be comfortable for the rest of their lives. After this he can build himself a fine house there, but not a castle. And the morning after he has accomplished all these things, he will go out into his garden and find the last yellow feather.
 

And so it was. A happy ending.
 

~~~
 

And so it was…

But… something’s different… there's no sound… at all...

We're no longer moving…
 

The train has stopped. In darkness. No lights outside. My own tinted monochrome image looks back at me out of the black screen of the carriage window.
 

It occurs to me that I should go in search of an explanation. But I don’t, I just go on sitting, unmoving in a motionless train. If something has gone wrong, would there not be an announcement, one of the crew coming down the carriage waking people up? But there’s no-one. Nothing stirs. It feels like we are hanging in space. Life disjointed.
 

I don’t even remember coming to a halt. Was I asleep?
The second story has dropped from the book and is lying on the floor. Cautiously, I bend down to recover the scattered sheets.
 

“Zephyrine”, it starts. An unusual name. The west wind.

Zephyrine,

So many small vibrations distracting me now. Our evening left me hanging. So close, now so far.

You vanished after our kiss at midnight.

“Cinderella”.

I looked for you everywhere, but you were gone. You said you were going to Malaga, so I am hoping… no, I’m longing, you must go this way, the train’s first stop is Toulouse..

Who are you, Zephyrine?

No, you are Cinderella. I looked everywhere for your shoe, something of yours, so that I knew you were real.

….

“Cinderella”. I can’t stop myself thinking about her, the memory of the evening comes back so vividly. A fairy tale.

Was she really there, or was it no more than a wisp of smoke? She felt real, but now, no trace. Not even a shoe, just a scrap of paper with a number. And the number goes into space. Empty shoe!

….

So, Malaga, you said. You must be coming to Toulouse. Will you stop and let me meet you again, the exquisite dancer, whose kiss so unsettled me. Long, long kiss. Your arms tight around my neck. ‘Meet again’, you said. But only the scrap of paper with a number which goes into space.

Perhaps I dreamed it and it is to Morpheus that I should be writing this.

But your presence with me helps the journey pass. Yearning to see you again. But how? Where will you stop on the way? I want to see you in Toulouse.

….

Perhaps you are not “Zephyrine”. Were you hiding from me with another name? But I want you to be Zephyrine, the west wind, the wind with warm gentle breezes, attendant of Cupid, god of love.

Cinderella vanished and I might never find her. But the west wind always comes again.

….

I cannot come to you, Zephyrine, you won’t allow me. What must I do?

Yes, what must I do, so that I can feel again your body against mine, your long lingering kiss? Not a last kiss.

Tell me what must happen so that Cinderella becomes Zephyrine again.
 

A shadow wafted out of my eye-line along the corridor, but there was no sound. I sat completely still, focused all my attention, but there was nothing else. I shivered, and then I noticed a page of the book, which was lying on the seat beside me, was fluttering. I was puzzled that there should be a draught, even though we were stationery, and I went out into the corridor and into the door space. The window was wide open. There was no ready explanation and it seemed incomprehensible that it could have been open since we left, because that would have been obvious, as I was sitting only a few yards from the door. I pulled it shut and slowly returned to my haven, glancing down the carriage on the way.
 

Had I been asleep? Was I still dozing? I was sitting down again before my mind processed what I had seen looking down the carriage. Or rather, not seen. Only now did I realise that there had been no yellow in that space. I got up quickly and went out into the passage to look again. There was no yellow anywhere. I panicked and was about to set off down the carriage when the train started again with a violent jolt, which had me reeling, arms out to grab anything that would prevent me crashing backwards down on the floor. In vain. I landed very heavily, my head cracking sharply and noisily against a metal runner sending shivers of pain  bouncing round my skull.
 

It was a couple of minutes before I struggled back to my feet and staggered to my seat. I could feel blood on the back of my head and rummaged through my bag to find something to cover it, but I remember little else, until I was awakened by the hollow tones of a station announcement. It was 5.30am. I was in Toulouse. On a silent train at a deserted platform.
 

It took me a while to piece together what had happened. My head was throbbing and I wondered if there was a first aid post on the station. Forlorn hope, I decided, there being no sign of movement anywhere. In a daze I gathered up my things. The book of “Russian Fairy Tales” was closed. I thought that slightly odd, because, last thing, the pages had been fluttering in the breeze. That was how I ended up with this mighty headache.
 

As I stumbled towards the doorway, I saw a bright yellow post-it note stuck inside the compartment window. On it was a mobile number, then:  ‘Call me,  Zephyrine.  xx’

(This story was inspired by hand-written sheets, which the author found in a second-hand book, and which had been written on an overnight train from Paris to Toulouse. Names, other than Cinderella, have been changed.)