The Green Bag That Walked

The Larkspur Hostel had one rule that nobody could explain. A hand-painted sign in the common room said, "Please leave the green bag where it is." The bag was big and old, with a leather handle and a zip that would not move.

Uri saw the sign on his first evening. He was sixteen, and he had come with five classmates on a walking trip. Their teacher had gone to bed early. The others were playing cards at the long table. Uri sat by the window with a bowl of noodles and watched the room.

It took him less than ten minutes to notice the pattern. Every guest who walked past the bag stopped and looked at it. Then they bent down and pulled the zip. A tall man in walking boots pulled it with both hands. Two girls pulled it together and giggled. A boy tried to open it with a spoon. The zip never moved, and everyone shrugged and went away.

"Does that happen every night?" Uri asked the boy behind the reception desk.

The boy was about seventeen, with ink on his fingers and a name tag that said Adel. "Every night," he said. "My family has owned this place for twelve years. The bag came with the building."

"Did anyone ever open it?"

"Not once. Some people bring pliers." Adel shrugged. "It is only a bag."

Uri went to bed in a room with five bunks and slept badly. Around midnight, he woke up thirsty and crept downstairs to fill his bottle. The common room was dark, except for the small lamp on the reception desk. Adel was asleep in a chair with a book on his chest.

Uri stopped on the bottom step. Something was wrong. Earlier that evening, the bag had stood beside the fireplace. Now it stood in the middle of the floor, a full two metres closer to the front door.

He looked down. A thin line of dust ran across the boards, as if the bag had been dragged. Then he heard it: a tiny scrape, followed by a pause. The bag moved another hand's width toward the door. Then it stopped, as if it knew that someone was watching.

Uri did not scream. He was too surprised. He walked slowly to the desk and shook Adel's shoulder.

"Your bag is walking," he whispered.

Adel opened one eye. "Yes, I know." He sat up and rubbed his face. "It does that every night, a little at a time. Every morning I push it back to the fireplace. I have done it since spring."

"You have done what?" Uri stared at him. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Nobody asks me anything," Adel said. "Guests ask how to open it, and they never ask why it moves. Honestly, I stopped expecting a question."

They both looked at the bag. It sat very still, like a dog waiting for its owner.

"Maybe that is the problem," Uri said slowly. "Everybody tries to open it. Nobody asks what it wants."

Adel laughed, but it was a short laugh. "You want me to talk to a bag?"

"You have already been pushing it for months. Talking cannot be stranger than that."

Adel looked at the floor. Then he stood up, crossed the room, and crouched in front of the bag. He cleared his throat twice. "Excuse me," he said, in a very small voice. "Where are you trying to go?"

Nothing happened. Uri held his breath. A clock ticked somewhere above them, and the old building creaked.

"Maybe it needs somebody who has never pulled the zip," Adel said. He stood up and stepped back. "You try."

Uri knelt down. The leather felt warm, and it smelled of dust and pine needles. He thought about all the people who had pulled at the zip, one after another. They had been so sure that the problem was the lock and not the question.

"I'm sorry nobody asked you before," he said. "Where do you want to go?"

The zip gave a tiny click. Then, slowly, it slid open by itself, all the way around the bag. A soft smell of forest air rose into the room. Inside there were no clothes and no books. There was a small brass lantern with a bell on its handle. There was a folded paper. There was also a very old pair of walking boots, worn thin at the heels.

Uri unfolded the paper. The writing was careful and slanted. "I am a traveller's bag," he read aloud. "My owner left me here while he went to look for the way home. He never came back, and I have been waiting for somebody to ask where I want to go. I want to go to the stone bridge at the top of the hill. Please carry me there, and please ring its bell once."

"The stone bridge," Adel repeated. "That is half an hour from here. In the dark."

"Then we should take warm coats," Uri said. "Two pairs of boots, and one bag."

"Three pairs, if you count these." Adel pointed at the old boots. He was smiling now, and the smile made him look much younger. "I have to leave a note for my parents."

They crept out of the front door with the bag between them. Its weight was strange, heavy and light at the same time. As soon as they stepped onto the road, the bag seemed to know the way. It tugged gently to the left, and then again to the right, like a dog on a lead.

The path climbed through dark trees. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Nothing in the world sounded as loud as their own footsteps. At last, the trees opened, and the old stone bridge stood against the stars.

Uri lifted the lantern from the bag. It lit by itself, with a calm yellow light. He rang the little bell once, as the note had asked. The sound was clear and long, and it did not end like a normal sound. It kept running down the hill and over the valley. It seemed to reach the edge of the sky.

From the other side of the bridge, something answered. It was a second bell, much farther away. Then a third rang, and a fourth, a whole line of them, getting nearer.

The bag shivered. Slowly, the empty walking boots rose out of it. They stood on the bridge, side by side, as if someone invisible had stepped into them. The lantern went out. A warm breath of air passed between the boys. The boots walked away over the stones, one heavy step at a time, into the dark.

For a long moment, Uri could not move. The bag lay open on the ground, light as a leaf, and its leather handle had gone soft.

"Well," Adel said at last. His voice shook. "I think we just did something important."

"I think so too." Uri picked up the empty bag and put it carefully over his shoulder. "Do you think it is finished?"

Adel did not answer at once. He was looking down the hill, where a faint light was moving along the road. It was small and yellow, and it was coming toward the hostel. "No," he said. "I think it only wanted somebody to ask the first question. Come on, Uri. Somebody has to ask the next one."