The Mapping

While the skies are painted red the clouds are always absent, the man thinks for himself. He wonders why, as he sips the wine his wife had poured up. She is sitting in the rocking chair beside him, quietly reading while holding his hand. He glances over the vineyards a final time, and as his wife releases his hand to turn the page of her book he stands up. “Alright, I'm gonna head to bed now. You can have the last sip of wine”, he whispers and she nods, her eyes continuing to wander over the letters. But as he is getting ready, a strange feeling emerges within. While his brain was like mushy grapes just a moment ago, he was now in possession of all one's faculties. I guess the sleep train must’ve left already, he thinks to himself. So he puts on his sandals, grabs his bag and leaves. “I’ll be back in an hour”, he tells his wife and she once again nods, fully immersed in another world of which the man has no knowledge. So he starts to walk.

For ten minutes the man experienced a fall of color and a rise of stars. The skies had turned from a mighty red to a matte black, but the moon lit his path. As he reached the turning point, he stopped for a moment. His eyes were not yet heavy, contradictorily wide open for the beauty of the Tuscan vineyards. Grapevines stretched along the curvy body of mother earth and the patterns of the fields looked like the swirls of the woods his house was built on. The view embossed his mind. He made a split second decision to keep walking.

The roads ahead were heavy. At many times he decided to give up, but fought through anyway. Curiously, a bench was placed nearby every time he needed a quick rest. While his body was screaming for sleep, his mind was still clear as day. The man was perplexed by this sensation, but didn’t pay much attention to it. Instead, he pulled out a map from his bag and unfolded it. Still within the bounds. I’ll reach the edge tonight, there’s always rest tomorrow, he thought. He kept walking for a while, feet aching and the right shoulder sore. At this point the lack of rest had even caught up to the mind, but the cartographer had a willpower of steel. The hill he was climbing was getting steeper, every step a struggle. As he progressed, the peak of the hill became more clear and he could distinguish yet another bench at the top. He used this as a form of motivation, knowing every step led him closer to a place to rest his sore ankles.

Finally at the peak he could sit down. The bench was made of cypress, recklessly hammered together but still stable enough. As he sat he took a deep breath. There was something so intoxicating about the smell of the Tuscan air, and even though the cartographer had never traveled outside of the fields he still could recognize its quality. Though he was confused over the sight before him. As he let his eyes wander over the area, he realized there were no vineyards. Instead, a lone hut was oddly placed in the middle of the field and hordes of sheep surrounded it. As he looked more carefully it seemed as if there was a fence built in a large radius around the hut. When he once again stood up he realized he was once again full of energy. God must want me to walk this path, he pondered, and started moving down the hill. The path was rough and the sandals were chafing his feet, yet his energy didn’t go away this time. The moon's cold beams lit up the path ahead, but the clouds had snuck their way back now that the mighty sun had abandoned its post, which made it harder to traverse. The cartographer started to feel a strange sense of wonder. This was no mere coincidence.

After a while he reached the fencegate. As he opened the gate sheep flooded the exit. He swiftly closed it behind him, and started moving towards the hut. The ground was soft, reminding him of the soil outside of his house where his wife would plant new flowers during spring. He was closely followed by the curious flock of sheep now, and he couldn’t help but smile. It smelled of stars as he approached the front door.

The cartographer knocks. He hears someone slowly walking down a staircase, and then the handle turns. “Welcome”, an old man says as he’s opening the door, almost as if he was expecting visitors. Confused by the old man's greeting, the cartographer introduces himself. “Sorry to disturb you at this late hour, sir. I am a cartographer trying to map this area, would you mind aiding me on my quest?”. The elder mutters something, and then walks out of his house. “Follow me”, he says shortly. The cartographer does as the old man requests, closely following behind as the man starts walking towards the highest hill in the valley. Confused he asks; “if you don’t mind me asking, where are we headed sir?”, but the old man answers by flicking his hand in a dismissive way. So he decides to trust the stranger, and their silent stride begins.

Atop the highest hill the men stood for a while. Besides them was a windmill, slowly turning to the rhythm of earth's whispers. The cartographer grabbed a sheet of paper and with his brush started painting the sight before him. The stranger stood beside him, silent still. When he was done he started mapping the area on the back of the paper, marking out the benches and the old man's hut. Through the thickness of the lines he marked how elevated each point was, a trick he had come up with a long time ago. And when he finally started folding the new map the old man spoke for the first time since back at the hut.

“What brings you here?”

“Nothing really”, the cartographer realized after a moment of thinking.

The old man nodded and carefully sat down on the grassy carpet. The other man followed.

“Young man, why have you only now found these fields?”, he man asked.

The young man had not expected this question, so he was left speechless.

“There are more meadows to map, cartographer.”

At that moment the sun once again rose, bringing a pink hue to the skies. The sparrows sung a hymn for the rising of the light, and at once the field before him bloomed.

Thirty years later, an old man swung in his rocking chair, the same one his wife used to sit in. Around him large bookshelves towered up, filled to the brim with different little worlds on paper. He put down the glass of wine to turn the page of the book in his lap. At first it had been empty; just a single piece of paper between the mighty covers. Now it was full. Listening to the silence, the cartographer was satisfied as he took a glance at the vineyards a final time. He spoke a last prayer before going to rest. Not for his own mercy, but for the mapping of Tuscany.

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