The Cartographer’s Station

In the autumn of 2019, my family and I were relocating from the coastal town of Dunmore to the inland city of Voss. Our belongings were loaded into a hired van, and my father drove ahead with the driver. My mother and I followed by rail, a journey of nearly fourteen hours. We took the night sleeper, and I drifted off to sleep almost immediately, lulled by the rhythmic clatter of the wheels.

In my dream, I was not on a train but on a bus, an old model with high, narrow windows and cramped seats. The interior was lit by a dim, sickly yellow, and the other passengers were blurred shapes, their faces indistinct. My mother was not there. The bus was moving through an endless blackness, with no stars or city lights to mark our passage.

Suddenly, the bus slowed and turned into a rest stop. But this was no ordinary fuel station. Instead of pumps, there was a single glass cylinder, like a giant test tube, filled with a pale, viscous liquid. Floating within it was a massive, pulsing organ, veins and arteries branching like a grotesque tree. A sign above it read: ‘CARTÓGRAFO’ in peeling, rusted letters.

The bus stopped, and the driver, a thin man with a hollow face, turned to us and said, ‘Fifteen minutes for refueling. All passengers must disembark and provide a sample.’ His voice was flat, like a recorded announcement.

I felt an inexplicable pull to the cylinder, drawn by a curiosity that overrode my fear. As I approached, I saw that the liquid inside was not merely yellow but a sickly amber, and within it, tiny shapes swam—like tadpoles, but with human faces. The heart was not a single organ but seemed to be composed of thousands of smaller hearts, each beating in a different rhythm.

A metal tray with a needle and a small vial was placed on a table beside the cylinder. The hollow-faced driver appeared beside me and said, ‘A drop of blood, if you please. The Cartographer needs to know where you came from.’ I recoiled, but my body moved on its own, my arm extended, and I felt a sharp prick as the needle drew blood. The liquid in the vial was a deep crimson, and when the driver poured it into the top of the cylinder, the hearts inside all paused for a single beat, then resumed.

I woke with a start to the train’s shudder as it crossed a bridge. My mother was asleep in the berth opposite, and the compartment was dark except for the passing lights of some distant town. I tried to dismiss the dream, but the image of that pulsing mass stayed with me.

The following week, after we had settled into our new flat, I discovered an old, hand-drawn map in a drawer of the built-in desk. The paper was yellowed, the ink faded, but I recognized the layout: it was the rest stop from my dream. In the center, where the cylinder was, there was a sketched heart, and written beneath in a spidery hand: ‘The Cartographer maps our essences. Do not let him take your measure.’

I showed the map to my father, who laughed it off as a child’s doodle. But my mother’s face went pale. She took the map, her hands trembling, and said, ‘I had a similar dream on the train. Only in mine, we stopped at a lighthouse, and inside was a book with our names written in blood.’

A cold dread settled over me. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking of the hollow-faced driver and the way he had said ‘the Cartographer.’ I went to the window and looked out at the city lights. For a split second, I saw the reflection of a bus in the glass, and within it, my own face, but older, and staring back with empty eyes.

Since then, at odd hours, I catch glimpses of that same bus, idling at curbs, waiting outside our building. The driver never looks at me, but I know he’s waiting. The Cartographer knows where I came from, and I fear he’s already plotted my final destination.