The forest was rich in the emerald embrace of summer when Cynthia Silver came to the Cartographer’s cabin. The journey, only about a kilometer or two, would’ve been a trifling little stroll for any adult. But for Cynthia, just a pinky finger’s reach from the age of eleven, it had been a grand conquest. Starting on her bicycle, she had peddled from her parent’s farmhouse, bouncing along the gravel road, a great patchwork of fields ripe with corn blooming on either side. This went on until the corn cut off rather abruptly, and suspiciously politely, into the forest as if the two florae had come to an accord and divided on very agreeable terms.
Entering the forest, she had done what her friend Alice had instructed just two nights before. Taking off her shoes, she let her bare toes wiggle deep into the root beer-coloured soil before closing her eyes and spinning precisely twenty-nine times. Now, good and dizzy and lost, she had swayed and nearly tripped—twice—as she attempted to walk straight as an arrow for another precise eighty-eight steps. And then one turn to the right, exactly eleven degrees (ever-smart Cynthia, if you have the audacity to doubt her, had pocketed a protractor from school just for this specific purpose). Afterwards, it was just a matter of walking forward, and, just like the sun sets in the West, Cynthia came to the Cartographer’s house.
Rustic and fertile and encrusted with flowers from every corner of the spectrum, the Cartographer’s house was a welcome host to all the senses, but it was Cynthia’s nose that responded most enthusiastically. What smells there were! Cinnamon and rose and peanut butter and chalk and butterscotch. All of it so absolutely entrancing and salivating that we may forgive Cynthia for forgetting to wipe off her feet on the porch before entering the Cartographer’s home.
What is there to say about the Cartographer? The Cartographer was a young person of about twenty-nine and that, for shame, was already a lie. There is a rule, one as common as the stars in the sky, that all folks who know things tend to know. It’s a simple one: appearances can be deceiving. The same could be said of our cabin-dweller. See, the Cartographer tended to appear as the Cartographer felt like was the appropriate expression for the day. Come on a Sunday and one may encounter a wizened old fellow, a beard as white and as long as a glacier. Come Wednesday, and you may rest your eyes upon a bouncing young child no older than Cynthia and three times as volcanically energetic. Come in the evening, and there would await someone rather posh, monocle resting on one eye, and layering their words with the warmest of accents. Such was the nature of our intrepid seller.
But there was one constant to the Cartographer. One thing that you could always count on when you visited the cabin that happened to be located in any woods, one that could be found if you just willed yourself to be good and properly lost.
The Cartographer was a Quest seller.
And Cynthia just happened to be looking for a Quest. They are all the rage amongst youngsters, you must understand! The children’s best kept secret was one an adult would never believe, and Quests were the perfect specimen. It had only been inevitable that talk of one, wafting through the usual playground gossip, had sashayed into Cynthia’s perked up ears. Planting itself there, it had begun to sow the seeds of an idea most marvellous…
And so, when Cynthia, tracking cookie crumbs of dirt across the generously rugged floor of the Cartographer’s main room, ringing the bell on the maple syrup counter, immediately coming face to face with the aquamarine twinkle of a young human’s eyes, was asked the oh-so-wry question of “Can I help you?” we could only expect her to reply with a humble: “I’d like to buy a Quest please...”
The Cartographer’s eyes splashed with mischief. “But of course! Up here, darling.” A hand with painted nails, each a miniature rainbow, darted over the counter, patting a stool that was a good ten centimeters above Cynthia’s head.
Clawing her way up, Cynthia managed to get up on the stool. Her feet dangling from its edge, she was sitting in a manner that most adults would probably scold and give a terse “tut-tut.” But Cynthia had no time for formalities. Quests were on her mind, and when something is on the mind of a child, it certainly takes more than soap to scrub it out.
The Cartographer was leaning upon the counter, giving a Cheshire cat grin, electric blue hair crackling. Their clothing matched their nails, an aurora robe of colours that wavered and trembled and danced over their form. “A Quest, you say?”
Cynthia nodded. “That’s right.”
The Cartographer snapped an elastic off a sodden-looking notebook. A peacock quill had appeared in their opposite hand. “Name?”
“Well, I’m Cynthia. Cynthia Silver.”
“Cynthia Silver? That’s one to make the tongue dance. A pleasure to make your acquaintance and future business!” The Cartographer extended a rainbow-splattered hand, rushing to embrace Cynthia’s own in a jittering handshake. “Let’s get straight to it then, shall we?”
Cynthia, little legs kicking from the stool, could only nod.
“What kind of Quest are we looking for today?”
Cynthia’s mouth opened for a split second before swiftly shutting again. Ah! Try not to be frustrated. You must understand that Cynthia knew better than to just start spilling out any old information in front of anyone, especially a grown-up. Grown-ups, she had noticed, loved to talk to their wit’s end. Anywhere, at any time, grown-ups could talk until her little feet withered in her seat and her stomach yearned for a single chocolate chip. The older they got and the worse it seemed to become, with Cynthia’s own grandmother able to yap away the day. Oh, how boring all this talk was! Especially when one could be dancing and jumping and singing and all manner of other exciting things. She had no doubt that this Cartographer, although an entirely reputable business partner, was one of those talkers. Who knew if they got together with Cynthia’s mother at some tea time in the future? Who knew if they would talk about what naughty little things Cynthia had been up to instead of playing at Alice’s house?
“Quests?” her mother would bellow out in that soprano voice of hers. “Of that nature? Not on my watch!”
Make no mistake, Cynthia was searching for a specific type of Quest. One with a definite end goal in mind. But with grown-ups swarming about, with their all-hearing ears and their all-flapping mouths, the risk was too great.
Entering the forest, she had done what her friend Alice had instructed just two nights before. Taking off her shoes, she let her bare toes wiggle deep into the root beer-coloured soil before closing her eyes and spinning precisely twenty-nine times. Now, good and dizzy and lost, she had swayed and nearly tripped—twice—as she attempted to walk straight as an arrow for another precise eighty-eight steps. And then one turn to the right, exactly eleven degrees (ever-smart Cynthia, if you have the audacity to doubt her, had pocketed a protractor from school just for this specific purpose). Afterwards, it was just a matter of walking forward, and, just like the sun sets in the West, Cynthia came to the Cartographer’s house.
Rustic and fertile and encrusted with flowers from every corner of the spectrum, the Cartographer’s house was a welcome host to all the senses, but it was Cynthia’s nose that responded most enthusiastically. What smells there were! Cinnamon and rose and peanut butter and chalk and butterscotch. All of it so absolutely entrancing and salivating that we may forgive Cynthia for forgetting to wipe off her feet on the porch before entering the Cartographer’s home.
What is there to say about the Cartographer? The Cartographer was a young person of about twenty-nine and that, for shame, was already a lie. There is a rule, one as common as the stars in the sky, that all folks who know things tend to know. It’s a simple one: appearances can be deceiving. The same could be said of our cabin-dweller. See, the Cartographer tended to appear as the Cartographer felt like was the appropriate expression for the day. Come on a Sunday and one may encounter a wizened old fellow, a beard as white and as long as a glacier. Come Wednesday, and you may rest your eyes upon a bouncing young child no older than Cynthia and three times as volcanically energetic. Come in the evening, and there would await someone rather posh, monocle resting on one eye, and layering their words with the warmest of accents. Such was the nature of our intrepid seller.
But there was one constant to the Cartographer. One thing that you could always count on when you visited the cabin that happened to be located in any woods, one that could be found if you just willed yourself to be good and properly lost.
The Cartographer was a Quest seller.
And Cynthia just happened to be looking for a Quest. They are all the rage amongst youngsters, you must understand! The children’s best kept secret was one an adult would never believe, and Quests were the perfect specimen. It had only been inevitable that talk of one, wafting through the usual playground gossip, had sashayed into Cynthia’s perked up ears. Planting itself there, it had begun to sow the seeds of an idea most marvellous…
And so, when Cynthia, tracking cookie crumbs of dirt across the generously rugged floor of the Cartographer’s main room, ringing the bell on the maple syrup counter, immediately coming face to face with the aquamarine twinkle of a young human’s eyes, was asked the oh-so-wry question of “Can I help you?” we could only expect her to reply with a humble: “I’d like to buy a Quest please...”
The Cartographer’s eyes splashed with mischief. “But of course! Up here, darling.” A hand with painted nails, each a miniature rainbow, darted over the counter, patting a stool that was a good ten centimeters above Cynthia’s head.
Clawing her way up, Cynthia managed to get up on the stool. Her feet dangling from its edge, she was sitting in a manner that most adults would probably scold and give a terse “tut-tut.” But Cynthia had no time for formalities. Quests were on her mind, and when something is on the mind of a child, it certainly takes more than soap to scrub it out.
The Cartographer was leaning upon the counter, giving a Cheshire cat grin, electric blue hair crackling. Their clothing matched their nails, an aurora robe of colours that wavered and trembled and danced over their form. “A Quest, you say?”
Cynthia nodded. “That’s right.”
The Cartographer snapped an elastic off a sodden-looking notebook. A peacock quill had appeared in their opposite hand. “Name?”
“Well, I’m Cynthia. Cynthia Silver.”
“Cynthia Silver? That’s one to make the tongue dance. A pleasure to make your acquaintance and future business!” The Cartographer extended a rainbow-splattered hand, rushing to embrace Cynthia’s own in a jittering handshake. “Let’s get straight to it then, shall we?”
Cynthia, little legs kicking from the stool, could only nod.
“What kind of Quest are we looking for today?”
Cynthia’s mouth opened for a split second before swiftly shutting again. Ah! Try not to be frustrated. You must understand that Cynthia knew better than to just start spilling out any old information in front of anyone, especially a grown-up. Grown-ups, she had noticed, loved to talk to their wit’s end. Anywhere, at any time, grown-ups could talk until her little feet withered in her seat and her stomach yearned for a single chocolate chip. The older they got and the worse it seemed to become, with Cynthia’s own grandmother able to yap away the day. Oh, how boring all this talk was! Especially when one could be dancing and jumping and singing and all manner of other exciting things. She had no doubt that this Cartographer, although an entirely reputable business partner, was one of those talkers. Who knew if they got together with Cynthia’s mother at some tea time in the future? Who knew if they would talk about what naughty little things Cynthia had been up to instead of playing at Alice’s house?
“Quests?” her mother would bellow out in that soprano voice of hers. “Of that nature? Not on my watch!”
Make no mistake, Cynthia was searching for a specific type of Quest. One with a definite end goal in mind. But with grown-ups swarming about, with their all-hearing ears and their all-flapping mouths, the risk was too great.
Cynthia’s father had left without saying goodbye.
There had been no one to blame in the situation. Her father hadn’t done it out of spite, although poor Cynthia hadn’t realized that at the moment. Instead, when she was in school, entrapped in the endless equations of Math class, the men in the uniforms—self-important men with their medals and stripes—came-a-knocking and simply swooped him away. It was nothing personal; there were far bigger adult situations to deal with. But you can be as sure as sugar that, like most ten-year-olds, Cynthia had taken it to heart. But such is the solipsism of children, both a blessing and a curse. To her, it was divine retribution for her indiscretion last night. Poor Cynthia had been a bit of a storm cloud at the dinner table. Something perfectly reasonable, in her opinion, given the state of the mashed potatoes. They were the kind of things she preferred to catapult across the room with her spoon instead of sticking them into her mouth.
Her father had thought otherwise.
It ended like most of these situations had—and do trust there had been plenty before—with Cynthia, red-faced and her dress a cyclone, tearing up to her room. Her door slammed shut with a force the reverberated the entire house, and that was the final punctuation mark to that.
The next day, she left without even a good morning. And when she returned, the school bus already long down the road, he was gone.
A home that had previously housed a father, only to find him absent, is not the kindest of affairs. No longer is there the booming bass of his voice rumbling from the driveway. Gone are the impromptu helicopter rides, spinning helplessly as he picks you up and cradles you under his arm. Gone are the tickle attacks and the “monster under the bed” checks.
And poor Cynthia’s mother! A mother’s endurance is not something easily paralleled. The questions she answered, reflected, and shook off, were near infinite. The “where’s dad?” and the “when’s he coming back” and the not-so-much-a-question-but-still-demanding-a-response “I miss daaaaaad,” all of them poured from Cynthia’s mouth on an hourly basis.
Of course, War is not an easily explainable situation, not something to get into a child’s mind, so Cynthia’s mother did as best she could, answering when the truth would benefit but never afraid to give a white lie here or there.
Sometimes, Cynthia’s mother even had to lie to herself. Sometimes, after the fiftieth asking of “will father come home?” and the fiftieth answering “yes, dear, of course,” there followed, caught in the exhale of the breath, the tiniest of “maybes.”
There had been no one to blame in the situation. Her father hadn’t done it out of spite, although poor Cynthia hadn’t realized that at the moment. Instead, when she was in school, entrapped in the endless equations of Math class, the men in the uniforms—self-important men with their medals and stripes—came-a-knocking and simply swooped him away. It was nothing personal; there were far bigger adult situations to deal with. But you can be as sure as sugar that, like most ten-year-olds, Cynthia had taken it to heart. But such is the solipsism of children, both a blessing and a curse. To her, it was divine retribution for her indiscretion last night. Poor Cynthia had been a bit of a storm cloud at the dinner table. Something perfectly reasonable, in her opinion, given the state of the mashed potatoes. They were the kind of things she preferred to catapult across the room with her spoon instead of sticking them into her mouth.
Her father had thought otherwise.
It ended like most of these situations had—and do trust there had been plenty before—with Cynthia, red-faced and her dress a cyclone, tearing up to her room. Her door slammed shut with a force the reverberated the entire house, and that was the final punctuation mark to that.
The next day, she left without even a good morning. And when she returned, the school bus already long down the road, he was gone.
A home that had previously housed a father, only to find him absent, is not the kindest of affairs. No longer is there the booming bass of his voice rumbling from the driveway. Gone are the impromptu helicopter rides, spinning helplessly as he picks you up and cradles you under his arm. Gone are the tickle attacks and the “monster under the bed” checks.
And poor Cynthia’s mother! A mother’s endurance is not something easily paralleled. The questions she answered, reflected, and shook off, were near infinite. The “where’s dad?” and the “when’s he coming back” and the not-so-much-a-question-but-still-demanding-a-response “I miss daaaaaad,” all of them poured from Cynthia’s mouth on an hourly basis.
Of course, War is not an easily explainable situation, not something to get into a child’s mind, so Cynthia’s mother did as best she could, answering when the truth would benefit but never afraid to give a white lie here or there.
Sometimes, Cynthia’s mother even had to lie to herself. Sometimes, after the fiftieth asking of “will father come home?” and the fiftieth answering “yes, dear, of course,” there followed, caught in the exhale of the breath, the tiniest of “maybes.”
It was when Cynthia had heard one of those very “maybes” worm their way into her left eardrum, just so happening to be on the day that all that Quest talk was in her right, that she decided to take matters into her own hands.
We can understand, then, our hero’s insistency on secrecy for the time being. Parents don’t take too kindly to this sort of news in the same sort of way a cat doesn’t take kindly to being dropped in tub full of water. And so, Cynthia, for the time being, gave a shrug and a yawn. “I was hoping for something new…”
“Ohhhh, make no mistake! We have the latest!” A waterfall of parchment roared off the counter to only be replaced with pristine sister copies. “Plenty of new ones. Trust me, darling, the market is as booming as ever.”
“I trust you,” Cynthia’s voice matched the impatience of her swinging legs.
“Splendid! You like oceans, Cynthia? You like beaches? You tire of the beaches and oceans constantly embracing but never truly uniting?” The Cartographer slid one piece of parchment forward until it settled right under Cynthia’s nose. “Sand Ocean, a true romance! Best of both worlds. You’ll get your standard swashbuckling—pirates and the like—as well as a large, bejeweled monster crab to battle, a pompous walrus to dine and play cards with, and a sand ship with the best shanties across all worlds! Was a favourite of the focus groups, and by golly, the insurance is nothing to laugh at either…”
Cynthia shrugged and the parchment withdrew only to be replaced with another. “A dragon spectacular, dear! Fight dragons, ride dragons, have tea and biscuits with dragons! Talking dragons, rhyming dragons! Green and scarlet and sapphire and silver and diamond dragons!”
Cynthia read a single line from it, “dragon” stained across the page, true to the Quest’s word, but slowly and shyly, she shook her head.
The Cartographer remained nonplussed. They had not lost a client yet, and it would be preposterous to think this would be their first failure. Dearest Cynthia was of ripe Questing age, something had to suit this picky girl.
But even the Cartographer got a little impatient sometimes, and so they went through more of the parchments with an artful swiftness, nails flashing up a spectrum as they moved, popping out keywords with their tongue. “Basilisks…animated top-hats…Basilisks with animated top-hats…magic crystals…a yodeling yeti…islands…”
“Islands?” Cynthia inquired. She had heard something similar on the radio, a word that happened to be mingling in the same sentence as the ever so blood curdling “war.” An island, that’s where her father would be! But the word was not fully welcomed in her ten-year old lexicon yet, and so poor Cynthia did not realize that it was a rather popular geographical feature in her world and many others.
“Island!” The Cartographer nodded, a fresh grin blossoming on their face. “A big, bright, and tropical island. The world of Qualna! Salt spray in your hair in the morning, trudging through the jungle in the evening? Yes, this is an important Quest indeed, girl, one of the finest I’ve ever mapped out. It’s perfect. An evil warlock and his vicious pet indigo iguana. He’s imprisoned the heir to the throne, taken the kingdom for himself. You’ll have to sail from the Nutmeg Woods, down South, overcoming whirlpool triplets and angry shellfish gods and duelist swordfish to get there, but what’s a Quest without the journey?”
Cynthia nodded again, and, for the first time, smiled. “Yes, yes, that one.”
“Excellent…excellent…sign here then, initials there—we can ignore the non-disclosure—a little jot will do, liability waiver just in case you have a future knack for lawyering…perfect!” The Cartographer plucked the parchment up again, and Cynthia looked at her own signature through the gauze straw colour of the document. She had never signed anything in her life. Signing things was something grown-ups were for, and her own signature seemed rather forced, too much focus on each letter rather than the carefree scribbles of her parents.
“How much?” she asked softly. Taking her tiny handbag, she hung it over the counter before turning it upside down, letting all manner of coins spill out, with a few elusive, self-important buttons in their midst. It had been her savings for the last few months or so, a nickel or occasionally a dime every week as well as what she could find glinting along the gravel paths at school.
The Cartographer gave a laugh that echoed like wind-chimes. “Oh, no, no, no! First you Quest and forget the rest. Payment’s a funny little thing. Your currency is spared from my hands.” They finished with a wink.
Cynthia frowned, staring at her tiny silver mountain of coins. No doubt her mind was filling up with the thought of all the ice cream she could’ve bought now. “Ummm, so how will I get there? And, will it take long? My mother expects me home at five on the dot, that’s when dinner is. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes.” Her father’s favourite and that, to her, was no coincidence.
“How delicious! But to answer your second question, yes and no.” The Cartographer picked up one of the dimes and gave it a spin along the counter. “You see, the time exchange rate it stupendously in your favour on most Quests, dear. On this particular one, it’s precisely nine point seven hours on the minute! Exceptional rates, I must say, one of the best! You’ll hardly miss a wink of this world.”
Cynthia gave a half-nod, one of those ones that children give when they pretend to understand while their minds continue to chew on the information. “And how do I get there?”
A snap of their fingers and a seashell flourished in the Cartographer’s hands. “Take this to the nearest stream, one narrow enough that you can jump across if you reaaaalllly try, and one deep enough that the edges of your skirt get soaked. Take a deep breath and plunge your face under the water and hold this to your ear. All else will be fine.”
They tossed it into Cynthia’s hands, who nearly fumbled in her attempt to catch it. The shell glowed in her hands, a rich translucent coral, spiraling to a point on either end. “Do I have to return it?” she asked, struggling off the stool.
The Cartographer shook their head. “When a Quest is finished, it is finished. Although, Miss Silver, I do expect to see you soon.”
And so Cynthia exited the Cartographer’s cabin and re-entered the iridescent blush of the forest. She skipped along, her feet snagging on roots and kicking up the occasional rebel fallen leaf. While she was happy, like most children were when given their first Quest, there was a certain smudge of nervousness to her. Quietly holding the shell in front of her, pretending its contoured surfaces were the strict face of her father, she began to practise apologizing.
“I’m sorry…I’m sorry. Potatoes are for eating, not throwing. I’ll eat them every day! Every hour! If you just come home…” Would he still be angry about it? Would he forgive her for her makeshift catapults?
It took her five minutes to get to the stream. It was a perfect specimen. Narrow enough to jump across and deep enough that her mother would scold her for ruining her ruby-coloured dress. But much more important things were at stake. And so wading into the centre of the stream, shell clutched in her hand, Cynthia took a deep breath and plunged her head down.
For a moment, there was the twilight tint of the streambed below her, all shadows dappled with sunlight. Her thoughts strayed briefly, conjuring up images of helicopter rides, her body dizzy and weightless.
We can understand, then, our hero’s insistency on secrecy for the time being. Parents don’t take too kindly to this sort of news in the same sort of way a cat doesn’t take kindly to being dropped in tub full of water. And so, Cynthia, for the time being, gave a shrug and a yawn. “I was hoping for something new…”
“Ohhhh, make no mistake! We have the latest!” A waterfall of parchment roared off the counter to only be replaced with pristine sister copies. “Plenty of new ones. Trust me, darling, the market is as booming as ever.”
“I trust you,” Cynthia’s voice matched the impatience of her swinging legs.
“Splendid! You like oceans, Cynthia? You like beaches? You tire of the beaches and oceans constantly embracing but never truly uniting?” The Cartographer slid one piece of parchment forward until it settled right under Cynthia’s nose. “Sand Ocean, a true romance! Best of both worlds. You’ll get your standard swashbuckling—pirates and the like—as well as a large, bejeweled monster crab to battle, a pompous walrus to dine and play cards with, and a sand ship with the best shanties across all worlds! Was a favourite of the focus groups, and by golly, the insurance is nothing to laugh at either…”
Cynthia shrugged and the parchment withdrew only to be replaced with another. “A dragon spectacular, dear! Fight dragons, ride dragons, have tea and biscuits with dragons! Talking dragons, rhyming dragons! Green and scarlet and sapphire and silver and diamond dragons!”
Cynthia read a single line from it, “dragon” stained across the page, true to the Quest’s word, but slowly and shyly, she shook her head.
The Cartographer remained nonplussed. They had not lost a client yet, and it would be preposterous to think this would be their first failure. Dearest Cynthia was of ripe Questing age, something had to suit this picky girl.
But even the Cartographer got a little impatient sometimes, and so they went through more of the parchments with an artful swiftness, nails flashing up a spectrum as they moved, popping out keywords with their tongue. “Basilisks…animated top-hats…Basilisks with animated top-hats…magic crystals…a yodeling yeti…islands…”
“Islands?” Cynthia inquired. She had heard something similar on the radio, a word that happened to be mingling in the same sentence as the ever so blood curdling “war.” An island, that’s where her father would be! But the word was not fully welcomed in her ten-year old lexicon yet, and so poor Cynthia did not realize that it was a rather popular geographical feature in her world and many others.
“Island!” The Cartographer nodded, a fresh grin blossoming on their face. “A big, bright, and tropical island. The world of Qualna! Salt spray in your hair in the morning, trudging through the jungle in the evening? Yes, this is an important Quest indeed, girl, one of the finest I’ve ever mapped out. It’s perfect. An evil warlock and his vicious pet indigo iguana. He’s imprisoned the heir to the throne, taken the kingdom for himself. You’ll have to sail from the Nutmeg Woods, down South, overcoming whirlpool triplets and angry shellfish gods and duelist swordfish to get there, but what’s a Quest without the journey?”
Cynthia nodded again, and, for the first time, smiled. “Yes, yes, that one.”
“Excellent…excellent…sign here then, initials there—we can ignore the non-disclosure—a little jot will do, liability waiver just in case you have a future knack for lawyering…perfect!” The Cartographer plucked the parchment up again, and Cynthia looked at her own signature through the gauze straw colour of the document. She had never signed anything in her life. Signing things was something grown-ups were for, and her own signature seemed rather forced, too much focus on each letter rather than the carefree scribbles of her parents.
“How much?” she asked softly. Taking her tiny handbag, she hung it over the counter before turning it upside down, letting all manner of coins spill out, with a few elusive, self-important buttons in their midst. It had been her savings for the last few months or so, a nickel or occasionally a dime every week as well as what she could find glinting along the gravel paths at school.
The Cartographer gave a laugh that echoed like wind-chimes. “Oh, no, no, no! First you Quest and forget the rest. Payment’s a funny little thing. Your currency is spared from my hands.” They finished with a wink.
Cynthia frowned, staring at her tiny silver mountain of coins. No doubt her mind was filling up with the thought of all the ice cream she could’ve bought now. “Ummm, so how will I get there? And, will it take long? My mother expects me home at five on the dot, that’s when dinner is. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes.” Her father’s favourite and that, to her, was no coincidence.
“How delicious! But to answer your second question, yes and no.” The Cartographer picked up one of the dimes and gave it a spin along the counter. “You see, the time exchange rate it stupendously in your favour on most Quests, dear. On this particular one, it’s precisely nine point seven hours on the minute! Exceptional rates, I must say, one of the best! You’ll hardly miss a wink of this world.”
Cynthia gave a half-nod, one of those ones that children give when they pretend to understand while their minds continue to chew on the information. “And how do I get there?”
A snap of their fingers and a seashell flourished in the Cartographer’s hands. “Take this to the nearest stream, one narrow enough that you can jump across if you reaaaalllly try, and one deep enough that the edges of your skirt get soaked. Take a deep breath and plunge your face under the water and hold this to your ear. All else will be fine.”
They tossed it into Cynthia’s hands, who nearly fumbled in her attempt to catch it. The shell glowed in her hands, a rich translucent coral, spiraling to a point on either end. “Do I have to return it?” she asked, struggling off the stool.
The Cartographer shook their head. “When a Quest is finished, it is finished. Although, Miss Silver, I do expect to see you soon.”
And so Cynthia exited the Cartographer’s cabin and re-entered the iridescent blush of the forest. She skipped along, her feet snagging on roots and kicking up the occasional rebel fallen leaf. While she was happy, like most children were when given their first Quest, there was a certain smudge of nervousness to her. Quietly holding the shell in front of her, pretending its contoured surfaces were the strict face of her father, she began to practise apologizing.
“I’m sorry…I’m sorry. Potatoes are for eating, not throwing. I’ll eat them every day! Every hour! If you just come home…” Would he still be angry about it? Would he forgive her for her makeshift catapults?
It took her five minutes to get to the stream. It was a perfect specimen. Narrow enough to jump across and deep enough that her mother would scold her for ruining her ruby-coloured dress. But much more important things were at stake. And so wading into the centre of the stream, shell clutched in her hand, Cynthia took a deep breath and plunged her head down.
For a moment, there was the twilight tint of the streambed below her, all shadows dappled with sunlight. Her thoughts strayed briefly, conjuring up images of helicopter rides, her body dizzy and weightless.
“Soon,” she assured herself.
But, then as she blinked, the sunspots seemed to grow, flecks of light rapidly expanding.
First becoming countries, and then continents.
Her fingers loosened on the seashell.
But, then as she blinked, the sunspots seemed to grow, flecks of light rapidly expanding.
First becoming countries, and then continents.
Her fingers loosened on the seashell.
There was a forest here as well, blistering in a mid-autumn fury of reds and saffron, and Cynthia knew she was here, here in the rich embrace of Qualna, a land that was bright and beautiful, its air so pure it rippled through her lungs, expanding them like sails caught in a vast Northern gust all the while frothing with magic from its velvet sky to each cyan blade of grass, and so, she went forth on her Quest, went forth with a skip and hop, and the forest gave way, corroded into vast fields of chrysanthemums and daisies and flowers beyond the realms of imagination, all abloom under the brilliant azure sun, and as she traveled through the lands she met her companions, friends like she had never had back at the farmhouse, a centaur with a taste for Opera, a toucan with mean Sleight of Beak, and a sliver of a much larger Comet who couldn’t help but be fluorescent and bright and obnoxious at the most inconvenient times, but they were inseparable like four jars of silk crystals poured into one, sharing stories and secrets and scandals as they camped under a tapestry of stars and nebulae every night, and she, our Hero, would listen and smell and see and touch everything she possibly could, the land so novel to her, so alien to our own, and behaving exactly like any curious child would, and each moment was enriched here like life saturated to its maximum condensation point, mist ready to coalesce into a grand blue sapphire waterfall of pure experience, and she learned in Qualna what would normally take twenty years of regular life, she learned confidence, love, trust, betrayal, hope, fear, acceptance, self-awareness, discipline, criticism, and how to concoct a most clever magic trick with only her shoes, and that was even before reaching the ocean, an infinite turquoise expanse that yawned ahead, seemingly infinite, and with a raft they went across, encountering all the things she was told and more, much more, and she would realize that the Quest was alive, a daring narrative, with quirks and personality and tone, enlightened to be fulfilled and blessed and yearned for, and she loved it for what it was, its triumphs and sorrows and bittersweet in-betweens and its final glorious moment as she and her companions defeated the warlock and forgave him and freed the rebels and nestled in her, as they cascaded her with diamonds and crowns and dresses, was a twang of disappointment, one amongst the deepest crevices of her heart, one so subtle her companions did not notice for they were caught in the riptide of the celebration as it poured out upon the beaches and Cynthia realized at that moment that the narrative had ended, and that he was not present, and that she had nearly forgotten him amidst this kaleidoscopic journey, and that the Quest was over, for nestled there, along the blinding white beach, was a seashell and...
Cynthia thrust upwards from the stream, gasping for breath.
She was alone, just her and her unused apologies.
She was alone, just her and her unused apologies.
There was a jingle of a bell and Cynthia was back in the Cartographer’s store. We can also observe, rather proudly, that she gave her dirt-strewn feet a quick brush on the doormat. Qualna’s customs had given her a run for her money, and although not the finest cleaning job, it was the thought that counted.
The Cartographer was lying upon the counter, humming along to a record player spitting out some scratchy, swingy big band tune (Stuck by Caro Emerald, if you perchance wanted to hum along as well) bruised violet hair haloed around a bobbing head. Their feet kicked carefree in the air, and when they saw Cynthia, so did their heart. “Cynthia, my dear! Come, come sit down! Welcome back! Tell me, tell me, tell me, how was it?”
Cynthia, remembering her mother’s rule about always being polite, gave a nod. “It was good. Really good, actually.” That, for the most part, was true.
But our mischievous merchant, always one with a keen eye and a keener ear, knew better. “Well, let’s discuss payment then.”
Cynthia almost couldn’t hide her pout. It was the equivalent of hearing that, after all recesses, there was always more schoolwork waiting. Still, recalling her manners, she came back to the stool, and with less of a struggle, climbed aboard. “I’m afraid I still don’t have much—”
“—I want you to tell me a story.” The Cartographer hopped off the desk, onto their own stool, in a mirror of Cynthia’s pose.
“A story? Well I know a few—”
“—About your Quest, darling!” The Cartographer stuck a fuchsia tongue out.
“Oh? Well, I suppose I can do that. Although you already seemed to know quite a fair bit,” Cynthia shrugged. “Not sure what I can add.”
“Oh, make no mistake, little Cynthia, you can add quite the lion’s share. I gave you the Quest, the barest, minimalist details. But you, my sweet girl, have lived it! Experienced it! Given it a protagonist! A Quest without perspective is simply a series of events. So, if you would do so indulge.” The Cartographer clasped their hands, leaning across the counter, closing their mouth and wiggling their ears.
Cynthia didn’t fancy herself a good storyteller. While the events were bright and vivid in her head, like a permanent stain when you stared at the sun for a second too long, they would no doubt bounce off her tongue, lumping together in blunt and awkward sentences.
Still, she told her tale, beginning her story with the only way she knew how. “Once upon a time…”
The Cartographer’s ears perked and they listened, nodding and gasping at the appropriate times. But towards the end, a hint of a frown crept into the corners of Cynthia’s lips for as much as she wanted to end with “they lived happily ever after,” such a sentence would be a lie most notorious. So instead, “the happily ever after” was absent, her voice simply trailing off, fading away as she gave a shrug of her shoulders.
The Cartographer sighed as though having been absolutely positively quenched. “A wonderful story, Cynthia. Daring and courageous! As vibrant as a sunset and as bubbly as the most delicious cherry soda!”
“Well, I mean, thanks…” Cynthia said, supposing the Cartographer was doing that thing all grown-ups did and was merely being kind.
“But I must say, my ears did seem to catch the slightest whiff of disappointment at the end.”
“Oh, well I suppose…” Cynthia looked away, blushing. “I suppose it felt that there was something missing.”
The Cartographer opened their mouth, before their face seemed to shutter like a filmstrip, each frame emitting a different expression. “Well, I’m-I’m sorry to hear that. But don’t be shy, dear! All criticism is constructive.” Their hand swooped down, as swift as a falcon, clutching another paper. “Would you like to fill out an official evaluation form? The customer perks are—”
“—I’d like another Quest, please.” Cynthia’s voice was firm.
Our eclectic entrepreneur was taken aback. This was out of the norm, deviously so. No child was a two-Quester on any day. It even breached official policy, set down by the Guild itself, in the official Decree on the Act and Nature and Spirit of Questing, Statute Two sub-statute b (amended at least five times). But children, after a relentless day of entering portal worlds, fighting monsters, and adventuring about, always craved a return home afterwards to curl up with their mom or dad or both. To get a nice hot meal in their yearning stomachs and doze off into a dream-filled sleep in a bed far cozier than they had remembered. It was an instinct. It was a child’s nature.
But this was Cynthia.
You must understand that the Cartographer was one with a lot of pride on the line. They were the best in the business. The Quests they collected and recorded were award winners! Prime cuts! Crème de la crème! This was a science and an art to them. It was their career. It was their life.
So, when The Cartographer decided, rather conveniently, to let the Guild rules slip their mind (they were a bit of a studious, archaic sort, anyways), can we really blame them?
“What do you crave?”
This time, Cynthia’s intentions began to drip out, less cryptic and more pushing. If she wanted to find her father, she would have to look past islands, go straight for the meat. “Danger.”
“Danger?”
“I don’t want it to be safe? I mean, how can it feel real if it’s all sunny and easy?”
The Cartographer’s teeth bit into their lips, their mind plunging into thought. “Well, yes…”
“Something with a battle. Something with a war!”
“Well, normally there’s a bit of an age restriction on these things…” their words bounced off Cynthia’s stone gaze. “Buuuttttttt I think we can find a way to accommodate you.” The Cartographer glided their way into a backroom, and, after a mighty volley of noise, emerged dust-ridden and clutching stacks of fresh parchment. “Plenty of battles here. You ever play Chess? Chess-themed Quests are making a comeback, dear, I can feel it in my toes. Such rich history, too, Alice Through the Looking Glass is just the tip of the iceberg if you’re ever interested in the subject.”
Cynthia looked at the parchment, reading slowly, before disappointment again began to creep from her eyes, spilling onto her face. She shook her head. “Chess isn’t real.” Besides, she had never seen her father lay a single finger upon a Chess piece, let alone play one.
“I know of a couple of bishops who would take offense to that!” the Cartographer exclaimed before flicking through a dozen other pieces of parchment. “No, no, no…you’ll hate that…catapults are so Medieval…has the Cold War happened yet? Hot War? Regardless, no one’s brave enough to deal with that many ghost peppers…Troy, ugghhh, men can be so silly…conscription, that’s a dark concept…battle gryphons? That might be something.”
“Excuse me?” Cynthia’s voice creaked in between the creases of the Cartographer’s monologue. “Was that conscription?”
With raised eyebrows and a whiff of sadness, the Cartographer placed the Gryphon parchment down (it was a blockbuster of a Quest) and shuffled backwards. There indeed was the Quest, its keyword having somehow piqued this peculiar girl’s interest. Conscription. A dirty, dirty word if there ever was one.
The Quest was there and it was a monster incarnate. The Cartographer had never seen so much tragedy bursting from a single page; there was no whimsicalness to it, no magic, no joy to be had. A Quest that was not so much a Quest but rather a revelation. It had a purpose, of course, but this was a Quest for another time. For a more mature age. The Cartographer gave a glance to Cynthia, seeing her little legs kicking helplessly from the stool, and could only shake their head. “Cynthia, dear, I’m sorry, I can’t give you that Quest.”
Sadly, our Cartographer had not realized that Cynthia had heard those words before. Those very words that led her here in the first place when her mother had blocked the doorway from her. That had been the first of many search attempts. And now Cynthia, like any stubborn human, persisted. “I want that one.”
“Take it from an expert, this Quest is a most nasty business.” The Cartographer swiped the sheet backwards just out of Cynthia’s reach as her little eyes tried to appraise a single detail from the parchment. “You want no part of it.”
It was just as her mother had said. Cynthia crossed her arms, her face flushed with annoyance as the Cartographer held the sheet above her, hanging like an unreachable, savory fruit on a devilishly high tree branch. “Why not?” she huffed.
“Age restriction, dear. Guild Rules.” The Cartographer knew this was a bit of a shallow statement, having only minutes before slyly sidestepped them. But, when one has a home field advantage, why not use it? “As compensation, I can give you two more Quests today. Two for the price of one! Can’t have a disappointed customer in my midst. And for one denied Quest, I guarantee that there are two more that you will love!”
Cynthia paused, her eyes still fixed on the parchment hanging above her. The Quest. That journey. She knew, she knew it in her little heart, it was the one. But there it was, unattainable. Oh, how bossy grown-ups could be! Always so smug, always so gleeful to snuff out children’s wishes like candles on a birthday cake! Finally, with a sigh and shrug, she relented. “Show me.”
The Cartographer shuffled through again, naming and riffling off and finally selecting a Quest of a more cheerful sort. One that involved returning a Queen’s missing Flunderberry Bush, which, if your tongue has had the privilege of tasting, would know that it was a mighty tragedy indeed.
All was signed and done, Cynthia’s signature a bit more adult-like than before, and the Cartographer gave a yawn. “It’s a wonderful Quest, Cynthia dear. Truly a classic. Now have fun and remember that handshakes and whistling are an offence most grave to the Queen. I expect you back in an hour or so!” The Cartographer gave a whistle and a wink, watching as Cynthia plunged back into the forest. With a cat stretch, they observed the mess of papers strewn around their counter. They had never fancied being the clean type—too much work, and what would come out of it? Just a future mess. Perhaps they could sort out some dusting later, but for now, rest was in order.
As they closed their swirling sapphire eyes, drifting away into dreams of fine brie, they failed to notice the door creaking open just an inch, and Cynthia’s little eyes peering back inside…
The Cartographer was lying upon the counter, humming along to a record player spitting out some scratchy, swingy big band tune (Stuck by Caro Emerald, if you perchance wanted to hum along as well) bruised violet hair haloed around a bobbing head. Their feet kicked carefree in the air, and when they saw Cynthia, so did their heart. “Cynthia, my dear! Come, come sit down! Welcome back! Tell me, tell me, tell me, how was it?”
Cynthia, remembering her mother’s rule about always being polite, gave a nod. “It was good. Really good, actually.” That, for the most part, was true.
But our mischievous merchant, always one with a keen eye and a keener ear, knew better. “Well, let’s discuss payment then.”
Cynthia almost couldn’t hide her pout. It was the equivalent of hearing that, after all recesses, there was always more schoolwork waiting. Still, recalling her manners, she came back to the stool, and with less of a struggle, climbed aboard. “I’m afraid I still don’t have much—”
“—I want you to tell me a story.” The Cartographer hopped off the desk, onto their own stool, in a mirror of Cynthia’s pose.
“A story? Well I know a few—”
“—About your Quest, darling!” The Cartographer stuck a fuchsia tongue out.
“Oh? Well, I suppose I can do that. Although you already seemed to know quite a fair bit,” Cynthia shrugged. “Not sure what I can add.”
“Oh, make no mistake, little Cynthia, you can add quite the lion’s share. I gave you the Quest, the barest, minimalist details. But you, my sweet girl, have lived it! Experienced it! Given it a protagonist! A Quest without perspective is simply a series of events. So, if you would do so indulge.” The Cartographer clasped their hands, leaning across the counter, closing their mouth and wiggling their ears.
Cynthia didn’t fancy herself a good storyteller. While the events were bright and vivid in her head, like a permanent stain when you stared at the sun for a second too long, they would no doubt bounce off her tongue, lumping together in blunt and awkward sentences.
Still, she told her tale, beginning her story with the only way she knew how. “Once upon a time…”
The Cartographer’s ears perked and they listened, nodding and gasping at the appropriate times. But towards the end, a hint of a frown crept into the corners of Cynthia’s lips for as much as she wanted to end with “they lived happily ever after,” such a sentence would be a lie most notorious. So instead, “the happily ever after” was absent, her voice simply trailing off, fading away as she gave a shrug of her shoulders.
The Cartographer sighed as though having been absolutely positively quenched. “A wonderful story, Cynthia. Daring and courageous! As vibrant as a sunset and as bubbly as the most delicious cherry soda!”
“Well, I mean, thanks…” Cynthia said, supposing the Cartographer was doing that thing all grown-ups did and was merely being kind.
“But I must say, my ears did seem to catch the slightest whiff of disappointment at the end.”
“Oh, well I suppose…” Cynthia looked away, blushing. “I suppose it felt that there was something missing.”
The Cartographer opened their mouth, before their face seemed to shutter like a filmstrip, each frame emitting a different expression. “Well, I’m-I’m sorry to hear that. But don’t be shy, dear! All criticism is constructive.” Their hand swooped down, as swift as a falcon, clutching another paper. “Would you like to fill out an official evaluation form? The customer perks are—”
“—I’d like another Quest, please.” Cynthia’s voice was firm.
Our eclectic entrepreneur was taken aback. This was out of the norm, deviously so. No child was a two-Quester on any day. It even breached official policy, set down by the Guild itself, in the official Decree on the Act and Nature and Spirit of Questing, Statute Two sub-statute b (amended at least five times). But children, after a relentless day of entering portal worlds, fighting monsters, and adventuring about, always craved a return home afterwards to curl up with their mom or dad or both. To get a nice hot meal in their yearning stomachs and doze off into a dream-filled sleep in a bed far cozier than they had remembered. It was an instinct. It was a child’s nature.
But this was Cynthia.
You must understand that the Cartographer was one with a lot of pride on the line. They were the best in the business. The Quests they collected and recorded were award winners! Prime cuts! Crème de la crème! This was a science and an art to them. It was their career. It was their life.
So, when The Cartographer decided, rather conveniently, to let the Guild rules slip their mind (they were a bit of a studious, archaic sort, anyways), can we really blame them?
“What do you crave?”
This time, Cynthia’s intentions began to drip out, less cryptic and more pushing. If she wanted to find her father, she would have to look past islands, go straight for the meat. “Danger.”
“Danger?”
“I don’t want it to be safe? I mean, how can it feel real if it’s all sunny and easy?”
The Cartographer’s teeth bit into their lips, their mind plunging into thought. “Well, yes…”
“Something with a battle. Something with a war!”
“Well, normally there’s a bit of an age restriction on these things…” their words bounced off Cynthia’s stone gaze. “Buuuttttttt I think we can find a way to accommodate you.” The Cartographer glided their way into a backroom, and, after a mighty volley of noise, emerged dust-ridden and clutching stacks of fresh parchment. “Plenty of battles here. You ever play Chess? Chess-themed Quests are making a comeback, dear, I can feel it in my toes. Such rich history, too, Alice Through the Looking Glass is just the tip of the iceberg if you’re ever interested in the subject.”
Cynthia looked at the parchment, reading slowly, before disappointment again began to creep from her eyes, spilling onto her face. She shook her head. “Chess isn’t real.” Besides, she had never seen her father lay a single finger upon a Chess piece, let alone play one.
“I know of a couple of bishops who would take offense to that!” the Cartographer exclaimed before flicking through a dozen other pieces of parchment. “No, no, no…you’ll hate that…catapults are so Medieval…has the Cold War happened yet? Hot War? Regardless, no one’s brave enough to deal with that many ghost peppers…Troy, ugghhh, men can be so silly…conscription, that’s a dark concept…battle gryphons? That might be something.”
“Excuse me?” Cynthia’s voice creaked in between the creases of the Cartographer’s monologue. “Was that conscription?”
With raised eyebrows and a whiff of sadness, the Cartographer placed the Gryphon parchment down (it was a blockbuster of a Quest) and shuffled backwards. There indeed was the Quest, its keyword having somehow piqued this peculiar girl’s interest. Conscription. A dirty, dirty word if there ever was one.
The Quest was there and it was a monster incarnate. The Cartographer had never seen so much tragedy bursting from a single page; there was no whimsicalness to it, no magic, no joy to be had. A Quest that was not so much a Quest but rather a revelation. It had a purpose, of course, but this was a Quest for another time. For a more mature age. The Cartographer gave a glance to Cynthia, seeing her little legs kicking helplessly from the stool, and could only shake their head. “Cynthia, dear, I’m sorry, I can’t give you that Quest.”
Sadly, our Cartographer had not realized that Cynthia had heard those words before. Those very words that led her here in the first place when her mother had blocked the doorway from her. That had been the first of many search attempts. And now Cynthia, like any stubborn human, persisted. “I want that one.”
“Take it from an expert, this Quest is a most nasty business.” The Cartographer swiped the sheet backwards just out of Cynthia’s reach as her little eyes tried to appraise a single detail from the parchment. “You want no part of it.”
It was just as her mother had said. Cynthia crossed her arms, her face flushed with annoyance as the Cartographer held the sheet above her, hanging like an unreachable, savory fruit on a devilishly high tree branch. “Why not?” she huffed.
“Age restriction, dear. Guild Rules.” The Cartographer knew this was a bit of a shallow statement, having only minutes before slyly sidestepped them. But, when one has a home field advantage, why not use it? “As compensation, I can give you two more Quests today. Two for the price of one! Can’t have a disappointed customer in my midst. And for one denied Quest, I guarantee that there are two more that you will love!”
Cynthia paused, her eyes still fixed on the parchment hanging above her. The Quest. That journey. She knew, she knew it in her little heart, it was the one. But there it was, unattainable. Oh, how bossy grown-ups could be! Always so smug, always so gleeful to snuff out children’s wishes like candles on a birthday cake! Finally, with a sigh and shrug, she relented. “Show me.”
The Cartographer shuffled through again, naming and riffling off and finally selecting a Quest of a more cheerful sort. One that involved returning a Queen’s missing Flunderberry Bush, which, if your tongue has had the privilege of tasting, would know that it was a mighty tragedy indeed.
All was signed and done, Cynthia’s signature a bit more adult-like than before, and the Cartographer gave a yawn. “It’s a wonderful Quest, Cynthia dear. Truly a classic. Now have fun and remember that handshakes and whistling are an offence most grave to the Queen. I expect you back in an hour or so!” The Cartographer gave a whistle and a wink, watching as Cynthia plunged back into the forest. With a cat stretch, they observed the mess of papers strewn around their counter. They had never fancied being the clean type—too much work, and what would come out of it? Just a future mess. Perhaps they could sort out some dusting later, but for now, rest was in order.
As they closed their swirling sapphire eyes, drifting away into dreams of fine brie, they failed to notice the door creaking open just an inch, and Cynthia’s little eyes peering back inside…
There was no colour here, only a bleached sky and constant rain, and she was already shivering, already lonely, but she trudged on ahead for this was the place just like he had described before he had departed, a place with no sun, no stars, no joy, and here she knew she would find him, here she would embrace him and cry and beg for him to return home, but her thoughts were shrouded by a constant screech of terrible noises, and no companions were there to comfort her, no centaur, no toucan, no comet, just shadows of people, endless shadows, pushing and fighting, churning forward, she was in their midst, a shadow of a shadow, not a Hero, but just another soldier, on an endless push in an endless war towards a cause that was incomprehensible to her, but none of that mattered, she knew she had but one purpose, and she went from shadow to shadow, peering into soulless faces, tugging on limp hands, darting between sodden legs, and she could not find him, and soon her tears joined the rain, streaming from her face, soaking the mud-choked ground below her, and her feet gave way, and soon she was crawling, tugging at trouser legs, tugging at souls who would simply not look down, who did it not of spite but rather in indifference, here in the world of shadows, love was but a distant echo, a dying heartbeat, a concept long erased…but she would not give up….she would find him…she would find him…she would find him…she would…she…
The sky tore open, grey static rain withering away into pure blue.
“Your father…” The Cartographer gazed at Cynthia, taking her from the muddied banks of the forest, placing her on a bed of leaves. Her words echoed again and again, quivering.
“Please…” The parchment was still clutched in fingers raw and reddened, her secret now beside herself. “Please, don’t tell my mother.”
The Cartographer said nothing, their mouth going through the filmstrip motions again. Children could be such enigmas to them, and perhaps Cynthia was the most perplexing case.
Red fingers reached up and clutched upon rainbow nails. “Oh, please! She would be upset. I know adults like to talk, but can this be one secret?!” Cynthia tried not to cry, tried to be assertive, but tears were insistent little things, and soon they were pouring down her face once again, miniature, crystalline streams themselves. “I’m sorry! I-I’m sorry, I stole your Parchment! I’m sorry I didn’t listen! But dad’s been gone for so long! And I never understood, mother told me I would understand when I was older, but I don’t want to understand! I just want him back! And, she said he wasn’t sure when he would come back, perhaps when I had grown a little older…he just said it was to an island…and lied about it. Said it wasn’t about the War, but I knew better. Knew it had to be about it, I hear about it on the radio, awful, awful war, and sometimes, before my mother switches it off and scolds me…something about an island and conscription, that’s all I know…” She buried her face into the Cartographer’s arms, muffled voice still emitting. “I thought, just maybe…if I went on a Quest, just like he did, I could find him. Bring him home…tell him I was sorry. I never said sorry, you see? Never said sorry for being such a rotten, spoiled daughter!”
“Oh, Cynthia.” The Cartographer’s platinum-streaked hair glinted with the whites of their teeth, a new smile forming. “No, no. You aren’t spoiled. You certainly aren’t rotten. Not in the slightest.”
Tiny fists of resistance pushed against her, against the comments. “Most certainly yes! Spoiled and rotten and now cowardly as well! A failure and a fluff!” The tears pooled now onto the leaves below, sparkling in the afternoon sun.
Our vivacious vendor, possibly out of their element, still knew enough to realize how very wrong that statement was. “Hardly, darling. None of the above. I can only see a girl grown beyond her years! A girl who would certainly make her father proud!”
“But he’s…he’s not here. I didn’t find him, I couldn’t find him…”
“And you think he would be disappointed?” the Cartographer let out a laugh, which was met with a cross look from Cynthia only partially hidden under a thin gauze of black tumbled down bangs. “My dear, dear Cynthia. Any father would weep to hear what you, of all daughters, have done!”
“And what’s that?”
“Just only displayed courage most pure! For even in spite of the grown-ups, of your mother and me, in spite of knowing the danger, the impossible-ness of this Quest, well, even against all those odds, you went against the status quo. You did what you felt was right. What was right.”
“Was it?” Cynthia wasn’t so sure about that. Something like this was bound to get her punished.
“If it’s to help a loved one, then it usually is.” The Cartographer’s smile was as warm as the sun above them both, now slicing perfectly through a gap in the trees. “If only such selflessness could be spread to others, dear. Even grown-ups could learn a thing or two from you.”
Their words kindled something deep inside Cynthia, a flame that had been extinguished for far too long. Slowly, she brushed the hair out of her eyes. “I just want him to come home.”
“And make no mistake, dear, many others do as well. But, indulge me if you will for a moment, as I try to explain the world of grown-ups, as it’s rather a hypocritical, topsy-turvy sort of place.” The Cartographer readjusted so that Cynthia was now on their lap. “Sometimes, even adults have to go on Quests, darling, and not of the kind that I tend to sell. For in our world, Quests arise all the time, and unfortunately, it’s not always for the most noble or nicest reason. Perhaps such things will change. I hope they do. But still, the call must go out, and some of us must answer. You must understand, Cynthia, your father is a man of courage just like you. But while your Quest has ended, in a sense, his still has a while to go.”
“Will he come back?” Cynthia asked for the umpteenth time for some questions were still worth asking again and again even though she was beginning to understand the answer.
We can trust, judging from the Cartographer’s grin and the spark of mischief in their eyes, that when they answered, it was nothing short of the truth. “Yes, Cynthia, yes he will. And when he does, he will find a daughter rich in experience, grown beyond her years. Courageous and bold and daring. A daughter who has cleaved her fears in half. A daughter who loves. A daughter who Quests.”
“And do you think he’ll forgive me for the potatoes? I really didn’t mean that. I’ll eat them, I promise…”
The Cartographer nodded. “I’m certain. All water under the bridge if you understand the saying.”
Cynthia nodded, the tears beginning to dry at her feet as her heart bloomed rich with the words. “I think I have to get going. It’s almost five and my mother has her—”
“—Meatloaf and mashed potatoes,” the Cartographer smiled. “But of course. Late for dinner is a cardinal sin in any book of mine. Swift, swift! Back to your house, but not before I ask you one last favour.” Bronze hair glittered in the sun as they stood up. “Don’t hide your story, dear. Don’t keep it bottled up, but instead, spread it and tell it to any ear who listens. Spread it and butter it up and narrate it all nice and fancy. Some may laugh and some may scoff. But it matters not. Truth or fiction, a Quest is a Quest, and all are worth telling.”
“I will. Yes, I most certainly will!” She waved now, a giddy swirl of her hand, before spinning on her heel and taking off into the forest, good and ready now to get un-lost and find her way home.
Again, the Cartographer was alone. But instead of trekking their own way back into the forest, they remained in the clearing, humming to themselves as they began to change…
An upper lip now began to bristle with a walrus moustache. Hair darkened into a rich chocolate colour, shortening to a crew cut that circled cleanly around sharp ears. Their usual mosaic of coloured robes patched themselves up into a standard uniform, one of those self-important affairs with far too many medals and stripes to count. A Major. One with tenure in the ranks.
The blue eyes, as always, stayed put.
When all was done, the Cartographer pulled out a pocket mirror, snapping it open, peering in, and saluting the reflection, before emitting a cheeky grin.
No doubt the Guild had strict rules about this sort of interference. No doubt they were quite serious about their enforcement and ensuring a completely neutral relationship with clients. It was without question that the Cartographer would be chewed out with the highest discretion.
But they were the old sort of people. Far too grown up for their own good. Archaic and self-absorbed.
Besides, the Cartographer had been cozied up inside the cabin for far too long.
It was time to get out. Get a girl’s father back. Time to stretch the limbs.
It was time to Quest.
“Please…” The parchment was still clutched in fingers raw and reddened, her secret now beside herself. “Please, don’t tell my mother.”
The Cartographer said nothing, their mouth going through the filmstrip motions again. Children could be such enigmas to them, and perhaps Cynthia was the most perplexing case.
Red fingers reached up and clutched upon rainbow nails. “Oh, please! She would be upset. I know adults like to talk, but can this be one secret?!” Cynthia tried not to cry, tried to be assertive, but tears were insistent little things, and soon they were pouring down her face once again, miniature, crystalline streams themselves. “I’m sorry! I-I’m sorry, I stole your Parchment! I’m sorry I didn’t listen! But dad’s been gone for so long! And I never understood, mother told me I would understand when I was older, but I don’t want to understand! I just want him back! And, she said he wasn’t sure when he would come back, perhaps when I had grown a little older…he just said it was to an island…and lied about it. Said it wasn’t about the War, but I knew better. Knew it had to be about it, I hear about it on the radio, awful, awful war, and sometimes, before my mother switches it off and scolds me…something about an island and conscription, that’s all I know…” She buried her face into the Cartographer’s arms, muffled voice still emitting. “I thought, just maybe…if I went on a Quest, just like he did, I could find him. Bring him home…tell him I was sorry. I never said sorry, you see? Never said sorry for being such a rotten, spoiled daughter!”
“Oh, Cynthia.” The Cartographer’s platinum-streaked hair glinted with the whites of their teeth, a new smile forming. “No, no. You aren’t spoiled. You certainly aren’t rotten. Not in the slightest.”
Tiny fists of resistance pushed against her, against the comments. “Most certainly yes! Spoiled and rotten and now cowardly as well! A failure and a fluff!” The tears pooled now onto the leaves below, sparkling in the afternoon sun.
Our vivacious vendor, possibly out of their element, still knew enough to realize how very wrong that statement was. “Hardly, darling. None of the above. I can only see a girl grown beyond her years! A girl who would certainly make her father proud!”
“But he’s…he’s not here. I didn’t find him, I couldn’t find him…”
“And you think he would be disappointed?” the Cartographer let out a laugh, which was met with a cross look from Cynthia only partially hidden under a thin gauze of black tumbled down bangs. “My dear, dear Cynthia. Any father would weep to hear what you, of all daughters, have done!”
“And what’s that?”
“Just only displayed courage most pure! For even in spite of the grown-ups, of your mother and me, in spite of knowing the danger, the impossible-ness of this Quest, well, even against all those odds, you went against the status quo. You did what you felt was right. What was right.”
“Was it?” Cynthia wasn’t so sure about that. Something like this was bound to get her punished.
“If it’s to help a loved one, then it usually is.” The Cartographer’s smile was as warm as the sun above them both, now slicing perfectly through a gap in the trees. “If only such selflessness could be spread to others, dear. Even grown-ups could learn a thing or two from you.”
Their words kindled something deep inside Cynthia, a flame that had been extinguished for far too long. Slowly, she brushed the hair out of her eyes. “I just want him to come home.”
“And make no mistake, dear, many others do as well. But, indulge me if you will for a moment, as I try to explain the world of grown-ups, as it’s rather a hypocritical, topsy-turvy sort of place.” The Cartographer readjusted so that Cynthia was now on their lap. “Sometimes, even adults have to go on Quests, darling, and not of the kind that I tend to sell. For in our world, Quests arise all the time, and unfortunately, it’s not always for the most noble or nicest reason. Perhaps such things will change. I hope they do. But still, the call must go out, and some of us must answer. You must understand, Cynthia, your father is a man of courage just like you. But while your Quest has ended, in a sense, his still has a while to go.”
“Will he come back?” Cynthia asked for the umpteenth time for some questions were still worth asking again and again even though she was beginning to understand the answer.
We can trust, judging from the Cartographer’s grin and the spark of mischief in their eyes, that when they answered, it was nothing short of the truth. “Yes, Cynthia, yes he will. And when he does, he will find a daughter rich in experience, grown beyond her years. Courageous and bold and daring. A daughter who has cleaved her fears in half. A daughter who loves. A daughter who Quests.”
“And do you think he’ll forgive me for the potatoes? I really didn’t mean that. I’ll eat them, I promise…”
The Cartographer nodded. “I’m certain. All water under the bridge if you understand the saying.”
Cynthia nodded, the tears beginning to dry at her feet as her heart bloomed rich with the words. “I think I have to get going. It’s almost five and my mother has her—”
“—Meatloaf and mashed potatoes,” the Cartographer smiled. “But of course. Late for dinner is a cardinal sin in any book of mine. Swift, swift! Back to your house, but not before I ask you one last favour.” Bronze hair glittered in the sun as they stood up. “Don’t hide your story, dear. Don’t keep it bottled up, but instead, spread it and tell it to any ear who listens. Spread it and butter it up and narrate it all nice and fancy. Some may laugh and some may scoff. But it matters not. Truth or fiction, a Quest is a Quest, and all are worth telling.”
“I will. Yes, I most certainly will!” She waved now, a giddy swirl of her hand, before spinning on her heel and taking off into the forest, good and ready now to get un-lost and find her way home.
Again, the Cartographer was alone. But instead of trekking their own way back into the forest, they remained in the clearing, humming to themselves as they began to change…
An upper lip now began to bristle with a walrus moustache. Hair darkened into a rich chocolate colour, shortening to a crew cut that circled cleanly around sharp ears. Their usual mosaic of coloured robes patched themselves up into a standard uniform, one of those self-important affairs with far too many medals and stripes to count. A Major. One with tenure in the ranks.
The blue eyes, as always, stayed put.
When all was done, the Cartographer pulled out a pocket mirror, snapping it open, peering in, and saluting the reflection, before emitting a cheeky grin.
No doubt the Guild had strict rules about this sort of interference. No doubt they were quite serious about their enforcement and ensuring a completely neutral relationship with clients. It was without question that the Cartographer would be chewed out with the highest discretion.
But they were the old sort of people. Far too grown up for their own good. Archaic and self-absorbed.
Besides, the Cartographer had been cozied up inside the cabin for far too long.
It was time to get out. Get a girl’s father back. Time to stretch the limbs.
It was time to Quest.
There’s a cabin in the forest, and not just any particular one but in all nature of forests, woods, thickets, and jungles, one that you can only find if you are good and lost, so there you are, spinning twenty-nine times, spinning until dizzy and spinning until breathless and spinning until the forest above is a verdant blur, and now you are here, a place of infinite discoveries, and because of that you know you’ll find what you need, because inside that cabin are all nature of Quests, glorious Quests and melancholy Quests and coy Quests and Quests that blush a perfect ruby and Quests that laugh like shimmering silver and Quests that are all these things, harmonious, and Quests that are none of those things but so many others and they all overlap and coalesce and dance together with their Beginnings and Middles and Ends, looping and twirling and entwining until you realize that no Quest does truly End, no Quest is limited to the bottom of parchment, they’ll live on in memories and words, evolving and blooming and flourishing in tandem, and will do so forever as long as there are
the Storytellers willing to tell them,
the Cartographers yearning to create them
and the Cynthias daring to live them.
the Storytellers willing to tell them,
the Cartographers yearning to create them
and the Cynthias daring to live them.
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Sam Jowett is a non-binary writer living in Toronto, Ontario. When not writing, they are currently involved in various Quests themselves which may or may not involve getting a law degree and finding the most exquisite ice cream flavours in the city. You can find their work in Room Magazine, Hypertrophic Press, Prisimatica Magazine, Silk + Smoke, on the inner curves of an innocuous seashell, at the bottom of bubbling and babbling brooks, and upon scrolls of old parchment in a Cartographer’s Cabin.
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Christine Sloan Stoddard lives in a kingdom of her own imagination, which is great because the rent is cheap. Her days consist of spinning fanciful yarns and building strange worlds. Her books include Desert Fox by the Sea, Belladonna Magic, Water for the Cactus Woman, and others. She is also the founder of Quail Bell Magazine and lives in Brooklyn, NY.
You can give Christine Sloan Stoddard a piece of the moon and stars by tipping here. |