The Stationmaster

I suppose one day my services will no longer be required to man the platforms. Modernisation encroaches on us all... "Ticket machines," indeed. Good for addition, I don’t doubt. Always with the correct change. Yet somewhat lacking in the human touch. Hm. Like my thunderous mechanic companions here.

Oh, I doff my cap to them, though. For how many centuries they patrolled these stations alone, who can say. I pride myself on punctuality and dedication, but they are the original article.

What faces they must have seen. Many gentlemen explorers – ladies, too – have stepped before you into Agartha’s honeyed halls. That pleasant Norwegian chap, for one. Amundsen. Yes, you’re in fine company, fine company indeed. Ah, I vouch a ticket machine wouldn’t tell you that.

You’ll get used to the balmy temperature. It’s for the bees, they prefer it. Their honey is remarkable, though the aftertaste – a little like machine oil. Her Majesty once commented favourably on Agartha to me, "A work of quite miraculous craftsmanship." I believe to tour it was one of her few joys after Albert passed.

Well, try not to approach all this as something unnatural. It may not follow the, ah, accepted theories of the Earth’s consistency. I assure you, though, it is very much a part of our world.

Over the years, these halls have expanded and contracted with the growth of the Tree. Like breathing, I expect. Fresh branches find their way to the surface, to many different surfaces. The older growth, further down, leads to other places in other times. Stacked like those Russian dolls that were all the rage in Paris. Why I encountered myself as a young man once. Heh. Heh. Curious thing.

Topside-speaking, I admit to falling a touch behind the times. Out of date. You understand, though, a massive floramechanical network won’t run itself. One always finds something needing doing down here. I’m certainly more of a groundsman than an engineer. Were we vanished from the world – perish the thought – Agartha would still perpetuate. A golden age without tarnish. Hmm. I say "without tarnish," but in confidence, troubling events are afoot.

Tremors, like a distant thunder. Outpourings of an horrific, black water... I believe it gathers far beneath us in great reservoirs. And yet I haven’t the nerve to put that theorem to the test.

Well, listen to me go on about the rot in the Tree of Life! You have so many pressing cloak-and-dagger affairs to see to, up there in the world of man. I shouldn’t think there’s anything to worry about. Not yet.