Taking the story (and scarf) baton from
@laurenad for my swan song this week:
There is a small town in the middle of nowhere. And in the middle of that town is a forest. And in the middle of that forest there is a lake with a well-maintained dock and a small wooden hut with a tightly locked door. A second traveler has arrived, and spellbound by the eerie beauty of the water, wanders down the dock. The sky is a brilliant blue, the water grey, almost as though lake and sky have reversed. The spiky plants along the shore have altered their coloration to orange and blue, echoing the colors along the cliff face and the mountains beyond. Something compels our traveler to try the lock. Surprised, she finds the knob twists easily in her hand. Crossing the threshold she surveys a small room—windowless and bare of furnishings. The only item in the cabin is a small print on the far wall. It seems almost translucent, as though hung in front of a window. She approaches and exclaims with delight, “Why it is an old map!” In the four corners of the parchment, the winds puff their cheeks in a fat and friendly fashion. Along the side and top margins are drawn mythical beasts and sea creatures of legend: winged horses and scaly serpents, narwhals and behemoths with oddly soulful eyes and appealing faces. Along the bottom of the map, the cartographer has warned: “Here be Monsters.” Oddly, the center appears faded, blank. As our traveler studies the map, lines and shapes emerge but shorelines dissolve and boundaries shift. Is this where I am, she wonders?
Where am I? She feels a frisson of fear, then genuine trepidation. Nothing has changed but the light in the room. Strange cursive letters race across the glowing map. A bolt clicks shut. She whirls around. Gusting winds and crashing surf fill the air. The cabin walls tilt outward and the map billows like a sheet, becoming the floor she stands upon. Under her feet a red x forms and the words
hic es in Latin script. The creatures in the margins rise up, thrashing and glaring with menacing eyes. Her shoes are soaked, ensnared in ropes of kelp. The map has disappeared but the letters forming on the wet sand are fearsomely clear: F-i-n-i-s-t-e-r-r-e.
Finisterre. Lands End. Place of no return. There is no turning back. No turning back from the end of the world…
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