a story
There once was a mapmaker named Otis. When captains discovered new lands or kings conquered the old, they employed mapmakers to chart their territory. Most joined expeditions, supported by huntsmen, healers, and priests. Otis was different though, as Otis traveled alone.
He could cross chasms in fog, circumvent blockades with a skiff, and sketch stony labyrinths from memory. The wealthiest landowners sought Otis's services, and only they could afford him. It wasn't the promise of wealth which drove Otis though. Even in the deadest of nights, famished and drenched, a singular vision hung in his mind: A map of all the lands - every cliff, creek, and kingdom drawn together. With each journey Otis added a new sketch to the compendium he carried, growing ever closer to his goal.
One day, Otis received a missive from a cloaked figure which read:
COME TO THE HILL AT SUNSET.
He arrived to find a marble terrace overlooking the city below, flowering vines wrapping the wooden banister. He turned at the sound of clicking steps and saw a man approach. The man wore a dark fitted tunic, high leather boots, and a gold circlet which signified him as lord of these lands - the king.
"My men sing praise of your skills," spoke the king. He looked upon the city. "Our war with the three kingdoms drags on. We cannot pierce the mountains to the North, nor the straits to the East, nor the chasms to the West. The paths are too hidden for my armies to traverse, and too numerous for my scouts to find."
He turned back to Otis. "The sages speak of a tool in the desert to the South. This tool will give me the power to win these wars and unite the realms. I sent three caravans each with forty men, but none have returned. Find this tool and return it to me, and I will grant you anything which is within my power.”
Few had ever traveled through the desert. The shifting sands erased all paths, confusing any who dared enter. The sages foretold that the journey would take three days, reaching farther than any had gone before. Otis thought to the maps he had drawn, the southern regions bare and empty. Without considering his reward, Otis bowed to the king and accepted.
The next day Otis made his preparations - gathering a water pouch, a walking cane, and a pack for his compendium. He took one of the king’s horses and rode to an oasis town where rocks gave way to sand and hooves could go no further. After a brief rest at an inn, Otis set off in the cool night.
He continued for hours as the sun slowly rose, pausing to sip from his pouch and sketch waypoints in his compendium. Eventually, a sharp point broke away from the horizon. The point grew taller as he approached, until a towering obelisk loomed over him. Beyond the obelisk stretched a vast chasm, farther and deeper than any bridge could cross.
Otis walked to the obelisk, which was smooth save for a dark hole at arm height. He peered inside, and in the dark recesses lay a coiled viper, utterly still. At once, a voice boomed from above:
TO CONTINUE, REACH
Otis jumped back, eyes shooting upwards. The sky was empty save for the unyielding sun. He pondered for a moment. Nothing but sand stretched round the chasm. He could not send a rope across by arrow, as no bow was strong enough. Nor could he climb the obelisk and hope to glide across, as the smooth face offered no purchase. Otis thought of the empty pages he’d reserved for the southern regions; he could not bear to see them remain blank. He breathed in, closed his eyes, and reached into the hole.
There was a dull grinding, then a crack encircled the obelisk. Slowly, it began to tilt, until finally the obelisk fell across the chasm with a mighty tremor. Otis glanced down and cried out - his arm had vanished. He grabbed at his robe, then under his shirt, but felt nothing but smooth skin. Slowly, Otis calmed his breathing and regained his composure. If this is what it would take to map the world, it was a meager price.
Otis crossed the obelisk and pitched his tent at the other end. He began anew early the next morning, moving quickly as if unencumbered by the loss of his arm. But the midday sun beat heavily upon Otis’s brow, and gradually he grew weary. The air appeared to swirl until sand and sky blurred together. Otis tripped, flailing his missing hand to catch himself, and collapsed to the ground.
Otis awoke to a cool heaviness over his left leg. He had fallen over a small pocket of quicksand, which softly tugged against him. At once, a voice boomed from above:
TO CONTINUE, CLIMB
Otis flinched at the sound but otherwise remained calm. Tribesmen at the oasis had taught him about quicksand. He was to lay on his back and slowly bring his leg upwards, lest quick movements drag him deeper. But Otis could feel his sanity dripping away in the desert heat. His pouch and cane had fallen just out of reach, and he would not survive long in the exposure. Otis thought of the lands he had yet to map, steeled himself, and climbed upwards.
He propelled forward effortlessly and landed beside his pouch, which he grabbed and drank from thirstily. With his fever quenched, he glanced towards the quicksand, wondering how it had released him so easily. Before him lay his cane, one sand-covered leg, and an empty cloth where the other should have been. Aghast, he scrounged through the sand, as if his leg could be found and recovered from below. After a moment he stopped, then thinking, accepted that such a loss was necessary to continue his journey. Picking himself upon his cane, Otis limped until dusk. He scribbled in his compendium into the night, and slept restlessly.
He awoke to the third day and continued south. His right leg ached under the weight of his pack, while his left hand chafed against his cane. But Otis continued on, stopping only to chart each preceding stretch.
After the sun had passed overhead, Otis began to feel the welcome respite of a cool breeze. As he continued however, it grew in intensity until his shawl whipped around his face. He paused to adjust when a massive gust swirled around him, kicking up dust and blotting out the sun. He shut his eyes against the sharp sand, when at once a voice boomed:
TO CONTINUE, SEE
Otis feared opening his eyes lest he be blinded by the biting gale. He tried to hobble on but quickly lost sense of direction, as the storm’s intensity refused to abate. Eventually, he stopped and listened to the roaring wind. He once again thought to his compendium, vast and hopelessly incomplete. He could not bear to have it finish here. And with that, he opened his eyes.
In an instant, the sandstorm stopped. And in that same moment, Otis saw that his vision had been halved, one eye now dark to the world. But he did not care, for the other was intact and that was enough.
Otis turned and stepped back in astonishment. Before him stood a great shimmering temple, beyond which stretched a vast and glistening sea. He hobbled up the marble steps and entered, finally taking shade from the desert sun.
When his vision had adjusted, he found himself in a vast hall containing a low stone table. Otis approached, and upon the table lay a single leather-bound tome. He opened to the first page and beheld a map, showing mountains to the North, straights to the East, chasms to the West, and deserts to the South.
He turned to the next page. It showed the edge of a desert and a southern coast bordering a sea. At the center of the page stood the outline of a white temple. And within that, a small black dot. Otis squinted his remaining eye, leaned in, and gasped. The dot was not a speck, but a caricature of a man, standing by a table and book like the very one before him. Otis slowly turned the page, and the caricature did the same.
He flipped on. There was a page showing a green field upon which drawings of deer pranced and grazed. Another showed scattered tributaries, teeming with sketches of fish beneath the surface. And another showed a grid of buildings and halls, little figurines milling to and fro.
This was the tool the sages spoke of - a map of every soul and grain of sand, complete for all of time. The sages were right that this would allow the king to conquer his enemies and unite the lands. But Otis considered none of this.
Taking the book under arm, he slowly limped back down the steps and into the setting sun. Wordlessly, he removed tinder and flint from his pack, struck a fire, and tossed in the leather tome. At once, a voice boomed from above:
WHAT DO YOU WISH?
Otis remained silent. Then, quietly he answered: “To map.”
The voice boomed again: THEN GO FORTH
With that, Otis looked down and saw that his arm, leg, and eye had been restored. He glanced at the ashen remains of the tome and could not recall the details he had seen beyond that which he had already known.
Otis turned and walked to the coast. He began a new path, making sure not to retrace the way he came. And every so often he stopped, withdrew his compendium, and added a new sketch of a cliff, creek, or kingdom. So Otis journeyed on, no longer dreaming of a map of the world, yet continuing to map with each new day.