The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead

walls lined with dark and light colored stones in an alternating pattern. The sheer industry that had made such a project possible. Cora and Caesar noticed the rails. Two steel rails ran the visible length of the tunnel, pinned into the dirt by wooden crossties. The steel ran south and north presumably, springing from some inconceivable source and shootingtoward a miraculous terminus. Someone had been thoughtful enough to arrange a small bench on the platform. Cora felt dizzy and sat down.
    Caesar could scarcely speak. “How far does the tunnel extend?”
    Lumbly shrugged. “Far enough for you.”
    “It must have taken years.”
    “More than you know. Solving the problem of ventilation, that took a bit of time.”
    “Who built it?”
    “Who builds anything inthis country?”
    Cora saw that Lumbly relished their astonishment. This was not his first performance.
    Caesar said, “But how?”
    “With their hands, how else? We need to discuss your departure.” Lumbly pulled a yellow paper from his pocket and squinted. “You have two choices. We have a train leaving in one hour and another in six hours. Not the most convenient schedule. Would that our passengerscould time their arrivals more appropriately, but we operate under certain constraints.”
    “The next one,” Cora said, standing. There was no question.
    “The trick of it is, they’re not going to the same place,” Lumbly said. “One’s going one way and the other…”
    “To where?” Cora asked.
    “Away from here, that’s all I can tell you. You understand the difficulties in communicating all the changes inthe routes. Locals, expresses, what station’s closed down, where they’re extending the heading. The problem is that one destination may be more to your liking than another. Stations are discovered, lines discontinued. You won’t know what waits above until you pull in.”
    The runaways didn’t understand. From the station agent’s words, one route might be more direct but more dangerous. Was he sayingone route was longer? Lumbly would not elaborate. He had told them all he knew, he maintained. In the end, the slave’s choice lay before them, as ever: anyplace but where they had escaped. After consulting with his partner Caesar said, “We’ll take the next one.”
    “It’s up to you,” Lumbly said. He motioned toward the bench.
    They waited. At Caesar’s request the station agent told of how he cameto work for the underground railroad. Cora couldn’t pay attention. The tunnel pulled at her. How many hands had it required to make this place? And the tunnels beyond, wherever and how far they led? She thought of the picking, how it raced down the furrows at harvest, the African bodies working as one, as fast as their strength permitted. The vast fields burst with hundreds of thousands of whitebolls, strung like stars in the sky on the clearest of clear nights. When the slaves finished, they had stripped the fields of their color. It was a magnificent operation, from seed to bale, but not one of them could be prideful of their labor. It had been stolen from them. Bled from them. The tunnel, the tracks, the desperate souls who found salvation in the coordination of its stations and timetables—thiswas a marvel to be proud of. She wondered if those who had built this thing had received their proper reward.
    “Every state is different,” Lumbly was saying. “Each one a state of possibility, with its own customs and way of doing things. Moving through them, you’ll see the breadth of the country before you reach your final stop.”
    At that, the bench rumbled. They hushed, and the rumbling becamea sound. Lumbly led them to the edge of the platform. The thing arrived in its hulking strangeness. Caesar had seen trains in Virginia; Cora had only heard tell of the machines. It wasn’t what she envisioned. The locomotive was black, an ungainly contraption led by the triangular snout of the cowcatcher, though there would be few animals where