The Island of Sodor has always been a place of order, industry, and tradition. Nestled in the Irish Sea between England and the Isle of Man, it's a land where the work of engines and the rattling of coaches provide a rhythmic heartbeat to the rolling hills and bustling coastal towns. For years, the North Western Railway had thrived under the watchful eye of Sir Topham Hatt, known to all as the Fat Controller.
To the engines, the world was a simple place: there were rails to follow, trucks to pull, and passengers to deliver. The mainland was across the bridge at Vicarstown, and the sea was always where it ought to be.
But one warm, Tuesday afternoon in July, the "simple" world of Sodor decided to change forever.
The day had begun normally enough. Thomas was busy on his branch line, whistling cheerfully to the cows in the meadows. James was boasting about his red paint at Knapford, and Gordon was preparing to pull the Wild Nor' Wester, the pride of the line.
"Hurry up! Hurry up!" Gordon hissed at the coaches. "The Express must not be kept waiting! Important people are expecting to be in London by tea-time!"
"The mainland will still be there if we're five minutes late, Gordon," teased Duck, who was shunting nearby. "Peace and patience are the hallmarks of Great Western tradition."
Gordon gave a dismissive snort that sent a cloud of soot over Duck's clean funnel. "The mainland is our destination, and time is our master. Neither waits for 'tradition,' Great Western or otherwise!"
As the clock struck two, the Fat Controller stepped out of his office. He looked at his pocket watch, nodded with satisfaction, and signaled for the guard to blow his whistle. With a mighty roar of steam, Gordon surged out of the station, his blue paint shimmering in the sun.
But as Gordon approached the Vicarstown Bridge, he noticed something peculiar. The sky, which had been a clear, brilliant blue, began to take on a strange, pearlescent hue. It wasn't a cloud, exactly; it looked more like the inside of an oyster shell—swirling with pinks, greens, and golds.
"Disgraceful!" Gordon grumbled. "A sea mist in the middle of the afternoon? It'll make the rails slippery!"
He didn't realize that the mist wasn't coming from the sea.
It was coming from everywhere.
Down at Brendam Docks, Porter and Arthur were helping Salty marshal a train of China Clay trucks. Suddenly, the gulls stopped crying. The constant "thrum-thrum" of the cranes went silent as the dockworkers stared out at the horizon. The Irish Sea, usually a choppy grey-blue, was being swallowed by a wall of shimmering white light.
"Cinders and ashes," Arthur whispered, his old cylinders trembling. "I don't think that's weather, Salty."
"Nay, matey," Salty replied, his usual jovial tone replaced by a quiet awe. "That looks like the stories the old sailors tell—the ones about the edge of the world."
Then, the sound hit them.
It wasn't a bang, but a deep, resonant hum—the kind of sound a giant bell might make if struck underwater.
On his branch line, Thomas felt his wheels lift just a fraction of an inch off the rails. "Help! Stop! I'm floating!" he cried. But his driver and fireman couldn't help him; they were clutching the sides of the cab, watching as the trees in the valley seemed to stretch and warp like reflections in a funhouse mirror.
For ten long seconds, every living soul, whether machine or person, on the Island of Sodor felt a sensation of falling upward. The birds went silent, the wind died, and the very air tasted of ozone and ancient stone.
Then, with a sudden, jarring thump that rattled every set of points on the line, the world returned to stillness.
Gordon was the first to regain his senses. He had been halfway across the bridge when the "mist" hit. Now, as the shimmering light faded, he found himself at a dead stand. His brakes were hard on, and his safety valve was hissing loudly in the sudden silence.
"Driver? Fireman?" Gordon called out, his voice uncharacteristically shaky. "Are you quite alright?"
"I think so, Gordon," his driver gasped, climbing up from the floor of the cab. "But... look at the gauges. The pressure is fine, but the air... it feels different."
Gordon looked out over the valley. He expected to see the familiar sight of the mainland stretching beyond the bridge—the factories, the cathedral spire, the endless web of tracks leading to London. Instead, there was only a forest where blue was where green should be along with a purple sky where blue had been before. "Confound it!" he bellowed, steam erupting from his safety valve in great, panicked bursts. "The mainland has gone missing!"
Now, dear readers, you must understand that engines are not accustomed to losing entire continents. When Percy once misplaced his mail trucks, it caused a dreadful muddle—but this? This was like waking up to find your entire bedroom had been replaced with a circus tent overnight. Poor Gordon was Quite Cross Indeed.
"This," Gordon huffed, "is not the way to London."
Across the island, the story was the same. At Knapford Station, the Fat Controller stumbled out onto the platform. His top hat was slightly crooked, but he straightened it immediately, out of habit. He looked toward the station throat, expecting to see the busy shunting yards.
The yards were there, and the engines were there—Percy was trembling behind some stone trucks, and James was looking at his reflection in a puddle that seemed to be turning into silver—but the world beyond the railway fences had changed.
"Sir! Sir!" Percy wailed, his eyes wide as dinner plates. "The mainland! It's gone! We've been sent to the moon!"
"Don't be so sure, Percy," the Fat Controller said sternly, though his own hands were shaking as he reached for his pocket watch. "The moon does not have an atmosphere capable of supporting steam combustion, nor does it have... such a purple sky."
He looked around the platform. Passengers were stepping out of their coaches, murmuring in confusion. Some were crying, but most were simply stunned into silence.
"Stationmaster!" the Fat Controller bellowed. "Inform all stations via the telegraph. I want a status report from every signal box from Vicarstown to Arlesdale! We must determine the extent of this... geographic anomaly."
"Sir," the stationmaster stammered, holding a telephone receiver. "The lines... they work, but only within the island. We've lost contact with Barrow-in-Furness. There's no signal from the mainland at all."
The Fat Controller looked out at the violet sky. He realized with a sinking heart that the bridge at Vicarstown probably led to nowhere now.
By late afternoon, the initial panic had subsided into a grim, industrious confusion. The people of Sodor were a hardy lot, and the engines, while prone to vanity and sulking, were fundamentally built for work.
The Fat Controller had organized a crisis meeting at Knapford. He had called for all the engines that could arrive to do so.
"Everyone," the Fat Controller said, standing on a baggage crate so he could be seen. "We find ourselves in a most... irregular situation. It appears the entire Island of Sodor has been removed from the Irish Sea and placed... elsewhere."
"Is it magic, sir?" Rosie asked quietly.
"I am a railway director, Rosie, not a wizard," the Fat Controller replied. "But I can not seem to find a scientific explanation for floating mountains. However, a railway must run. We have people to feed, livestock to tend, and order to maintain. Until we understand more, we must proceed as usual—just without the mainland."
Now, dear readers, you must understand that engines are not accustomed to teleporting islands. When Thomas once got stuck in a muddy ditch, it caused quite a fuss—but this? This was like discovering your entire railway had been lifted onto a giant's dining table overnight.
Poor Percy was particularly perturbed indeed.
By nightfall, strange constellations swirled in the violet sky—not the familiar shapes of Orion or the Plough, but jagged patterns that seemed to whisper in a language older than coal. At Tidmouth Sheds, most of the engines (even those that had never been to Tidmouth before) huddled closer than usual, their buffers almost touching. Thomas, usually so cheeky, was uncharacteristically quiet. "I don't like it," he muttered, "The stars are all wrong."
Gordon was the next to speak, his deep voice trembling ever so slightly—a rarity for the proud Express engine. "This is most irregular," he huffed, his steam valve letting out a nervous puff. "One does not simply *misplace* an entire coastline. The mainland was *right there* this morning!" His driver patted his buffer beam reassuringly before he left, though the man's own hands weren't entirely steady when he did.
Meanwhile, down at the docks, Salty was spinning wild tales to the shunting engines—stories of ghost ships and vanishing islands, which only made Murdoch's firebox run cold. "Arr, it be the work of Davy Jones himself!" Salty croaked, his usual sea shanties replaced by ominous mutterings.
But Cranky, the grumpy old crane, wasn't having any of it. "Nonsense," he groaned. "If we were underwater, we'd be rusting already. Use your funnel, you daft diesel!"
You must understand that engines do not take kindly to being called "daft," especially by cranes. Poor Salty was so sore indeed as Porter, Harvey, and Murdoch were sore for him as well. "Ye'd best mind yer hooks, Cranky!" Salty hissed, his pistons puffing indignantly. "Or ye might find yerself hoist by yer own petard!"
Now Murdoch was a simple mighty engine, when he was brought to help out the engines with their heavy workloads. Because of his size and strength, Salty and Harvey were eager to learn more about him when he first arrived on the Island of Sodor.
Murdoch, however, disliked the noise of their chatter at first and he ended up getting cross with them. The next day, Murdoch had a chance to pull a train through the quiet countryside.
Unfortunately though, his journey was interrupted by a flock of sheep that strayed onto the line. Murdoch had to wait with the noisy sheep until Toby the Steam Tram could bring the farmer to lead them away. That night, Murdoch found Salty's and Harvey's company a relief and they had been friends ever since then, even when Porter came along to help with the ever increasing work at Brendam Docks.
Poor Murdoch was feeling quite put out Indeed. As the violet twilight deepened over Brendam Docks, he huffed loudly, sending steam swirling around his massive wheels. "Magic or no magic," he grumbled, "a railway still needs coal and water—and I don't fancy drinking sky-colored puddles!" Porter and Harvey exchanged glances, their buffers trembling slightly.