Meredith's Compass

A short story by Kenny Isibor

Age recommended to read 13+ (strong language)

The sun fell oppressively on all she touched — evaporating the lifeblood of the river and its surrounding environment. Meredith slowly bows her head to the scorched riverbanks, deep with cracks; the split earth searing her delicate ear and caking it in fine brown dust.

Silence?

“Where are you Remus?”, she coos to the river. She regrets the nickname, Remus. A name destined for a short life, but she was stubborn, and the name had grown on her. A gust of wind from the river valley kicks up dust with the breeze, assailing her senses and stinging her eyes. She squeezes her eyes shut and feels the hot dance of air sweep her curly hair away from her face.

The dry burst of air gradually subsides, and Meredith quickly rubs the dirt away from her eyes and forehead. She wedges her hand further within the cracks, probing for vacant seashells for her desertification research project.

“Fuck,” she exclaims, immediately dislodging her hand from the crack. She examines a thinly curved cut now resting on the outer edge of her hand. The river’s dirt mixed with her fresh blood left solid clumps of rock along her thin and pale fingers. She slings her hiking bag off her shoulder and rummages through its contents for a flashlight. She slides onto her stomach, paying no mind to the dust coating the sleeves of her white linen shirt. Beads of sweat pool and cascade down her temples, touching the terrain and vanishing at first contact.

“Let’s see what we have here,” she murmurs as she leans closer to the fissure. The light from her flashlight washes over the miniature cavern, revealing a faintly glittering arch lodged in the dirt. Meredith rocks herself back on her knees, sending her hips toward the sun.

“What kind of shell is that?” she mutters while reaching for a pen in the pocket of her fishing vest. She slides forward onto her stomach again, and starts to scrape at the strange silver arch. The edge of the arch was reminiscent of a quarter, but as she continues scarping, it starts look like the back of a spoon.

Bryan, her husband, watches dutifully, leaning against the passenger door of their safari-style gray jeep. She must have found a sample, he thought, maybe we can finally go home. Meredith scrapes at the spot for another ten minutes, watching the hard pieces of dried up river bed fall into a pile in front of what now looks like a silver disk. She grabs both sides of the newly formed crack, takes a deep breath, and uses all of her residual strength to pull apart the crack.

Meredith lets out the largest sigh of relief she could muster, and pulls the muddy silver disk out of the barren river bank.

“Honey!”, she yells gesturing to Bryan, “Look at this!” she yells waving the disk around like a child showing their parent something they've found in the backyard. Bryan squinted to see what it was, but he couldn't make out the shape from where he was standing.

"Bring it over!" he yells, while cupping his hands around his mouth.

Meredith pushes herself up, and runs towards him with a slight limp in her left knee from kneeling for forty five minutes. Her long-sleeve linen shirt and fishing vest were smeared with brown dust and stray grass, and her dense curly auburn hair stuck straight up at the root. Bryan chuckles at the familiar sight of her unruly hair and dirt covered work clothes and pushes himself off the jeep.

“Look, I think it’s some kind of artifact?”, she says. He took the disk from her hand and rotates it in his own. He slides his finger across the edge of the dirt-covered disk.

“Maybe we can ask Dr. Morgan about it?”, he says.

“No!”, she snatches the disk from his hands, “He’ll make us turn this into the anthropology department.”

“What were you going to do, keep it?”

“Why not? I found it.”

“Mere, I don’t-”

“I’m keeping it. That’s the end of the story,” she said clutching the small disk close to her chest and flinging open the passenger side door. She tucks her knees to her chest and leans against the window, studying the disk.

“God,” he murmurs under his breath.

When Meredith comes home, she dips the disk in the leftover rainwater collection jar in her backyard garden. She clears away the residual dirt with her hands, revealing a scratched surface with a latch protruding from the bottom of the disk. She firmly presses on the blunt latch, hearing a click, and releasing the hinge.

A worn compass with faded directions meets her gaze--the pointer now dangling from the inside, and swinging lazily with her movements. The top of the compass shows four Native American men dancing in the rain; lightning scattering their skies and blessing their fields. Meredith sharply inhales — holding her breath at the top of her lungs.

Her face grew hot and her eyes glaze over.

An omen, she thought.

Remus had spit out this compass for her to discover. She exhales slowly, closing her eyes and gripping the compass tighter.

Breathing deeply, she places the compass on the lawn table and removes her sandals. She steps onto her garden's dead grass which prods her foot with needles and stickers as she walks. She closes her eyes and begins to pray, radiating her desire for rain beyond her body.

“If they can do it, so I can I”, she whispers. Slowly she spins. Waving her hands wistfully in the air and stomping her feet with precision. She bends her back, picking up speed with the growing intensity of the sun’s rays. Sweat flies from her forehead and cascades onto the Earth.

A rumble calls from the distance.