A Place Beyond The Map

by Samuel Thews

  “Did the Guide not tell you as much?” she snapped, her eyes flashing.

  “How do you know what he told me?” Phinnegan asked, his wariness of the Faë increasing. “And why should I trust either of you?”

  “I do not know what he told you, but I can only assume that he did. His role is to guide. It is to Féradoon that you must go, therefore he must have told you this. I have come to ask you to go.” She approached him again. “Trust me.”

  “Why? I hardly know you.” He said, his shoulders sagging. “I cannot go back.”

  “Yes, you can,” she said, creeping close to him again so that her face was inches from his own.

  “Close your eyes,” she commanded softly.

  “Why?”

  “Just do it,” she said, her tone firm but soothing. “I will not hurt you.” She placed her hand on his cheek. Phinnegan shifted slightly beneath her touch, but he obeyed. Her fingers were warm and they caressed his cheek tenderly.

  “Good,” she said. “Very good.”

  The chill that had appeared so suddenly before now began to deepen, and a rising breeze ruffled Phinnegan’s hair and lifted his shirt-tails. But her hand remained warm and his cheek relaxed against it.

  “Relax. Let your mind wander.”

  “But,” he protested.

  “Shhh,” she murmured, her breath hot against his ear. “Do you miss your family, Phinnegan Qwyk?”

  “Y…yes,” he muttered, caught off-guard by the question.

  “I can take you to them.”

  “You can,” he said, his back straightening and his eyelids threatening to open.

  “Keep your eyes closed,” she said quietly but with firmness. “And yes, I can.” As she spoke, the breeze continued to rise, becoming a light wind. Phinnegan shivered.

  “Will you let me take you? Take you home?”

  Back to my family…

  “Yes,” he mumbled.

  Back home…

  “Good,” she said, and Phinnegan felt her breath moist and warm upon his lips. When her other hand came to rest upon his other cheek, he welcomed the warmth, for the wind continued to grow around him and he was becoming quite cold.

  “Come with me,” she murmured, her lips now lightly touching his.

  And then she kissed him.

  Phinnegan had never kissed a girl before – he had never really wanted to. Her mouth was warm and wet, something he had expected to be unpleasant, but he in fact found it just the opposite. Still, he fought her at first, not sure how to respond. But she pressed her lips more firmly to his, and as the wind began to howl more loudly, he found her warmth most comforting. He kissed her back.

  This surrender broke the spell.

  Phinnegan opened his eyes with a start and saw that all was black around him. The forest, the creek, the apples - all gone. With the icy wind raging about him, his eyes met Emerald’s, just as she pulled away from him. She wavered, she flickered, and then melted into shadow.

  A shadow that was not a shadow.

  She was the gholem.

  And she had him.

  CHAPTER 25

  A Dinner Party

  Where am I?

  Emerald – that is to say, the gholem – had enveloped him in a translucent bubble, and whisked him from the blackness of a starless night to the whiteness belying a thousand suns. Scenes of forests and rivers and things in between had flashed around him, and then, nothingness.

  A dizzying moment had passed, somewhere between being and not being at all, before he felt whole again. When his feet touched solid ground, he blinked the shock from his eyes.

  The gholem was nowhere to be seen. Phinnegan was alone.

  It couldn’t be Féradoon; at least it wasn’t any part he had ever seen. There were no columns, no high court. He was in a bedroom and one full of pomp and decoration at that.

  The walls were composed of large stones, squarely cut, and rose high above him to a dark wooden ceiling with monstrous beams spanning the room’s length. A gigantic bed took up nearly an entire wall, easily big enough for several of him to sleep upon. Floor to ceiling large-paned windows spanned another wall. Beneath his feet, a lush, patterned rug spread across much of the room’s stone floor.

  There were other objects in the room as well: a writing desk with intricate carvings crafted into its dark wood; a sitting area with chairs; a wash basin and chamber pot; and a roaring fireplace, which spewed forth a striking heat from massive jaws taller than Phinnegan plus a hand. Chambers fit for a king, or at least, a prince.

  Phinnegan had never seen such wealth. This could not be Féradoon.

  Could it?

  A sharp rap at the door brought Phinnegan from his thoughts, just in time to see a slim, white-haired man dressed impeccably in a black suit with a black vest slip through the door. A starched white shirt was visible from the chest up, with a white tie at the neck. His slender fingers were sheathed in white gloves.

  “Forgive me, sir,” he said in a nasal voice, bowing stiffly at the waist. “My master wished you be informed that dinner shall be served shortly. He asks that you dress and make your way to the dining hall. I, of course, shall accompany you.”

  The man had spoken his entire piece without so much as looking in Phinnegan’s direction, instead keeping his eyes focused on the floor in front of him.

  “I’m sorry,” Phinnegan said, “but who are you? What dinner are you talking about? And who is your master?” Before the man could answer, Phinnegan hastily added, “and dress myself in what? I’m dressed already.”

  The man raised his eyes then, regarding Phinnegan with a gaze that was cold and filled with annoyance.

  “Forgive me, sir, but perhaps something a bit more…sophisticated…is in order.” He pointed to a large wooden wardrobe near the gigantic bed. “There you will find clothes more fitting for a guest of honor.”

  “Guest of honor? Me?”

  “So my master tells me. Sir,” the man added, drawling the word so that Phinnegan ears reddened from the mockery.

  “And who is your master?”

  The man raised an eyebrow, casting a cutting glance at Phinnegan before he spoke.

  “My master is the lord of this castle, this mountain, even this land. And he is your host. He is the Lord of Féradoon.”

  Phinnegan’s knees buckled when the word was spoken, yet he stood his ground.

  “Tell him I am not coming.”

  “I am afraid, sir,” the man said, as his lips curled back in a ghoulish smile, “that refusal is not an option. I shall return for you.”

  The man bowed stiffly before turning and leaving the room. The door closed behind him with a heavy thud, leaving Phinnegan alone, dumbfounded.

  He stood motionless for a moment, unsure of what to do. But it seemed he had little choice. Moving to the wardrobe, he mechanically removed his own clothes and replaced them with the much more fancy attire that had been left for him. They fit him perfectly, the velvety fabric of the black shirt fitting snuggly against his skin. The outfit reminded him of something that Periwinkle might have worn. The black leather shoes with shiny silver buckles that completed the outfit made the comparison even more fitting.

  Scarcely had he had time to complete his transformation when the rap at the door came again, followed by the appearance of the white-haired man.

  “Very good, sir,” the man sneered, opening the door wide and gesturing for Phinnegan to exit the room. “This way please.”

  He followed the white-haired man through several winding hallways, past open doors leading into a massive library, multiple sitting rooms and a large room with an ornate piano. He could hear voices and laughter in the distance, which became clearer and more boisterous as they walked.

  When the two stepped through a large archway, the voices slowly trailed off until only silence reigned. Phinnegan and his guide stood in the entrance to a large hall where dozens of people stood, most with a glass of wine in one hand. All were older, with gray or white hair, man and wom
an alike. Phinnegan guessed that they were all Aged. And all of them were staring at him.

  A flash of color and movement just visible through the throng caught his attention. He strained to see the source, but there was no need. The color and movement were coming towards hm. The sea of Aged in their blacks and grays parted, and then Phinnegan saw him.

  Vermillion.

  His hair was a deep, lush red mixed with tendrils of gray. His face was a similar combination of the bright, colorful youth of the Young and the stern coldness of the Aged. The nose was sharp and hooked, but the mouth beneath was full and a wistful smile played across his lips. Fine wrinkles touched the corners of eyes that sparkled with excitement and power. His clothes, too, blended these two sides, a lush black shirt and trousers encased by a dark red jacket with flowing sleeves and tails down to his knees.

  When his reddish-brown eyes beheld Phinnegan fully, his smile broadened revealing white teeth.

  “Aha! Here he is. My Lords and Ladies, may I present to you our honored guest for this evening.” With three long strides he had covered the distance and now stood just beside Phinnegan, a heavy hand resting on his shoulder.

  “It is my honor to present Phinnegan Qwyk, human of Ireland, and,” he paused, well-aware of the attentive silence around him, “a Bearer of the Mark.”

  A murmur rolled through the crowd like a wave, and was swiftly followed by a quiet applause. A polite but firm pull on Phinnegan’s shoulder alerted him that Vermillion wished him to join in a walk through the crowd. The flock of Aged remained parted, providing a clear path for Vermillion and Phinnegan to make their way through. Several of the Aged dipped a head or offered a hand as he passed.

  “Good to meet you, young master Qwyk.”

  “’Tis a pleasure, young master.”

  “Welcome to Féradoon, master Qwyk.”

  This strange show of deference by these Aged left Phinnegan quite perplexed. The firm grip of Vermillion’s hand upon his shoulder, firm but not painful, further confused him. As they passed certain Aged, Vermillion would lean close and whisper a secret.

  “Lucius there killed a Young once, but then haven’t we all? But he went so far as to bury him beneath the floor of his own house.”

  “And there, Brutus. He’s addicted to dragon brandy, though you will never see him take a drink in public.”

  “Ah, and you must stay wary of Septus,” he said, nodding in the direction of a particularly creepy Aged. “He has a fondness for humans that goes beyond that which is deemed proper.” Sure enough, as Phinnegan kept an eye on Septus as they emerged from the crowd, the disturbing Aged kept an eye on Phinnegan as well.

  Vermillion led him towards a large dining room with a heavy, dark wooden table that stretched for perhaps a hundred feet. Both sides were lined with ornately carved chairs. At the head of the table, its back to a roaring fire in an enormous fireplace stood a chair much larger and more ornate than the rest. Its wood was lacquered in a shiny black and anointed with two red cushions, one on its seat and the other on its back.

  “You may sit here, Phinnegan,” Vermillion said, leading Phinnegan to the chair on the right of the large, ornate chair. “At my right hand.” The smile and eyes that looked down on Phinnegan were not unfriendly, but neither were they altogether friendly.

  Phinnegan stood behind the chair that Vermillion had indicated, mimicking his own stance. As they waited, the throng of Aged filed into the large dining room. Many, if not most, cast an interested glance in Phinnegan’s direction. Those who caught his eyes dipped their heads slightly, their faces remaining emotionless.

  When the last of the Aged had found his seat, each chair had been claimed. That is, all but one: the chair directly across from Phinnegan.

  But its master, or rather, its mistress, soon arrived.

  Emerald strode to her chair, her eyes fixed on Phinnegan as she walked. She continued to stare at Phinnegan while servants bustled to provide each patron of this large dinner party a crystal goblet filled with a draught of golden liquid. When Vermillion raised his glass, every one quickly followed suit, including Emerald, who continued to stare at Phinnegan.

  “It is with great pleasure that I welcome you all to my home. Tonight shall be a wondrous feast, an early celebration of the coming events. For tomorrow at dawn, with the help of our honored guest,” here he paused, and everyone inclined their glasses slightly in Phinnegan’s direction, “we shall bring a new hope and a long-wanted change to our world. Tomorrow we open the long lost gate into the Circle, a source of power long-forsaken by our fore-fathers. Tomorrow, together, we will change our world. Forever.”

  “Here, here!” the assembled Aged intoned in unison. The clinking of glasses could be heard all around and then everyone began to take their seats, waiting, of course, for Vermillion to seat himself first.

  Once everyone had been seated, Phinnegan still felt Emerald’s eyes upon him, but his own attention was now on the bustling servants, who quickly began placing silver-domed plates in front of each patron.

  With one exception, all were alike. But Vermillion’s plate bore a golden dome, with five large rubies encrusted into its circumference.

  All at once, in a perfectly choreographed move, the servants removed the domes with a flourish, revealing bowls of steaming soup.

  “Enjoy, my friends,” Vermillion said, picking up his golden spoon and gesturing for others to do the same.

  Murmured sounds of approval meandered down the length of the table. Phinnegan eyed the orange soup before him, its aroma wafting enticingly to his nose. Despite being at the table of one he feared greatly, he was in fact quite hungry. The first spoonful of soup released an explosion of flavor on his tongue. The soup’s texture was smooth although slightly grainy, much like applesauce. A hint of cinnamon and nutmeg was detectable, but otherwise he had never tasted anything quite like it. He was continuing to savor the soup when Vermillion’s voice caught his ear.

  “Tell me, daughter, did you have any trouble escorting our honored guest here this evening. I do hope you were not rough with him.”

  “Daughter?” Phinnegan blurted, a full spoon perched just in front of his mouth. But the two ignored his comment, though Emerald kept her gaze on Phinnegan as she spoke. Phinnegan remembered everything that Periwinkle had told him, the stone stating its mistress as Emerald Wren.

  Vermillion Wren. Of course.

  “It was no problem at all, father,” she said, her eyes shifting from green to gray. “He came along quite willingly.”

  “Bollocks,” Phinnegan muttered into his soup, his eyes averting Emerald’s.

  “Splendid,” Vermillion responded, with a bit too much cheer in his voice. “How is the soup?” he asked, directing the question to Phinnegan.

  “Actually…it is fantastic,” Phinnegan answered truthfully.

  “Respect, young lad,” a gruff Aged seated beside Emerald chastised, waving his spoon at Phinnegan. “Address him as My King.”

  “We mustn’t be so formal, Secondus. He is not of our world; he cannot be expected to know our customs. And besides, I am not his king for that very same reason.” He turned and the wolfish grin returned as he looked at Phinnegan.

  “You may address me as Your Highness. That should please all, yes?” Vermillion looked to the gruff Aged, who nodded curtly and then rejoined his soup. Phinnegan swallowed his last spoonful slowly and then re-addressed Vermillion.

  “The soup is fantastic, Your Highness.”

  “Excellent, I am glad to hear it,” Vermillion responded, his teeth still bared in that harsh smile.

  Phinnegan suppressed a shiver. For all his hospitality thus far, something did not feel right about this Aged. If he was indeed an Aged. He was the first Aged Phinnegan had seen who smiled thus, who wore flashy garments and had colored hair, even if it was only partly so. He wondered if the Faë went through some type of process when they went through their Aging as Periwinkle had called it. Perhaps this was why Vermillion was something that seemed in b
etween the two extremes.

  After perhaps a quarter of an hour, when everyone seemed to have finished their soup, the servants returned to whisk away the empty bowls. When they were gone, Vermillion clapped twice, startling Phinnegan.

  “Time for a little entertainment, I think,” he said. Just as he finished speaking, a trio of tall, lithe women appeared in the doorway. Phinnegan caught only one word in the hushed whispers that rose up around him.

  Sirens.

  Phinnegan had read about such creatures, women with the wings of a bird or birds with the heads of women, depending on who was telling the tale. These most certainly the former. But in either case, their voices were said to lead men to their deaths in one manner or another. Phinnegan was at once eager to see, and hear, such renowned creatures, as well as terrified by what the outcome might be. But he needn’t have worried. Vermilion leaned close to his ear just as all sound seemingly disappeared from the room.

  “I’ve placed a charm around you,” he said, his voice piercing through the silence. “Only my voice can breach it. I am afraid you would not survive the song we are about to hear. It is likely others might not as well, but that is what makes it such a fascinating game.”

  Vermillion leaned back, a sly smirk playing across his lips. Phinnegan heard not a sound, and sat wide-eyed and fearful. What sort of person would play such a wicked game with his guests?

  “Fear not, ladies,” Vermillion said, standing up at his position at the head of the table. “I am certain all of your men are strong enough to withstand the Sirens’ song.”

  Phinnegan saw, but did not hear, Vermillion clap again. Within moments the eyes of every man were wide with their necks craning their heads to get the best view of the Sirens, now gliding from their place at the entrance of the dining hall to move down the line of guests.

  The song went on for several minutes, all the while Phinnegan watching as the men around the table struggled to maintain their composure. All save Vermillion, who watched quite comfortably from his gilded chair, his fingers tapping its arms as his eyes darted from one potential victim to the next. Phinnegan also noticed that the ladies in the room appeared completely unaffected by the Sirens song. Most were instead completely absorbed in keeping the male Aged from leaping from their chairs.