The Pads That Point Home — All afternoon, a dry wind combed the rocky wash, and Orin leaned toward the purple line of mesas, trying to hear the secret map under the sand. Read the full story →
All afternoon, a dry wind combed the rocky wash, and Orin leaned toward the purple line of mesas, trying to hear the secret map under the sand. Every old prickly pear in the wash turned one pad east, one pad west, one pad skyward, as if listening to faraway doors. Orin only wanted to know where he fit, but his new pads kept growing whichever way they pleased.
At dusk, a nightjar dropped from the light like a brown leaf and landed trembling between the stones. “Which way is the cold spring?” she whispered. Her feathers smelled of dust and rain that had not fallen yet. Orin had never seen the spring, but one of his pads tingled toward a low trail, another toward a notch in the hills, and the top one caught the first star.
“Follow the pad that knows the star,” Orin said. The nightjar vanished into the blue hush, and soon her call bubbled back from the hidden water. Ever since, prickly pears have kept pads pointing in all directions, because home may answer from earth, hill, or sky. Next time you see Orin’s many paddles, can you tell which one first heard the star?
