This is (probably) a novel not in chapters. I'm not used to writing for an audience, but that is what this piece is intended for - an audience. I usually just write for myself and post work occasionally. BEWARE: One character's title has the same letters as Salami. It is not Salami. Plus made up language.

The Accursed Cartographer

I set down the pack and sighed. My eyes had started to hurt again. They had been bothering me more and more, those days. I wasn’t really sure why. I was still young and strong. Eyes only hurt the old.

I was two days way from the sea. The air wasn’t salty anymore – not with these mountains. The land had started as stones jutting from the water, then cliffs, and now these monoliths, green and grey and so beautiful.

I’d talked to Saddi, Horse Father. He told me where the tallest mountain was.

“Go to the top,” he had said. “There you will see the world.”

So that’s where I sat; a boulder on the feet of the mountain. It was like the toenail of the mountain.

I emptied the back and unrolled the bed skin. It was too late to climb the mountain.

One of the bad things about being a cartographer is waking up so early, just to get to the top of a mountain. The lovely thing is watching the world come alive again after a night of sleep.

I checked the rolls of maps in my pack, made sure that the cap on the ink was locked, made sure nothing had stolen the graphite and the rubber erasing swab in the night, and started off again.

The trail I took was one well worn by the feet of Saddi’s brothers and sisters. In some of the trickier, rockier places they had carved in stairs. Some of them had designs, sprawling stories, engraved into their rock faces.

I smiled when I saw them, and went on, my bare feet blistering and popping every once and a while. I’d had to toss my boots to the side of the trail in the morning – Saddi and his brothers and sisters didn’t believe in shoes, and it was a crime to have footwear on their trails. I had small desire to upset the gods.

I reached the summit in the late evening. There was one Ara tree there. I climbed it.

I saw the world. It unravelled itself for me, the mountain range stretching one way, the hills poking up under them, like annoying younger siblings. I took out a map roll. I had part of it done – the coast to the edge of the mountain range.

While the light was still good I sat in the tree, sketching.

The morning routine when I was mapping was basic. I ordered my rolls of map paper, looked at each one of them, and checked my ink. Sometimes I’d have to make new ink.

I was missing a roll the next day. I got up to look for it – the only place I could imagine it rolling to was the trail.

And sure enough, there it was, in the hands of Daeothdi.

I bowed my head. “May I have my map back, Daeothdi?”

He handed it to me. “Salma. You have to keep better track of your maps.”

I took the map, as carefully as I could. I remembered Daeothdi very well.

I also remembered his tempter.

“Thank you, Daeothdi.”

“I would actually like to talk to you.”

I looked up. “What?”

“Sit down. Please.”

Daeothdi never said please to anyone. I sat down on a log. He wrinkled his nose, and sat cross-legged on the ground.

“Daeothdi, enlighten me.”

He pulled at his nose. That was the first strange thing about Daeothdi. Most of him was expressed through his hands and his nose.

His face was still beautiful.

“Please, Daeothdi, enlighten me.”

“Your daughter has grown up to be clever and beautiful.”

“Thank you, Daeothdi.” That was the greatest compliment I would probably ever get from him.

“She needs a mother. I think that you should come to the camp and meet her again, Salma.”

I sighed. “Daeothdi, do not call me Salma anymore. That’s not my real name, and it is not right.”

Daeothdi looked like he wanted to laugh. “I suppose that is true. I suppose that you are really Salmali.”

“Daeothdi.”

“You’ll come with me, Salma.”

I really wished he wouldn’t call me Salma – lovely bird, an endearment given to me by Daeothdi and Saddi. Daeothdi and I weren’t dear any more.

We stood up, and I grabbed my pack and maps. We walked down Saddi’s trail, Daeothdi in front. It was down hill, but the going was more treacherous – stones came up faster, roots stuck themselves out with vehemence.

I picked up my shoes once we got to the foot of the mountain and pulled them on. Daeothdi traced the path of the sun with his finger tips, waiting for me.

I saw satisfaction dance across his face.

“It’s the right time of day.”

I bowed my head again. Daeothdi was doing me a great honour, taking me to the camp. He led me by the hand as the stars began to rise and the sun began to set through the twilight paths of his brothers and sisters. He allowed me to wear shoes – another honour, I’m sure, but I took it for granted.

“We will reach the camp in the morning?”

“Before then,” said Daeothdi. “The path is not so tedious.”

I nodded, and we went on.

The sky started to turn from that dark shade blue to a purple when I started to smell the smoke from the camp. Daeothdi put a whistle to his lips, and blew rounds of short notes. And owl or a sister, I couldn’t tell, hooted in return.

There were stairs carved into the slope. Daeothdi helped me down.

The trees stopped suddenly. Daeothdi had already walked out of them and was blowing his whistle again.

I followed him.

The camp sat in the middle of the field, surrounded by mountains and trees. It didn’t seem very large from here, just a few tents.

“Did many die over the past few winters?” I asked.

Daeothdi nodded.

The members of the camp watched them from the centre of the camp, solemn and silent, like ghosts. There was a bonfire. I recognised some of the people standing closest to it.

“Salmali,” said Daeothdi. “That is her name. She is a friend of Saddi, a sarcune, and so will stay with us for a while.”

Silence for a time.

A girl broke the silence. “Daeothdi,” she said, “Kiedoe mossan sur. Sunigung oss?”

Daeothdi laughed. I’d never heard him laugh before. Of course he laughed, everyone did, but it seemed strange. Unnatural for him.

So. This must be Daeothkita.

Daeothdi shook his head. “Sussan.”

“Oh.” Daeothkita seemed disappointed she had to speak my language. I remembered the way Daeothdi was about guests. Either you spoke their language, or you did not speak at all.

“Daeothkita, please show Salmali around camp.”

Daeothkita nodded, bowed her head, and hurried to my side. She was so tall now.

My only memories of her were ages old.

“Come with me, Salmali.” She took me by the hand and pulled me towards the northern end of the camp.

“There,” she said. “Do you see it, Salmali?”

I nodded. “Moska.”

“That is how our camp is built,” she said. “Moska.”

Moska was the bear stars. It was a constellation that I frequently used for navigation. I cocked my head. The camp was shaped like Moska.

“Daeothdi stays in the centre of the camp,” said Daeothkita. “Without a tent, so he can watch over our people. Right there, at the bear’s head – that’s where – “

“I know,” I said. “I remember this camp.”

“Oh.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Tell me,” I said, “what has changed over the years?”

“Brothers and sisters have,” she said. “And so has Daeothdi.”

“What else. Please, enlighten me, Daeothkita.”

“Yes, Salmali.” She still led me around the camp, holding my hand. She pointed at tents, at pots, even at the looms leaning up against the wooden supports, telling me the stories behind them and about the people who lived there. Memories, warm and good, grasped my hand, softening the way for my feet and lighting the sky.

Daeothkita looked at me. “That’s all there is.”

I nodded. “Please, take me to Daeothdi.”

She bowed her head, and pulled me where he sat, beading.

Daeothdi waved her away.

“She is very tall,” I said.

“Sit down,” said Daeothdi. I sat down.

“Does she even know I’m her mother?”

Daeothdi’s face went blank. He buried his face in his hands.

“Did you forget, Daeothdi?”

“Yes.”

I took a deep breath. How could he have forgotten?

“I’m sorry,” he said.