“Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.”
–Andre Gide
One map. Limitless destinations.
The well-worn boots on my feet tread through the crunching leaves like the hi-hat of a drum. Grandpap’s words are my driving force on this expedition.
His stories have led me through places I never would have dreamed of having the chance to explore. From the shores of Maine to Greek temples, German palaces, Spanish castles, and finally to the French forests I find myself wandering through now, I have learned to love the adventure that I have been called to. The map has no name for where I stand—hence my immediate ardor to delve into its hidden history.
What secrets do you hold? I ask the surrounding wilderness. I can almost sense the stories these woods preserve. My goal is to unlock each one—to become a librarian of the lost, a conservator of the forgotten.
Upon my finding of this place, I am instantly aware that it is singular; I have uncovered something that has been crying out to be seen. And, with a spoonful of luck, perhaps I have uncovered the reason for my journey. Perhaps I have discovered what brought me here, and what will bring me home.
***
“One map. Limitless destinations.”
Grandpap unfolds the crisp edges of the parchment, revealing the cartograph stamped onto its surface.
“This,” he says, “is our key to the world.”
I let out a breath of awe as my eyes devour the picture before me. I stand on tiptoes at the edge of the table, making sure I can take in everything. Grandpap lifts me up and sets me on the chair beside him, chuckling softly.
Colorful, jagged contours outline the lands of my dreams—the lands that hold the tales Grandpap has filled my memory with.
“Where is it?” I ask energetically. The curiosity running through my veins is electric.
Grandpap laughs. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?” I thought he knew everything.
“It’s a story—a legend. No one knows where it is.”
“Not even you?”
He smiles in his warm, familiar way. “Not even me, Belle-bear.”
My brow furrows. If he doesn’t know, how can I ever go there?
“Tell it to me again?” Maybe if I hear it enough times, I will know the answer.
He pulls me onto his lap, settling in for the captivating tale he is about to give. I giggle with delight. I know he doesn’t really have to tell me again—I have it memorized all the way through. But to hear his voice speak each word with such magic is worth more than my memory could ever hold.
“Long ago, when there were no cars or trains or big, loud cities with flashing lights, there were palaces and castles and farms and fields. Now these palaces and castles and farms and fields were the home to all the people in the world—and, as a result, the home to all the stories in the world.
“One of these stories began after a sailor from the west coast of Russia went off on a voyage with one purpose: to explore. His name was Fyodor Demidov, and he set off on the Black Sea—a dangerous place.”
Grandpap points on the map to the deep blue space above Turkey.
“He sailed through the treacherous, stormy waters, becoming one of the few who could make it across. After his ship came to port, he spent the next decade exploring Europe and learning of all its hidden treasures and beauties.
“When Fyodor finally returned home to Russia, he recounted the tales of his travels to everyone he knew. He told countless stories of adventures and exotic landscapes, places so wonderfully beyond imagination. But the one he told the most, his favorite, became the words I speak at this very moment. The story where the secrets of the past are lost under layers of history.
“And thus begins the legend of the sleeping courtyard.”
***
As I wander through the woodlands, I notice how the trees seem to have cut a path for me—as if they have been waiting for this moment, for me to find them. Traveling all around the world—anywhere Fyodor may have visited—to discover if the legend is true has led me all the way to this particular spot; there must be something here.
Along the ground lie fallen leaves, twigs, pinecones, and all other sorts of forest objects—things that once lived above in the sheltering canopy but now rest on the floor as a carpet for traveling feet.
I hear a CRACK! followed by a deafening THUMP behind me. My limbs jolting in shock, I spin around to see what caused the noise.
No more than thirty feet behind where I had been walking, a huge broken bough lies across the ground. Leaves and dirt are still floating in the air from the impact. It must be at least three feet in diameter and incredibly heavy, having fallen from the oak above it. I send a prayer of thanks that I was out of the way when it hit.
The dust begins to settle, and I turn to continue through the forest when a glimpse of something catches my eye. The contrasting colors are what initially draw my attention—the alabaster starkly unlike the browns and greens above it—but when I cautiously step towards it, I realize that its texture is entirely different, too. The leaves have dispersed and fallen around this spot, leaving the white spot bare, save for the thin, crumbly layer of dirt.
I deem the area around it safe enough to approach, and kneel down to brush away the debris when I reach it. As my fingers glide along the surface, I begin to recognize the material.
“White travertine,” I breathe. Being one of the most prominent stone types in 17th century France, it was commonly used in flooring, and was the original stone used in the famous Versailles Pattern.
A thrilling shiver runs up my spine; I know exactly what this means.
There is something hidden underneath this branch. Something that may be the very thing I’m looking for.
***
“Fyodor first told this story to his nephew, who was sitting on his lap just like you are now.”
Grandpap tickles my neck playfully.
“Go on!” I plead through my giggles.
“He began to speak, saying, ‘During my travels, I found a place beyond imagination.’ His nephew was enamored with Fyodor’s words, and remembered each one so he could tell them to his children and their children for ages to come. ‘It was a palace courtyard, larger than any you have ever seen. Except, it was not attached to a palace at all, but was simply a courtyard. The people of the town would come to have their own balls and festivities when they could not afford the extravagant parties of the nobility. I was invited to one of these balls, and it was like none you could ever fathom. The people danced and sang merrily, enjoying the company of others away from their burdens and worries.
“‘But,’ he said, ‘there is one thing that you may not believe. As soon as I touched the floor, I knew every word to the song, every step to the dance. I knew neither the language nor the customs—and I was not the only foreigner—yet as soon as the party began, we could all understand each other. It was truly magical.’
“Many people who heard the story tried to visit the place, but to no avail. Unfortunately, Fyodor passed away before he was able to journey there again. Since then, the hunt for the sleeping courtyard has died down and people have begun to forget that it ever existed.”
“But not us,” I finish.
Grandpap smiles. “Not us.”
***
After fruitless attempts to move the oak limb, I move on to a different tactic.
The foldable axe works almost as perfectly as I had hoped, but I have to be incredibly careful not to scratch the precious stone in the process.
Nearly two hours later, I have managed to hack the log in half. The smaller pieces make it easier to heave them out of the way. After a few splinters and more lower back pain than I had initially anticipated, the oak branch, leaves, and dirt are cleared enough from the site for a better view.
I step back to survey my progress. The section I have been working on is large enough that I can tell for sure what it is.
The stone configuration is indeed the Versailles Pattern. I stand at the edge of the travertine platform, or rather courtyard.
Could it be?
It’s not possible.
Is it?
There is only one way to know for sure.
***
“Do people still dance there?” I ask.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Grandpap answers. “Maybe. Perhaps someday we’ll find out.”
“Have you tried to find it?”
“A long time ago, I did,” he says with a sigh.
“Did you make it?”
“No, I didn’t. But I didn’t get the chance to look everywhere. That’s a job for someone else, I think.”
I frown, and look back at the time-worn map on the table.
“Do you think I could find it, Grandpap?”
He grins. “Absolutely, Belle-bear.”
***
I look around in amazement as people from all over the world flock to this beloved spot. Who knows how long it has been since a party has been held here.
With everyone speaking different languages, it is hard to have much talk, so there is an awkward silence filling the air. Even though I know they probably can’t understand me, I begin to speak.
“Well, I think we all know the crazy idea we are gathered here for.”
A few people in the crowd nod or laugh nervously, but the rest stare straight at the courtyard ground. I look at each face, knowing we are all filled with anticipation, waiting to see if the legend is true. Waiting to see if it has really been found, and hoping we won’t be let down.
I smile, remembering Grandpap and how he lit up every time he told this story. “But I think it would be good to hear the tale again.”
I tell it all, just as Grandpap did for me so many times, all those years ago. I begin to feel the joy I remember feeling as a child and am transported straight to the evenings spent with him, hearing his voice. I realize that I am continuing his legacy more than I am even continuing the tradition of the sleeping courtyard. And I realize that that is what matters far more to me than any stone floor.
“I think it’s time to awaken this part of lost history.”
I step onto the platform.
The crowd hesitantly follows, and I turn to the person standing next to me.
“Did it work?” she asks.
I burst into happy laughter. “Yes, it did.”
I have found it. I have found the legend.
I have found the sleeping courtyard.
And even better, I know Grandpap has found it, too.
©2026 Clara Lilly
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