A Place Beyond The Map Read online

  A Place Beyond The Map

  By Samuel Thews

  Phinnegan Qwyk thought he knew everything there was to know about fairy tales. But when the notorious Faë Periwinkle Lark snatches him from his cozy home in Ireland to a Place-Beyond-the-Map, Phinnegan discovers that reading a fairy tale and living in one are two altogether different things.

  When Phinnegan escapes from the mountain prison of Féradoon, he must travel a treacherous path riddled with dangers both fair and foul - where the wild hounds of the Faolchú await a single misstep and gholems stalk their quarries unseen from the shadows. Forced into a daring match of wits with a beautiful troll, Phinnegan may find the way home if he wins – but if he loses, he will be her pet. Forever.

  CHAPTER 1

  Phinnegan Qwyk

  Phinnegan Qwyk drummed his fingertips on his desk, oblivious to the hair-raising screech of chalk grating across an old blackboard as Mr. Rowlands scribbled arithmetical figures. Phinnegan had always disliked the cold, unforgiving nature of numbers, even on an ordinary day - and today was anything but ordinary.

  No, today was special – or at least it would be once the final grains of sand trickled from top-to-bottom in the large hourglass seated on Mr. Rowlands’s desk. Phinnegan had never understood why it was called an hourglass. The ornate timepiece held three hours of sand, not a moment less or more. At home, Phinnegan’s mother used a similar glass to time her baking, but it ran through in a neat half-hour. The term “hourglass” wasn’t appropriate for either.

  But whatever it was called, Mr. Rowlands began each morning with one “run of the sand” before allowing the children a break for lunch and recess. The afternoon likewise consisted of a single run of the sand, which, much to Phinnegan’s pleasure, was at an end.

  As the final grain slipped through the narrow waist of the glass, Phinnegan sat straighter, anticipating the dismissal of the class. Mr. Rowlands was always prompt in ending his classes, reasoning that he had once been young and knowing full well that such restless minds would ignore him once his time had run its course.

  Today, however, Mr. Rowlands seemed not to notice.

  Phinnegan waited a minute, then another, and then a third.

  Any moment now.

  But the screeching continued, as did the drone of Mr. Rowlands’s mundane voice. On an ordinary day, Phinnegan would not have cared in the least. He did not mind school as much as many of the other pupils. But as the moments passed, not a single schoolmate sought to inform the teacher of the time. His impatience mounting, Phinnegan rustled his papers, packing away drawings he had created during the day’s lesson. Still, Mr. Rowlands continued in his unrelenting monotone. At last impatience won out. Phinnegan raised his hand, and spoke without waiting to be noticed.

  “Excuse me, sir?” he said, his voice just escaping his throat. Two boys in front of him turned toward him, but Mr. Rowlands seemed not to hear. On he went, scratching out a set of numbers while he prattled on about their significance.

  Clearing his throat, Phinnegan tried once more.

  “Sir?” he said more forcefully. This time, Mr. Rowlands heard him. Pausing, the chalk in his hand a mere inch from beginning a new string of figures, he turned to face his class.

  “Yes?” he said as he surveyed his pupils. Spying Phinnegan’s hand, the ghost of a smile touched his lips.

  “Ah, Phinnegan. A question?”

  “Yes, sir,” Phinnegan said, lowering his hand. “Well, err, not really, sir. You see, it’s the sand.”

  “The sand? What about it?” Mr. Rowlands said, his smile fading to confusion.

  “Well, it’s gone, sir.”

  “Gone?” Mr. Rowlands asked, using the back of his chalk-dusted hand to nudge a tattered pair of glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. Glancing around, he caught sight of the large hour-glass on his desk.

  “Oh! I see.” With a forlorn look to the figure-laden blackboard, he let his arm drop and waved a hand.

  “Off you go, lads. But remember, tomorrow there will be-”

  The ruckus that ensued overpowered Mr. Rowlands’ thin voice so that none could discern his words, least of all Phinnegan, who sprung from his seat like a rabbit. He was out of the class and down the hall before most had gathered all of their materials.

  Just as he reached the exit, Billy Fagin sauntered into his path.

  Not today…

  “In a bit of a hurry, Qwyk?”

  “Yes,” Phinnegan said with a grimace, dropping his eyes to the floor to avoid looking up into the older boy’s eyes. He glanced quickly to the right and left, for wherever Billy Fagin was, Patrick Keene was as well.

  “Shame, that. Thought you might fancy a game of cricket.”

  “Cricket?” Phinnegan questioned, his head snapping up, expecting to see the mocking face he knew would be there. But it wasn’t.

  “You want . . . me to play cricket?” Phinnegan asked, his eyes wide.

  “Yeah, we’re one short. Think of it as a peace offering,” the larger boy said, a slanting smile showing two rows of crooked teeth.

  Phinnegan stared. Were the older boys really asking him to play cricket? And of all people, Billy Fagin - the same Billy who had bullied him since he first came to school?

  “Why?” Phinnegan managed to ask.

  “Like I said, Qwyk,” the older boy said while holding up a finger. “We’re one short.”

  Phinnegan wondered for a moment if it were some sort of trick, but then a group of boys Billy’s age sidled over.

  “Game on or off then, Fagin?” one of the larger boys said with a smirk.

  “Hang on a moment,” Billy said. “I’m rounding up another. So how ‘bout it, Qwyk? Grow up from your stories long enough to play with the big boys?”

  While Billy had meant the remark as a taunt, Phinnegan remembered that he was in a hurry.

  “Um, thanks, but I really should be getting home,” he said, trying to push his way past.

  “Why, got a girl waiting for you?” one of the boys mocked.

  “Qwyk, a girl?” Billy snorted. “More like a leprechaun riding a unicorn. Come on, Qwyk, have a game will you. Half an hour.”

  Phinnegan stood, frozen as his mind evaluated each choice. But Billy’s loud voice broke his thoughts.

  “Oy! Doyle! Fancy a cricket match?”

  Phinnegan turned in time to see a red-haired boy with freckles wave past him to Billy.

  “Cricket? I’m in!”

  Billy pushed past Phinnegan, jostling him with his shoulder.

  “Maybe next time Qwyk. Run along and read your books.”

  More than an hour later, Phinnegan rounded the final corner before the small pond at the end of Mr. O’Toole’s property and the beginning of his parents’s. Once past the back edge of the pond and hidden from O’Toole’s troublesome dog by the trees that divided the properties, Phinnegan broke into a slow trot and then into a run. He sped by his own dog, Bergin, pausing only long enough to tousle the dog’s fur.

  Crashing through the back door, he came to a screeching halt as he nearly barreled into his mother, who was bustling about the kitchen preparing the evening meal.

  “Careful!” she said, raising a stone cookpot laden with a hearty roast over his head. Mrs. Qwyk was well acquainted with the enthusiasm of school-aged boys.

  “Sorry, mum,” Phinnegan mumbled as he scurried from the kitchen.

  “Your father’s in his study,” she called after him.

  She needn’t have told him. Where else would his father be? Now that he was home, that is. He had been away on one of his trips to the north and had only just returned.

  Phinnegan came to a stop just outside the slightly open door to his father’s study. The scent of burning pipe tobacco w
afted through the crack, and he could hear the familiar rustling of a newspaper. Phinnegan inclined his chin and stood tall. He smoothed his hair and straightened his shirt before rapping three times on the door.

  “Enter,” his father’s voice called. Phinnegan obeyed and found his father much as he had expected, relaxed in his favorite chair, a pipe in his mouth and a newspaper in his lap. On his left, three cork-stopped glass bottles, each filled with a different tobacco, stood on the polished wood table. On his right, a half glass of whiskey. His feet were propped on the shaggy old ottoman his mother had tried to add to the rubbish collection on more than one occasion.

  “Phinnegan,” his father said, removing the pipe from his mouth as he smiled. “Come, you simply must smell this blend,” he added, tossing his paper aside and gesturing for Phinnegan to come forward. Clenching his pipe between his teeth, its bowl bobbing up and down as he spoke, Phinnegan’s father removed the cork from one glass jar that held a dark tobacco that looked like ribbons of black velvet.

  “Here,” his father said, handing him the open jar. “William McDowell in Dublin blended it at my request. It’s a luxurious blend of Cavendish and Turkish latakia, cured slowly with molasses.” Leaning back in his chair, his father took a long, slow draw on his pipe. When his lips parted, the expelled smoke was thick and almost white, so dense that it sank in the air, falling like a marshy fog around Phinnegan’s feet.

  “Heavenly,” his father sighed, closing his eyes and crossing his arms behind his head. The smoke indeed smelled delightful as it sifted through the air past Phinnegan’s nose. Bringing the jar up, he inhaled the aroma of the dark ribbons. The tobacco itself had much the same luscious smell as the smoke, though more earthy than the smoke’s biting, yet not unpleasant, spiciness.

  “It’s wonderful,” Phinnegan breathed as he corked the jar, ensuring it was snug to prevent the precious contents from drying, just as his father had taught him. He placed the reassembled jar alongside its companions, each of which contained its own precious cargo, one a light brown and the other a reddish color with yellow flecks throughout.

  “Phinnegan, my boy, you do not know what you are missing,” his father said, his lips curling in an impish grin while his teeth maintained a hold on the pipe. Phinnegan smiled at the jest.

  “Yes, Papa,” he said, watching as his father winked open one eye.

  “Ah, but you are too young for that just yet. And besides, I’d wager other things are more important to you today. And, I might add, I expected you home much earlier, given the circumstances.”

  “Yes, Papa,” Phinnegan said. “I…umm…I was held up at school.”

  “Caught up in a game, then?” his father asked, a hopeful tone to his voice.

  “Not exactly,” Phinnegan replied, his eyes slipping away from his father’s.

  “Oh, I see.” His father pushed himself to his feet and rested a strong hand on Phinnegan’s shoulder.

  “I wonder if I am doing the right thing with you. These books…really you are too old for fairy tales.”

  “But…I like them,” Phinnegan said, a slight shrug in his shoulders as they sagged.

  “I know, lad, but some day you’ll have to put down the fancies of your childhood and become a man. And a man needs good friends; he needs responsibility, respect.”

  Phinnegan was silent, his eyes downcast. But the hand on his shoulder gave a reassuring squeeze.

  “One day, lad…”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His father’s smile widened.

  “Your mother will not be finished with supper for awhile yet. If you hurry, maybe you can read a new story or two.”

  Phinnegan’s face brightened and he grabbed his father’s arm.

  “You brought it? Where is it?” he questioned, bouncing in his excitement.

  “Settle down, settle down,” his father said with a laugh. “I left it on your bed. Run along, you’ve time to open it.”

  Beaming, Phinnegan gave his father a quick hug before flying from the room. As he rounded the corner to climb the stairs, he heard his mother call out to him.

  “No running in the house, Phinnegan,” she scolded.

  “Yes, mum,” he called back, slowing until he was out of sight and then bounding the last few steps.

  In his room, he found a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine lying on his bed. He had the paper off in a flash and his hands grasped a bright yellow book, its binding fresh and unblemished beneath his fingers.

  The front of the book was embossed with a detailed scene of a winged woman floating high in the sky, the rays of sunshine warming her slim figure. On the spine, the silhouette of a cat stood out in gold filigree, along with the book’s author and title.

  “The Yellow Fairy Book,” Phinnegan whispered, running his finger over the etched words. The book was the fourth in a collection of fairy tales from around the world. It had only just been published, and Phinnegan’s father had promised he would obtain one for his son.

  With the care that comes with an appreciation for books, Phinnegan opened the book slowly and, as was his habit, let it fall open to where it chose.

  “Story of the Emperor’s New Clothes,” he read softly to himself. And then he was lost in the tale.

  CHAPTER 2

  A Late Night Visitor

  Phinnegan awoke suddenly, the bite of a late November night’s breeze upon his face. After gobbling his dinner, Phinnegan had rushed straight to his room to again immerse himself in the new tales contained in the Yellow Fairy Book until sleep overcame him. This sudden chill was odd, though it did not really bother him. Harrumphing, he pulled his blankets tighter about him.

  It was then that he heard it.

  The sound was faint and not one that could be called unordinary. It seemed to be a muffled gasp or squeak, like the sound you would make if startled by a cat you knew was in the house but were surprised to find rubbing against your leg. It was not the sound itself that startled him so, his large brown eyes round and wide in the darkness, but that he should hear this sound now, in his bedroom, in the middle of the night.

  It could have been his mother or father, of course, checking on their son in the middle of the night as mothers and fathers are wont to do. But as Phinnegan lay on his side, the blankets up to his ears and just his eyes peeking out, he saw that his window was open.

  That window was closed when I went to bed.

  Pricking his ears for the slightest sound, Phinnegan heard only the rain at first, the footsteps of each droplet pitter-pattering in the shallow puddles that formed upon the ground just outside his bedroom window. The melodic rhythm of the rain soothed his mind and he wondered if he had heard any sound at all. Glancing to his left, he saw the yellow book just where he had left it after reading for a few hours after dinner. Perhaps these stories were playing tricks with his mind.

  But then he spied something else.

  On the floor beneath his window, he saw the wet imprints of two smooth-soled shoes.

  His breath caught in his throat. Phinnegan lay still as the dead, straining his ears against the pressing silence. When he heard the faint familiar creak of the loose floorboard just in front of his door, he shut his eyes and prayed for this to all be a dream.

  Just then a second strange sound reached his ears. Even with his ears strained, it was barely audible: a timorous little melody, a lullaby so light, so airy and so fragile that to speak of its existence would be its destruction. If a sound could be from far away, but at the same time be close at hand, it could not have been more so than this melody. He felt it tug at his thoughts, pulling his fears away and rendering him light-headed. His mind felt fuzzy and warm, and as the melody assuaged away the last of his fear, he felt himself at peace. And then the sound was gone.

  Phinnegan bolted upright in his bed. His heart hammering in his chest, he shook his head to rid himself of the soft, blurred feeling that the melody had left him. With the melody now gone, his mind felt sluggish. But his fear was g
one, and in its place remained a wild courage, apparent even in his large brown eyes, which no longer were doe-eyed and naïve, but touched with feral twinkle.

  His eyes searching, Phinnegan spied that the door to his room was ajar and beckoning. Feeling rather adventurous, he tossed the covers from his bed and crept to his door, avoiding the creaky board with unconscious effort.

  The hallway beyond Phinnegan’s door was thick with darkness against the scant bit of light that entered through his open bedroom. At first his eyes could not penetrate more than a few feet before him as he peered around the edge of his door. But as his eyes adjusted, familiar shapes began to materialize as if from a fog.

  Seeing that the hallway appeared clear of any intruders, Phinnegan tiptoed through his doorway and crept to the bend in the hallway, his footsteps softened by the hall’s well-trodden runner.

  Looking around the corner Phinnegan saw that the landing above the stairs was empty. Summoning his courage, he straightened and rounded the corner.

  As he stood facing the stairs, the melody came to him once again. The sound wafted up the stairs like a gentle breeze, and he felt it drawing him evermore towards it.

  The feral twinkle once again flashing in his eyes, he made one last glance back towards his now empty room before slinking down the stairs. He skipped the third step from the bottom - a step known to creak. Reaching the bottom, he turned his head this way and that, listening for the elusive melody.

  When he turned his head to the right, in the direction of the two sitting rooms and his father’s study, the melody grew louder.

  Careful to avoid the veritable minefield of creaky boards, potted plants, end tables, and other scattered furniture, he snuck through the larger of the two sitting rooms, more by the guidance of his memories than by his eyes. The music grew louder.

  Phinnegan’s eyes were now well adjusted to the darkness and he could see into the shadowed corners of each room, finding them all empty. If the melody came from within the house, there was only one room left that could be its source. Just ahead of him the door to his father’s study was open. For the second time that night, a door ajar beckoned to him.