A Place Beyond The Map (29 page)

“We are nearing the border of our land.”

“The border to what?”

“The land of others, the land of the Unwanted.” She noticed his glance to the sun and sought to explain.

“You have been passing through our lands for more than a day now. Though you have not slept, you will find that if you eat the berries from these bushes,” she pointed to several bushes on either sides of the gravely road that bore bright orange berries, “you will feel well rested. You will have no need of sleep until nightfall, but as the sun sets, your weariness will return and you must rest. Do you understand?” When Phinnegan nodded that he did, she continued.

“Follow this path until you come to a fork. Go to the left. After an hour’s walk you will come to a single cottage against the mountain. There you will find someone who may help you.”

“Who?”

“We do not know his name. But he is old, and wise.” She glanced down at Phinnegan’s right hand.

“I see the Warber has Marked you. He will know this sign.”

“So you are not coming with me, then?”

Mariella shook her head.

“This is where I leave you. We do not travel past this, our southern border. We are not welcome here.”

Phinnegan nodded.

“Well, thank you. You’ve at least given me some hope.”

The pixie smiled for the first time since she had seen the Warber fall from Phinnegan’s pocket.

“You are most welcome,” she said sweetly, but then her smile vanished and her face became stern.

“Now, do
exactly
as I say.”

CHAPTER 20

Nightfall

Her instructions were brief but specific, and if she was to be believed, terribly important.

Do not eat anything other than the orange berries.

Do not stop until you reach the cottage.

And above all else, do not stray from the path.

This was the second time that Phinnegan had been admonished to stay on a path, the first being by Periwinkle Lark in Darkwater Forest.

What is it with this place and paths?

He had thanked her once more for her help, which he realized came only because he possessed the Warber. How he had come into possession of this ancient token still escaped him. Mariella had given him little information as to its meaning or purpose. Either way, he was grateful for it, as it had saved him a second, and likely much longer, visit to Féradoon. He shivered.

Féradoon. Best not to think about it.

But the final words of the pixie still weighed upon his mind.

Remember, the Mother has already sent word to Féradoon. The gholem will come for you. Be careful, Phinnegan Qwyk. I sense that you are already followed by a shadow.

He had seen a gholem once before, the great, ghost-like creature in the hall of Féradoon that was at the same time there, but not, appearing more as a disturbance than a physical being.

Phinnegan tried to push these thoughts from his mind. It was a futile effort. His eyes scanned the brush and the hillsides for any signs of disturbance, but he saw none. Of course not. It would take days for a gholem to reach him.

Wouldn’t it?

He shook his head, clearing it of such jumbled thoughts.

The sun was beginning to descend now; it was early afternoon and he had left Mariella mid-morning. A few hours travelled already and he had not stopped once to eat or rest. He spied one of the bushes that bore the bright orange berries very close to the path not ten paces ahead, as good a place as any for a brief respite.

When he reached the bush, Phinnegan stopped and began plucking the ripened berries, careful to keep his feet on the path. He popped the berries one by one into his mouth, crushing them against the roof of his mouth with his tongue, feeling their sweet-sour juices rush forth in an explosion of flavor - the citrusy tang of an orange with the rich sweetness of a blueberry, a splendid combination.

As he had been told, the berries provided him with all the nourishment that he needed. He felt neither hungry nor thirsty after eating only a small handful, and his fatigue had vanished. When he had eaten his fill, he plucked a handful more and stuck them in his pocket. He had a few more hours of walking ahead of him and no assurances that any of these bushes would so opportunely present themselves.

His pockets and stomach full, Phinnegan set out again down the path, which had gone from gravel to dirt with a scattering of pebbles. He looked back over his shoulder to the distance he had already covered. Just visible in the haze of distance was the span between the two grassy hills that led to the exit from the mountain passage. Mariella had warned him not to try and return to the lair of the pixies for an enchantment to ward off intruders would lead him in circles for hours on end.

His only hope was to reach the old man and hope that he could help.

Phinnegan had not given much thought to the old man, but this suddenly seemed of great importance. Just who was this old man? A human? An Aged, one of the Faë that had given up on the vibrant and colorful life that Periwinkle and his kin so enjoyed?

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.