The Library

Thistlewood Journal Entry - 2

I must have spent several minutes staring into that impossible room. When at last I tore my eyes away from the library and looked at the blue window itself, I discovered that it was no longer a window. It had become a door. Or perhaps it had always been a door and I had simply failed to notice.

Unable to contain my curiosity, and very much against my better judgement, I turned the handle and stepped inside.

Inside, a fire crackled gently in the hearth. It was the middle of summer, yet the warmth felt welcome. The cottage possessed that peculiar chill, one associates with forgotten places and old stone walls.

Upon the mantelpiece rested a scroll tied neatly with ribbon. Tucked beneath it was a fresh olive branch. I untied the ribbon and carefully unfolded the scroll. It proved to be an enormous hand-drawn map, yellowed with age and covered in tiny notes written in several different hands.

Across the top, in elegant lettering, was written a single word:

THISTLEWOOD

At the time, I did not know that this map would lead me to mushroom groves, wandering poets, impossible birds, forgotten provinces, and places that seem unwilling to remain in the same location for very long.

I only knew that I had discovered something remarkable.

And so, naturally, I kept reading.