Breathe Easy On the Sleep Railroad: A Story for Kids

This is Rhea. Welcome to Little Stories for Tiny People. Why do I feel hot all of a sudden? Oh, I hope I don't have a fever. Oh, it's just the fireplace blazing in my tiny little studio. Well, whether you have a fever or not, I think you will enjoy this story. And it's a bit lengthy, so let's get things rolling. It's called Breathe Easy on the Sleep Railroad. Take it away, Chloe. Remember, there are no pictures. You have to imagine the pictures in your mind. You can imagine them however you want. Okay, here we go. Lambden was sick. Sicker than he'd been in years. It was no wonder, really, given that for the last month at school, as Professor Honeywool discussed the intricacies of spinning wheels, and Mr. Huffley took the students on an enlightening tour of the wool trade throughout history, and Mrs. Jarnson detailed the mechanics of yarn-dying, young sheep all around Lambden, cough, and sneezed, and generally spread their germs as far and as wide as possible. Professor Honeywool, we're out of tissues again. Please have your parents send tissues, children. Even so, Lambden usually sailed through the winter months with Neri a sniffle. He was so apparently immune, he'd taken to volunteering in the nurse's office during his after lunch study hall. Lambden, do you have any Super Lamb Band-Aids? We're all out. We've got Blue Band-Aids. All right. Soon, the doldrums of winter lifted and spring bloomed fully and insistently. The coughs in class subsided and unopened tissue boxes piled up in Professor Honeywool's classroom closet. Please have your parents stop sending tissues, children. And it seemed that, yet again, Lambden had made it through the chilly months without so much as a head cold. It seemed as though he was in the clear until last Thursday in math class. Lambden, give us your answer. How many spools of thread would you need to sew zippers into 3,026 felted wool jackets, keeping in mind that each jacket has four zippered pockets? Okay, he could not seem to clear the newly formed, highly uncomfortable, scratchy lump from his throat. 27. Very good, Lambden. Why don't you take a trip to the water fountain? The water did little, nor did the tea with honey he made himself at home. And the following morning, he woke up with his head pounding and his throat throbbing and his limbs led in. So much so that he had to admit it had finally happened. He was truly, undeniably, under the weather. He spent the day in bed, alternating between sweating so much he had to kick off his blanket and shivering so vigorously he piled on extra comforters. His head felt strangely far away from him and his mind was fuzzy as if it too were coated in a thick layer of wool. His eyeballs hurt when he moved them, so when his mother came in at noon to replenish his chamomile tea, he turned his whole head to look at her. His nose was so clogged he couldn't breathe through it at all. The worst part of his illness was that he couldn't even pass the time reading. He was smack in the middle of a thrilling adventure story and was desperate to know how it ended. But every time he propped the book beside his pillow, its words swam before his eyes. His exhaustion overtook him and he was forced to close it and return it to its place on his bedside table. There was something else dragging him down as well. Now that he was truly ill, he would not be able to board the sleep train, the enchanted locomotive he had ridden nearly every night for years, the one that lulled him to sleep with its charming performances, its tranquil music, and its cozy blankets. The sleep train had a firm policy on the matter. Many a time, Lambden had seen the towering moose nudge passengers out of line for the crime of an audible sniffle. Eloise, my dear, was it you who just emitted that worrisome sound? Uh, yeah? A coughing fit brought on by dry air? That was more than enough to get you booted. Sinclair, let me have Theodore here escort you out. But off you go. Boarding the train was out of the question. He would not be welcome until he was restored to health. Lambden spent the entire afternoon trying and failing to sleep and he came to understand, slowly, given the fogginess of his mind, that he was in for a very long, very fitful night. I don't know about you, but when I'm sick in bed, time seems to stretch and warp so that an hour, dull and colorless as it is when you are ill, can feel more like a day. That was true for Lambden. He fell into a rough, unsettled sleep in mid-afternoon and woke up with a start. Seeing the moon against a dark sky out the window, he assumed it was well past midnight. It took turning his whole head to study the clock, combined with several effortful seconds during which the numbers came into a fuzzy focus. For him to understand, he'd only slept a few hours. It was early evening. He had a long, dark night to endure before the sun came up. Exhausted from this brief exercise in concentration, Lambden slumped back in bed, his head landing like a weight upon his pillow. That's when he heard it. All aboard! This is the final call for boarding the Sleep Railroad. As a reminder, tonight is the debut of Wellness Wednesday, a new offering especially for those sick in bed. Under the weather passengers can join us and be well for the entirety of our evening ride. Just turn your Sleep Railroad knob for a peaceful, ailment-free evening. It took a moment for Lambden to even register that someone was speaking, that the sound was not a figment of his profoundly murky imagination. Wellness Wednesday. Those sick in bed can be well. A ailment-free evening? It was as if the words had to cross an ocean to reach him, but reach him slowly and falteringly. They did. Usually, the idea of boarding the Sleep Railroad, the Sleep Train's competitor, which soothed passengers to sleep with boring speeches rather than enchanting performances, would be a let down. Not tonight could I actually be well for the evening? There was only one way to find out. Lambden mustered every shred of strength within him to sit up and peel back his pillow. There was his Sleep Train button, gray and unwelcoming, and there beside it was the Sleep Railroad knob. A swirl of sparkling mist encircled it. Curiously, through his unreachable nose, Lambden thought he smelled eucalyptus, perhaps a touch of lavender. How very curious. All aboard. The Sleep Railroad will depart in just- Lambden shakily turned the Sleep Railroad knob, and a puff of glittering powder came bursting up from his pillow. He let out a cough as the world around him disappeared into a sparkly haze. He fell through darkness for what felt like minutes, but it had to have been seconds. Then he landed with a heavy thud and felt rushing water all around him. Whoa, the waterslide sent him careening around turns and upside down in loops, and just as he was filling with regret for coming at all, it deposited him with a splash in a tunnel. Lambden narrowly kept his footing, wobbling on unsteady hoofs. His head pounded something awful, and he somehow was both burning up and wracked with chills, all at the same time. His throat was a desert, and his ears felt like there were flies wandering around inside them. In short, he was very ill, and glancing around at the dimly lit tunnel, he believed he had no business being anywhere except at home in bed. He turned his whole head, it still hurt to move his eyes, to look up and behind him, but the waterslide had vanished, and only darkness remained. Ah, no way back, he muttered, turning around, he saw a warm light ahead of him, and with a choice between darkness and light, Lambden chose the light. On shaky hoofs, he stepped forward in the dim tunnel and nearly toppled over a metal turnstile that hit him right in the midsection. Lambden groaned, hit too with another dose of regret at leaving his bed. He felt like a fool as he stepped haltingly through the turnstile, and something happened that took Lambden's breath away. Scratch that entirely, it did not take his breath away, quite the opposite, for the first time since yesterday, he could breathe through his nose. The throbbing in his head calmed to a low hum, his eyes no longer hurt when he moved them. His sore throat felt merely dry, the heat in his forehead dropped to a not altogether unpleasant warmth. The chills in his limbs lessened to a tolerable coolness. It was as if there existed a volume dial of Lambden's symptoms, and someone had just turned it way down. And though his illness had not completely left him, the relative wellness he suddenly felt compared to moments earlier was enough to thoroughly raise his spirits, even though he was still soaking wet from the waterslide. But that was soon remedied by the dryers that descended from the ceiling. Lambden was so relaxed, he barely registered the subsequent arrival of the bats. The three of them rushed at him with a set of waffle knit cotton pajamas, then disappeared as swiftly as they derived. He was left perfectly dry, with profoundly poofy wool alone in the tunnel. Torches lit the way. Lambden heard a distant chime and set off toward it with an ease in his stride. Hope lifted in his decongested chest. He rounded the bend in the tunnel and saw a line of pajama-clad animals snaking away from a modern train with a sleek exterior. All was as he expected, but as Lambden neared, he saw the animals passing one by one through a sparkling cloud of mist before stepping aboard the sleep railroad. The towering moose's identical twin sister, observed each customer pass through the small cloud, waited for the lantern in her hoof to light up green, then shoot them aboard. There you are. Off you go. Step aboard, please. The line moved swiftly, with the light turning green again and again, prompting passengers forward, yawning. There were coughs here and there, but otherwise, there was no indication that the animals were anything but well. Soon enough, it was Lambden's turn. Hello, good evening. Step through the sanitizing mist, please. On any other evening, Lambden may have hesitated, may have asked a few questions about this mysterious substance before entering it, but with his symptoms dialed down, he was much more relaxed than usual. He strode into the tiny cloud, and he meant to keep on striding right up the stairs, but the moose blocked his way. I'll need you to step aside, please. It was then that Lambden saw the lantern had not turned green. It was bright red. The moose ushered him off to the side, and motioned for the line to keep moving. Must be very ill. She muttered as she unclipped a walkie talkie from her belt. Elmer, I need you to spray down a passenger at the boarding gate. Elmer, spray down needed at the boarding gate. Roger that. Lambden was first confused, and then alarmed when he saw Elmer headed his way. Spray him down, will you? The moose said, and turned her attention to the line. Lambden gulped as he was left at the mercy of a gruff looking, uniformed skunk. Before Lambden could come up with a reason why his failed trip through the sanitizing mist should result in his being sprayed by a skunk, Elmer withdrew a bottle from his utility belt and began spritzing Lambden from head to hoof. Ah, oh, that, yep, that went in my eye. Sir, if you stand still, I'll be done in just a minute. The liquid in the spray bottle had a strong floral scent, and when the skunk finished and guided Lambden back in line, he smelled much like a walking pouch of potpourri. It didn't matter. He was very relieved. He was also the very last in the queue. The wallaby ahead of him hopped into the mist and was greenlit to board. It was Lambden's turn once again. The moose, standing beside the shimmering cloud, regarded him with a placid expression. As he took a step, she said, I must warn you, we only allow one red light per passenger. I'm afraid if your light isn't green, you will not be permitted to board. At that point, Lambden did not care. He was so grateful to be able to breathe through his nose. He'd have happily slept on the train platform. With a carefree smile to the moose, he stepped into the cloud of mist. In his periphery, he saw a glow of green and heard, Step aboard, please. There you are. Lemon ginger tea with a dollop of honey. Lambden nearly missed the small voice offering him tea. He looked down and saw a wide-eyed chipmunk stationed at the head of the cabin with a cart filled with thimble-sized tea cups. He drank the tea in a single swig that sent a surprising warmth through his torso and down to his hoofs. He stooped and returned the tiny dish to the chipmunk. Delicious, thank you. My pleasure. The sleep railroad had a different feel this evening. The air was warmer, slightly humid, and infused with a faint scent of eucalyptus and mint. The passengers appeared drowsier than usual, sniffling here and there, but seemingly at complete ease. No doubt enjoying their own dialed-down symptoms, sweetly serene music drifted from the speakers. There were only a handful of seats left, so Lambden took the first one he encountered, an aisle seat halfway back. He settled in beside a partridge, flipping through an issue of frisbee golf monthly. Studying up for a speech, Lambden said, surprising himself by attempting small talk while he was still, technically, under the weather. The partridge regarded him as if he'd lost his mind. Frisbee golf is much too stimulating a topic, where to bore creatures to sleep, not put them on the edge of their seats, nibbling at their talons with nervous excitement. Lambden vaguely wondered if he had lost his mind. Until the partridge burst out laughing. You should have seen your face. I really had you going. Yes, he said, wedging the magazine into the seatback pocket in front of him with a sigh. It's for a speech, though I was called last time, so it's unlikely you'll get to hear about how to expertly tilt one's disc in a light to moderate breeze. Lambden chuckled. My loss. He imagined for a moment what the towering moose and the sleep train might say. Lambden, it would behoove you to have a slumber inducing speech at the ready. You don't want to be caught with nothing mind numbingly dull to say should you win the lottery. No, do. But his musings were interrupted by a giraffe in the aisle. Therapeutics socks, aromatherapy neck pillow. No blankets in sight as usual on the sleep railroad, but for once Lambden truly did not mind. He gratefully accepted the items on offer. It is difficult to convey precisely how he'd felt since stepping through that turnstile. All day he'd been weighed down with illness, led in limbed, lethargic, woolly-minded. Gravity had seemed to multiply in force, keeping him chained to his bed. It had taken all his strength to simply turn the knob beneath his pillow. He had staggered from the water slide on wobbly hoofs. Then, relief. Ever since that moment, he'd felt a pleasant humming sensation up and down his frame. He had felt lighter than air as if he could levitate off the ground. So did he need a blanket for comfort that evening? No, he did not. He nestled, smiling absently, with his neck cradled in his pillow, and his hoofs warm in his socks as the sleep railroad began to move. Good evening, passengers. With the aid of our lottery system, we have selected tonight's first speaker. Will Carla B. Swan please approach the lectern and begin? A statuesque, white-feathered bird with a gracefully curved neck emerged from the aisle behind Lambden and sashayed to the lectern. The passengers quietly murmured their approval, undoubtedly joining Lambden in imagining that such a creature's voice would be as smooth and as dreamlike as a canoe gliding through a tranquil lake. Everyone was wrong. Hello. Tonight I will tell you about giving yourself a haircut. I personally have no experience with this, which makes me an impartial observer. The passengers shifted in their seats. My advice is mainly directed to creatures such as poodles, yaks, angora rabbits, some raccoons, and the occasional opossum. All such creatures were present on the sleep railroad with the exception of yaks. They perked up in their seats. My first piece of advice for giving yourself a haircut is do not give yourself a haircut. It's a bad idea and it will look like you did it. And the only person who will compliment you on your haircut is your mother and your aunt Wilma, who cannot see very well with or without her glasses on. The moose, seated on a stool at the head of the cabin, glanced around with mild alarm as giggles rippled through the aisles. If you insist on giving yourself a haircut, do not under any circumstances give yourself bangs. You will regret it not just for the day, but for the rest of your life. The moose furrowed her brow, but said nothing, likely because the swan had not broken any rules with her speech. If you insist on giving yourself bangs, make sure you don't cut them too short. However short you think they should be, it's too short. So cut them longer. Ask your sister, she'll tell you, she'll a chime rang out and startled relief was written all over the moose's pinched face. Thank you, Carla. Please return to your seat. Believe it or not, the partridge next to Lambden said leaning over that swan told me she's getting over the flu. Huh. As the next speaker was selected, a floppy eared rabbit hopped up and down the aisles handing out tiny packages. Oh, a throat lozinger. It's a throat lozinge. No, it's a lozinger. It's not. Buddy T Wilkin frog, please make your way to the lectern. A relaxed looking frog took his time approaching the microphone. Good evening. My speech is about planning a surprise party for a friend. The crowd withheld judgment undecided as to whether this was a sleep inducing topic. Additionally, they were placated by the throat lozingers. I mean lozenges, which tasted of elderberry and time. If the guest of honor isn't surprised at the party you've planned, then you've failed miserably. Most times animals plan surprise parties that are bound to be found out. For example, if this party is for your friend's birthday, you can almost guarantee the surprise will be ruined. News flash, your friend knows his birthday is coming. So you want to know the secret to planning a foolproof surprise party? The moose sat up straight on her stool. A hymn, she said, raising her brow and looking pointedly at the list of rules affixed to the wall. There are to be no rhetorical questions, nor are there to be secrets revealed. Sorry, let me tell you the secret. I mean the key to a foolproof plan for a truly shocking surprise party. The moose relaxed fractionally into her seat. Do not, I repeat, do not plan it around an occasion of any kind. Do not plan it around a birthday, an anniversary, a promotion, a demotion, a holiday, a bathroom remodel, a new pair of clogs, an interview for a coveted job, an interview for a lousy job. A passengers throughout the railcar began dropping off to sleep, lambed and yawned and settled heavily in his seat. It was a pleasant wait, nothing like what kept him in bed all day. He had the slightest headache and his forehead felt hot, but these were mere trifles. Buddy T Wilkenfrog went on at the microphone before an increasingly sleepy audience. There should be absolutely no reason for this party, because only when it is truly out of the blue can you legitimately surprise your friend so much that he falls over. Also, hold the party on a Thursday. Uh, thank you for that enlightening articulation. Buddy hopped unhurriedly to his seat at the rear of the cabin. Lambden did not see him go. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and regular. All around him, the railcar hushed as passengers nestled further into their seats. There were subtle signs that the animals were not fully well. The partridge beside Lambden wheezed lightly in his sleep. The fox, three rows down, tossed off his socks as his fever rose. The armadillo in the last row shivered with a chill every few minutes, but all of them, to a creature, were more at peace than they had been all day. At the microphone, a prairie dog praddled on about tried and true methods for bathing one's pet. If your pet is smaller than a shrew, a tupperware is an appropriate tub. If your pet is a salamander, soak for an extra 17 minutes. But no one was listening. Yonnes went up around the cabin. The moose dozed on her stool. Lambden's thoughts grew hazy. His mind quieted. Lambden eased his eyes open. It took him a second to understand that the sneezes he had just heard had not come from him. Those are dad's sneezes. Huh. He hesitated to look around his room. He remembered well the pain such an action could bring, but he found his eyes no longer hurt. In fact, nothing hurt. He had no headache, no sore throat. It was not until he attempted to rise from bed that he realized he was not fully well. No energy. None at all. This is perfect. Somehow, he'd struck it just right. No pain, but too sick to go to school. Sunlight streamed in his window. He relaxed into his bed. Grabbed the book to which he'd been longing to return, and settled in for a day of reading and rest. I started writing this story when I was under the weather. I thought, how wonderful would it be to dial down my symptoms. Perhaps this story will be a nice little escape for you when you are not feeling well. And if that's true, I hope you feel better very soon. Little Stories for Tiny People is written, performed, and produced by me, Rhea Pector. My in-house tech director, Peter Kay, runs my website and puts my stories in the internet for all of you to enjoy. Thank you to Chloe for the super important reminder message at the beginning. And thank you to the premium subscribers who supplied sound effects used in this story. Thank you to Hazel, Ayla, Brooke, Esme, Hana, May, Max, JD, Cameron, Nora, Izzy, Liam, Cordelia, Haley, Isabel, Delilah, Lareya, Kelly, Shay, Violet, Franny, Lucia, Lily, Adeline, August, Mason, Ellery, Florence, and Maya. And thank you, as always, for listening in.