A Place Beyond The Map

by Samuel Thews

  Periwinkle continued on at a swift pace and Phinnegan thought that he did not seem very concerned about these Faolchú. Either they were not as bad as he made them sound, or the path really was protected. He would prefer to be out of the woods and not have to worry about it one way or the other.

  Several more minutes passed in silence, and the forest became darker and darker still until Phinnegan could barely make out the path beneath his feet. He kept his gaze fixed on the Faë’s silhouette, following in his footsteps. But Phinnegan began to feel nervous about the sun. He was sure that if it had not already set, it would do so at any moment. He looked up and what little glimpses of the sky he could see were nearly black. Looking back the way they had come, he saw the same darkness that lay ahead.

  Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a lighter area in the distance. He turned and not one-hundred yards distant he could see the edge of the forest.

  “Look,” he reached forward and tapped Periwinkle. “We’re almost through.” Without a second thought, he took a step towards the light.

  The first sound he heard was the sharp crack of a twig beneath his foot.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Periwinkle hissed.

  The second sound followed swiftly: the baying of hounds.

  “Daggers! Did I not tell you to stay on the path!?”

  “I…I was just heading for the forest’s edge-“ Phinnegan broke off as Periwinkle darted ahead of him, also off the path, in the direction of the faint light ahead.

  “Don’t just stand there. Run!”

  Phinnegan didn’t need to be told twice.

  Branches tore at his skin and clothes as he ran, almost as if they had come alive to arrest his progress, delaying him just enough for the hounds to catch him. He paid them no mind, but felt the trickle of blood down his cheek where one branch had rent the skin.

  He saw the Faë leap up ahead, and though he could not see why, Phinnegan gauged his distance behind the Faë and lept as well. His back foot just grazed something hard, a large rock or felled tree. He sprinted on, the Faë was still several strides ahead but Phinnegan maintained his distance.

  The forest floor was softer here, soggy and like the beginnings of a bog beneath a thick covering of leaves. His feet made a sucking sound as he pulled them and placed them ahead one after the other. The terrain was slowing him down, as it was the Faë. The baying seemed closer, or was it just the pounding of his own heart in his ears?

  Suddenly the Faë was struck by a moving shadow. He cried out as he hit the ground. Phinnegan was on him in a moment, nearly tripping over the Faë’s body.

  “It’s no use now,” Periwinkle said, his voice coming in a wheeze. “They’ve caught us.”

  Phinnegan, who now knelt beside the fallen Faë, raised his head to look around them. At least three sets of eyes shimmered in the darkness, their shadowy owners merely dark bulks moving in the fog that had now descended nearly to the forest floor. The baying had ceased some few moments ago, but was now replaced by the low rumbling growl of the wild hounds.

  One hound, whose shadowy hulk appeared larger than the rest, inched forward. Phinnegan’s heart raced and his breathing came in ragged gasps. He crouched down lower, but to no avail. There was nowhere to hide and hounds were behind him just as they were in front.

  “What do we do?” he asked in a whisper, hoping the Faë had some trick up his sleeve that could save them from certain death. But his hopes were not to be answered.

  “Nothing.” The Faë pushed himself up onto his elbows, but did not try to escape.

  “Welcome to a Place Beyond the Map.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Nightmares

  With the growl of the beast ever nearer, Periwinkle flicked his wrist and the same glowing orb that Phinnegan had seen on the first night when the Faë had broken into his home appeared in the Faë’s hand. Phinnegan wished it hadn’t.

  “Faolchú,” Periwinkle whispered, the fear apparent in his voice.

  The light from the orb fell on the hound that was moving towards them, showing its fur to be short and red. Not the reddish-brown of a tame hound but darker, a rich red the color of blood and rust. The fur was missing in spots, revealing a white, translucent skin that glistened like the underbelly of a snake. Veins and arteries wove like blue and purple spider webs beneath the skin.

  The leg muscles of the hound were long and sinewy, and they rippled with constrained strength as the hound crept nearer. The paws bore five toes, each with a short, but sharp, white claw. The hound had no tail and its ears were short and pointed and bore no fur. The snout was long and the jaw was strongly muscled. The hound’s lips curled back in a snarl, displaying teeth that were stained yellow from either age or diet, and with gums bearing the same translucent skin as the body, blood vessels bulging beneath. The eyes were solid white, no pupil or iris, but Phinnegan could feel the gaze of the Faolchú appraising him.

  Phinnegan held his breath as the hound leaned forward and sniffed at the boots of the Faë. Periwinkle pulled his foot back in surprise, drawing a low growl from the throat of the Faolchú. Phinnegan had never seen the Faë scared before, even when he stood before the court in Féradoon, but now he saw the light waver on the face of the hound as Periwinkle’s hand shook with fright.

  Around him, Phinnegan could hear the remainder of the pack inching closer. When one let out a short bark behind him, he felt the warm breath on his neck, and the fetid smell filled his nostrils. He swallowed hard, praying for a miracle.

  “Can’t you do some magic?” Phinnegan asked the Faë in a whisper. He was answered by a shake of the head.

  “No, mate, not in here.” The Faë sighed and sank lower against the ground.

  “What about those tricks you mentioned?” Phinnegan hissed.

  “Probably should have mentioned I didn’t actually have any of those tricks about my person, like.” Periwinkle swallowed hard. “We’re as good as done.”

  Staring into the pupil-less eyes of the Faolchú, Phinnegan believed that the Faë was right.

  “Haaalllooooooooooooo,” the voice called, an eerie crowing sound that drew the attention of the Faolchú. The ears of the largest hound in front of them perked as it turned its head in the direction of the sound.

  “Haaaallllllooooooooooo,” the call came again, and this time the hounds renewed their growl, but it was directed outwards toward the darkness of the forest. Phinnegan wondered if the pupil-less eyes could see far in night.

  The growls turned to painful yelps as a bright searing light filled the forest. Phinnegan covered his face with his arm, shielding his eyes from the blinding light.

  “Bíodh misneach agat, bráthair!” the voice cried in the distance. Bráthair? Phinnegan knew the word to be “brother” in Irish and he dared to hope that this was a friend. But he had little time to think on it, for Periwinkle was yelling at him.

  “Take a deep breath, mate, and hold it!”

  “What?” Phinnegan asked, confused by such a strange request.

  “Just do it!” the Faë shouted, and by the deep gasp that followed Phinnegan knew he had held his own breath. He filled his lungs with air and held his breath. Not a moment later, the whistling sound of arrows pierced the night. He heard two thuds as the arrows struck the leaf covered forest floor around him, one each side of he and the Faë.

  For a brief moment, the forest was quiet. And then a sharp hiss came from the directions of the two arrows. The hounds growled, but the growls were swiftly replaced by whimpers. He heard their feet on the ground as they stumbled away from the hissing arrows, but they did not make it far. Their bulky bodies crashed to the ground not more than a few yards from where Phinnegan lay.

  He felt that more than a minute had passed, and his lungs burned for new air. But he guessed from the Faë’s command to hold his breath, the hiss of the arrows, and the subsequent collapse of the Faolchú that whatever hissed forth from the arrows was poisonous.

  He held his breath for far longer than
he would have guessed that he could. When he opened his eyes, he found the forest once again only dimly lit by the scant sliver of moonlight that escaped the blotting net of the tree branches. He pushed himself up to his elbows and took in the scene around him.

  Large shadowed bulks in the distance must have been the collapsed Faolchú. As he watched, he could see each body twitch.

  As he listened, he still heard the hissing of the arrows, although very faint. He looked to the right and saw an arrow as long as his arm protruding from the earth. A wisp of smoke escaped from the earth where the arrow was embedded.

  The sight of this smoke, which he imagined must be a very powerful poison, frightened him. He told himself that he must not breathe, but the burning in his lungs increased and at last, he gasped, expelling the spent air and refilling his lungs.

  The burning in his lungs from the lack of oxygen was pale in light of what he now experienced. His eyes bulged and his throat tightened. He clawed at the ground with his hands and whirled his head to face the Faë. Periwinkle looked at him as if to say I told you to hold your breath.

  And then he blacked out.

  Phinnegan dreamed a dream like none he had ever experienced. He was not sure how he knew that it was a dream, but he did just the same. The eyes in his dream saw nothing but blackness, a cold blackness that chilled him to the core and made him shiver. He wondered if it was truly black or if his eyes were not open, but then when he exhaled, he could see the fog of his breath against the blackness.

  For some few moments he lay in this cold, dark dream, longing for respite. But when the respite came, his dream became a nightmare.

  His skin began to itch, just a little at first. But as he scratched, the itching worsened until he felt what were bugs of all types creeping across his skin. He swatted at his arms and legs, trying to brush the insects from him. But the itching only worsened.

  When pale blue light appeared all around him, he looked down at his arms in horror. The crawling was not on his skin, it was his skin. He watched as the skin on his arms rippled and bubbled, as though a thousand insects were trapped just beneath, searching for the surface. He sprang to his feet, clawing at his arms to dispel the crawling insects.

  Please don’t let it be spiders.

  A sharp laugh drew his attention, and he looked up to find the judge from Féradoon, Julius Jay, high atop his bench, cackling and pointing.

  “What’s the matter, boy? Something making your skin crawl?” The judge threw his head back, laughing maniacally. When the judge made a wave with his hand, Phinnegan felt a tug at his wrists. He looked down to see that a small hole had opened at each wrist. Out of each poured thousands of small spiders.

  Knowing nothing else that he could do, Phinnegan screamed and tore at the skin on his arms. But for every handful of spiders he threw from his arms that many and more poured forth from his wrists. All the while, he heard the judge high above, cackling like a madman.

  The itching worsened, and as he turned this way and that looking for something, anything, that could help him, he saw that the jury had now appeared. The Faë who had spoken out against the judge and had ultimately been responsible for Periwinkle’s release stood staring at him, a long thin arm outstretched, a gnarled finger pointing directly at him.

  Phinnegan froze, and for the moment, the itching ceased. He blinked and the scene around him had changed to replicate the High Court of Féradoon in every detail. When he noticed that his arms felt heavy, Phinnegan looked down to find the chains that had earlier been on Periwinkle’s wrists, now on his own. But at least the spiders were gone.

  The juror stood with a malevolent smile upon his face. As he stared, the Faë’s face changed, the skin drawing tighter about the bones. The smile widened as the skin pulled the lips apart, revealing rotted, black teeth. When he opened his mouth to speak, the voice was guttural rasp.

  “For your crimes against our race, I hereby sentence you to…death!”

  A cry of jubilation erupted around him and Phinnegan whirled to see that the previously empty hall was filled with hundreds if not thousands of the Aged Faë, each with the tightened crackled skin that had overtaken the juror’s face only moments before. They pressed in on him as they mumbled and crowed their approval of the ruling. High above, the judge’s voice rang out, and it too was now a guttural growl.

  “So be it!” The judge rose to stand and lean over the edge of his bench. Phinnegan kept his eyes fixed on the judge, even as the masses of decaying Faë closed in around him.

  “Phinnegan Lonán Qwyk, you are hereby sentenced to Death by the High Court of Féradoon.”

  “By what manner shall we dispose of this criminal?” he continued, calling upon the masses to choose the form of execution for their prisoner. “Shall we take his head?”

  Around him Phinnegan heard cries of yes as well as a few boos.

  “To the axe!” one shouted.

  “To the guillotine!” came the suggestion of another.

  “Nay, neither is sufficient for this scum.”

  “Hang him!”

  The judge raised his hands to quiet the crowed, roaring in his guttural tone loudly to be heard above the fray.

  “Some of you are not satisfied with beheading?”

  Those in favor were now silent, as the naysayers called forth all manner of reasons that they preferred another form of execution. Phinnegan squeezed his eyes shut and did his best to ignore the screams around him. For a time, it had no effect. But then the voices began to recede and he felt his wrists lighten. He opened his eyes to see that his wrists were free. Looking around, he saw that he was no longer in the courtroom but was instead back in the middle of Darkwater Forest.

  The forest was deathly quiet. No birds chirped, no rodents rustled in the underbrush and no breeze stirred the twisted branches of the tall, dark trees.

  Phinnegan took a moment to scrutinize his arms for the wounds and blood that he knew must be there from his clawing, but he saw nothing. His arms were as smooth as any other day, and no spiders bubbled forth from his wrists. He reminded himself that he was in a dream, or at least he had been. Now he was back in the forest and the fantasy of the dream mixed with the last reality that he remembered.

  Suddenly, the chill air returned and Phinnegan’s breath turned to an icy fog. A branch snapped somewhere behind him and to the left. His heart skipped a beat and he feared to turn towards the source. Then came the sound of heavy breathing, forceful snorts and a low growl. Faolchú. Turning his head, he saw a Faolchú larger by half than those he had seen earlier. He could not possibly survive a fight with such a creature. So he ran.

  The Faolchú stood transfixed for a few seconds, allowing Phinnegan to introduce some space betwixt himself and the beast. But then with a loud bark and a howl, the Faolchú hurled himself into the chase.

  Phinnegan ran faster than he had ever run before in his life. He leapt over felled trees and rocks. Once he stumbled over an unseen branch buried beneath the leaves, but he kept his balance and ran on. In his peripheral vision, he caught sight of other Faolchú that had joined the chase, now running even with him some twenty yards away on either side. They snarled and barked at one another, communicating like no animals Phinnegan had ever seen.

  Although he sprinted, the chase was soon over. The Faolchú were too fast by a large margin and they closed the distance to their prey in a matter of moments. The hound that came from the left hurled its bulk into Phinnegan, knocking him to the forest floor with a grunt. Pain seared through his leg and he thought that a Faolchú had bitten him. But looking down, he saw that his calf had landed on a sharp branch that projected from the underbrush, and that it had pierced through his pants and into his flesh.

  The Faolchú crept closer and the scent of his blood on the air sent them into frenzy. They hurled themselves at one another with feral snarls and a great gnashing of teeth. But the large Faolchú who had been right behind Phinnegan was not to be denied. He proved his might to the other hounds, which
now slinked to their place behind him, the leader of the pack.

  His eyes were the same pupil-less white as the others, but he bore a long scar across his left eye and around his snout. Phinnegan’s eyes raced over the hound’s body and he saw more old wounds, so many that the red fur was practically hidden beneath the thick, white scars. This one had fought, and won, many battles.

  The beast came forward and Phinnegan pushed himself backwards on his hands. The Faolchú bared his teeth, his lips curling upward in what would have been a smile, had the face been human and not that of a wild hound.

  When the hound pushed back on his haunches, Phinnegan braced himself for the attack that was to come. The Faolchú’s rear legs pushed hard against the earth and the hound leapt, jaws open.

  Phinnegan heard himself scream.

  When his eyes fluttered open, the world was washed out and bright. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the light, and then slowly opened them so that only a sliver crept through. He felt himself bouncing, up and down, a natural rhythm to the motion. He rolled his eyes right and left and saw that he was no longer in the forest. The sky above was a dark purple, the hour just beyond sunset.

  He felt support beneath him and after a few moments of clouded thinking, he knew them to be arms. He was being carried. His head rolled in the direction of the body that owned the arms which bore him. Looking up, he saw a pale face, the countenance one of youth juxtaposed against wisdom; the face of a Faë.

  Atop the head a thick, tangled mass of dark red hair spilled forth. Sensing his stirring, the face looked down. Two bright red eyes shone from deep sockets. Even in his muddled state, Phinnegan could read worry plain on the Faë’s face.

  “Brostaigh,” the Faë said, and Phinnegan felt the bouncing become more jostled. He felt himself slipping, and as his head rolled left against his shoulder, his last glimpse was the back of Periwinkle Lark, who jogged ahead into the darkness.