A Place Beyond The Map

by Samuel Thews

  Phinnegan had not asked what they were to share for dinner, but his groggy mind still retained enough sharpness to identify the savory smell of braised lamb on the air. With a yawn, he rose from the sofa and rounded the corner into the eating area and looked into the kitchen.

  Asher was busy around the fire, his dirty clothing of earlier replaced by a slightly less dirty robe, which was cinched about his waist with a thick cord.

  “Smells wonderful,” Phinnegan said as he took a seat at the table, where a fresh baked loaf of bread rested on a tarnished silver platter.

  “Who’s that, who’s that?” Asher asked, glancing over his shoulder. Upon seeing Phinnegan he quickly smiled.

  “Ah, yes, young Phinnegan. I apologize; I was deep in my thoughts. Very deep.” He turned back to the fire where he hovered for a few moments.

  “Do sit down, it is almost ready. Just a minute or two longer.”

  Phinnegan seated himself at the table, in the same chair he had used earlier that day for elevenses. Asher came over soon thereafter, setting down two goblets, one in front of Phinnegan and the other in front of where he would sit. He poured a black liquid into both goblets from a small carafe, and then placed the carafe beside the loaf of bread.

  “House wine,” he said with a wink. “You’ve already eaten the berries that I used to make it. It is a very peculiar quality of those berries that they should be so edible during the day and so rancid at night, yet, they make a perfectly wondrous wine. Provided one drinks it after sunset, that is.”

  Phinnegan tilted the goblet towards him and surveyed the inky black liquid. He sniffed its contents and found them quite pleasant. He had rarely had any wine, it being a luxury in his own home, and he being young besides. He tilted his head back and sipped the wine. He had no expectations of what a good wine should taste like, but he decided that he did in fact like this one.

  “Yes, it’s quite good,” he complemented. Asher nodded approvingly as he approached the table, a platter holding four braised lamb foreshanks before him. He sat the platter on the table beside the bread and wine and seated himself opposite Phinnegan.

  “Ah! The potatoes!” Asher exclaimed, jumping quickly from his seat and trotting into the kitchen. He returned with a rough-hewn wooden bowl which was filled two-thirds full with creamed potatoes.

  “Can’t have supper without potatoes,” he said, passing the bowl to Phinnegan, who used the provided spoon to shovel a heavy portion onto his own plate.

  “It all smells delicious,” Phinnegan said, his stomach growling in anticipation.

  “Eat up, eat up,” Asher said with a smile as he used a meaty hand to grab two of the lamb shanks from the platter between them.

  Once the two had set upon the food, they uttered not another word. There were noises of course, the scraping of forks across the plate, the tearing of bread and the drinking of wine, but the two themselves, they were quiet.

  When they had finished eating, Asher pushed himself back from the table, patting his rotund belly fondly.

  “That hit the spot, indeed, indeed.” He poured himself the last bit of wine and then gestured towards Phinnegan with his goblet.

  “Tomorrow I shall be busy,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of reading to do to find out about that Mark.” He inclined his head in the direction of Phinnegan’s right hand.

  “All right. Can I help?” Phinnegan asked, but Asher shook his head.

  “Nay, lad. The best thing you can do is just leave me to it. You’ve got a pile of stories to read besides.” Standing up from the table he began to clear the plates. When Phinnegan tried to help, Asher stopped him.

  “Ah, don’t trouble yourself with these. You are looking tired already. Best you get some sleep.” Asher piled the now empty platters, save for the bones of the shanks, atop one another and carried them to the kitchen.

  “I’ll leave breakfast out for you, but you shall not see me until dinner.” Asher smiled and then shooed Phinnegan with a kindly gesture.

  “Off to bed now. I’ll see you tomorrow for supper.”

  Phinnegan smiled and turned to exit the room, but stopped, turning back to face Asher.

  “Asher? May I ask a question?”

  “Certainly, but make it quick,” Asher said, already busying himself with pouring two buckets of water into a large washtub.

  “Why do all the Faë have colors for names?”

  Asher stopped and looked straight at Phinnegan.

  “Don’t be silly. How else would they do it?”

  CHAPTER 23

  A House of Many Secrets

  Phinnegan spent his entire second day at the cottage outside, reading and walking in the gardens that surrounded it. He found the stories interesting, but, after the excitement of his own adventures these past several days, books had lost their intrigue. His exploration of the gardens yielded much more pleasure, seeing the strange plants and vines intermingled with the familiar.

  All in all, however, the day was uneventful. Supper with Asher was much the same, for the man was quiet and distant, not at all his normal self. He had spoken only a few sentences to Phinnegan the entire meal.

  “You will not see me tomorrow,” he had said. “Much to read, much to read.” The entire time they ate, Phinnegan would look up to find Asher staring at him, but the latter would quickly look away.

  Now, on the morning of the third day in the cottage, Phinnegan sat at the table alone, breaking his fast on cold biscuits and fresh apples. Asher had given him no further direction on what to do this day, other than to leave him alone in the library.

  When Phinnegan finished his breakfast, he placed the plates in the washtub and then, having already explored the grounds, set about exploring the house.

  He had seen all there was to see of the downstairs, and so he passed through the invisible wall and up the stairs to the landing. There, he was confronted by the three hallways he had seen on the first day. The library lay to the right, but Phinnegan ignored that hallway and instead took the hallway straight ahead.

  This hallway was short and ended abruptly in a heavy wooden door. The door had no knob, only a keyhole. Phinnegan gave the door a stiff push, but it barely shuddered, locked with no foreseeable way through.

  Without a key, there was no chance to open it.

  I wonder what he keeps in there.

  Thwarted by the locked door, Phinnegan returned to the landing and started down the hallway that lay to the left of the stairs. Unlike the previous hallway and the hallway with the library, this hallway was long and riddled with doors on both sides, each a variation of brown.

  The first door on his right opened easily, but was empty save for a few boxes scattered about. The room was dimly lit, having only one small porthole window on the far wall. Closing the door behind him, he took the first one on the left.

  The door swung inward to reveal a room that was bright and well lit. Three windows encompassed nearly the entire far wall and several skylights overhead bathed the room in sunlight. The light, it appeared, was necessary for this room to function, for it was filled with all manner of plants. Some were in no need of light, dead and pinned to walls and boards, but others were growing from trays atop tables in the middle of the room. Several larger plants filled pots that were dotted at varying distances around the room’s perimeter.

  Phinnegan approached the nearest pot, which held a brightly colored plant with purple leaves and a white flower of spherical shape, like a ball. The flower looked smooth and doughy, like a ball of clay. He reached out and pressed a finger into the soft surface of the flower.

  But just as he did, the plant began to move.

  Not the whole plant, that is, but the spherical flower. Not side-to-side or back-and-forth, but like something was moving just beneath the surface. Phinnegan drew back and watched as the surface of the flower rippled and caved, puffed and swelled.

  And when it finished, a perfect copy of Phinnegan’s own head rested atop the flower’s stalk, just where the spherical
flower had been before.

  Phinnegan stared forward, looking at what appeared to be a sort of three-dimensional mirror. He touched the nose on the flower and then his own, comparing the two.

  “Amazing,” he whispered.

  He spied a small tag that was placed on the lip of the pot. He bent down to read it and saw scrawled there in rough print one word:

  MIMICER

  Suits it.

  The discovery of this strange plant sent him around the room on a treasure hunt, checking the labels of each pot before checking the plant, trying to guess what it did from the name that had been given to it.

  There was a dark green plant with spiked leaves that bore the name ‘RUBBER-ROOT’, which, when Phinnegan had tried to pull the plant from its pot to see these roots, found that the plant came right up, but the roots were still in the soil, having stretched when he pulled on it.

  Another, with the name ‘BANGER’, took a swing at Phinnegan’s hand when he came too close. A third, called ‘TOOTHED-ROSE’, bit Phinnegan on the arm when he reached for the flower. Several others dotted the room in pots of various shapes and sizes, but all were mundane, at least to him.

  The final pot was near the door, as he had made a full circle of the room. The pot was enormous, wide in diameter and nearly as tall as Phinnegan, but it appeared to be empty. An empty pot was not that interesting at all, but there was a tag, and as the tag was at eye-level, he stared right at it.

  ‘DEVIL’S MOUTH’

  What a funny name.

  Phinnegan ran his finger over the side of the pot, which was blood-red clay with a rough finish. He only looked up when the sun from the skylights no longer fell on his back. Perhaps a cloud had passed over the sun, blocking its light from entering this sort of green-room.

  But what he saw was no cloud.

  A massive mouth rose high on a winding vine from the center of the massive blood-red pot. It had no lips, but a large number of yellowed, fang-like teeth gnashed together as the mouth continued to rise.

  Phinnegan wasted no time in reaching for the door. He fumbled the knob at first, and the mouth poised to strike. But he finally grasped it, and hurled himself through the door, slamming it shut behind him. The door shuddered violently several times, presumably as the plant struck it from the other side.

  When at last it stopped, Phinnegan sat in silence in the hallway for several minutes.

  Perhaps I should be a bit more careful.

  His composure finally regained, he moved slowly down the hallway and cautiously opened a dark brown door on the right side of the hall. The door creaked loudly on its hinges, an eerie sound that caused the hair on Phinnegan’s arms to stand on end.

  But when he looked into the room, he found it completely empty. Neither a box nor a rag was to be found. Shutting the door, he moved on down the hall.

  He opened several more doors on both sides of the hallway before finally finding a room with something of interest: an object in the far left corner covered with a great sheet.

  He closed the door behind him and walked over to the sheet-covered object. He reached forward and pulled the sheet away, revealing a large rock, slightly taller than himself.

  The rock was jagged and asymmetrical, and he cut his fingers when he ran them over its surface. He drew his hand away suddenly, sticking his bleeding finger in his mouth. Mixed with the irony taste of blood he tasted dirt as well. He was reminded of how dirty he was, how long it had been since he had had a proper bath. He looked down at his clothing and saw how ragged and torn they were from his days of trekking through this world. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the rock.

  I wish I had some clean clothes.

  A bit of movement at his feet drew his attention, and when he looked down he beheld a clean shirt, trousers and undergarments, all neatly folded and stacked as though just laundered. His eyes widened. Was he dreaming? He knelt down and touched the dark leg of the trousers with his hand. No, he wasn’t dreaming, they were real.

  His bleeding finger forgotten, he hurriedly stripped off his dirty and torn clothing, tossing them in a heap on the floor. But just before putting on the new clothes, he stopped. Where had these clothes come from?

  He looked from the clothes to the rock and back again, a thought blossoming in his mind. He dropped the clothes and placed his uninjured hand carefully against the rock.

  I wish I had a hot bath.

  As soon as he had the thought, a tub of steaming water appeared a few feet away. This rock was much more than a rock.

  Of all the things he could have wished for in that very moment, he thought of not a one. So anxious was he to be cleaned of several days of dirt and grime that he hopped into the tub, sucking in a sharp breath when the hot water met his skin.

  The irony of him enjoying something that he had so often viewed as a chore was not lost to him, and he smiled at this fortunate turn of events. Once he finished his bath, he promised himself, he would get out and see what else the rock would give him.

  But for now, he submerged himself to just below the nose, his back to the door.

  Never had a bath felt so good.

  “Found my Rock of Calabash, did you?”

  Asher’s voice jarred Phinnegan from his sleep, and he found himself sitting in the tub, the water now cool and his skin quite wrinkled.

  “I’m sorry,” Phinnegan began, but Asher interrupted.

  “No, no. It is me who should be sorry. What sort of host does not offer his guest a hot bath?” he said with a slight chuckle. “But you should be careful what you find in this house for some things are not quite useful…or pleasant.”

  “Like the Devil’s Mouth,” Phinnegan offered.

  “Ah. He didn’t bite you did he?” Asher asked, pointing to Phinnegan’s hand where the rock had cut his finger.

  “No, this was from the rock,” Phinnegan responded, taking a moment to scrub off the dried blood in the bathwater.

  Asher nodded and then gestured towards the door.

  “Well, get dressed and join me outside when you’re done. There’s something I need to show you.”

  When Asher closed the door behind him, Phinnegan got out of the tub and put his clothes on hurriedly. He took one last look at the rock before leaving and joining Asher in the hallway.

  “Ah, there you are. All right then?” When Phinnegan nodded that he was, Asher led him back up the hallway to the landing and then headed straight for the center hallway.

  When they reached the door with only a keyhole, Asher pulled a heavy-looking black key from his pocket. He patted his hand with it for a moment, a troubled look on his face. At length he sighed, thrusting the key into the lock. He twisted and there was a heavy clank, and then the door swung effortlessly inward. Asher stepped-aside, gesturing for Phinnegan to enter the room. When they were both inside, Asher shut the door behind him.

  The room was dark except for a single beam of light which entered through a round skylight and fell on the center of the room, where, in an otherwise empty room, stood a small pedestal. Atop it, a large stone bowl stood, filled with an inky black liquid that looked not unlike the wine that Phinnegan had shared with Asher the prior evening.

  “What is it?” Phinnegan whispered as the two stood before the bowl.

  “It is a Looking Glass,” Asher said quietly. When Asher stepped forward out of the darkness and towards the bowl, Phinnegan noticed that he now wore an impressively clean black jacket, which hung down to his knees. Beneath it, he wore a black vest and black trousers, with a white ascot fluffing from the neck.

  “You look like the men in those pictures, the ones downstairs in the sitting room.”

  “It is the attire of a Guide,” Asher said, his voice even and flat.

  “I see,” Phinnegan said quietly. “And this bowl, this Looking Glass? What does it do?”

  Asher eyed the bowl apprehensively, as if he feared it may grow legs and jump at him.

  “It shows you…things. Things that you would not ot
herwise be able to see.” These cryptic words meant little to Phinnegan.

  “What do you mean? What would I normally not be able to see?”

  “Can you think of nothing?” Asher asked, leveling a penetrating gaze at Phinnegan. When he did not answer, Asher gestured to the Looking Glass.

  “Take a look.”

  Phinnegan approached the bowl warily. When he reached its edge, he raised his head just enough to see into it.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “Nor should you. It has no idea what to show you, nor if it can show you anything. But if I am right, it can. Try touching it.”

  Not before casting a wary glance in Asher’s direction, Phinnegan reached towards the bowl with his left hand.

  “No, not that hand. Your right hand. Use the finger that bears the Mark.”

  When Phinnegan touched the liquid with the finger that bore the Mark, the change was dramatic.

  What had been the smooth, glassy surface of the inky black liquid rippled when his finger touched it. It bubbled and festered until it was frothy. Phinnegan drew his finger back and watched as the froth gelled into a thin, clear film, the inky black visible beneath.

  A picture began to take shape in the center of the bowl. It was wavy at first and barely visible against the dark background, but then the vision took on a more substantial form. Phinnegan could just make out a column in what looked to be a dark room. Then another and another, until he could see an entire chamber filled with columns.

  And then he saw it.

  There was a shadow, a shadow that was not a shadow. A disturbance in the air. A mirage. Phinnegan’s face went white. He recognized that disturbance, that creature. He recognized that place.

  “What do you see?” Asher’s voice inquired from behind.

  “I see…Féradoon,” Phinnegan whispered. “And a gholem.” Phinnegan considered the old man’s words, about what the Looking Glass would show him.