Joking, we say that the gulls are the souls of the soldiers and officers who have died through the years. There is no shore close by but still here they are. A lot of them. We see them in the morning, ghostly, and hear their loud screeches. They exercise manoeuvres on the field, in the middle of the garrison. They fly a little and then settle in a new formation, then fly a little again and yet another formation. All the while they keep screeching, giving commands and repeating them. Morning after morning we see them on that field. What war are they preparing for? Their feathers are as white as the bones of the skeleton at the front of our classroom. The skeleton is a plastic one but sometimes I find myself wondering if it was modelled on someone. In the middle of our long lessons I wonder who it was. Its bones are beautiful. So proportional. They all fit together so nicely. There are many ways in which a human can be injured, we are told, in which the balance can be broken. We go through them, one after another, and learn to use all kinds of rubber tubes, splints, boards, bandages and other appliances with which we could help save someone’s life, one day. The skeleton keeps standing there, with its ironic smile, as though it was contemplating something that no one else is seeing.
On the fields outside, the birds have settled and the sun has taken their place on the sky. Their screeches have almost gone quiet. The hares still run around though, as busy as they always are in spring. They cannot see us well, because it is too dark in here and outside the sun is shining bright, but it almost looks as though they were observing us. Their eyes are large and secretive. Their ears twitch slightly.
The Other Train 