by Emma Coal
He slipped through the mound entrance and kept on running. The formerly emerald glass had been tinted amethyst and everything else had become darker and a blur. Phelan finally stopped when he’d passed through the veil. He sat panting and whimpering on the cliffside. Night had fallen and the full moon had risen almost to its highest point. The sea glinted darkly in the moonlight, the color lost save for black and white. There in the cool night air Phelan curled up and went to sleep, still letting out the occasional moan or whimper.
The sun warmed the little pup’s green coat and Phelan woke, looking around with glowing hazel eyes. He saw that he was on the cliffs and his eyes dimmed as he remembered what had happened. He began to race around, growling, jumping with anxiety. He stopped and stared further inland, where the veil was thinnest.
Phelan stepped forward and then paused, one paw in the air. Aisling had told him to run. He sat and cocked his head to one side, one ear falling over an eye. She had told him to run but she hadn’t said anything about when to come back. He yipped in annoyance and then sniffed, looking for the way back to his realm.
Something was wrong. The soft spot was there, breaking through reality as it usually did, but the smell from the other side of the veil was no longer verdant and fresh. Instead the scent was almost the same as the scent on the Moore. Heather and salt and cool air filled Phelan’s nose no matter where he sniffed. Cautiously, he stepped through the veil. He took a few more steps.
He stopped. Nothing had changed. The colors were still dark compared to the other world. He took another step and woofed in relief. The fairy mound was there still. Strangely, it loomed in the distance instead of being near. As he approached, his nose continued to work and what he smelled made him anxious. Nothing was there.
At the entrance to the mound, Phelan stopped. There was no entrance. He pawed at where it should be and howled. The little wolf jumped back in surprise as the opening appeared. He sniffed all around the hole and then went inside. The big space in the center of the mound was still there but, somehow, it was smaller. The throne was also there at the far end of the space but, Phelan considered it in confusion, was it smaller?
He approached, sniffing cautiously. He’d always wanted to get a good look at the chair. Once he was there, though, it seemed undefined, the silver was bright but it looked…half melted? As he thought it, the chair sharpened into better focus and leaf patterns carved themselves out of the material. Phelan jumped back and barked in shock. The throne became a silver basket with a pearlescent cushion.
Phelan changed shape. In his little boy form, he looked around. The basket changed, becoming a throne again but it was definitely smaller and maintained the wicker pattern as well as the cushion.
“Is anyone here?” he called.
Something hit him on the head.
When Phelan came to he was in a hallway with a wooden floor, the red hall runner abrading his cheek. He looked around and was greeted by moldings along the floor and ceiling, doorways and even a hall table. He had no idea what was going on. He discovered a book open beside him. On the page was a print of a building and of the interior.
Phelan flipped through the book and shortly saw other illustrations, one of the runner and the table and the hall. He began to read. He had learned a while ago so it was difficult but he learned at length that this was a human house. Phelan lost interest and tried to open one of the doors. He’d only just learned what a knob was, so it took some effort. Once he managed to get through the door he regarded a bed and table with a small white china vase with some sort of flower on one side.
Phelan stepped further inside and curled his bare toes in the material on the floor. It was soft and tickled a little like grass but without the cool damp. He found he didn’t care for it as much. He followed the light and saw there was an opening with a translucent barrier which allowed a view of the outside with sun shining and the sky beginning to warm up. He left the room and walked down the hall. At one end of it was another door, two in fact though these had no knobs.
With a growl and after some fumbling at the odd curvy fastener, Phelan changed and leaped upon them, tearing with his claws and teeth. The door tidily disintegrated, splinters falling upon the carpet. With a satisfied expulsion of hair, the young, verdant-pelted wolf slipped through the opening. He found himself in another kind of space. It reminded him of the throne room.
There were differences. Instead of dark stone, the surface Phelan stood upon was much smoother and cooler and when he tried to step his claws clacked alarmingly. He even slid a little. There were windows in this room too that went around the walls in a semicircle. The sun streamed through these but again Phelan felt distant from it, unable to smell the grass and the warmth of the outside.
He sprung upon one of the windows but the house dissolved it before he could get in more than a couple of swipes. Phelan turned on the other windows and the walls that separated them with vengeance in his heart. He managed to connect with plaster and wood a few times and the tinkle of the clear hindrance breaking into shards caused him satisfaction.
Phelan stepped through the opening and breathed in the fresh air. He still stood upon something that annoyed his feet with its unnatural smoothness, some sort of polished stone again, but that was soon resolved. He bounded out past this strange raised outdoor flooring and barked in happiness to feel the plants between his toes. Stirred, he took off at a run.
The house, which had recently been the fairy mound, kept tabs on the wolf. Phelan didn’t know it but the house was used to accommodating the preferences of the fey and had done so for all of its previous inhabitants, save the little wolf, the only child in the mound. Now that Phelan was the only one, the house intended to watch over him, even though it found him tiresome. It currently wished to be a house and he currently seemed content to destroy its house-ness.
The day was well on its way when Phelan returned to the cliffside. He wanted something that hadn’t changed. The cliffs were still there as was the beach below and the shimmering green water that extended out to the horizon in a shining, slithery sliver. Phelan found the special section of the cliff where a lip extended an arm span below. He jumped down and scrabbled the rest of the way down the cliff, landing with a thud on the rocky shore.
He prowled around the beach, rolled in the gravel and basked in the sun. To break his fast he leapt among the waves, buried his head lustily beneath the water and caught himself several fish. Once he caught one he leapt up out of the water and flung the fish in a graceful arc onto a rock on the shore. Once he tired of this, he went and gobbled them up, scales and bones and all, getting blood and bits everywhere. He didn’t really care, it was all part of the fun. Afterwards, he fell asleep on another rock, comforted by the sun beating on the ebony surface and onto his coat.
Phelan woke to searing pain in his shoulder. He yelped and yipped and cried too scared to realize what it was. He tried to run but he couldn’t. He managed to turn his head and made out a long shaft sticking out of the meaty part of his front leg. When he tried to move the shaft bent and he could see something attached to the top.
“What is it?”
The voices came from above on the other side of the cops. Phelan wrenched his neck around and managed to grab the shaft of the, and yank it out. The pain was excruciating. He screamed. When the pain lessoned a little Phelan stared around. He saw a figure leap down from an opening in the cliffs and approach. Phelan took off in a ran, leaping awkwardly from the rock and whimpering at the pain in his shoulder. He scrabbled up the cliffside, crying the entire way, and didn’t stop until he was at the top of the cliff panting and whining. Heart pounding, he peered over the edge. There was no one on the beach. He scanned frantically and noticed a boat on the far side of the cops, hidden by one of the many large dark rocks that littered the beach. There were also men climbing up the far side, apparently they had a rope.
Phelan scrambled back from the edge and changed into his boy form. They wouldn’t hurt him if he look
ed like them, would they? He tried to crawl further back but his arm was bleeding down to his elbow and his forearm, likely his fur had caught some of it before he changed. As it was, his hand was slick and he left a thick splotch of blood in the heather. The limb slid backwards on the slick patch, causing him to fall and cry out. He gritted his teeth and tried to staunch his tears but they wouldn’t stop.
The house couldn’t sense the cops. Its reach only extended to the location of the old opening. Still, it heard when Phelan reached the edge of the veil and it sprung into action. It wasn’t without skill. Previous inhabitants had ordered protection and the house in its more eldritch form had been the one enchanted to provide them. The temperature around the house began to drop. Mist began to rise from the grounds. In great billowing clouds, it thickened and washed over the landscape, turning the calm countryside dark and ominous.
The first of the men had reached the edge of the cliff. They climbed up and began to run straight towards the little green stockinged boy. Phelan was nearly paralyzed with terror.
“Where is it?” asked one in the rough, strangely singsong tones of a sailor.
“Ere’s one better for you, what tis it?”
They were nearly upon him and his heart nearly burst from his chest, it was beating so hard. All he could hear was the blood rush in his ears. Perhaps the men, pirates or sailors, whatever they were, hadn’t seen the young boy because his costume was so similar in color to the flora which grew on the mores. When one stopped and looked around, Phelan thought he was dead. When the man looked right at him he was sure he was dead.
“Oy, there’s a boy ere,” he called to the others and reached down to grab Phelan by the arm.
Phelan tried to change shape but he couldn’t. He tried to move but he couldn’t. The man stopped when he saw the blood on his shoulder and smirked.
“Tis the wolf. The beastie was a fey.”
Again he reached to grab Phelan, this time going for his neck. Phelan squeezed his eyes shut, his brain overcome with abject dread.
The sailor let out a cry of surprise and the searing pain in Phelan’s shoulder lessoned as something cold covered it. He opened his eyes. He could see the sailors but they were yards away and getting farther. Like shadow puppets, they danced within the recently fallen fog, crying out and jerking and moving in all sorts of uncomfortable ways. Phelan stared in fascination, his tears drying.
Eventually he heard a scream which ended in a sickening thud and then the smell of steel being exposed along with the clang of that metal upon another such implement. There was the sound of a sword schlepping into a body and of another thudding upon bone and two shadow puppet bodies fell off the cliff. Phelan sniffed the air, smelling only dead bodies. He stood, his shoulder feeling much better, and walked back to the house.
The house had made some changes. There were trees and carved figures and leafy plants about as tall as Phelan was. He made his way to the great big space and climbed the weird things called stairs to the platform above the door. Here he could see and they couldn’t see him as well.
He changed form and, growling, grabbed the great big wall hanging in his teeth and yanked it roughly down. He positioned it and then rolled around in it and settled, falling asleep. Even asleep one ear stayed cocked and he twitched fitfully, waking frequently, his dreams causing him to whimper. Phelan had learned a lesson. There were dangerous and frightening things.
Grace stared at the last page. She had a few questions such as who had written such a thing and when it had happened as well as how they got inside the head of the wolf who had slept in front of the fire the previous night, with barely a glance at her. It hurt her to make the leap of logic but she was beginning to wonder if accepting magic as the reason, without further refining of how it was the reason, would make her time in this place much less confusing.
She flipped to the next page and found it blank. There were lines for text to go as if it was a journal, but nothing else. She pondered and then reached out for the pen she knew was on the table beside her tea. There was only one thing to satisfy her curiosity. At the top of the page she put her name and then, without ceremony or hesitation, she began to write.
Chapter Sixteen: Argent
The view of the street was absolutely clear, the ivy only just having been cleared away by Jacob, the gardener who came by part time to take care of the little front garden which was the only land the town house boasted. It was no matter. They were only across the street from a grand park which offered more than enough nature and life to more than make up for the lack of a garden. The park, with all of its excitement, was their real garden.
Grace watched the carts and cartridges pass by and the people out to promenade along in their brightly colored hats, their breeches and their rich gowns. They would cross, heedless of the traffic, strutting along as if they owned everything they saw, and make their way through the park. The couples and groups acted as if they were the only people around, walking with confidence and chatting haughtily, but Grace knew better. They were all there to be seen and to watch the others in the park while pretending not to.
She turned away from the bustle of the street below and watched her mother at her dressing table. Candice Bernadette had cool silver eyes which never missed anything and pale white, one would almost say grey, hair which rose majestically from her head and fell in thick waves. She brushed her hair with a silver handled brush and watched her daughter through the looking glass with her piercing eyes.
“Grace, what have you done today? Have you played with your sisters? Have you done your sewing?”
Grace turned her gaze back to the window but looked sheepishly at her mother when her name was called again.
“No mama, I haven’t done any of these things. I did play though.”
“But you played by yourself, didn’t you? I saw you leaping and spinning in the garden just this morning.”
“Yes mama.” Grace felt uncomfortable that she had been watched. She should have known.
Her mother turned in her chair, always graceful, always poised. She adjusted her dressing gown even though her eldest daughter was the only one in the room. Grace’s mother was like that, Graceful, composed, mysterious. Grace was uncertain why she slept so much, though. It was nigh noon and mama was only now finishing her toilet.
“Grace, you should spend more time with your sisters. I know that they are younger than you and that means they don’t like the same things, but you are the elder sister and should try to accommodate your siblings.”
Grace came to kneel in front of her mother, one hand on her knee. “It’s not that they’re younger, mama. They’re just so ungainly and slow. I try to play with them and then they tire and then they cry and I hate it so, mama. They’re just so loud.”
Candace took her daughter’s hand, her eyes sorrowful. “Oh, my dear, dear girl. Her eyes hardened and she cuffed Grace on the back of the head. Grace yelped and stared reproachfully at her mother.
Candace shook her head. “Grace, my special eldest. You have no tact. If you want to get along in this world you must at least try to get along, especially with your family. Family is important, especially for us.” She turned back to her vanity and carefully stroked a single rose in a bud vase of blue china. A rose had been in that vase for as long as Grace could remember. It was always a red one with a delicate pink blush on the petals.
Her mother resumed her grooming routine and watched Grace through the mirror.
“Go now. Spend time with your sisters. Visit your father. Have a useful and interesting day.”
“Yes mama.” Grace stood and went to the door. As she was about to go through she turned back. “Will you come out before supper, mama?”
“We shall see, my dear, we shall see.”
Grace left feeling a little melancholy. Ever since her mother had taken ill she had stayed in her rooms most of the time. Sometimes she didn’t leave at all. Grace didn’t know what was wrong but she missed shopping and the games they use
d to play. Games of speed and precision that her sisters couldn’t hope to compete in. She’d tried to teach Louise but eventually the younger girl had given up, sticking her nose in the air and insisting that such games “weren’t ladylike.”
Grace scowled. Since their mother had taken ill a year ago the two younger girls, nine year old Louise and six year old Elsbeth, had been put in the charge of Miss Erlehart. Grace felt the woman was a terrible influence and made her sisters even more odious than they needed to be. She sighed and headed to the playroom anyway.
The two girls were dancing with each other. Miss Erlehart was in the corner controlling the music as she watched them intently, no doubt critiquing each mistake.
Grace watched from the doorway with amusement. Louise had to be in pain. Elsbeth was constantly stepping on the tips of her slippers.
“Grace, come in here and dance with Louise. You’re taller and it will help her to get in practice for when she dances with a gentleman.”
Grace slunk into the room, cowed by Miss Erlehart’s stringent tone.
Soon, the tips of her toes were aching and her ears were throbbing at the crackling waltz music emitting from the gramophone.
One two three for one two three four,” Miss Erlehart yelled.
It was purgatory.
Finally the song was over.
“There is room for improvement,” said the governess, lips pursed.
“Where are you off to, Grace?”
Grace turned back from fleeing the room. “I was going to speak with father.”
The governess raised one thin eyebrow. “I’m sure you will see him at supper. Come, dance with me. You need to practice following someone’s lead. You’re the eldest and so you must learn to dance so you may present a good impression for your sisters at balls and parties.”
