The Library of Maps, #6
THE VILLAGE OF HANDMAPS

I
The Visitor
Had heard of the Village of Handmaps for many years,
But it was surprisingly difficult to locate.

Several times
She had taken the correct exit off the freeway
Only to circle the Village,
Looking longingly at its labyrinth of streets across the road’s divider.

II
Today, however, was different.

As she came to the divider,
The Welcomer,
Wearing a medallion around her neck,
Waved to her.

The Visitor stopped her car and asked directions.

The Welcomer,
Extending her left hand, palm upward,
Said, “Let me show you on my map.”

On her palm,
Inscribed in indelible ink,
Was a map,
Its details so small
That only
When the Welcomer placed her medallion’s magnifying glass over it
Could the Visitor read the plan.

“The center?” she asked diffidently.

“All our maps are different,”
The Welcomer explained,
“So I can only show you how to get to my house,
Which is in the center of my map.
But, if you are to live with us, you will need your own map.”

And so the Welcomer took the Visitor to the Map Maker,
Who sat everyday beside the Pool of Memory.

The Map Maker inscribed the Visitor’s map on her palm,
And gave her a magnifying-glass medallion.

“Remember,”
The Map Maker cautioned,
“It is only for you,
And you must return the medallion when you leave or die.”

As the Visitor turned,
She stared into the Pool of Memory
And realized that there was no water there,
Only myriad shards of magnifying glass.

III
In the Library,
There is a dusty room of uncatalogued maps.

Every now and then,
The Cataloguer enters this space,
Frowns at the old cardboard box
With its contents of glass shards,
Fingering it perplexedly,
Yet loath to throw it away.

The box,
Wrapped awkwardly around with twine,
Had arrived three years ago
—with no return address or explanation—
Addressed to her personally.

Thus,
The Cataloguer feels responsible for its fate.

by Moira Roth
Written 3/24/0, revised 3/25