by Fran Wilde
“It’s not possible,” the historian said. “We’re from different shores.” They recalled the rock on the shore for the first moment in a long time and shivered.
You held up the map of the possible. “Maybe not so different after all.”
* * *
The historian walked the widening path of a single moment, immersed in you while history rushed past. The historian took no notes.
And then, and then because loss and gain ebb and flow through all histories, the future pushed in, like a meteor pushes on the atmosphere and does not break apart. Pushed past the moment, into coat closets and sitting rooms, and swept the historian and you up with it.
What darkness blotted, what shouts rang the night, you saw, you heard.
No longer historian, they ran when you did, they feared what you feared. They ached when you ached. They sought refuge in villages and valleys, among abandoned towers.
Among the frightened people, the historian saw familiar faces from their journeys. “We are lost, we cannot last.”
No one was different now: all shared the same hunger for safety and a place to hide.
They wandered lost together until one day they remembered who they were, where they’d come from. “I know a place to go,” they said. “I will share it with you.”
Once more navigator, they set out, neither leading nor following.
A Map of Small Empty Spaces
Villagers walked with the navigator through smoke-filled valleys and dry riverbeds. A few had been taller once, their clothes shone still. Few spoke. They wove carefully between the small fires, the riots. A dotted line of escape. The navigator grew taller, with clothes less dusty and worn. It became easy to follow them at night or through smoke. Through the sharp, crowded, loud places where lights once mapped a city, through valleys of salt and blood.
Shadows attacked. The navigator ran instead of fighting, for who could fight the future. Found small spaces empty of noise and danger. Their village’s passage made a map of havens and shelters, then swept those up behind them and left no trace.
The Plague Map
The dark shore still too far, and the navigator unceasing carried those that could be carried while others made a map of the fallen. The moving village contracted. Marked waypoints with speedily built cairns. There was a place for you on the map. The navigator walked away from it, carrying your child, their child, and the rest of the village. The village carried the navigator too, when the navigator stumbled. The village grew big enough to carry everyone remaining through the shadows and away.
A Momentary Lack of Maps
Sounds of unseeing passage through sorrow, through change.
A Map of Edges and Loss
Beyond the city whose towers filled with shadow maps and no living mapmakers, the dirt whispered dry curses while the navigator ran. Their arms filled, their feet struck heavy on the baked soil. The navigator felt themselves slowing, finally, after many cities and many histories, winding down, while the child grew slow and sure.
When they stumbled, the child helped steady them.
They tried not to think of where they were going, where they’d been. They drew maps as stories for the future to read. They put one foot in front of the other and sang quietly to the impossible child at their side, which was not a map, but a choice, a chance, a charge and a shift.
* * *
At the dark shore’s edge, the navigator stopped, remembering long-ago instructions. “We’ve returned,” they said. Ship did not unfold from beneath pieces of fallen space. The navigator found the captain, lying in the waves, eyes staring back to where they’d sailed.
“We can’t leave.” The captain breathed two long, painful passages and one short. Then three more. “We should not have come, shouldn’t linger; our ancestors thought…”
“We made many small mistakes along the way. And some large ones,” the navigator said.
“A new course,” the captain whispered. Their breathing stopped. Their destiny ran out.
The navigator marked the captain’s place. Then stood and looked at their child, and at the already settled land. They thought of you. Missed you. They were alone, and no longer alone; the dirt and salt traced patterns on their cheeks. They touched those places where the ground creased their skin.
“A map of beginnings.”
They waited while the child grew taller and tossed stones by the dark shore.
About the Author
Fran Wilde’s acclaimed short stories have appeared in Asimov’s, Nature, and Beneath Ceaseless Skies. Aside from her writing career, she has worked as a science and engineering writer, as a programmer and game developer, as a sailing assistant, and as a jeweler’s assistant. She lives in Pennsylvania with her family. She is the author of Updraft. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Begin Reading
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright © 2020 by Fran Wilde
Art copyright © 2020 by Cinyee Chiu