Merrin Mousepaw and the Map in Moss Paper

More about Merrin Mousepaw and the Map in Moss Paper

The sun was still low when Merrin Mousepaw climbed into the saddle. The morning was cool, and a fine mist hung over the forest floor like a whispering veil. His mount, a faithful big wood mouse named Trulla, snorted softly and stamped its small paws impatiently. The journey could begin. Merrin wasn't just any mouse. He was a map finder. In his small, weatherproof backpack, he carried a rolled-up drawing on moss paper—a map written not with ink, but with memory. He had found it in an abandoned mushroom house, beneath a stone on which someone had carved "For those with open eyes only." Now he rode through the quiet paths of the Shadowleaf Forest, searching for the place marked on the map only as The Whispering Rock. No one knew where it was, for it wandered—so it was said—like a thought that could not be pinned down. "What if he's not here today?" Merrin murmured, tugging at his coat. Trulla chirped reassuringly. She knew that some paths only reveal themselves when you seek them with a sincere heart. They passed red-spotted mushrooms, their caps glistening in the morning dew. All around them, the forest moved: leaf-shelled beetles skittered by, tiny mushroom sprites stretched from the moss, and an old acorn owl nodded to Merrin as it flew by. On the third day, when the path had almost disappeared and even the map only vaguely suggested where it led, Merrin felt a vibration in the air. Trulla stopped. In front of them, a stone jutted out of the ground, veined like tree bark, with a crack down the middle. The Whispering Rock. Merrin dismounted. He unrolled the map, held it up to the light—and saw it change. Lines began to glow. A dot blinked. The stone opened quietly, as if it had only been waiting for someone to come along who would understand it. Behind it: a cave full of quiet voices. No language, but memories. Sounds of laughter, tears, silence. The cave was an archive of the old mouse times – full of stories that had been forgotten. Merrin listened. For a long time. When he stepped out again, it was evening. Trulla waited patiently. The map in his paw was empty – but in his head it continued to glow. "Now we know where stories live," he said, and climbed into the saddle. And the path that never ended began again.