The River Road

At dawn, Mara found a brass compass on the track beside the river. Its needle spun once, then pointed towards the old footbridge. Scratched on its lid were the words: BEFORE NIGHTFALL, YOU WILL STAND AT THE BRIDGE AND LOSE WHAT YOU CAME TO SAVE. Mara had come to town to deliver a tin of medicine to her little brother, Eli. The footbridge was the shortest route, but last week’s rain had swollen the river. She turned towards the high road instead. A cart blocked it, its wheel sunk deep in mud. The driver was away asking for help. Mara could wait, or try the bridge. She remembered the warning. “A sentence isn’t a chain,” she said, and took the longer track along the riverbank, where a ferry usually crossed. The ferryman had already left for the day. As clouds gathered, Mara looked at the compass. The needle still pointed to the bridge. She could return to the blocked road, wait for the ferryman tomorrow, or cross the footbridge carefully. Eli’s medicine might spoil before morning. She tested the bridge with one foot. The boards creaked, but held. Halfway across, a gust tore the medicine tin from her bag. It bounced against the railing. Mara caught it just before it fell into the river. On the far bank, she opened the compass again. The scratched warning now seemed almost to have come true: she had reached the bridge and nearly lost what she had come to save. But the tin was safe. Mara reached Eli’s house before nightfall. Later, she wondered whether the compass had foretold events, or whether its warning had changed the choices she made.