A Place Beyond The Map Page 3

  “What else can you do? Can you fly? Can you turn people into frogs? Can you move things with your magic? Throw fire? Please tell me!”

  “Well, turning people into frogs is just plain silly. But as for the others…” As his voice trailed off, he tossed the glowing orb up into the air in front of him. Just before it returned to his outstretched palm, it stopped in midair. Following the motions of his fingers, it spun slowly on its axis. Phinnegan stared in wonder, his eyes following the path of the sphere as it twirled in midair. He looked to the Faë, who was smiling back.

  “That’s amazing! How do you do it?”

  “It’s quite easy really,” Periwinkle said, letting the sphere fall into his palm. “Levitation of objects is one of the first things we learn. It’s a bit difficult here of course, what with the Passes being mostly blocked and all.”

  Phinnegan could see that the Faë blushed as he said the last, perhaps because he had let something slip that he should not have.

  “What are the Passes?” Phinnegan asked. A few moments passed as Periwinkle chewed his cheek before he finally answered.

  “The Passes are what connect our two worlds.” The Faë paused for a moment, considering before he continued. “In the past, they were open and our people came here often, thus the fodder for all of your myths and legends. But recently they have become narrower and many are blocked entirely.” His eyes fell to the floor and he stood in silence for a moment before he added, “It’s very dangerous to come here now, and our abilities sometimes fail us when we are here.”

  “Well what has happened? Why are the Passes blocked?”

  “We dare not speak of it, not here,” Periwinkle whispered. Phinnegan saw that the Faë was quite distraught over whatever was happening with these passes. He questioned no further and the two stood in silence, the Faë rolling the glowing orb between his fingers.

  “Who’s down here?!?” a voice bellowed from somewhere outside the study. Phinnegan recognized his father’s voice, but to Periwinkle, the shout was cause for alarm.

  “Who’s that?” he asked, whirling to face the door.

  “It’s just my father. He won’t hurt you.”

  Periwinkle glanced at Phinnegan.

  “You’ve got that right, mate.”

  And then he was gone.

  Phinnegan blinked at the empty space in front of him where the Faë had stood a moment before. He wondered if the Faë had truly gone, or if he had only performed the same trick as before, making himself appear invisible. He did not have long to ponder this, however, for his father burst through the door, lantern in one hand and a poker in the other.

  “All right you devils, show yourselves!” his father bellowed as he entered the study. With his arm out in front of him, holding the lantern aloft, he whirled this way and that, swinging the light in all directions.

  “Phinnegan? Why are you out of bed, lad? Who else is here? I heard voices, I am sure of it. Are you all right?” Not waiting for any answers, his father continued his vigilance, searching around the study, walking to each corner and pausing with his lantern. After checking every corner and examining even the walls, Mr. Qwyk stopped at his desk. He saw the open tobacco jars out of place atop the desk and the empty shelf above that now held only a box of matches.

  His pipe was nowhere to be seen.

  Mr. Qwyk motioned for Phinnegan, who skulked over to stand by his father.

  “Yes, Papa?”

  “Phinnegan, where is my pipe?”

  Phinnegan shuffled his feet, recalling the silhouette of his father’s pipe against the ivy-green pants of the Faë and desperately hoping a believable explanation would come to his mind.

  “I…I’m sure I don’t know, sir.”

  His father looked down at him and gestured to the open jars of tobacco atop the desk.

  “And do you know why these jars are down here on the desk, and why they are open?”

  Phinnegan, who had never been a very good liar, broke his father’s gaze and looked at the floor.

  “No, Papa.”

  Phinnegan ventured a glance up towards his father. He saw the strong jaw clench as Mr. Qwyk glared at the chair, which was perfectly positioned to boost a short person within reach of the shelf. Mr. Qwyk’s glare shifted from the chair back to Phinnegan, who averted his eyes. Even in that brief moment, he knew his father was pondering the lie. Phinnegan had no idea what he could say to prove his innocence. Mr. Qwyk would never believe the truth. Phinnegan himself scarcely did.

  “Are you lying to me, lad?”

  Phinnegan winced at the tone in his father’s voice. Rather than tell another lie, Phinnegan told the truth – not the whole truth, but the truth nonetheless.

  “It wasn’t me, Papa. I didn’t do it. I don’t have your pipe.”

  Anyone could see that Phinnegan was hiding something. His feet shuffled, his face reddened, and his eyes darted.

  Mr. Qwyk looked at the opened jars, the missing pipe, and the chair positioned just so.

  Hands on his hips, he faced Phinnegan, towering over the boy by at least a foot and a half.

  “Let us go and have a talk, lad.”

  Phinnegan swallowed hard, but this time no melody came to arrest his fear.

  CHAPTER 4

  A Second Visit

  That night and the following morning, Phinnegan tried to explain his innocence to Mr. Qwyk, insisting that someone had broken into their home and disturbed the tobacco jars and pipe. Phinnegan had even shown his father the open window in his room, although when he went to point out the wet footprints, they had already dried and disappeared. His father did not believe him; he could tell Phinnegan was not telling him the truth – or at least not the whole truth.

  Phinnegan was punished with more chores around the Qwyk household than he could have ever imagined possible. Mr. Qwyk traveled to the cities in the north for work, leaving Phinnegan, his brother Quinn, and his mother to care for the house. This week, in addition to his normal chores of sweeping the house and the porch and tending the garden, Phinnegan had been tasked to split a cord of wood to feed the home’s three fireplaces for the next several weeks. Normally a chore for Quinn, his older – and stronger - brother, the task had taken him the better part of two days, and he still wasn’t finished. Phinnegan stood by the remainder of the un-split cord, his arms aching, certain they were only one log away from falling off, when Quinn approached him at a trot.

  “Phin! There you are,” Quinn panted. “Been looking all over for you. Have you got a moment?”

  Phinnegan stared at the remainder of the cord briefly before turning to face his brother.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Good. Got a bit of homework, I have. A bit of reading called ‘Gulliver’s Travels’,” Quinn said, presenting a rather tattered book to Phinnegan. “Ever heard of it?”

  Despite his exhaustion, Phinnegan’s eyes brightened when he saw the book.

  “Of course. “I’ve read it at least a half-dozen times.”

  “Thought you might of,” Quinn said. “Look, a bunch of us are planning a party tonight and –“

  “Haven’t read it have you?” Phinnegan interjected.

  “Not a word,” Quinn said flatly. “Got to hand in a report about it on Monday. Spare a few minutes to help your brother out?”

  Phinnegan always jumped at a chance to delve into the world of fairy tales, but glancing at the remaining cord of wood beside him, he knew he could not this time.

  “You know I’d like to Quinn,” Phinnegan began before pausing to gesture at the pile of wood beside him. “But there is my punishment. I’m still not finished.”

  Quinn’s eyes flicked between the wood, the book and his brother.

  “I’ll chop, you talk,” he said, grabbing the axe that leaned against the stump the Qwyks used as the base for splitting wood. Phinnegan took the book from his brother’s outstretched hand and ran his fingers over its worn cover.

  “So, what’s it about?” Quinn asked as he positi
oned a squat log on top of the stump.

  “It’s about a man, a traveler,” Phinnegan said simply.

  “And I guess he was called Gulliver, eh?” Quinn quipped as he raised the axe for a mighty chop.

  “Why yes, he was. First, he visited the Lilliputians, a race of –“

  “Lilly-what?” Quinn asked harshly.

  “Lilliputians. They were a race of little people from the land of Lilliput.”

  “Honestly Phin, I don’t know how you read this stuff.”

  Phinnegan could only smile.

  Phinnegan provided a rather detailed summary of Gulliver’s adventures to his brother Quinn, who split log after log as Phinnegan answered his questions about the book. When he reached the end of Gulliver’s travels, Quinn had reached the end of the wood pile. Every log was now split into halves and quarters, as its thickness demanded, the resulting pieces stacked alongside the Qwyks’ house. While Quinn was exhausted, his skin covered in bits of wood and sweat, Phinnegan felt rejuvenated.

  The day was bright, sunny, and warm, all uncharacteristic for a November day, and Phinnegan decided to take a long walk to the edge of a nearby forest. As he walked, his mind began to wander.

  It had been four days since the ivy-green clad Periwinkle Lark had broken into the Qwyk home, and Phinnegan began to wonder if he would ever see the little person again, or if he even wanted to. He had taken a mysterious glimpse into another world, one filled with magic and creatures of legend.

  The Faë’s short visit had left so many questions unanswered. Who was this Vermillion who Periwinkle seemed to revile? And what was wrong in his world that it was now so dangerous? Phinnegan wondered if it would be possible to travel to this world himself. His heart skipped a beat with the thought, yet he knew that such a thing was improbable. He doubted he would ever see the Faë again.

  Shaking his head to clear these thoughts from his mind, he sat down with his back against the base of a wych elm, its once smooth grey bark now brown and cracked. In his hands he still held his brother’s tattered copy of ‘Gulliver’s Travels’.

  Phinnegan closed his eyes and let the book fall open, then began to read. He had not been reading long when he felt a tickle upon his left ear. He swatted at the insect he assumed caused the tickle and continued to read. Again he felt the tickle, and again he swatted, turning his head and looking for the little winged perpetrator, yet he saw nothing.

  The third disturbance was more than a tickle. It was a voice.

  “Sorry about all that punishment business, mate. Fancy a smoke?”

  Phinnegan jumped up from his spot beneath the tree, his book flying from his lap. He whirled around to see Periwinkle Lark leaning against the trunk of the wych elm, his arms crossed over his chest.

  His clothes were different than before, but they were still outlandish. His shirt was a metallic silver, and his trousers were black, once again snugly fit and made of velvet-like fabric. He wore high black boots up to his knee, the bottoms of his trousers tucked into them. A light purple cloak, the color of the Faë’s hair, draped across his shoulders. On his head, a black tricorn hat hid much of his strangely colored hair, which hung long, down past his shoulders. And, as a final touch, Periwinkle’s lips clenched Mr. Qwyk’s pipe.

  Phinnegan scowled at Periwinkle and before he knew what he was doing, lunged forward.

  “Give that back!”

  The Faë, far more agile than a twelve year old boy, dodged the lunge and laughed.

  “Is that the best you can do? It will take a wee bit more than that if you want to catch me.”

  Again Phinnegan watched with dismay as Periwinkle vanished. He spun around, looking frantically for any sign of the elusive Faë.

  A tap on his shoulder startled him, and he turned around to see the grinning face of Periwinkle.

  “I’m only having a joke. Here, take it. I’ve got plenty anyway.”

  Phinnegan snatched the offered pipe from Periwinkle’s outstretched hand. He inspected it for any damage before tucking it into a front pocket of his trousers.

  “There now, see? You have your father’s pipe back and you can run home to give it to him. No harm done.”

  Phinnegan shook his head.

  “How can I give it back to him when I have told him a dozen times that it wasn’t me that took it?”

  The Faë smirked.

  “Ah, that is a sharp little mind you have there, mate,” remarked Periwinkle, his voice lilting. “Very sharp. Well, I suppose you can be giving it back to me then, eh? Seeing as how you can’t be restoring it to its rightful owner and all, can’t waste a good pipe now can we?”

  The Faë held out his hand, waving the fingers and gesturing for Phinnegan to return the pipe. Phinnegan took a step back.

  “I think I will keep it, thank you very much.”

  “Suit yourself then,” the Faë said with a shrug. He walked over to the wych elm where Phinnegan had been reading only minutes earlier and plopped down with a huff. He removed his hat and sat it on the bare ground beside him. Turning around, he rapped his knuckles on the trunk of the tree.

  “So, what’s your story, eh?”

  Phinnegan opened his mouth to answer, but the Faë rapped harder on the elm’s trunk.

  “Hallooo, anyone in there?” the Faë called, leaning closer to the tree.

  Phinnegan furrowed his brow, seeing that the Faë was talking to the tree and not to him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Well, I was trying to be cordial to our friend here, seeing as I’ll be planting me bum on his roots, but he’s not being very friendly.”

  Phinnegan eyed the Faë warily and took a step towards him.

  “Why would it be friendly? It’s a tree.”

  Periwinkle turned toward him, his head cocked sideways, a question upon his face. Then his mouth cracked with a broad grin and he laughed, slapping his thigh with an open hand.

  “Pah! I always forget your trees can’t talk. Sorry, mate.” Periwinkle patted the tree, while Phinnegan looked on, wide-eyed.

  “And yours can?”

  Periwinkle shrugged and flashed a smile up at young Phinnegan.

  “Of course they can, mate. As long as you’re friendly and respectful-like. Awfully good stories they can tell. Seen a lot, they have.” The Faë reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a short black strand of some kind. Biting the end and pulling, he tore a piece off into his mouth. Phinnegan felt his stomach rumble at the site of what looked like a piece of black licorice. He had not eaten in several hours. Periwinkle saw the look on Phinnegan’s face and offered the black strand to him.

  “Here you go, mate, have a bite. Quite satisfying, it is.”

  Phinnegan took the licorice-like substance cautiously and sniffed it. His nose wrinkled and he moved the strand away from his face. Definitely not licorice.

  “What is it? Is it candy?”

  The Faë only shrugged.

  “You ask too many questions, mate. Just take a bite. You’ve got to learn somehow.”

  With more than a hint of reservation, Phinnegan bit into the tough black strand and tore off a piece. As he chewed, the tough black piece became gummy and stuck to his teeth. The taste was not foul, but neither was it very good. He tried to spit it out, but it was stuck to his teeth. He could only chew and swallow every now and then, gradually working the tacky candy from his mouth. The Faë laughed as he reclaimed his snack.

  “Not quite to your liking, eh?”

  Phinnegan could only shake his head, for his mouth was still quite engaged in chewing. As the Faë tore off another piece and gulped it down, Phinnegan realized that he did not chew - he only swallowed.

  “I forgot to tell you that you aren’t supposed to chew it, like. Just bite and swallow. Gets quite messy, it does.” He bit off another piece and swallowed. “It’s called sticky root.”

  Phinnegan tried to open his mouth, but the more he chewed the tougher and more glue-like it became. The Faë saw his struggles and offered
another piece of advice.

  “It’s a lot like…oh what do you call it?” He thought for a moment, a finger on his dimpled chin. “Oh yes, quicksand! The more you struggle, the faster it pulls you under. Just stop chewing. It will settle down and then just swallow it. You’ll be careful with the next bite.”

  Phinnegan glared at the Faë, but followed his advice and stopped his ferocious chewing. Periwinkle sat in silence, eyes twinkling as he finished off the remainder of the sticky root and watched Phinnegan’s jaw begin to slacken. Finally he swallowed noisily, twice, and then opened and closed his mouth a few times, working the muscles.

  “You could have warned me.”

  Periwinkle only laughed, brushing his hands on his trousers as he stood.

  “Warn you? On the contrary, mate, no warning was needed as I was giving you a bit of a lesson. Be wary of a Faë bearing gifts. We’re no Pixies but we are the tricksters now and then.”

  As the Faë stood smiling in front of Phinnegan, he wondered just how this Faë had stumbled upon him so far from his home, and on the edge of the forest.

  “Just what are you doing out here anyway? Are you following me?”

  Periwinkle withdrew, his hand on his chest and a pained look across his face.

  “Following you? You suggest that I have some ulterior motive and wish you harm?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. It’s just what with the pipe and now this mucky root thing-“

  “Sticky root,” the Faë corrected.

  “Aye, sticky root. What with that and all, well, it just seems like you may be up to no good. You did after all say you Faë are a tricky lot.”

  “So I did!” the Faë exclaimed. His eyes appraising Phinnegan, a knowing smile spread across his lips.

  “I may have spotted you now and then these past few days. Perhaps I even spied you earlier, with your brother. A veritable Scheherazade, you were.”

  Phinnegan’s cheeks colored at the comparison, but a small smile touched the corners of his lips. One Thousand and One Nights was one of his favorite books.