A Place Beyond The Map

by Samuel Thews

  Perhaps they’ve turned their backs on the treachery as well.

  If he was an Aged, why would he help Phinnegan? The only Aged he had seen were those in the court of Féradoon. All but the clumsy witness, Sparrow, Periwinkle’s old friend, had seemed a most serious and unkindly lot. Not the sort of people one went to when in need of help.

  Perhaps this old man was different, more like Sparrow, too aloof to be serious and unkind. But if he was aloof, how would he be of any help?

  But perhaps he was not an Aged at all, but a human, brought here like Phinnegan. Such a turn of events would be a boon, provided the old man remained in this world by choice, and not a lack of knowledge on how to get home.

  So absorbed was he in his thoughts that Phinnegan did not see the large root that snaked out into the path. He tripped, falling hard onto his side.

  Phinnegan pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his clothes, which were now quite dirty. He checked to see that he was still on the path, which he was, just standing at its edge. However, had he looked behind he would have seen that when he fell, his hands had landed in the grass just off the path. Two hand-prints remained in the green of the grass but they were slowly turning black.

  But Phinnegan did not see these blackening hand prints that he had left behind. Instead he checked the height of the sun in the sky, frowning when he saw that it approached mid-afternoon. The mountain loomed in front of him as it always did, but there was no sign of the fork in the path that Mariella had foretold.

  Little more than an hour later, Phinnegan had stopped in front of a massive tree. Here the path split into two: one to the left and one to the right. Phinnegan, as Mariella had instructed, took the path to the left.

  The sun was still well above the horizon, but it was moving towards late afternoon. Phinnegan spied another small bush with orange berries just after the split and stopped to eat one handful and pocket another before continuing down the path.

  The brush here was more overgrown, reaching intrusively into an already more narrow path. Twice a meddlesome tree branch scratched across Phinnegan’s face as he pushed his way through ever more crowded vegetation. The ground, too, changed, becoming less sand and rock and more grass and moss. The path was less visible than it had been, but he was still able to follow it without too much effort.

  He had seen little in the way of creatures on this path. A few rodents had crossed his path, but this was no different than he would have expected in his own world. Birds, too, chirped and sang all around him since the path had forked. Once a great black bird had lighted on the path in front of him, fixed him with a curious eye and then flown off in a rush of wings and feathers.

  When the sun finally reached late afternoon, its light beginning to hide behind distant trees and horizon-hugging clouds, Phinnegan felt a chill run through him. He was not cold, and sweat even trickled down the back of his neck, but he still shivered. It was around this same time that he noticed the first aching joint, his right wrist. His left one soon followed, and then his fingers, elbows and knees. The lower the sun sank in the sky, the more the aches pained him and the more often he shivered.

  A headache had assailed him at some point, and now his eyelids began to droop. He stumbled once, then twice. The third time, he sank to his knees. In the distance, he heard the faint clinking of metal. Like a wind-chime, but the clinks were heavier and of a deeper tone. The sound was peaceful, musical without being music and growing louder as the sun sank lower in the sky.

  When a wailing moan pierced the evening quiet, Phinnegan tried to rouse himself but he could not. He fumbled clumsily in his pocket for his last handful of berries, smashing some in the process. From the crushed few he was able to remove from his pocket, he tossed two into his mouth.

  But the berries made him gag, and he spat them out and saw that they were no longer bright-orange, but instead an oily black. Around him the clinking turned to clanking and the moans grew louder, and came from multiple directions.

  A rustle in the bushes close-by sent his mind into a frenzied panic, but his body would not respond. He was so tired.

  The last thing he saw was two heavy black boots stepping out of the brush in front of him.

  CHAPTER 21

  ELEVENSES

  Phinnegan awakened in what could only be said to be an exceptionally comfortable bed, the blankets drawn up to his chin, and a terrible ache in his head. The smell of breakfast hung faintly in the air.

  Bacon.

  The crackling smell drew him from the bed. No matter how comfortable any bed, the smell of bacon is likely to pull one from it. How long had it been since he had last smelled that wonderful food?

  Certainly never in this world.

  But when he reached his feet, he found that he did not recognize the room or the bed. The walls were covered in strange drawings and figures, and bits of parchment with words written in a scrawled handwriting. There were two windows in the room and Phinnegan saw that it was a bright day outside.

  The floor was a rustic wood, neither stained nor varnished, but darkened with age. The boards were wide and bowed on the edges and they creaked when Phinnegan took a ginger step forward. The sound was not that of the creak that shutters an uneasy silence, but rather the familiar creak of a weathered house, signaling that it has been well-lived.

  A wooden door rested ajar in front of him, and through it the scrumptious smell wafted and the clanging sound of rustling pots and pans could be heard. Phinnegan moved closer to the door, listening for other sounds.

  The clanging sound of pots soon gave way to the clink of glass or ceramic. To Phinnegan, these seemed to all be the sounds of breakfast.

  He crept into the hallway beyond the door, and found that no way was to be had to his right. A short hall-way dead-ended there in a wall. Two other doorways dotted the hallway, one on the right, the same as the side from which Phinnegan had emerged, the other on the left.

  No way to his right, he turned to the left and here the smell of bacon grew stronger, and the clink of glass louder. There was one door on his right, before the short hallway opened into a small space. To the left of his space a few soft chairs rested comfortably around an empty fire-place on the near wall. It was to his right where Phinnegan heard the clinking.

  Here there was a wall with portraits adorning its face. The one in the middle was larger than the others and bore the bust of a rather distinguished looking gentleman, a black jacket high about his neck and a white ascot fluffing at his breast. His hair was short, curly and white, and his face was kind, yet wizened and serious. He held an open book firmly in his hands.

  To the right of this kindly gentleman, a more sinister-looking face lurked. Close in upon his face, the top of the same-style black jacket could be seen, as well as the same ruffled ascot. But this face was not kind, instead being wrinkled and unmerciful, a hooked nose soaring out from a square and harsh face. White curls, too, adorned his head, though the locks were long and fell well past his ears and onto his shoulders. His visage was severe, and his blue eyes bored into Phinnegan until he looked away with a shiver.

  The final picture hung to the left of the largest. The man therein appeared with the same jacket and ascot, as well as the same white hair, though he was clearly the elder of the three. The hair was straight and flowed long from a deep widow’s peak on his forehead. His shoulders were hunched and he leaned heavily on the thick, gnarled head of an ornate staff. Where the other two had been clean shaven, he sported a long, flowing beard. His face was heavily wrinkled, further enhancing his age, while his nose was wide and long. He looked not at the admirer but down and towards the right, his eyes riveted on their quarry. The figure’s gaze was so intent that Phinnegan looked to the spot where they gazed, but saw only a dusty floor.

  Who these three men were was a mystery, for their portraits bore no titles or placards. Phinnegan spent only half a moment looking for some sort of identification before he remembered the bacon.

  He had moved away from th
e hallway whence he had come and was now close to the end of the wall which bore the three portraits. Ahead the wall vanished and a great open space took its place. The sounds and smells of breakfast poured through.

  No one was there.

  Phinnegan saw a small table directly in front of this opening, which was paired with two chairs. Atop it rested a small, iron platter with a mound of bacon an inch deep. To the right of this was the kitchen, which consisted of a large bucket and an area of counter space, as well as a fireplace, which held a slowly burning fire with a black kettle dancing above it, a light steam slipping from its spout.

  The clinking sound remained, but Phinnegan saw no one.

  Hungry, he snatched two pieces of bacon from the platter before moving past the table and into the kitchen. The clinking came from his right, where he saw the wooden bucket seated atop the counter. The sound appeared to come from within it, and when Phinnegan peeked over its edge, he expected to see, perhaps, a mouse, scrounging amongst some soiled dishes. But he saw no mouse.

  He did see several dishes. And they were cleaning themselves.

  Or rather, a wooden-handled brush was cleaning them, though no hand could be seen to move the brush, or to hold the dish for that matter. But the brush did move and the dishes presented themselves for a scrubbing no differently than they would have had they been maneuvered by a hand.

  “Aha! Found the bacon have you?”

  The voice came from behind Phinnegan and its sudden appearance caused him to jump. He turned around quickly to find a portly man of middling height, grinning at him with a small basket of eggs in one hand and another full of berries in the opposite hand.

  “Sit down, sit down,” the man said, his weathered cheeks tight in the smile. “The eggs will be up shortly. Can’t have elevenses without bacon and eggs!” The jovial man pushed past Phinnegan with a spring in his step, handing off the basket of berries before he continued towards the fire. “Go on, eat your fill. But do leave me some of the black ones.”

  Phinnegan stood frozen for a moment, but his hunger quickly won whatever battle raged in his mind. Heeding the old man’s directions, he carried the basket of berries to the table and sat them beside the platter of bacon. Continuing to munch on the bacon he had already collected, Phinnegan seated himself and surveyed the man bustling about the kitchen.

  His manner of dress would allow only to be described as unkempt, a bilious off-white shirt spotted with various dirty patches hung well past his waist, while his trousers were loose and a drab brown. His hair stood on end, in the places where it still grew, which was mainly the back and sides, the top being quite shiny. His face was weathered, but soft, and two bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows stood above his eyes, matching the frazzled fluff of his thick beard.

  All put together, he was quite a friendly looking chap, if a bit dirty.

  “Sorry I didn’t wake you for breakfast, but you looked to need your rest,” the man called over his shoulder as he removed the kettle from the fire with a thick rag. In its place he hung an iron skillet. “Do you prefer your eggs broken or not?”

  “Not, please,” Phinnegan said between a piece of bacon and a mouthful of berries.

  “Unbroken they shall be then.” The familiar crack of eggs was followed by a loud sizzle as their insides fell on the skillet. The man proceeded to pour the contents of the kettle into two ceramic mugs before bringing them to the table where Phinnegan sat, placing one mug in front of him and the second in front of the empty chair opposite him.

  “It’s my own special blend,” the old man said as he moved back to mind the eggs. “A strong tea made from the leaves of the vines growing on the outside of this cottage. It’s mixed in with the normal, of course, black tea to be precise, but the vine’s leaves give it a more earth quality. Does wonders for the mind!”

  Phinnegan cupped the steaming mug in his hands and drew it to himself, inhaling a deep breath through his nose. It did smell earthy, like the mossy side of a rock. He swallowed the last bit of berries he had been chewing and took a tentative sip. It tasted earthy as well.

  Like dirt.

  “Isn’t it pleasant?” the old man asked as he dropped a small plate with two eggs in front of Phinnegan before taking the seat across from him.

  “Quite,” Phinnegan said. “Thank you.”

  “Most welcome, most welcome,” the man said with a bob of his head and a large toothy grin on his face. As Phinnegan watched, the man took a handful of berries and crushed them in his hands, letting their bits dribble atop the two eggs on his own plate, before wiping the soiled hand on his trousers.

  “Sorry, but who are you? Where am I? The last thing I remember, I was on the path…and it was growing dark…” Phinnegan trailed off at the end, unable to suppress the shiver that came to him when he recalled the moaning wail that he had heard in the woods.

  “Yes…lucky…dark…berries…wights.” Speaking with his mouth stuffed full of eggs and berries alike rendered the man unintelligible. Phinnegan’s brow wrinkled.

  “What?”

  “Pardon, pardon,” the man said after swallowing his mouthful and wiping his lips on his sleeve. He clasped his hands atop one another as he leaned forward, his beady eyes as wide as they would go.

  “I said that you were lucky I found you. In the dark as you were, the magic of the berries wearing off and the wights bearing down on you. Lucky you were indeed that old Asher was out hunting.” He paused, drawing down one eyebrow and waving a finger at Phinnegan.

  “You really should have stayed on the path at all times, you know. When the berries go bad at sunset, you’ll pass out where you stand. Had you never strayed from the path, the wights never would have known you were there.”

  “I didn’t stray from the path,” Phinnegan said, defensively. “I was careful to be on it at all times.”

  “Bah,” the old man barked, leaning back in his chair. “Whether you knew it or not, you stepped off. They’d never have found you otherwise. Lucky you were, very lucky.”

  Phinnegan frowned and looked away from the old man, trying to remember when he could have stepped off the path. But when he looked away, his eyes caught a glimpse of two heavy black boots caked with mud on the floor against the wall behind the old man.

  “Those boots,” Phinnegan mumbled before looking back to the old man. “So you…rescued me?”

  “Aye, aye,” the old man said with a wink and a nod before stuffing his mouth with a forkful of eggs and berries.

  “Well, sir, thank you-“

  “Asher,” the old man interrupted. “Everyone with a right to call me anything at all calls me Asher.”

  “Thank you, Asher. My name is Phinnegan. Phinnegan Qwyk.”

  “Well, Phinnegan Qwyk, welcome to my humble home. It’s not much, but has all the comforts a simpleton like I could every want.” Asher beamed a broad smile, as he seemingly was apt to do, and then, having finished the last of his eggs and berries, set about munching strips of bacon while he sipped his tea.

  “Sir, if I may ask – “

  “Asher,” the old man mumbled as he chewed.

  “Yes, sorry. Asher. What is that?” Phinnegan asked, pointing in the direction of the wooden washtub in the kitchen where he knew the brush continued to clean judging by the sound of clinking.

  “What,” the old man said, turning to follow Phinnegan’s pointed finger. Seeing the washing basin he slumped back in his chair with a grimace, the first unhappy gesture Phinnegan had seen from the man.

  “Bah! That is some Faë’s idea of ridding me of the most unpleasant of household chores. But the blasted thing is just as likely to create an even bigger mess as actually clean up worth a damn.” The man raised one eyebrow and leaned toward Phinnegan. “You always must keep an eye on it lest it run amuck and soil the whole house with dirty dishwater.” He turned for a moment to stare at the tub before slouching back in his chair.

  “Should never have bought that bloody thing,” he mumbled, tearing a large chunk from a
strip of bacon.

  “You bought it from a Faë?”

  Phinnegan’s question, however, fell on deaf ears, for the old man had leapt from his chair with surprising agility just as he finished speaking.

  “Aha! To the devil with you!” Asher raced into the kitchen and was now wrestling with the washtub, which was putting up quite a fight. Just as he had said, it was running amuck. Water sloshed from the tub onto the kitchen’s floor, as well as onto the old man, who held the tub in a bear hug just in front of his chest.

  “Blasted fool of an enchantment,” Asher yelled, assumedly at the tub. Phinnegan rose from his chair as if to come to the old man’s aid, but just as he did, the tub and the man came crashing down to the floor, sending the contents of the tub, water, dishes, brush and all, across the floor and into the fire.

  “Are you all right?” Phinnegan asked as he approached Asher, who was now sprawled on the floor in front of the fire, which had shrunk by half as the water put out some of the nearest wood. The handle of the brush was just beginning to be licked by the remaining flames. Phinnegan reached to salvage it, but Asher raised a hand in protest.

  “Let it burn.” The brush emitted a hiss at its master’s words, the fires beginning to evaporate its moisture. “It has been a long time coming.” Phinnegan offered him a hand and pulled the old man to his feet, though with a great deal of effort.

  “Is…was that brush…magic?” Phinnegan asked as he watched the flames creep up the brush.

  “On its own, no more than a pig’s bum, but aye, it was enchanted. Lot of good it did me.” Asher watched the brush awhile longer – until the flame around it flashed green and emitted a loud pop – before turning away with a nod, his smile returning.

  “Ah, well then, have we finished with our elevenses?” He peered across the kitchen to the table, where a few strips of bacon remained, as well as two mugs of tea.

  “Not quite,” Phinnegan answered. “There’s still a little left.”