The Compass Maker

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Uthel's to the Earth. In a quiet street at the
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western edge of the old harbor to town, between a
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stone shop that sells nothing but rope and a small
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bakery that opens only on Saturdays, there is a wooden
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door painted to color of the sea on a clear morning.
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And behind that door there is a workshop. And in
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that workshop there is a man named Edmund Halloran, who
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has spent fifty six years of his life making compasses.
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Edmund is eighty one. He is then, with white hair
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that he wears pushed back from his forehead, and he
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has the kind of hands that have done one thing
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for so long that the shape of that thing has
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been written into the barnes. His fingers are slightly bowd,
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his thumbs are wider than most, and there is a
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small scar on the inside of his left index finger
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from a chisels slip in nineteen fifty two the air
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his father taught him how to set a pivot. He
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sits on a high stool at a long oak bench
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that he built himself when he was twenty three, and
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the bench is worn smooth in the middle, whereas forearms
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have rested every working day since. The workshop smells of
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brass shavings and boiled linseed oil, and the particular sweetness
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of rosewood has been kept in a dry place for
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many years. There are no windows on the east side
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of the room because the morning light, when its lance
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in low, makes it hard to see the fine lines
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un a compass guard. Sir Edmund works mostly by the
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light of a brass lamp with a green glass shade
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that his father brought back from a trip to Vienna
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in nineteen thirty eight. The lamp has burned every evening
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of Edmund's working life. He has refilled his reservoir with
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whale oil, then with kerosene, and now with the small
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electric bulb that his son reward for him in nineteen
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ninety four. But the green glass shade is the same
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one his father used, and the warmth of the light
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in the room is the same warmth. It has always
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been the work of a compass maker, As Hedmond understands,
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it is not what most people think it is. Most
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people think it is the work of pointing a needle
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at the north star, the way sailors do. That is
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part of it, and Edmund does it too, in his
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careful way, balancing each needle on its tiny jewel pivot
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until the needle swings true. But the real work, the
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work that has kept Edmond of the bench all these years,
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is the work of listening. Every compass that comes into
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the workshop is a story a person who is going somewhere,
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and Edmund's job is to hear that story before he begins.
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The compasses arrive in small wooden boxes, sometimes tied with string,
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sometimes sealed with wax, and each one is sent to
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him because it has stopped telling the truth. A captain
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will send a compass that has begun very slowly to
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point east when he should point north, and edmundrell open
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it on the bench, and he will know before he
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has even looked at the needle that the captain has
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been said into the same storm for years, and the
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brass has taken on the memory of the storm. A
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young woman on her way to a new life in
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another country will send a compass that she has carried
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since she was a child, and when Edmund opens it,
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he will see that the needle is bent just slightly,
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the way a meadow bends when it has been held
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too tightly in a small hand, and he will know
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that she has been gripping it for comfort during long
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train rides, and he will know that the comfort has
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become part of the compass. Her father, going home after
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long absence, will send a compass that no longer works
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at all, and Edmund will take it apart gently, and
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he will see that the pivot jewel has been cracked
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by a single hard tap, and he will know, without
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being told, that the tap came from a fist striking
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a table. In a quiet moment of grief, Edmund does
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not ask questions when these boxes arrive. He opens them
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at the bench in the evening, after the post is
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gone and the street outside has gone quiet, and he
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reads the compasses the way a doctor reads a pulse.
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He notes what is broken and what is only tired,
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and what is the kind of damage that will come
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back if it is not mended carefully. Then he writes
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the name of the center in a leather bound ledger
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that he keeps on a shelf by the door, And
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beside the name, he writes the kind of mending the
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compass will need, And besides that he writes the date
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he expects to finish. And beside that he writes a
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small private word that only he understands the way a
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priest might write a note about a person he has
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prayed for. There are four thousand, three hundred and nine
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names in the ledger now. Some of them are the
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names of captains who sent Edmund compasses when he was
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a young man, and those captains are long dead, but
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Edmund still writes their names with care, the way he
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writes the names of the living. Some of them are
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the names of children who sent compasses that had been
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their grandfathers, and Edmund has written beside those names a
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note about the grandfather, because the com compasses of children
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carry the memory of whoever first held them, and Edmund
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believes that memory deserves to be kept in the ledger. Two.
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The compasses themselves are kept in a long row of
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shallow drawers that line the north wall of the workshop.
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Each drawer has a small brass label on its front,
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and on each label Edmund has written, in his careful
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handwriting the air the compass was made. The earliest drawer
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is labeled eighteen forty three, and the compass inside it
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is a small silver thing that was given to a
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young woman on her wedding day by a sailor who
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did not come home from his next voyage. Edmund has
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never opened that compass because the woman who brought it
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to him asked him, with tears in her eyes, to
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leave it shut, and Edmund has honored that request for
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thirty one years. He checks the drawer once a year
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in the spring to make sure the silver has not tarnished,
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but he never touches the compass inside. The work of
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mending a compass is slow. Dmond does not rush because
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rushing makes the needles wing uncertain, and an uncertain needle
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is worse than no needle at all. He begins by
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taking the compass apart on a square of green felt
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that he has had since he was an apprentice, and
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he lays each piece out in the order it came off,
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the way his father taught him. He cleans each piece
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with a small brush made of squirrel hair, and he
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polishes the brass with a cloth that has been washed
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only in round water, because Edmund believes that the minerals
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in wear water make the brass forget a ship. He
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straightens bent needles with two pairs of tweezers and a
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steady hand, and he replaces cracked pivot with new ones
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that he cuts himself from small pieces of ruby that
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he keeps in a wooden box on the upper shelf.
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He oils each moving part with a single drop of
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Watchmakers oil that he has been using since nineteen sixty eight,
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and he puts the compass back together in the reverse
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order of the way he took it apart. And he
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sets it on the bench for a day under the
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green lamp to remember its true north. While the cup
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is resting, Edmund writes the letter to the person who
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sent it. The letter is short, and it does not
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say much about the mending. It says only that the
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compass has been heard, and that it has been mended
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with care, and that it will find its way home again.
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Deigmund has written four thousand, three hundred and nine such letters,
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and he is said to each one in a small
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envelope with a sprig of dried rosemary tucked into the fold,
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because rosemary is the herb of remembrance, and Edmund believes
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that every compass deserves to be remembered. There is a
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young woman in the workshop now, sitting on a low
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stool near the door, watching Edmund work. Her name is Cora,
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and she is the doughter of a sailor who sent
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a compass to Edmund six months ago, and who died
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very quietly three months ago before the compass was meant.
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Core has come to collect the compass herself because her
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mother could not bear to come, and her brother is
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at sea, and there is no one else. Edmond knows
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who she is because the name in the ledger is
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the same name she gave when she knocked. He does
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not ask her to sit, because he knows she would
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have sat anyway. He does not offer her tea because
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he knows she would have refused. He only works slowly
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and gratefully, the way he always works, and he lets
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the quiet of the workshop do the speaking. When the
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compass is finished, Edmond wraps it in a piece of
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soft cloth and places it in a small wooden box
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that he has made himself from a piece of apple
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wood he has been saving for forty years. He closes
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the lid and sets the box on the bench in
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front of Cora, and he tells her in his quiet
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voice that the compass is ready. He tells her that
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her father's compass has been heard, and that it has
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been mended with care, and that it will find its
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way home again. He does not say anything else. He
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does not need to. Quarra takes the box and she
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holds it in her lap for a long time without
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opening it. She looks at Edmond, and Edmond looks back
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at her, and after a while she thanks him, and
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she stands and she walks to the door, and she
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goes out into the quiet street. Dedmond listens to her
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footsteps feed and then he turns back to the bench
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and he opens to the leather bound ledger, and he
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writes beside the name of her father, the small private
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word that only he understands. And then he closes the
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ledger and turns off the green lamp and locks the
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door behind him. The workshop will be quiet now until
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the next box arrives. Dimant will walk home through the
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harbor town in the evening air, and he will pass
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the stone shop that sells rope and the small bakery
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that is closed, and he will go up the wooden
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stairs to the small flat above the workshop, where he
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has lived alone since his wife died in two thousand
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and four, and he will sit by his own window
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and watch the stars come out over the harbor. The
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stars will be very clear to night, and Edmund will
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look at them for a long long time, the way
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he has looked at them for fifty six years. And
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he will think about the compasses on the north Wall,
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and the names in the ledger, and the small private
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words he has written beside them, and he will feel
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in his quiet way that the work has been good,
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and that the work will go on. That is the
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story of Edmund Hallaman, who makes compasses, and who listens
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to the stories they carry, and who sends them home again.