The map was given to Liora at the edge of a long road.
The cartographer who handed it to her did so with ceremony, as though passing on something fragile and essential. The map was folded neatly, its paper thick and finely made.
“It contains everything that matters,” the cartographer said.
Liora thanked him. She felt reassured by its weight—light, but not trivial. A good map, she thought, should feel like this.
At first, it was immensely helpful. Paths were clearly marked. Landmarks named. Distances measured. When Liora hesitated, the map steadied her. When she doubted herself, it reminded her where she was.
Each evening, she unfolded it carefully, tracing the day’s journey with her finger. The map responded well to attention.
But the road did not remain simple.
When Liora encountered a fork not shown on the map, she returned to the cartographers’ outpost she had passed earlier. They listened carefully and nodded.
“An omission,” one said.
They added a line.
The map grew slightly heavier.
Later, she discovered a village whose people spoke in gestures more than words. The map did not know how to mark this.
“A clarification is required,” the cartographers decided. They added symbols, annotations, cross-references.
The map grew heavier again.
As the days passed, the additions accumulated. Each new encounter required refinement. Each refinement improved accuracy. The map became more impressive, more complete, more authoritative.
It also became harder to carry.
Liora noticed that she began to plan her days around what the map could support. Steep paths were avoided. Unmarked routes postponed. Not because they were dangerous, but because they were inconvenient to document.
One afternoon, climbing a narrow trail, she slipped. The map struck the ground first.
She laughed, relieved to find it undamaged.
But when she lifted it again, she felt the strain in her shoulders.
That night, she dreamed of maps layered upon maps, each perfectly accurate, each weighing more than the last. In the dream, travellers competed not in distance travelled, but in the density of what they carried.
The next morning, she met others on the road. Some carried maps bound in leather, others scrolls tied with string. A few carried nothing at all.
“Where are your maps?” she asked one of them.
“I learned when to put mine down,” the traveller replied.
Liora did not understand this immediately.
The decisive moment came at a river crossing. The map contained detailed diagrams of the current, the depth, the safest stones.
Halfway across, the water rose.
Liora tried to consult the map, but its weight unbalanced her. She stumbled, catching herself just in time.
She looked at the map, then at the river.
Slowly, carefully, she set the map down on a dry rock.
Freed of its weight, she crossed easily.
On the far bank, she waited, expecting panic, regret, or loss.
None came.
The path ahead was still visible. The landmarks still recognisable. She noticed more now: the sound of water, the angle of light, the feel of the ground.
Others crossed behind her, some carrying maps, some not. Each crossed differently. Each succeeded.
Liora looked back at her map resting on the stone. It had not become false.
It had simply become too heavy to bring everywhere.
She did not abandon it forever. She folded it carefully and left it where others could use it if they wished.
As she walked on, she understood at last: the map had never been a container of meaning.
It had been a companion.
And some companions must be left behind, not because they are wrong, but because the journey has reached a place where carrying them prevents movement.
Liora continued on, unburdened.
The road did not end.
It never had.
No comments:
Post a Comment