A Place Beyond The Map

by Samuel Thews

  Turning back, Phinnegan stepped forward until the disc was just in front of him. The pattern was an exact replica of the one on his finger, as well as the one on the cover of the leather-bound book resting in his pocket. The disc itself was perhaps as large as a dinner plate, a convex surface which was thicker in the center than along the edges. The design was worked from the same material, a bronzy metal, and was raised above the remaining surface of the disc. He had wondered whether he would have need to search the book for instructions, and how in doing so he would keep its existence secret from Vermillion and the other Aged.

  But his next step could not have been more apparent.

  There in the center of the disc, too small to see from where Vermillion and Phinnegan had stood, was a slight indention. Just the size of a finger-tip, it bore a smaller version of the Mark.

  Looking up, he could see the circle of sunlight beginning to move off the bottom edge of the golden square. The creaking of metal in front of him signaled the disc’s reverse movement, sinking back into the waiting arms of the Gate’s iron bars.

  Not a moment too late, Phinnegan pressed the indention with his finger, pushing firmly until the indention would give no more. The disc’s regressive movement halted and all was quiet for several moments while Phinnegan took a step back from the Gate.

  Then, it began to move. Slightly at first, the doors just inching inward on their ancient, rusted hinges, each emitting a grating shriek. Phinnegan slammed his hands against his ears, as did many of the Aged. Vermillion, however, stood his ground, his lips parting as he beheld a sight he had so longed to see.

  The Gate was opening.

  After the doors had swung inward several feet, they stopped, clanging heavily against their hinges. The path between them was narrow, only several inches separating the two halves of the Gate; a space wide enough for the slim boy of twelve to slip through, but not for the Aged.

  Without sparing another moment, Phinnegan pushed his way through the opening. Heavy footsteps on the ground behind told of Vermillion and the Aged hurrying down to the Gate.

  Phinnegan found himself in a long, high-walled path into the hedge. Very little light penetrated the hedge at this hour, leaving the air damp and cool. But it was not the air that caused Phinnegan to shiver.

  There, not thirty paces from him stood a white stag.

  The stag’s eyes were large and a bright blue, and as he gazed into them, its antlered head tilted to the right to regard Phinnegan with a feigned disinterest.

  The sudden grating of metal behind him reminded Phinnegan of the task at hand. He could not let Vermillion, or any others, enter. Turning back to the Gate, he could see the tyrant’s scarlet garments through the crack between the doors and could hear him ordering his followers to pry the doors further apart. He watched in horror as first one door and then the other inched inward slightly, widening the opening between the two doors. He guessed that they could not use magic for the same reason that they had never been able to open the Gate in the past: The Gate was impervious to their magic. Having no magic of his own to call upon, Phinnegan did the only thing he could. He ran forward and pushed with all his might against one of the doors.

  The effort was one in futility. Even as he struggled mightily, the Gate’s rusted hinges working in his favor, he felt the door move slightly towards him. He pushed harder, his feet sliding on the moss-covered ground. Again the door slid inward another half-inch.

  He took a step back, aware that he could not hope to hold so many. One door creaked again. The crack was becoming wider, almost wide enough for Vermillion to attempt to squeeze himself through. He could see the tyrant’s reddish-brown eyes flashing as he yelled for his followers to push harder still.

  Phinnegan turned in a panic, catching sight of the white stag once again. The creature had clearly not forgotten him. It still regarded him with a casual gaze, showing little interest. The stag had not moved at all since he had first seen it, and he wondered if it was truly a living stag or some kind of statute.

  Close the Gate.

  The thought had come to him so quickly and abruptly that Phinnegan was not sure whether it was his own.

  You must close the Gate.

  The thought came again, this time as a command.

  Close the Gate.

  “How?” Phinnegan blurted aloud.

  The tone of the thought was more urgent now and Phinnegan could hear the sound of the Gate’s two iron halves grating ever wider. He looked and saw that the Gate was only a few inches from being wide enough for Vermillion to squeeze through.

  Close. Close.

  The thoughts were his own now as he focused his mind on closing the door.

  Close! Close!

  His mind pounded the thoughts strongly toward the Gate.

  “Close!” he yelled finally, thrusting a hand forcefully towards the Gate.

  To his astonishment, it did just that.

  Not slowly or with a labored creaking, but swiftly with a thunderous clang as the two halves slammed forward on their great rusted hinges. A rush of air washed over him and then all was quiet. He could no longer see or hear Vermillion and the Aged

  Turning, he found himself completely alone. The stag was gone, and with no way back, only the narrow path into the hedge remained.

  CHAPTER 28

  Labyrinth

  Despite the early morning glow that had shone upon the Gate from the outside, there was little in the way of light now that he was on the inside. The hedge rose high about him, higher still than it appeared from the outside. A thin mist stretched from the ground to high above Phinnegan’s head, cool and damp where it touched his skin.

  In the dim light, he could not fully make out the ground beneath his feet through the translucent mist. Yet its springy-softness led him to the conclusion it must be moss.

  His first steps forward were nearly silent, cushioned as they were by the mossy ground covering. He paused briefly, listening for any sound of life in the hedge, but he heard none. Starting again, he took several steps forward before a flicker of movement and the sound of rustling bushes caught his eye from the right.

  When he turned, he saw the hedge parting, as if pushed apart by unseen hands. A narrow path had opened before him, just wide enough that he could have lifted both of his arms and grazed each side with his fingertips.

  Down this path, the white stag stood. When Phinnegan stepped forward onto the path, the stag turned and moved on, quickly becoming obscured in the mists.

  No sooner had Phinnegan completely crossed through the hedge onto this side path than the hedge closed abruptly behind him. The rustling startled him, but not quite as much as the fact that he was now once again cut-off from retreat.

  Again, the only way was forward.

  Following this new path, it was not long before the white stag appeared. It stood still, just as before, a dozen or so paces ahead at the edge of visibility just beyond the curtain of mist. Not much further along, a rustling of bushes to his right again signaled the opening of a new path. Again the stag awaited him.

  This pattern continued several more times, and each time Phinnegan followed the new path. On the sixth or seventh time, a path opened to his right, just as before, but when he went through, the stag was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he saw a scene that made his blood run cold.

  There, in a small clearing twenty paces down the path, stood Vermillion, his red hair unmistakable even in the dim lit mist. But even worse, there were others with him. Periwinkle and Crimson stood to one side, strangely rigid, as if held there by some unseen force.

  And in Vermillion’s right hand, he held an orb of iridescent white. How he could have come into possession of the Great Stone, Phinnegan could only guess. How he had gotten past the Gate, he could not fathom.

  “You foolish rebels,” Vermillion said. “Did you think you could wield the power of this stone?” Even at this distance, Phinnegan could see the tyrant’s condescending smile.

  “No matter,”
Vermilion snapped, raising his voice as Periwinkle had been about to speak. “It is within competent hands now.”

  “You’re as foul as they come,” Periwinkle spat, breathing quickly with the effort.

  “Foul?” Vermillion asked, feigning shock. “Such a mouth on you, Lark. I will teach you to respect your superiors. Remaining among the Young well past your time. You should have joined the Aged long ago. But,” Vermillion paused, a wicked grin spreading across his face, “this is not uncorrectable.”

  “You would dare to force an Aging?” Crimson exclaimed, speaking for the first time.

  “Let it rest, Crim,” Periwinkle said, glaring at the tyrant. “Not even he has the power to do that by himself.”

  The tyrant raised an eyebrow.

  “My dear, dear Lark,” he said quietly. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  The purple-haired Faë’s eyes slid to the Great Stone held triumphantly in his adversary’s hand. What little color there was in his pale face quickly faded.

  “You wouldn’t…”

  “No? It is time you and the rest of your insolent ilk learn the new law of the land. Me.”

  In a flourish, Vermillion raised his hand to cast the horrible spell that would transform Periwinkle from Young to Aged. Phinnegan had no idea what he could do, but he lunged forward anyway from where he stood in the shadows of the hedge.

  “No! Stop!”

  In the blink of an eye, the entire scene vanished.

  Phinnegan froze. In front of him, all was but quiet and mist again. There was no sign of Vermillion or Periwinkle, Crimson or the stone. They had all simply vanished. Peering ahead into the mist, he could just make out a glimpse of white.

  The stag he presumed. A few steps forward confirmed his guess.

  His mind churning over what he had just seen, he resumed the previous chase of following the white stage from old path to new, down one path then another. Each time he was cut-off from retreat by the closing branches of the hedge. He knew not how many paths he had crossed when a second scene appeared before his eyes. Whereas the previous vision had stopped his breath with fear, this new vision caught his air in a different way.

  Resplendent in silken dress, green as spring’s moss, she stood with her back to him. Her long, vibrant hair fell down her back to her waist, shifting slightly in the breeze. As always, she mesmerized him.

  “Emerald,” he called out. Unlike before, she did not disappear. Her back stiffened. She had heard him. Phinnegan took a few steps forward, drawing to within a dozen paces of her.

  “Emerald, how did you get here? What’s going on? I saw your father…” Phinnegan’s voice trailed off as she turned to face him. Her face was ashen and her once-green eyes were now a lifeless grey.

  “Wh-what happened,” Phinnegan managed to stutter. “Your eyes…”

  He saw her mouth move in response, but no sound reached his ears. He moved closer, suppressing a shiver as he regarded Emerald’s frozen features, her hollow eyes fixed upon the distance, staring right past him.

  “What did you say? I couldn’t…I couldn’t hear you.” Phinnegan was closer now, only a few feet away, but still he heard no sound when her lips moved again.

  Moving closer still, he stopped just in front of her, his face as close as it had been on the night she kissed him, the night she brought him to Vermillion’s castle.

  “Emerald,” he said quietly, but started when her eyes flicked to his own, burning into him.

  “Help me,” she breathed.

  Phinnegan’s heart leapt to his throat, but he was never able to speak. Just as with the others, Emerald vanished.

  He stood for a moment, unmoving while his heart pounded in his chest.

  “Help her,” he whispered.

  The impatient stamping of hooves drew him from his thoughts. Looking up, he saw the white stag some several yards ahead, shifting its weight between its fore and hind legs.

  “Coming,” Phinnegan said quietly to himself.

  His feet carried him along the path, following behind the white stag with subconscious determination, for his mind was unable to direct them. He stumbled once as his foot caught a root that was raised above the mossy carpet of the path. Still, he followed on, absorbed in his thoughts.

  Although Phinnegan paid little heed, the path he now followed curved to the right. It had been some time since he had been led down a side path by the white stage; the last had been prior to his vision of Emerald. When the path widened, he again paid little attention. Not until the sounds of his footfalls changed from soft thuds to a more hollow, yet sharper sound, did he break from his thoughts.

  Looking down, he no longer saw the green moss but instead saw wood. His eyes roamed the area around him and he saw that he was in a room. But not just any room.

  He was in his room.

  To the right was the window that Periwinkle had used to enter those many nights past. To his left, the dresser that held his clothes. And straight ahead lay his bed, his mother resting atop it, his pillow clutched in her hands. Above the bed, his older brother stood, a tray holding a stone mug brimming with tea.

  “Here, mother,” Quinn said, gesturing with the tray. “Have some tea. It will help.” Phinnegan’s mother only shook her head.

  “Will it? Will it bring him back?” Her tone was sharp and scathing, and Phinnegan saw his brother shrink back slightly, obviously stung.

  “I’m sorry,” his mother said, rubbing her temples with the tips of her fingers. “It was sweet of you to make it for me. I will have it, of course.” Quinn smiled briefly as he handed his mother the tea.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the aromatic steam wafting from the mug.

  “Black tea with clove,” she whispered. “That was his favorite. He always loved it so when I would make it for him around Christmas.” Quinn nodded.

  “I remember.”

  “And now,” she began, her bottom-lip quivering an inch from the mug’s lip. “And now I’ll never make it for him again.”

  The tears she had fought to keep within her burst forth and Quinn quickly drew his mother into his arms as she wept. Phinnegan, too, felt his eyes burn and he moved forward toward the bed.

  “Mother-“

  But she was gone, as he knew she would be. His feet fell on the softening ground, the wood of his room gone in a moment as with his other visions.

  He knew the visions were not real, at least not real in the sense that they were not really there. He could not interact with them, could not touch them or speak to them. But whether they showed events that happened elsewhere…he did not know.

  In front of him, the widened path remained. In fact the entire hedge spread greatly apart, revealing a large clearing covered with the same moss. The sound of slowly moving water just reached his ears. Moving towards it, a great tree appeared before him, separating itself from the mist as he drew closer.

  The tree was immense and when he reached it, he saw that it was easily three or four times his height in circumference. A thicker patch of moss grew between two large roots, giving the appearance of some type of cushion or seat. The water that Phinnegan had heard was a small and shallow stream which came and left in a similar direction, forming a loop of water a few feet from the tufted moss.

  Phinnegan began to realize a nagging thirst as he stared at the water. He had been wandering within the hedge for some time without as much as a drop of something to drink. Going down to his knees in front of the loop of water, Phinnegan leaned forward, smelling the crystal clear water that flowed quietly from its unseen source.

  “The water is quite safe,” a strong, earthy voice said from behind him, causing Phinnegan to nearly topple forward into the stream. He recovered, sprawling back to look in the direction of the voice.

  Perched atop the tuft of thick moss, a man leaned back against the thick tree, a leg thrown casually over each exposed root. At least, he was part man.

  His torso was bare and well muscled,
slightly hairy but not overly so. Long lean arms led to hands resting upon each thigh. Had Phinnegan looked only at his chest, his arms, or his stomach, he would have said that yes, he was a man. But beyond this, things began to change.

  For one, the thighs where his hands rested were covered in a tan-colored fur, as were his lower legs. The knee, Phinnegan realized, appeared to hinge in the wrong direction. Where he expected to see feet, he instead saw hooves.

  Above the neck, a similar change from the human torso took place. His chin and jaw too, were human, but above them, the face began to change. A fur akin to that which covered his thighs spread across his cheeks, as well as his forehead. It even crept down his nose, which was somewhere between the nose of a man and the nose of a stag. Green-eyes flecked with brown looked out from beneath heavy, arched brows.

  The crown of his head shared little in the way of similarity with that of a man. A stag’s ears stretched out from the sides of his head, twitching slightly as he regarded Phinnegan. Jutting from the space just above his forehead were two large antlers. Just behind, two bony arcs like the horns of a ram completed the visage.

  “Wha…who are you?” Phinnegan asked.

  “You have found me, do you not know?” the half-man said, his brow drawing down in a look that Phinnegan thought altogether dark.

  “I…I’ve only just followed the stag. The white one.”

  The man jumped to his feet so suddenly that Phinnegan flinched back, fearful that he would be struck. But the man only rumbled a deep laugh.

  “The white one, he says! As if any other could have brought him to me.”

  “Brought me to you?”

  “Yes, of course,” the half-man said, drawing himself to his full height. A cloak of woven moss hung about his shoulders, clasped in front by braided vines.

  “I am Cernon,” he said, his cloak swishing gracefully as he flourished a bow. “Fear not, for you are welcome here, Phinnegan Qwyk. Welcome to the Grove.