Direction is Not a Path

They packed their things. The lake was quiet again.

Before they left, Traveller took a thin leather cord from their pouch. They tied it carefully to the silver compass. They hung it around Bob's neck.

"Your job now," Traveller said. The compass felt cool and heavy on Bob's chest. It was an important job.

Bob held the compass flat in his hands. The needle stopped spinning. Click. It pointed the way. Towards the grey mountain peak.

Bob was the leader now. He walked in front. Traveller followed behind.

He kept his eyes on the needle. It pointed straight. So, he walked straight.

He walked straight towards a very large, very thorny bush. The thorns were as long as his fingers.

He did not stop. The needle said straight.

A hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Bob," Traveller's calm voice said. "We go around."

Bob looked at the bush. He looked at the compass. The needle still pointed through the bush. He looked at Traveller, confused.

"The compass shows the direction," Traveller explained. "Not the path."

They walked around the thorny bush. It took a long time. When they were on the other side, Bob looked at his compass. The needle still pointed at the mountain. He thought about that.

They kept walking. The ground became wet and soft. A large patch of brown, sticky mud was in front of them. It smelled bad.

The needle pointed straight through the mud.

Bob hesitated this time. He looked at the mud. He looked at the compass. He took one small step into the mud. His foot sank. Schlorp.

Traveller pulled him back onto dry ground. "We find a dry path," they said, pointing to a line of stones they could step on.

They crossed the mud by hopping from stone to stone. Bob almost slipped once. When they were safe, he looked at his compass again. The needle had not moved. It still pointed the way.

Direction. Path. The words were different. He was starting to understand.

Then, they came to a big problem. A river.

It was not a small river. It was wide and fast. The water rushed over rocks, making a loud noise. There was no way to walk across.

Bob stood at the edge. He held his compass. The needle pointed straight across the river, to the other side.

He looked at the water. He looked at the compass. He looked at Traveller, his face full of frustration.

"Mountain... there!" he said, pointing with his whole arm. "River... here!"

Traveller nodded. "Yes. So we look for a bridge."

They began to walk along the riverbank. They walked for a long time. The sound of the water was always with them. Finally, they found it. A huge, old tree had fallen a long time ago. It stretched all the way to the other side. It was a bridge.

It was a wobbly bridge.

Bob took the first step onto the log. It was covered in moss and was a little slippery. He held his arms out to balance.

Traveller stepped onto the log behind him and put a steady hand on his shoulder. "Slow steps, Bob. One at a time."

Together, they crossed the river. When his feet were on solid ground again, Bob let out a big breath he did not know he was holding.

He looked at his compass. The needle still pointed at the same mountain.

He looked back at the big river they had crossed. He looked at the log bridge. He looked at the compass in his hand.

Then, he looked forward, at the long, winding path that went towards the mountain.

A big, proud smile grew on his face. He understood now.

He did not walk in front anymore. He walked next to Traveller. Side by side. He still held the compass, but now, he also watched the path ahead.