The Compass Rose

It began on a Tuesday, four days after I moved my two boys into the old carriage house on the edge of Coldwater Creek. My name is Dana, and I came from the flatlands of western Oklahoma to this damp, woodsy corner of Tennessee because the state’s formulary covered my youngest, Leo’s, epilepsy medication. In Oklahoma, it was six thousand a month; here, it’s twelve dollars. My husband, Carl, stayed behind with our two daughters until the school year ended. We’d split our time, driving the nine hours on weekends. The rent for this place, with its peeling wallpaper and iron radiator that clanked like a dying man’s cough, is seven hundred dollars. It was the cheapest we could find within twenty miles of the children’s hospital.

On that first Tuesday, I was unpacking boxes in the kitchen. The previous tenant had left a peculiar thing on the windowsill: a small, brass compass rose, the kind you’d find on an old map, but it was fused to a heavy iron base, like a paperweight. Its needle was not pointing north—it was pointing to the center of the room, where I had set a rickety wooden table. I moved the compass rose to a shelf in the living room, thinking it was a nice touch. But when I walked past the kitchen an hour later, it was back on the windowsill, its needle again centered on the table. I shrugged it off; maybe the boys had moved it. They were both upstairs, though, watching cartoons. I put it in a drawer and forgot about it.

The next day, Wednesday, I drove Leo to his first appointment at the children’s hospital in Knoxville. He was a quiet ten-year-old, with haunted eyes that seemed to know things he shouldn’t. As we sat in the waiting room, he whispered, ‘Mom, the lady at the front desk has a red string on her wrist. It’s the same as the one on the compass rose.’ I looked; the receptionist was fiddling with a red string bracelet. I didn’t recall seeing it before, but I had a lot on my mind. I brushed it off. When we got home, I found the compass rose on the kitchen table, sitting dead center on a pile of unread mail. The needle was spinning clockwise, slowly, like it was searching for something. My other son, Jamie, was at the table doing homework. He said he hadn’t touched it. I put it in the trash bin outside, but an hour later, it was back on the windowsill.

Thursday morning, I woke to find the compass rose on the floor of my bedroom, its needle now pointing to the hallway. The boys were still asleep; I heard them breathing. I picked it up and took it to the basement, locking it in a tool chest. That afternoon, as I was folding laundry in the living room, Jamie came downstairs with a fever. He said he felt like something was pressing on his chest. He said, ‘Mom, there’s a funny smell in my room, like old coins.’ I went up there; everything seemed normal, but the air was thick, somehow. I opened the window, but the smell lingered. When I came back down, the compass rose was on the coffee table, its needle pointing up, directly to Jamie’s room.

That evening, I called a friend who knows about these things. She’s a folklorist, and she asked me to describe the compass rose in detail. I told her it had a carved octopus in the center, its tentacles wrapping around the points of the compass. She went quiet, then said, ‘That’s not a compass; that’s a sextant. But the octopus is wrong. In some Appalachian lore, that’s a keeper of thresholds. It marks the place where the world thins.’ She told me to burn it. But when I tried to take it outside to the fire pit, I couldn’t lift it. It was as if it had grown roots into the floorboards. I left it there.

On Friday, the fourth day, I decided to take the boys to my sister’s place in Chattanooga to escape whatever was happening. As we were packing the car, Leo came to me holding the compass rose. He looked pale. He said, ‘Mom, I think it’s a map. Look.’ I looked; the needle was not pointing north anymore. It was pointing to a spot on the floor in the corner of the living room. I walked over and noticed a loose floorboard. I pried it up with a screwdriver. Underneath, there was a small, tin box. Inside, there was a faded photograph of a woman in Victorian dress, holding a baby. On the back of the photo, in red ink, was written: ‘Return her to the creek.’

I felt a chill. Then Leo said, ‘Mom, the needle is pointing to the creek now.’ I looked at the compass; it was pointing due east, toward the woods where Coldwater Creek ran. I had a sudden urge to follow it. The boys were watching me with wide eyes. I said, ‘We’re leaving.’ But as I turned to grab the keys, the compass rose flew from Leo’s hand and landed on the floor, its needle spinning wildly. Then it stopped, pointing straight at me. Leo whispered, ‘She wants us to follow.’

I don’t remember walking into the woods. I don’t remember the cold water. All I remember is the feeling of hands—thin, bony hands—grasping mine, pulling me down, and the sound of Leo screaming my name from the shore. When I came to, I was lying on the bank, drenched, the compass rose clutched in my fist. The needle was still, pointing north. But I knew something had happened. When I got back to the house, my phone was ringing. It was Carl. He said, ‘Dana, I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. The girls are fine, but I found something weird in the attic: an old photograph of a woman, and she looks just like Leo.’

I looked at Leo, who was sitting on the porch, staring at the compass rose. He smiled a small, sad smile. And I realized that the compass rose had not been a map to a place. It had been a map to a time. And I had just traded something precious to bring that woman back. But what? I looked at Leo, and he was older. Just a little, but older. His eyes were deeper. And the compass rose was gone from my hand. I never saw it again. But every night since, I hear the creek outside, and it sounds like a lullaby. And sometimes, I see a woman in the water, holding a baby. She waves at me. And I wave back, because I don’t know what else to do.