Flash Friday #109 'The Mapmaker'
Original flash fiction: A man who has seen too much...
Welcome to ‘Flash Friday’ where every week I share some of my original flash fiction.
This week’s piece is inspired by the writing prompt: ‘In the market, a cloaked figure sold maps to…’
I’m a sucker for a good fantasy-themed prompt. I’ve always loved the fantasy genre, ever since my elder sister pressed her copy of ‘The Hobbit’ into my hands and insisted I’d enjoy it. It is my favourite genre to read, and is probably why I’m busy creating my own high fantasy trilogy (when I’m not writing flash fiction for Substack). So this prompt was right up my street.
I hope you enjoy reading this one, and please leave a ‘like’ or a comment below if you’d like to share your thoughts - I’d love to hear what you think.
In the market, a cloaked figure sold maps to those with the coin to afford them. These weren’t ordinary maps, nor were his customers planning your usual kind of expedition; Bevis the Mapmaker was not that kind of cartographer. His maps were special.
His patrons ranged from the rich nobility, keen for a new piece to decorate their walls and provide a talking point over dinner; to merchants buying several at a time to sell on for a tidy profit. Even the local publican had been seen securing one to display in his private rooms above the bar - business must be good.
Not only were Bevis’ maps both detailed and ornate, works of art in and of themselves, but hidden amongst the cross-hatching and tiny trees, in silvered ink, were markers for the Underworld. Places where the curtain between this world and the next might occasionally be drawn back.
Nobody knew how Bevis had discovered their locations, nor whether they were in fact portals to the other world, as he claimed, or simply figments of his imagination. But something about his eyes, and the uncanny look of endless knowledge in them, made folk believe him. At any rate, everyone wanted to know where those gateways were, and equally no one was ever foolish enough to go anywhere near them, just in case.
Bevis wore the look of someone who had seen more than any living, breathing person ought. No matter the weather, his hood never left his head, casting his eyes into permanent shade, and his unkempt beard was streaked with grey. People would whisper behind his back, wondering what had happened to him to make him so odd. Had he really crossed over into the Underworld? What horrors had he seen there? But they never asked him to his face. Those dark, red-rimmed eyes could pierce the soul and seem to uncover the darkest of secrets.
He would appear at the market perhaps once or twice in the month, with a fresh selection of his maps, nod silently to the other stallholders and set up shop in the north corner of the square over by the graveyard. The other sellers knew not to take his spot. And when he was there, he sat quietly beside his wares, a basket of goose feathers at his side, pocket knife in hand, making fresh quill pens. Any speech was clipped and terse; he had no interest in seducing customers with fine flowery words, his work spoke for him.
Yet all the children adored him. Throngs of little ones would crowd around him begging for a story, and every once in a while he would oblige them, making their hair stand on end with tales of fire-breathing monsters and men whose skin had been turned inside out. Sitting cross-legged in a semi-circle around him, eyes as round as their playing marbles, they listened enraptured. And when the story turned scary, they would shriek with terror and joy combined.
Then (and only then), a fleeting smile would cross his face, and those cold dead eyes would glint with pleasure.
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