“Take a look.”
Phinnegan approached the bowl warily. When he reached its edge, he raised his head just enough to see into it.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Nor should you. It has no idea what to show you, nor if it can show you anything. But if I am right, it can. Try touching it.”
Not before casting a wary glance in Asher’s direction, Phinnegan reached towards the bowl with his left hand.
“No, not that hand. Your right hand. Use the finger that bears the Mark.”
When Phinnegan touched the liquid with the finger that bore the Mark, the change was dramatic.
What had been the smooth, glassy surface of the inky black liquid rippled when his finger touched it. It bubbled and festered until it was frothy. Phinnegan drew his finger back and watched as the froth gelled into a thin, clear film, the inky black visible beneath.
A picture began to take shape in the center of the bowl. It was wavy at first and barely visible against the dark background, but then the vision took on a more substantial form. Phinnegan could just make out a column in what looked to be a dark room. Then another and another, until he could see an entire chamber filled with columns.
And then he saw it.
There was a shadow, a shadow that was not a shadow. A disturbance in the air. A mirage. Phinnegan’s face went white. He recognized that disturbance, that creature. He recognized that place.
“What do you see?” Asher’s voice inquired from behind.
“I see…Féradoon,” Phinnegan whispered. “And a gholem.” Phinnegan considered the old man’s words, about what the Looking Glass would show him.
“Asher, I have been there before. Is this showing me my past?”
“No, not quite,” Asher said quietly, stepping forward and stopping at Phinnegan’s right elbow.
“It is your future.”
Phinnegan’s eyes widened.
“What? I can’t go back there!”
“I am sorry, it is not debatable. You must go.”
Phinnegan looked at Asher with horror on his face, but Asher only stared back, his face somber and grim.
“I am a Guide and this is my Looking Glass,” he said, his voice rising. “It shows you what you must do, and nothing less.”
“But…I can’t go back. Vermillion…no, I will not go!”
“Phinnegan Qwyk,” Asher intoned, the use of his full name breaking Phinnegan from his panic. “What is it that you want most?”
Phinnegan did not hesitate a moment.
“Home. I want to go home.”
“Then you must go to Féradoon,” Asher said, laying a hand on Phinnegan’s shoulder. “You cannot return to your world if you do not.”
“But why?” Phinnegan pleaded.
“I cannot say, nor can I tell you the meaning of the Mark which you bear, only that – “
“You don’t know what it means? Then how do you know I must go to Féradoon? Why should I trust you?” Phinnegan waited for Asher to respond, but the old man spoke not a word, instead pulling a slim, black book from the pockets of his robe. The book was thin, but extravagant, with gold worked into the cover in superfluous designs.
In the center of these designs, in the center of the cover itself, lay a familiar design. A design that matched perfectly the Mark that Phinnegan bore on his finger.
“I cannot read it,” Asher said, handing the book to Phinnegan, who took it carefully.
“And you think I can?” Phinnegan asked as he turned the book over in his hands. Asher shrugged.
“I do not know. In my reading I came across nothing like the Mark you now bear. There are many ancient Marks, Phinnegan Qwyk, and I thought I knew them all. But yours is beyond the knowledge which I am permitted.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean exactly that: I am not permitted to know. It is true that I found a few references to an ancient and mysterious Mark, but there was nothing more. Except that,” he finished, pointing to the book in Phinnegan’s hands.
Phinnegan stared at the small book in his hands. He ran his hand over the supple leather cover, pausing when his finger touched the embossed symbol on the cover that matched the Mark on his finger.
But when he opened the book, there was nothing. His brow furrowed and he flipped hurriedly through the book, but not a word, not a syllable, not even so much as a stray drop of ink graced the pages of the book. All blank.
“This book is empty,” he said in frustration.
“I know. I told you. I cannot read it.”
“But that’s because there is nothing to read!” Phinnegan snapped.
“Just so.”
When Phinnegan sought to hand the book back to Asher, the old man held up his hands and shook his head.
“It is yours. I have no use for it, and it is possible that you will.”
Phinnegan looked at the book, plainly unsure that this book had any value at all. But in the end, he shoved it into his trouser pocket.
He returned to the bowl but the liquid had gone black again. He touched it with his finger again and again, but nothing happened.
“There must be some mistake,” Phinnegan said, imploring the Looking Glass to show him another way.
“There is no mistake,” Asher said. “And, it comes for you,” he added quietly.
“What? Who is coming?” Phinnegan asked, turning sharply to stare at the old man.
“Why, the gholem, of course.”
“What? But it cannot find me. I must hide!”
“You cannot hide,” Asher said calmly, fixing Phinnegan with a steady gaze. “This is what must happen, and it will happen, no matter how you fight.”
“No!” Phinnegan yelled, pushing past the old man and fleeing from the room.
“You cannot run, and you cannot hide, Phinnegan Qwyk,” Asher’s voice boomed through the house as Phinnegan hurried down the stairs.
“The gholem is coming. And it will find you.”
But Phinnegan paid him no heed, for he had descended the stairs in a run and sped through the hallway and the sitting room, rounded the corner into the kitchen and fled out the door. He ran down the path, away from the cottage.
By the time he stopped running, the sun was low in the sky and the cottage was well behind him. But he could not rest.
The gholem was coming.
A Visitor
Running without heed to where he was going, Phinnegan had long since left the path in his hurry to escape the cottage. Now, he was in the middle of the forest and the sun was barely visible through the branches of the trees, leaving perhaps two more hours before it would set completely and leave him in darkness. He shivered.
The gholem is coming.
Asher had told him that he
must
go to Féradoon, but how could he? Periwinkle had seemed genuinely afraid of that place, despite his arrogance towards the judge. Then again, Periwinkle had stolen from him, lied to him, used him, tricked him and left him behind when danger threatened.
Some friend
.
Now, he was alone again, in the forest. He doubted a pixie would be there to rescue him this time.
At least it isn’t raining.
He wandered in the forest for perhaps an hour, maybe more, the sun descending slowly in the sky until the branches about him more resembled boney ghouls than living extensions of a tree. His stomach rumbled in the stillness of the forest reminding him that he had not eaten since his late breakfast. He checked the lowest hanging branches as he passed them, hoping for the off chance that one would bear an edible nut or some type of fruit, but he found none.
The sky growing darker, he walked on as the sounds of evening in the forest emerged. He heard the hoot of an owl and then the lone howl of a wolf.
Faolchú
?
But the howl was far away and he did not hear it a second time. Besides, Periwinkle had said that the Faolchú were only found in Darkwater Forest.
When the sharp sounds of frogs pierced the night, Phinnegan paid particular attention. Frogs meant water. The croaks and ribbits seemed to come from all sides, but perhaps just a little louder to his right than to his left. He followed his ears and indeed, the chorus of croaks was much louder here. Frogs could be heard from all directions, behind and in front, left and right, above and below.
But the darkness closed in around him and it was becoming very difficult for him to see more than a few feet in front of his face. When his feet splashed in thick mud instead of shallow water, it seemed more likely that the forest was home to a bog or marsh, and not clear, fresh water. Several more steps and the water covered the new boots he had received from the Rock of Calabash in Asher’s cottage. The setting sun did not allow him to see far, but trees appeared to clog the area in front of him. When the buzzing of mosquitoes and gnats filled the air, his heart sank. A forest marsh.
He turned to follow the marsh’s perimeter, hoping perhaps it led to a stream or creak, even a pond, though the latter’s water would be as stagnant as the marsh.
The sharp crack of a branch underfoot off to his right startled him and he snapped his eyes toward the sound, not that he could see anything in this light. Could it be the gholem? A second snapping branch and the rustle of a bush belied a much smaller creature, however. Phinnegan remained still for several minutes until the sound passed some distance behind him and then splashed faintly as the creature, whatever it was, moved off into the marsh.
Moving again, he followed the marsh’s edge to the right, but was forced to move even further right when the marsh became deeper. The further to the right he went, the closer the trees came to one another. Several times he felt his face assaulted by the sticky strands of a spider’s web.
I hate spiders
.
It was difficult to see at first in the darkness, but the trees began to thin. As they thinned, the slope of the ground beneath him inclined until he reached a small summit. Here, the tree line broke and he found himself standing above a small clearing. The sky overhead was dotted with the night’s first stars, their light reflected in the ripples of a slow moving creek not twenty paces ahead.
The sight of the water rejuvenated him and he hurried forward, though nearly falling once as his foot caught a small depression. He fell to his knees beside the creek and cupped his hands, scooping the water to his lips and drinking his fill. He was on his third handful when he noticed the faint taste in the water.
Apples
.
Standing, he followed the creek away from the trees whence he had come. And then he saw them, their branches arching thickly overhead. Three old apple trees, their roots running along the banks of the creek, through its bed and interrupting the flow of water. A multitude of glistening orbs lay at the feet of the trees and filled the creek-bed so that the water was forced to trickle between them and over top to continue its flow.
When he reached the trees, Phinnegan saw that these orbs were in fact apples, dozens of them. They must have fallen from the trees, their red skin so dark that they were nearly black in the starlight.
Phinnegan’s stomach rumbled loudly at the sight of the apples. The branches were just out of his reach, so he grabbed several of the apples on the top of the pile in the creek. Their skin was cool and wet and he bit into the first ravenously, the satisfying crunch ringing in the night.