The Village That Chose to Vanish

From the field journal of Tamsin Quill, Cartographer of Questionable Roads

The bridge to Hearthmere held long enough for us to cross. Behind us, its last stone faded beneath my heel.

“I dislike a road that changes its mind halfway through an introduction,” I said.

“Keep walking,” Nella replied.

The moon-moth landed on my hat. “For the record, I could have flown.”

“For the record, you chose my head.”

“It has a brim.”

Hearthmere stood exactly where the trembling map had placed it: seventeen cottages, a mill, and a river that seemed uncertain which direction to run. Washing hung between two houses. Someone had left a rake beside a gate.

A woman stood beneath the village bell, holding its rope. Red thread bound the clapper.

Nella stopped. “That knot. Mother used it on parcels she didn't want opened.”

The woman glanced at the blue recipe book in Nella's hand.

“Bramble?”

“Her daughter.”

The woman's grip loosened.

“Then she remembered us.”

Nella opened the book. The letters in Hearthmere honey rolls had begun fading again.

“Not for much longer,” she said.

The woman's name was Mara. She had walked out of Hearthmere that morning, carrying the village's decision to the toll gate.

“You gave away the way home,” I said.

“I thought it meant mine.”

“And when you learned otherwise?”

“I came back before the last stones vanished. Told everyone what I'd done.”

Through a cottage window, a small boy held a slate against the glass. He had written his name three times. The first line was already blank.

Mara saw me looking.

“We thought people would forget where to find us,” she said. “We didn't know we'd begin forgetting ourselves.”

“What were you hiding from?”

“The surveyor.”

She pointed toward the mill. White stakes marked the riverbank, each bearing a number.

“He came to measure the water. Then the fields. Then he asked every household to sign his book.”

“What happened to the ones who signed?”

“He returned the following week with buyers.”

Nella closed her recipe book very carefully.

“The fields weren't his to sell.”

“He said the signatures proved otherwise. He was coming back tonight.”

The moon-moth's satchel jolted. Its troublesome letter wriggled free and dropped into my hands.

Now that we were inside Hearthmere, the address stopped moving.

To the people who live here.

Mara broke the seal. Inside lay a folded sheet covered in cramped writing.

“Our miller sent this,” she said. “He's been away asking for help.”

Across the bottom, someone had added:

Do not sign anything else. Keep the original agreement. I am bringing a witness.

“Where is the agreement?” I asked.

Mara reached beneath her cloak.

The paper she unfolded was blank.

For a moment, none of us spoke.

Then Nella laid her recipe book beside it.

“The road forgetting us is taking our proof with it.”

My compass needle turned toward the river stakes.

We could open the road and let the witness through. We could keep it closed and lose Hearthmere before anyone arrived to help.

I took out my field journal.

“Names,” I said. “All seventeen households. Tell me who lives here, who planted what, who built the mill. I'll write until my fingers give out.”

“Will that stop it?” Mara asked.

“I don't know. But we can give the village more than one place to remember itself.”

Nella went door to door. The moth carried messages between cottages. Mara rang the bell with her knuckles, leaving the red thread tied.

By afternoon, my journal held names, muddy thumbprints, and one extremely firm opinion about the rightful owner of a goat.

Then the bell's shadow lengthened across the page.

From beyond the vanished bridge, a voice called:

“I have an appointment.”

My compass pointed straight at it.

Next dispatch: “The Man Who Measured the River.”

Continue Tamsin's journey through Mythikal Spiriticus, the original fantasy world behind Mythikal Sundries™. Start with Entry 001 or follow the dispatches in order.