The compass was a strange thing, pretty in its own right, but tattered so much as to appear insignificant. It was made of old, dented, tarnished silver, with an intricate heart carved into its side and a leather cord strung around a little silver peg stuck into it, transforming it into a sort of eccentric necklace.
Upon further observation, one (who knew their directions well) would probably notice that the compass didn’t point north, or, for that matter, in any specific direction. Everyone that held the thing seemed to perceive the direction in which it pointed quite differently.
“It does point north!” a man at a ball once exclaimed to the compass’s owner, “Look here, that is north for true. Isn’t it, sweetums?”
The man’s fiancé (who, consequently, stood directly in the path the compass’s dutiful little needle pointed in) looked slightly embarrassed as her “sweetums” handed her the small object. She rested it gingerly in the palm of her delicate hand, watching the compass’s needle as it seemed to quiver for a moment, and then swiveled to point at the compass’s owner. Though a rosy blush crept up her neck as she glanced up at the man who’s strange little device she held in her hand, she said, smoothly, “It points southeast for me.”
“Let me have a look!” The woman’s younger sister held out her hand eagerly, and the woman lowered it carefully into her palm by the cord.
For a moment, the needle quivered, and then swiveled to point in the direction of the compass owner’s apprentice: a youthful, good-natured man. The young girl looked in the direction the compass now pointed, saw the young man, and began to blush much as her sister had. She shook the compass a little, and when the needle stubbornly refused to sway she closed her fingers hastily around the device, but not before her sister saw the compass’s final verdict and soft-spokenly announced “East.”
The compass’s owner turned to look at the eastern side of the room, and realization seemed to flicker in his dark eyes as his apprentice caught him looking and waved cheerily. The compass owner’s face was once again decidedly expressionless as he waved back.
“How strange!” the woman’s fiancé said, “Pray tell, does it point in the same direction for each of its holders forever? Will it point north every time I hold it?”
“As the man changes, and as the man’s life changes around him, so does the compass’s north,” its owner said carefully.
“Fascinating,” the other man marveled aloud, “fascinating…”
“Why don’t you get a compass that works properly?” the young girl, still clutching the compass in her closed fist, asked. Her older sister looked abashed in the aftermath of the forward question; she shifted uncomfortably beside her betrothed, her elegant ball gown rustling with the movement.
“I know my directions without a compass,” he said, “It’s more of a reminder than a tool.”
“Give the man his compass back,” the woman scolded to her younger sister, “You’ve held it long enough.”
“May I have a look, first?” a clear, quiet voice intoned, surprising the group.
“By all means,” the compass’s owner replied to the old man who had been listening for some time, and the young girl plopped it into his outstretched and weathered hand. Once again, the needle quivered, and then, to everyone’s shock, it began to spin ever so slowly, in a constant, clockwise motion.
“How very strange!” the woman’s fiancé exclaimed.
The old man let out a bark of laughter. “Perhaps my true north vanished with my youth.” He offered the compass back to its owner, who took it.
“Come,” the woman said abruptly to her betrothed and to her sister, “we have bothered the man long about his compass long enough.” She gave him a shy smile before taking her fiancé’s arm and moving away, to another conversation in the ballroom.
Only the old man remained. “May I ask where you got the compass?” he asked in a careworn voice.
“On one of my adventures,” the younger man replied, “In the Americas.”
“Ah,” the old man said, “an adventurer, are you?”
“Of sorts.” A smile played at his lips as he said it.
The old man shook his head. “How the young wander…I remember when I, too, had a yearning for adventure in my heart. I remember almost losing myself to it, too.”
“Not all those who wander are lost,” the other man speculated mildly.
“True. But those who wander don’t know what home is.” The old man rested his hand on the younger man’s shoulder for a moment, “Don’t lose such a valuable thing,” he advised, “A person’s true north is rarely so clear to them.” And then he was gone, lost in the crowd of the ball.
Across the room (the southern end), the woman glanced over her shoulder at the compass’s owner. As she watched him stick his treasure into his pocket, she wished-oh, how she wished-that the compass’s little needle was pointing at her. Then she remembered herself, and looked away.
Beside her, her betrothed thought nothing of the compass or its owner anymore. He was on to an entirely new conversation with an entirely new person. He didn’t notice how the woman beside him-the woman he loved-kept sidestepping away, or the sadness in her expression, the longing. He thought only of the conversation at hand, and of what he could say to prove himself.
Behind them, the young girl stared longingly at the compass owner’s apprentice. Her mind was filled with the adventure stories filling her bookshelf. If only he would look at her…but he was amiably speaking to everyone who’s path he came across; in other words, everyone but her. She sighed, shifting on her feet. Frustrated.
And on the eastern side of the room, the old man made his way through the crowd towards the front door. He was tired of this, all this noise. Once, in his youth, he had stayed at balls at night with his love, dancing every dance and laughing at every joke and drinking every drink offered to him. But his love was gone, and so was his youth. Yes. It was time for him to go. Once more, he glanced over his shoulder at the young man with the strange compass, and he shook his head.
The compass’s owner wandered to the great room’s closest window, losing his gaze to the boundless ocean. He held the compass in his pocket, but didn’t bother looking at it; he knew all too well where it pointed:
Out to the sea.
Upon further observation, one (who knew their directions well) would probably notice that the compass didn’t point north, or, for that matter, in any specific direction. Everyone that held the thing seemed to perceive the direction in which it pointed quite differently.
“It does point north!” a man at a ball once exclaimed to the compass’s owner, “Look here, that is north for true. Isn’t it, sweetums?”
The man’s fiancé (who, consequently, stood directly in the path the compass’s dutiful little needle pointed in) looked slightly embarrassed as her “sweetums” handed her the small object. She rested it gingerly in the palm of her delicate hand, watching the compass’s needle as it seemed to quiver for a moment, and then swiveled to point at the compass’s owner. Though a rosy blush crept up her neck as she glanced up at the man who’s strange little device she held in her hand, she said, smoothly, “It points southeast for me.”
“Let me have a look!” The woman’s younger sister held out her hand eagerly, and the woman lowered it carefully into her palm by the cord.
For a moment, the needle quivered, and then swiveled to point in the direction of the compass owner’s apprentice: a youthful, good-natured man. The young girl looked in the direction the compass now pointed, saw the young man, and began to blush much as her sister had. She shook the compass a little, and when the needle stubbornly refused to sway she closed her fingers hastily around the device, but not before her sister saw the compass’s final verdict and soft-spokenly announced “East.”
The compass’s owner turned to look at the eastern side of the room, and realization seemed to flicker in his dark eyes as his apprentice caught him looking and waved cheerily. The compass owner’s face was once again decidedly expressionless as he waved back.
“How strange!” the woman’s fiancé said, “Pray tell, does it point in the same direction for each of its holders forever? Will it point north every time I hold it?”
“As the man changes, and as the man’s life changes around him, so does the compass’s north,” its owner said carefully.
“Fascinating,” the other man marveled aloud, “fascinating…”
“Why don’t you get a compass that works properly?” the young girl, still clutching the compass in her closed fist, asked. Her older sister looked abashed in the aftermath of the forward question; she shifted uncomfortably beside her betrothed, her elegant ball gown rustling with the movement.
“I know my directions without a compass,” he said, “It’s more of a reminder than a tool.”
“Give the man his compass back,” the woman scolded to her younger sister, “You’ve held it long enough.”
“May I have a look, first?” a clear, quiet voice intoned, surprising the group.
“By all means,” the compass’s owner replied to the old man who had been listening for some time, and the young girl plopped it into his outstretched and weathered hand. Once again, the needle quivered, and then, to everyone’s shock, it began to spin ever so slowly, in a constant, clockwise motion.
“How very strange!” the woman’s fiancé exclaimed.
The old man let out a bark of laughter. “Perhaps my true north vanished with my youth.” He offered the compass back to its owner, who took it.
“Come,” the woman said abruptly to her betrothed and to her sister, “we have bothered the man long about his compass long enough.” She gave him a shy smile before taking her fiancé’s arm and moving away, to another conversation in the ballroom.
Only the old man remained. “May I ask where you got the compass?” he asked in a careworn voice.
“On one of my adventures,” the younger man replied, “In the Americas.”
“Ah,” the old man said, “an adventurer, are you?”
“Of sorts.” A smile played at his lips as he said it.
The old man shook his head. “How the young wander…I remember when I, too, had a yearning for adventure in my heart. I remember almost losing myself to it, too.”
“Not all those who wander are lost,” the other man speculated mildly.
“True. But those who wander don’t know what home is.” The old man rested his hand on the younger man’s shoulder for a moment, “Don’t lose such a valuable thing,” he advised, “A person’s true north is rarely so clear to them.” And then he was gone, lost in the crowd of the ball.
Across the room (the southern end), the woman glanced over her shoulder at the compass’s owner. As she watched him stick his treasure into his pocket, she wished-oh, how she wished-that the compass’s little needle was pointing at her. Then she remembered herself, and looked away.
Beside her, her betrothed thought nothing of the compass or its owner anymore. He was on to an entirely new conversation with an entirely new person. He didn’t notice how the woman beside him-the woman he loved-kept sidestepping away, or the sadness in her expression, the longing. He thought only of the conversation at hand, and of what he could say to prove himself.
Behind them, the young girl stared longingly at the compass owner’s apprentice. Her mind was filled with the adventure stories filling her bookshelf. If only he would look at her…but he was amiably speaking to everyone who’s path he came across; in other words, everyone but her. She sighed, shifting on her feet. Frustrated.
And on the eastern side of the room, the old man made his way through the crowd towards the front door. He was tired of this, all this noise. Once, in his youth, he had stayed at balls at night with his love, dancing every dance and laughing at every joke and drinking every drink offered to him. But his love was gone, and so was his youth. Yes. It was time for him to go. Once more, he glanced over his shoulder at the young man with the strange compass, and he shook his head.
The compass’s owner wandered to the great room’s closest window, losing his gaze to the boundless ocean. He held the compass in his pocket, but didn’t bother looking at it; he knew all too well where it pointed:
Out to the sea.
UglyMushroom
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