The Postman Who Delivered Letters Nobody Had Written

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The Postman Who Delivered Letters Nobody Had Written Wilbur Thistlewick had delivered the mail in Mossberry for forty-nine years, eleven months and twenty-six days. He knew every mushroom house, hollow tree and burrow between Fernhill and the Frogwater Bridge. More importantly, Bramble knew them too. Bramble was an enormous blue-green beetle with six strong legs, an impressive pair of antennae and firm opinions about unnecessary hills. “Number twelve, Acorn Lane,” Wilbur said. Bramble turned left. “Acorn Lane is right.” Bramble continued left. “There is a bakery to the left.” Bramble stopped. Wilbur sighed. “One bun. Then Acorn Lane.” Bramble immediately turned around. It was going to be an ordinary Tuesday until Wilbur opened his mailbag and found an envelope he had never seen before. It was cream-coloured, sealed with red wax and addressed to MR. HENRY PRICKLE, THIRD MUSHROOM AFTER THE OLD OAK. There was no stamp and no sender. “Someone has forgotten the basic principles of postage,” Wilbur said. Bramble clicked his jaws. “Yes, I know we deliver it anyway.” Henry Prickle, an elderly hedgehog, opened the letter while Wilbur waited. Halfway through reading, Henry sat down on his doorstep. “Is something wrong?” Wilbur asked. Henry wiped his eyes. “It’s from Barnaby.” “Friend of yours?” “Was. We argued seventeen years ago. He moved across the forest. Neither of us ever apologized.” Henry looked at the letter. “He says he was wrong.” Wilbur smiled. “Then perhaps seventeen years is long enough.” “There’s one problem.” Henry turned the envelope over. “Barnaby died last winter.” Wilbur stopped smiling. The next morning there were three cream envelopes in his bag. A mouse received an apology from her sister. A frog received an invitation to visit an old friend he had avoided for years. Mrs. Hazelworth, who lived alone inside a chestnut tree, received a letter saying simply that someone had never forgotten the summer they spent together forty-two years earlier. “Who sent these?” she asked. “I was hoping you knew.” On Thursday there were seven letters. On Friday, twelve. None had stamps. None had senders. Every one contained words somebody had waited years to hear. Wilbur visited the Mossberry Post Office and emptied his bag onto Postmaster Wren’s desk. “These are impossible.” Wren examined one through his spectacles. “Excellent paper.” “That is not the impossible part.” “Very straight handwriting.” “Wren.” “No postage.” “WREN.” The postmaster lowered the letter. “Nobody brought these here.” “Then how are they getting into my bag?” They both looked at Bramble through the window. The beetle was eating a flower from the postmaster’s garden. “Do not blame Bramble.” Bramble swallowed quickly. The following morning Wilbur made a decision. Instead of delivering the mysterious letters, he would discover where they came from. “Today,” he told Bramble, “we travel backward.” Bramble turned around. “Not literally.” Bramble turned back. They retraced the previous day’s route, past Frogwater Bridge, Acorn Lane and the old mill. Nothing happened until they reached a path Wilbur had never noticed. Bramble stopped beside it. “That road isn’t on my map.” Bramble entered it anyway. “Naturally.” The path led deep into the oldest part of Mossberry Forest. Finally they reached an enormous hollow tree with a brass sign almost hidden beneath moss: UNDELIVERED POST — COLLECTION OFFICE 7. “There is no Collection Office 7,” Wilbur whispered. Inside stood hundreds of dusty mailbags. Shelves climbed higher than he could see. Letters filled every one. Wilbur opened the nearest sack. FORGIVE ME. Another was labelled I SHOULD HAVE TOLD YOU. A third read THANK YOU. Farther along stood bags marked I MISS YOU, PLEASE COME HOME and WORDS I WAS TOO AFRAID TO SAY. Wilbur slowly removed his cap. These were not ordinary letters. They were words people had carried inside themselves but never managed to speak. On a small desk lay a ledger. Its final entry had been written almost fifty years earlier: COLLECTION OFFICE 7 CLOSED. UNDELIVERED WORDS TO REMAIN UNTIL A POSTMAN WILLING TO CARRY THEM IS FOUND. Wilbur stared at Bramble. “You knew this place existed.” Bramble examined the ceiling. “Forty-nine years and you never mentioned it?” Bramble scratched one leg against another. “Fair point. You cannot talk.” Something slipped from a shelf and landed beside Wilbur’s boot. One cream envelope. His name was written across it. WILBUR THISTLEWICK.