“How queer,” Roger
mumbled. He traced a finger around the
non-fractal shoreline of some “Pinovya” object marring his nineteenth century
atlas. “That ad promised an untarnished 1868
atlas. My gracious, if this is
untarnished...” Roger scowled. “Where is that paper?”
The room was a maze of
artifacts. A supposed replica of the Holy
Grail lay sideways on a hand-carved French table. Dusty tomes spread across nearly every
surface. Roger stumbled around, eyes
darting. There.
Roger swiped his phone from
a pocket of his corduroy blazer and dialed the number. After three rings, a gruff voice
emerged. “Hello.”
“Hi, this is Roger
Derry. I bought the atlas you advertised
in the Post and find some inaccuracies in your description.”
“And by that you mean
what, my boy?”
“It had an eighth
continent marked in. It’s clearly been
tarnished, despite your promises of the converse.”
“That’s no mistake. Pinovya is quite real.”
“A whole continent that
no one’s heard of? That’s absurd.” Roger pulled his laptop from an Ottoman
foot-rest and punched the word into Google.
Two results.
“I’m sorry, my boy. America’s Got Talent is coming on. Trust me, that atlas is as original as my
right hip.” He added in a mumble, “although
I can’t speak for the left one.”
Roger dropped the phone
beside him on his oddly ordinary loveseat.
Two results on Google? Is it
possible...?
The first link opened up
a dark home page. The heading read: The
Real Myth-Land of Pinovya. Roger
scrolled down, a bead of sweat dampening his mouse. A few grainy, captioned photographs displayed
a lush jungle. The animals were like
nothing Roger had ever seen before. A
few had two sets of wings, despite their feathered bodies. One lay snug against a tree, its mane
entangled around a horn. Its hooves were
cloven.
Roger shook his head as
he went backward to click the other link.
This time, a blog popped up on the screen. On the right sidebar an old man was pictured. Roger’s hometown blazed below it.
The latest post was
titled “My Last”. Roger gulped
hard. The words seemed to dance around
in his head. “They’ve never believed
me.” “I’ve seen it.” “A square island smack-dab in the middle of
the Pacific.” “I don’t know if I’d
believe myself if I didn’t know.” “And
yet it’s true.”
The last six sentences
made Roger’s heart drop. He read aloud,
“It pains me to have to pass along with my secret. I sold the atlas. That’s the best I could do. It’s beautiful. The most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. Such a pity.”
Roger closed his laptop. “Could it be…?” he murmured.
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