One of the surprising things about the Phantom Train is that the train itself is a character, as much a character as any other in the book. It is conscious of what it does, where it goes and why. I have talked at length as to how I came up with the concept of the train, but giving it a voice is perhaps one of the hardest things I did.
In some ways I regret it because the train acts as an expositor in the end. It explains to the children what has happened to their father, that he has nearly given up on life. The interesting question, however, is why the train cares. This is a machine that ferries the dead to the other side, and somewhere in me I always thought it would not take a side in such a regard. Yet this machine of death has a spirit that values life. It not only saves our characters, it allows for them to board in order to let their mother pass on.
This is an act of compassion one doesn't usually think about in terms of death. Long ago, I imagined the train was the physical embodiment of death, given form to carry others where they needed to go. The Phantom Train is as mysterious as its conductor. Its origin can be imagined in the recesses of time. But in a way, this is how I would like to imagine the afterlife to be.
In the end, we know not what journey lies ahead. Death is the ultimate adventure, the ultimate question. Why can we not take it in the best of care and compassion, with the greatest of ease and speed. The Phantom Train is that essence, that hope. At the end of the line, we strive to see those who have gone before waiting on the platform with arms open and the great beyond stretching to a limitless horizon.
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