A Place Beyond The Map (13 page)

Please don’t let it be spiders
.

A sharp laugh drew his attention, and he looked up to find the judge from Féradoon, Julius Jay, high atop his bench, cackling and pointing.

“What’s the matter, boy? Something making your skin crawl?” The judge threw his head back, laughing maniacally. When the judge made a wave with his hand, Phinnegan felt a tug at his wrists. He looked down to see that a small hole had opened at each wrist. Out of each poured thousands of small spiders.

Knowing nothing else that he could do, Phinnegan screamed and tore at the skin on his arms. But for every handful of spiders he threw from his arms that many and more poured forth from his wrists. All the while, he heard the judge high above, cackling like a madman.

The itching worsened, and as he turned this way and that looking for something, anything, that could help him, he saw that the jury had now appeared. The Faë who had spoken out against the judge and had ultimately been responsible for Periwinkle’s release stood staring at him, a long thin arm outstretched, a gnarled finger pointing directly at him.

Phinnegan froze, and for the moment, the itching ceased. He blinked and the scene around him had changed to replicate the High Court of Féradoon in every detail. When he noticed that his arms felt heavy, Phinnegan looked down to find the chains that had earlier been on Periwinkle’s wrists, now on his own. But at least the spiders were gone.

The juror stood with a malevolent smile upon his face. As he stared, the Faë’s face changed, the skin drawing tighter about the bones. The smile widened as the skin pulled the lips apart, revealing rotted, black teeth. When he opened his mouth to speak, the voice was guttural rasp.

“For your crimes against our race, I hereby sentence you to…death!”

A cry of jubilation erupted around him and Phinnegan whirled to see that the previously empty hall was filled with hundreds if not thousands of the Aged Faë, each with the tightened crackled skin that had overtaken the juror’s face only moments before. They pressed in on him as they mumbled and crowed their approval of the ruling. High above, the judge’s voice rang out, and it too was now a guttural growl.

“So be it!” The judge rose to stand and lean over the edge of his bench. Phinnegan kept his eyes fixed on the judge, even as the masses of decaying Faë closed in around him.

“Phinnegan Lonán Qwyk, you are hereby sentenced to Death by the High Court of Féradoon.”

“By what manner shall we dispose of this criminal?” he continued, calling upon the masses to choose the form of execution for their prisoner. “Shall we take his head?”

Around him Phinnegan heard cries of yes as well as a few boos.

“To the axe!” one shouted.

“To the guillotine!” came the suggestion of another.

“Nay, neither is sufficient for this scum.”

“Hang him!”

The judge raised his hands to quiet the crowed, roaring in his guttural tone loudly to be heard above the fray.

“Some of you are not satisfied with beheading?”

Those in favor were now silent, as the naysayers called forth all manner of reasons that they preferred another form of execution. Phinnegan squeezed his eyes shut and did his best to ignore the screams around him. For a time, it had no effect. But then the voices began to recede and he felt his wrists lighten. He opened his eyes to see that his wrists were free. Looking around, he saw that he was no longer in the courtroom but was instead back in the middle of Darkwater Forest.

The forest was deathly quiet. No birds chirped, no rodents rustled in the underbrush and no breeze stirred the twisted branches of the tall, dark trees.

Phinnegan took a moment to scrutinize his arms for the wounds and blood that he knew must be there from his clawing, but he saw nothing. His arms were as smooth as any other day, and no spiders bubbled forth from his wrists. He reminded himself that he was in a dream, or at least he had been. Now he was back in the forest and the fantasy of the dream mixed with the last reality that he remembered.

Suddenly, the chill air returned and Phinnegan’s breath turned to an icy fog. A branch snapped somewhere behind him and to the left. His heart skipped a beat and he feared to turn towards the source. Then came the sound of heavy breathing, forceful snorts and a low growl. Faolchú. Turning his head, he saw a Faolchú larger by half than those he had seen earlier. He could not possibly survive a fight with such a creature. So he ran.

The Faolchú stood transfixed for a few seconds, allowing Phinnegan to introduce some space betwixt himself and the beast. But then with a loud bark and a howl, the Faolchú hurled himself into the chase.

Phinnegan ran faster than he had ever run before in his life. He leapt over felled trees and rocks. Once he stumbled over an unseen branch buried beneath the leaves, but he kept his balance and ran on. In his peripheral vision, he caught sight of other Faolchú that had joined the chase, now running even with him some twenty yards away on either side. They snarled and barked at one another, communicating like no animals Phinnegan had ever seen.

Although he sprinted, the chase was soon over. The Faolchú were too fast by a large margin and they closed the distance to their prey in a matter of moments. The hound that came from the left hurled its bulk into Phinnegan, knocking him to the forest floor with a grunt. Pain seared through his leg and he thought that a Faolchú had bitten him. But looking down, he saw that his calf had landed on a sharp branch that projected from the underbrush, and that it had pierced through his pants and into his flesh.

The Faolchú crept closer and the scent of his blood on the air sent them into frenzy. They hurled themselves at one another with feral snarls and a great gnashing of teeth. But the large Faolchú who had been right behind Phinnegan was not to be denied. He proved his might to the other hounds, which now slinked to their place behind him, the leader of the pack.

His eyes were the same pupil-less white as the others, but he bore a long scar across his left eye and around his snout. Phinnegan’s eyes raced over the hound’s body and he saw more old wounds, so many that the red fur was practically hidden beneath the thick, white scars. This one had fought, and won, many battles.

The beast came forward and Phinnegan pushed himself backwards on his hands. The Faolchú bared his teeth, his lips curling upward in what would have been a smile, had the face been human and not that of a wild hound.

When the hound pushed back on his haunches, Phinnegan braced himself for the attack that was to come. The Faolchú’s rear legs pushed hard against the earth and the hound leapt, jaws open.

Phinnegan heard himself scream.

When his eyes fluttered open, the world was washed out and bright. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the light, and then slowly opened them so that only a sliver crept through. He felt himself bouncing, up and down, a natural rhythm to the motion. He rolled his eyes right and left and saw that he was no longer in the forest. The sky above was a dark purple, the hour just beyond sunset.

He felt support beneath him and after a few moments of clouded thinking, he knew them to be arms. He was being carried. His head rolled in the direction of the body that owned the arms which bore him. Looking up, he saw a pale face, the countenance one of youth juxtaposed against wisdom; the face of a Faë.

Atop the head a thick, tangled mass of dark red hair spilled forth. Sensing his stirring, the face looked down. Two bright red eyes shone from deep sockets. Even in his muddled state, Phinnegan could read worry plain on the Faë’s face.

“Brostaigh,” the Faë said, and Phinnegan felt the bouncing become more jostled. He felt himself slipping, and as his head rolled left against his shoulder, his last glimpse was the back of Periwinkle Lark, who jogged ahead into the darkness.

CHAPTER 11

A Friendly House

The next few days were an unrecognizable blur to Phinnegan Qwyk, for his mind was not at all present in them. He passed in and out of a restless sleep through morning and night. His eyes opened only rarely, sightless and glassy. Phinnegan heard a familiar voice speak to him now and then, repeating the same phrase over, and over, and over, though he knew not what it meant.

“Tarraing anáil…Tarraing anáil.”

The two pairs of colorful eyes that watched over him grew more distressed when their patient’s lips moved, only to repeat these same words. They watched over him, two vigilant guards, knowing that behind the pale face the mind of their charge wrestled with invisible demons. Had they been able to see into his mind, as he lay in restless fits of sleep, they would have seen that his mind was in angst, yet he dreamt not. The nightmares that had assaulted him in the woods after he inhaled the poisonous gas did not return.

On the fourth morning after their harrowing night in Darkwater Forest, Phinnegan awakened, weak and disoriented. A heavy scent of sweet, musky flowers filled the air. The room was sparsely lit, and so his eyes accustomed quickly. The ceiling was covered in wispy, intricate patterns like none he had ever seen. Where was he? What had happened? His mind panicked and he bolted up in bed, but he was overcome with dizziness and crashed back onto the bed.

“Well, well. He returns from the dead after all. Gave us quite a scare you did; had a devil of a time just reminding you to breathe. ”

Phinnegan recognized the voice as that of Periwinkle Lark, the purple-haired Faë who had broken into his home. The events of the previous day, at least to him it seemed like the previous day, came flooding back. The stone; Féradoon; the forest. The Faolchú. He tried again to push himself up.

“Take it easy, mate. Your mind is still recovering from the darkness brought on by the Fog.”

Phinnegan lay still, turning only his head in the direction of the voice. There, of course, sat the purple-haired Faë, lounging in a large armchair, his legs thrown over one arm while his back rested against the other.

“Fog?” Phinnegan asked, rubbing the sleep and grit from his eyes. “What does the fog in the forest have to do with anything?

“Not fog, Fog, with a capital F. The gas that you saw coming from the arrow; it’s called the Fog. It’s a damn good thing you held your breath as long as you did. A few moments earlier and,” the Faë made a strangled sound and drew a finger across his neck.

“I waited as long as I could…my lungs were burning.”

“I know, I know.” Periwinkle said. “Crimson never would have done that if he had known.”

“Known what?”

“That you were human, like,” Periwinkle said, stroking his chin as he mused. “Although I don’t know how he would have gotten us out of there without the Fog.”

“Did it kill them? The Faolchú, I mean.” Phinnegan pushed himself slowly to a sitting position.

“Hardly,” the Faë said with a laugh. “It would take a lot more than a lungful of Fog to kill a Faolchú. They were only knocked out, and just barely at that. Up and about in a matter of minutes would be my guess. Not the same can be said for you, of course. We thought we’d lost you. If Crimson hadn’t lived so close…”

Phinnegan sat in silence as the Faë’s voice trailed off. He had been only moments from meeting his death. That was a disturbing thought for a twelve year old. A fit of coughing snared him and only ended when Periwinkle brought him a glass of water.

The water tasted sweet and smelled of cinnamon. He drank the glass quickly, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. The Faë laughed as Phinnegan put down the empty glass.

“Taking a liking to the pixie water, are you? Well be careful, it’s a powerful healing elixir, but it is also mildly hallucinogenic. We don’t want a relapse.”

Phinnegan grasped the empty glass and peered into it, his stomach queasy as he was reminded of the nightmares that came to him in the forest.