by Samuel Thews
Even the music’s tonic of courage could not suppress the chill that ran up his spine. A soft glow emanated from his father’s study. It did not flicker like a candle, nor dance like the flame of a lamp. It did not waver nor falter, but was steady and haunted the doorway with an unearthly cast.
He took two small steps forward and to the left, positioning himself so as to have a glimpse through the slight opening in the doorway. At first he saw nothing save the same eerie glow. But then the intensity of the glow changed, as though it moved closer to one wall than another. The glow changed again, and then the shadow of a figure appeared on the far wall.
Phinnegan stood frozen, not daring to breath.
Someone was in there.
The shadow moved now, and Phinnegan’s mind had cleared just enough for him to hear sounds other than the melody. First, there was a scraping sound, as if someone were dragging a heavy object across the floor. Then the scraping ceased and all was quiet once again, with the exception of the melody that continued to drift across Phinnegan’s mind.
Phinnegan shuffled forward the last few feet and stood behind the door, his face an inch from the opening. His breathing quickened and he felt his heart pound against his ribcage. More sounds came from the study, rustling of papers and the quiet “tink” of glass upon glass. He heard a soft “pop” sound and then a sound he never expected to hear.
Sniffing.
More soft pops were followed by still more sniffing. After about the sixth or seventh pop and sniff, there was a pause. A deeper sniff followed and then a quiet sigh of pleasure.
At last, the curious sounds getting the better of him, Phinnegan peeked around the door.
He never expected the sight that greeted him.
The room was bright compared to the rest of the house, and sitting on his father’s desk was the source of that light. A small sphere, which Phinnegan assumed had to be some kind of miniature oil lamp, rested there amongst the strewn papers and bathed the entire room in a white-blue light. Phinnegan had never seen a lamp like this: a solid glass orb, with no discernable light source. No flame flickered within, and even if there was, no air could have reached it.
But the light was not the half of it.
Standing atop his father’s heavy oaken chair was a man. Or at least Phinnegan thought it was a man, at first. But as Phinnegan watched, he noticed that he was not large enough to be a man at all, though he did not appear to be a child.
The man, or person, or whatever he was, had not yet noticed Phinnegan. He did not look in Phinnegan’s direction at all, but had his attention fixed on an object in his hands. Leaning his head further into the room to get a better look, Phinnegan momentarily lost his balance, brushing against the door and causing a loud creak. Startled, he snapped his head back, hoping he had been quick enough to escape the small person’s attention.
Phinnegan stood in silence for what felt like several minutes - though surely was only a half of one - holding his breath and daring not to make a sound lest he give himself away. After he began to breathe again, he crept back the few steps that he had just retreated and stood once again next to the door. Careful not to touch the door and create yet another squeak, Phinnegain ventured another peek.
The intruder gave no outward sign indicating that he had paid the creak any mind, for he stood just as he had before, still observing the item he held in his hands. He was hunched over, turning the object of his attention over and over in his hands.
Even with the light, Phinnegan could not see the intruder very well, but there was something odd about him. His hair appeared light, but Phinnegan could not discern its color, for the glowing orb upon the desk was nearer his feet than his head and cast little light up towards his face. His manner of dress was also very peculiar. Phinnegan expected that the roguish types who would break and enter into a person’s home would be dressed in common clothes, rough-spun wool or coarse linen. But this man wore trousers of a lush ivy-green, tight-fitting through the thigh and looser near the ankle. His arms were bare, but his torso bore a vest of the same shade of green, an indiscernible pattern worked upon it in silver.
Minding the door, Phinnegan slipped his entire head and his shoulders through the doorway to get a better view of this strange man. As his ears cleared the opening, the melody grew louder. He glanced this way and that for some source of the music, but nothing was out of place.
Except the shortish person standing on his father’s chair, of course.
Phinnegan came to the only conclusion that he could, given the circumstances. Somehow the melody was coming from this person. To an adult, such a notion would have been impossible. But Phinnegan’s mind was still young, as of yet still clear of the barriers that sometimes prevent grown-ups from believing things to be as they really are. Phinnegan, his mind populated over the years with story after story, accepted that which his senses told him was true.
As he listened to the melody, his mind again became warm and fuzzy. Any trace of fear dissipated and his eyes twinkled. His senses seemed to come alive. The melody became clearer and his eyes began to adjust to the light coming from the glowing orb atop the desk.
He slipped further into the room. With the man’s back to him, Phinnegan was safe from the reach of his vision. Phinnegan flattened himself against the wall, looking up at this strange figure and trying to decide what to do. But when the figure turned slightly, his profile became visible, and his hands came into view. Phinnegan saw what had held this strange man’s interest: his father’s pipe.
Seeing his father’s pipe in the stranger’s hands brought the earlier sounds into perspective. Phinnegan knew his father kept his pipe, matches and other tobacco paraphernalia on a shelf above his desk. When he looked up at the shelf, which was certainly far too high up for this little stranger to reach (thus explaining the chair), Phinnegan saw the shelf was empty save for the matches. On the desk below sat several glass jars, each filled with a different kind of pipe tobacco as well as the jars’s cork stoppers. The tinkling of glass, the soft pops and the sniffing sounds all made sense to him now.
When he looked back to the stranger, Phinnegan saw that he was no longer holding the pipe but instead was just moving his hands away from one of the front pockets in his trousers. Phinnegan saw the silhouette of his father’s pipe beneath the ivy-green fabric. Phinnegan’s eyes widened at the sight. His father loved that pipe. It had belonged to his father, and his father’s father before that, passed down through the family for at least three generations. One day, when he was old enough and man enough to own a pipe, Phinnegan’s father would pass it to him.
His courage soared.
“Here, now! What are you doing with my father’s pipe?”
Before Phinnegan had even finished his question the man started violently and lost his balance on the chair. A short cry escaped his lips as he tumbled to the floor. When he hit the floor, the light from the glowing orb snuffed out and the two were plunged into darkness.
CHAPTER 3
Periwinkle Lark
“Just what are you playing at?”
The voice came from just behind Phinnegan’s right ear, lilting and musical, but with a sharp tone to the question. He wanted to jump right out of his skin. But when he tried to lift his arm, he found that it was pinned to his side. Phinnegan did not feel the intruder’s hands upon him, nor could he see how this stranger could have otherwise restrained him in those short moments since he fell from the chair and the light went out. It was if the air itself held him in place.
“What’s the matter? Cat got your, err, tongue? That’s the phrase isn’t it? Cat got your tongue?”
“Yes, I mean no. I mean…I can’t move!”
“Well of course you can’t move. You bloody well nearly made me snuff it there, with your little tricks. Sneaking up on somebody like that in the dark, and on a Tuesday! Quite rude, that is. Why do you suppose I would let a rude person, such as yourself, go puttering about after what you did? You might bloody well do it again,
mightn’t’ you? Hmm?”
“But…how can you…you’re not holding me. Why can’t I move?”
Phinnegan received no answer. He opened his mouth to speak again, but just as he did the space around him filled with a white-blue light. He squinted his eyes against the sudden light and tried to turn his head from the source. Phinnegan could sense movement in front of him. As his eyes adjusted to the light he saw this small man, who was even more peculiar than Phinnegan had first thought.
The ivy-green trousers and vest were a lush fabric that had the texture of velvet but moved like a much lighter fabric. The silver workings upon the vest were of a five-petal flower - artfully done and not unlike a purple flower that Phinnegan had seen growing in some of the gardens outside people’s homes. A dark purple belt encircled the man’s waist, a sliver buckle clasped at the center. Phinnegan thought that this was quite a strange outfit, particularly for a thief.
In addition to his clothing, Phinnegan noticed how small the man was: no taller than himself. Examining the man’s face, Phinnegan could not guess at his age. His eyes twinkled with a fiery wisdom only acquired through many years, while his face displayed a smoothness and youth of someone not a day over twenty. His was an ageless face.
But perhaps the most startling thing about this person was his eyes. They were purple. Not the dark purple of the belt with the silver buckle, but a light purple. Phinnegan had never seen someone with such a shade of eye color, and he did not know what to make of it. His confusion increased when he saw the man’s hair was of a matching hue.
For his part, this oddly dressed man with the purple hair and purple eyes, scrutinized his captive just as his captive scrutinized him. Holding the light before him, he peered at Phinnegan, first from the right then from the left. After studying him for a few moments, he leaned forward, his brow knitted in thought.
“Hmmm. So what are you? A Finch? A Thrush?” He peered closer, arching an eyebrow as he peered at Phinnegan.
“You’re not a Crow, are you?”
Phinnegan was confused. It was quite obvious that he was in fact not a bird, nor any other animal.
“No…I’m not a finch, a thrush, nor a crow. I’m a boy.”
The strange man rolled his eyes and scowled at Phinnegan, wagging a slender finger in front of his face.
“Oh, don’t be daft. Of course you are a boy, anyone can see that, just as I am a boy. I mean who do you belong to? What clan?”
“Clan?”
“Don’t play coy with me. Yes, what clan? Sparrow? Robin? Grosbeaks? Doves?” He peered closer. “Titmouse?”
Phinnegan thought that this man was indeed quite mad. And mad men often did strange things, and Phinnegan had no desire to have strange things done to him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t belong to any clan.” He added after a pause, “I come from the family Qwyk though, if that’s what you mean.”
The man straightened, putting his hands on his hips and looking straight into Phinnegan’s eyes. Although he expected to see madness, Phinnegan only saw annoyance written on the man’s face.
“Qwyk? I’ve never heard of any clan Qwyk. You take me for a fool, do you? Trying to tell me you come from some clan that doesn’t exist when everyone knows that all Faë belong to some clan, all of which are well documented. You might as well come clean on it.” The man reached forward, fingering Phinnegan’s hair. Phinnegan recoiled from the touch, his head no longer restrained by the unseen force that bound his arms and legs. The man frowned in thought.
“You aren’t a Mud are you? Someone’s bastard? You have the color but that could just be a disguise.”
Phinnegan felt his blood rising.
“Here, now! That’s uncalled for, that is. I’ve had enough of this rubbish. All these silly questions about what kind of bird I am and what clan I belong to. I am no one’s bastard. Me mum and dad are upstairs sleeping right now!”
A puzzled look passed over the man’s face at Phinnegan’s retort. Tilting his head to one side he regarded his captive.
“Your mum and dad?” He paused a moment and then his eyes flashed with recognition.
“Oh!” He eyed Phinnegan with a smirk. “I guess you really don’t have a clan do you?”
Suddenly, whatever was restraining Phinnegan vanished. Without the support from these invisible bonds, he stumbled, falling back and landing on his bottom. When the man offered a hand to help him to his feet, Phinnegan scowled and swatted the hand away.
“Easy now, I’ve set you free haven’t I?” offered the stranger.
Phinnegan continued to scowl at the man.
“So? I don’t even know how you were holding me there.” Phinnegan took two steps away from the man as he asked, even though he doubted it would make little difference if the man sought to restrain him again.
“Who are you?”
The man only smiled, showing exquisite, white teeth.
“Well, I am sorry about that. But you can’t be too careful these days, not with the clans at each others’s throats as they are, all jostling for recognition.” He paused, tilting his head at Phinnegan. “But I guess none of that makes any sense to you, now does it?” The blank stare he received in return was answer enough.
“Perhaps we should start over, yes? Allow me to introduce myself,” the man said, sweeping his arm wide as he bowed low, his head dipping below the level of his waist.
“I am called Periwinkle Lark, artist extraordinaire and purveyor of fine English tobaccos. At your service, of course.”
Phinnegan could only stare. The man’s name was the strangest he had ever heard and his assertion that he was a purveyor of English tobaccos seemed to be a bit off the mark.
“You mean you steal English tobaccos, as well as pipes!”
Periwinkle shrugged, a smirk on his face.
“What’s a young Faë to do in these times, eh? Vermillion has his claws into everything nowadays it seems. It’s not like it used to be. If he gets the throne we’re all in for it, I tell you. And the worst part is seeing all the other clans scrapping with one another for favor with that red-headed lout.” He shrugged again, gesturing to the jars of tobacco on the table. “Besides, all the best smokes come from the finest leaf in your world, everybody knows that.”
Phinnegan by now was so perplexed that he didn’t know which question to start with. So he just asked them all.
“Who is Vermillion? What throne? And what do you mean my world? And what is this Faë business you keep talking about?”
“Ah, easy there, friend. So many questions.” Periwinkle stroked his chin as he regarded Phinnegan standing before him. “To one of those questions I am sure you already know the answer. I am a Faë. Surely you have heard of us?”
Phinnegan shook his head, but just as Periwinkle was about to speak, he blurted out what he did know.
“Well, I’ve heard of faeries, of course. And leprechauns, elves, and dwarves. Are they similar?”
Periwinkle shook his head and waved his hand.
“In a way. They scratch at the truth, but they’re all perversions, really. Some poor soul from your world saw some Faë mucking about in his garden or in the woods and probably came out the worse for it, as we Faës can be a tricky lot when we have a mind to, and so by the time the story’s told a hundred times, you’ve got a whole new race of little people to tell your kiddies about. But it’s all as empty as the last glass of blackberry ale that was set in front of me.”
“Well, what about the leprechauns and their pot o’ gold at the end of the rainbow, then?”
The Faë laughed and then shook his head.
“That old one? It’s one of the worst! What Faë would hide his gold in such a place, eh? I ask you, who would be that stupid? Rainbows are always in such a state of flux that you’d never be able to guess where it would go next. One minute your life’s work is right there at your back door sitting at the bottom of a rainbow and the next, poof, gone. No, no. No Faë values his money so lit
tle that he would be so careless.”
“But…you mean there is an end to the rainbow?”
Periwinkle gave him a quizzical look.
“Well of course it has an end. Where else would we get all our……ahem. You’re not a very smart boy, are you?”
Phinnegan suppressed a scowl.
“So you’re saying that you, that is, the Faë, are the source of the stories about faeries, brownies, and the like?”
“More or less,” the Faë said with a nod and a shrug. “We’re all that’s really important anyway. The Pixies are pesky little buggers, but other than that they are hardly worth mentioning, really.”
Phinnegan regarded the smallish figure in front of him, trying to make sense of all that he was hearing. The next question on his lips was the one he most wanted answered, but was the most afraid to ask. But ask it he did.
“If you’re a Faë, and all of these other stories come from your people, does that mean that you can do magic?”
A lilting trill burst from the Faë’s lips, which Phinnegan took to be laughter.
The very next moment, the Faë vanished.
“Do you mean like this?”
The voice made Phinnegan jump, for it came from right behind him, where a moment before the Faë had quite obviously not been. He whirled around and perceived the Faë, who now leaned against the wall behind.
“For your people here in this world, I suppose that would be a bit of magic, eh? Then there’s always the binding charm I used on you earlier. It’s quite a tricky charm to pull off. Nearly impossible for the target to break, but it leaves the Faë performing the charm susceptible to all manner of counters. I should have guessed when you threw up no defenses that you were not a Faë. But as I said before, you could have been being tricky.” He shrugged. “My mistake.”
Phinnegan felt only excitement. Here before him was a living Faë, a creature he had never before heard of, but that was just as exciting as seeing a leprechaun, faerie, or any other magical creature. The fact that this Faë was in his home was quite miraculous. The Faë’s intended theft no longer even crossed his mind.