The Map That Started at the Wrong End

Fenn had drawn the path from his blue door to the red gate.

A bridge. A hollow stump. The big oak.

He carried the map all the way to the gate, checking everything as he went.

At the gate he turned for home.

He opened the map again.

The bridge came first on the paper.

In front of Fenn stood the oak.

He turned the paper upside down.

Now the little drawing of his house stood on its roof.

That did not seem an improvement.

Fenn put the house the right way up again.

He laid one paw on the red gate behind him.

With the other, he found its small red mark on the page.

Then he followed the drawn path away from that mark.

Oak first.

The oak had a hollow on this side.

Fenn had never seen it coming from home.

An old leaf rested inside like a curled-up boat.

He left it where it was.

Beyond the oak, the path bent left.

On the outward journey it had bent right.

Fenn followed the curve.

His feet seemed to understand before his eyes did.

The hollow stump appeared beside the ferns.

From this direction, it looked rather like a small armchair.

Fenn sat on the grass to see.

It still looked like a stump, but a comfortable one.

A beetle crossed a root.

Fenn waited while it climbed over the highest part.

There was no beetle on his map.

There had not been one to draw when he made it.

Then came the bridge.

The shallow water went the same way as before.

Fenn was the one going differently.

He paused on the low stone arch and watched a leaf drift beneath it.

Past the bridge, a blue shape shone between the hedges.

His door.

Fenn folded the map before he reached it.

He knew the last few steps by the sound of the gravel.

At the table, he laid the map flat.

He ran one paw from the house to the gate.

Then back again.

The paper held both journeys without needing to grow any longer.

Fenn put the map beside the door.

Tomorrow he might start at the bridge.

He would still know where home was.

There were more ways to begin than he had drawn.