The Pull of St. Ignatius

A silver glint plummeted through the early morning air. High above, a magpie flapped and squawked, indignant at losing its prize. Far ahead on the park’s pathway, a robed figure stood watching the bird chitter like a sulking child as their bounty landed in the bracken with a thud. For a moment I wondered why a monk—who wasn’t supposed to own personal possessions—would be carrying something valuable.

Curiosity tugged harder than caution, and despite still being in last night’s tight and clammy clothes, I jogged over, half-expecting to see a pocket watch or crucifix. Instead, I found an antique silver compass, cool and weighty in my palm. Its casing was engraved with looping script: The Monastery of St. Ignatius. The needle quivered and swayed as I weighed up my options.

I glanced back toward the distant figure scanning the ground. Returning the compass would be the decent thing. Sensible. Noble, even. But it was beautiful—intricate etching and craftsmanship from a time when objects were made to outlast their owners. A pawnbroker’s sign hung beyond the park gates, its window full of tarnished treasures. A place where this compass would fetch a very tidy sum. Enough to pay off my gambling debts, maybe.

The needle twitched violently, then swung to point directly at me.

I frowned. I turned the compass, but the needle turned instantly toward me again, unwavering, accusing. When I looked toward the distant figure again, the needle jerked away from me, pointing straight at them instead.

A moral compass, then. Literally! And apparently unimpressed with my internal debate.

I stood there, weighing silver against conscience, profit against decency. The needle trembled, as if holding its breath. When I took a step toward the pawnbrokers, it snapped back to me. When I turned back toward the hooded figure, it swung away again.

“Judgy much?” I muttered, sighing and trudging toward the rightful owner. The needle settled, serene at last.

“I believe this is yours.”

The monk smiled gently. “Not any more, my friend. I no longer need it—I believe it just chose its new owner.”

Author: Taria Karillion grew up surrounded by far more books than is healthy for one person. Her stories have appeared in a Hagrid-sized handful of anthologies and have somehow won enough literary prizes to fill his other hand. Despite this, she has no need as yet for larger millinery.