Though I hated every step, I went with Herne as he trudged across the empty fields, to where I did not know. When I asked about our destination, I was rebutted with “Stop asking questions, boy, you wouldn’t understand even if I told you”. To which, I replied with, “My name’s Finn, not boy. Should I call you for what you are, a vulture for your pecking manners and ugly coat or a demon for your terrible character. I can almost see the horns beneath your hair.” I sneered. At that he glared at me but still would not answer my questions.

By the time we crested a hill with an empty stone arch, the day had lightened from a shade of near black to a dark gray, as is the case in ever cloudy Scotland. Herne looked up at the stars again, checking for some astrological sign or stray cloud. With one hand in his pocket, he looked the face of nonchalance and slight annoyance. He tapped the arch with his cane and runes that I had mistook for weathering suddenly glowed a pale blue. The grass on the other side of the arch still looked the same but I doubted I could actually reach it should I pass under the arch.

With the cane, Herne nudged me forward. “Hurry up boy”

“Why don’t you go first?” I said with false sweetness.

“Ha, I know what you’re up to boy. The second I leave you, you’re going to be scampering back to your sister’s house, no matter what you said before.”

I only scowled at him and stepped forward. The softly glowing stones which had looked pretty and pleasant before now looked eerie and haunting. The grass on the other side of the arch was only a mere three feet away yet it seemed as if the distance between us spanned miles. I didn’t want to step under that cursed curve of stone.

When I refused to move any further, Herne shoved me. My hands automatically shot out and caught against the stone. For a brief moment, only my head passed through the arch. Beyond it was a glittering stone city, softly lit in pale blues and purples. The effect was nauseating, the separation between my head and torso was infinite but the rest of my body soon fell through as I felt Herne give me a rude kick.

Though I hardly ever ventured beyond the little town where I was born and raised, I knew enough that this wasn’t a city for the average human folk. The little magic we had in our house was enough for me to recognize the presence of magic, but I was still awed by anything more than potions that grew hair or spells that revived a dying stalk of basil.

And the city was about as magical as a city could be. Half the structures looked precarious enough to fall over at the slightest breath of wind and their continued presence could only be the product of otherworldly forces. Wild, ambitiously tall towers dotted the city, topped with brightly colored domes, and decorated with intricate carvings. Most of the city was made of closely built stone structures, a stark contrast to the bright colors and artistry of the towers. Stone stairs ran along the buildings, frequently ending in terraces rife with vegetation and softly glowing patterns that I assumed were fungus. The streets were narrow and dark in these early hours, but given Scotland’s gloomy weather, I suspected that it would look much the same in daytime.

The arch had let us out onto a forested hill, still a distance away from the city. I turned to ask Herne whether this city was our destination, but before I could utter a sound, he gave an exasperated sigh.

“Before you ask whether we were seeking this glorious city of Baile Bo” at this he turned and spread his harms in mock glory, and in a weary tone, “the answer is yes” He then proceeded to trudge down the stone steps towards the city.

At the bottom of the hill were a set of gates, though strangely there was no fence, just a simple stone arch and wrought-iron doors. I couldn’t understand the purpose of such a thing, when the doors creaked open and a foot appeared, then a body, and a woman stood on the grass before the gate. As she passed through, I glimpsed the town square of my village.

“Why didn’t we do that?!” I exclaimed, the shock of it stilling my features into an astonished gasp. I had never seen magic used in such a way. “Why’d you make us tramp halfway through Scotland in the middle of the night?”

Herne gave me a look of consternation and slight surprise, already furrowed brows deepening.

“It doesn’t work that way, boy” he growled, “Did your sister teach you nothing?”

I knew the twenty-one ways to brew a sleeping draught and how to make a potion that could put a man to sleep for half a decade, but I knew that this wasn’t the magic he was speaking of. But still, I had to defend Macha and her erratic lessons.

“I could bend your will to mine with a word and a potion so that you’d be less than a dog, a slobbering, husk of a man; I could send you into a slumber so deep, even the screams of your loved ones wouldn’t wake you, so don’t try me old man” I said, a nasty, foreign edge to my voice, I scarce recognized it as myself.

“Ooh scary, boyo” he chuckled, “let’s hope you keep that bite of anger, you’re gonna need it in Baile Bo”

“Now come” he commanded.

The path down to the city was overgrown with strange and whimsical plants, none of which I had ever seen before. And I spent half my childhood in the forest picking witch herbs. The path underfoot was paved with whorls of stone, some glowing with ethereal light and others darkened till they were almost indiscernible from the dark soil in which they were set. Towering trees decked in coats of multicolored fungi lined the path. Some with deliberately placed glowing lichen instead of lanterns.

Herne set off down the path, whacking his cane back and forth against the tide of vegetation, muttering all the while. “Damn wizards can’t even keep a proper path tidy” Occasionally he tapped a darkened stone and it flared to life and the plants seemed to shrink back. I looked behind me, what had been a forest with a trail of stones was now a brightly lit path, the encroaching vegetation neatly beaten back.

The city was revealed all at once, the forest ended abruptly and the stone path continued into a widening street. Tall, narrow houses lined the way. Warm, cheery light spilled onto the now dull, gray stone. Few were out at his hour and so close to the woods but as we walked on, I began to see the city’s strange inhabitants. Not all were human, in fact half the city it seemed, bore some unnatural ancestry.

There were some with thin, spiraled horns sprouting from their forehead. Others had insect like carapaces shielding their head and body, blending seamlessly with their rough, clay colored flesh. Their joints were hard and knobby, and they spoke in a harsh chatter full of throaty rumbles and clicking tongues. Still others were stranger yet, bearing only a cursory resemblance to humans. A wispish treeling, danced around, rootlike feet piercing the stone which quickly grew back when the root was removed. Its four thin legs reminded me of a spider but when it turned, I saw a miserable old face embedded within its abdomen. The bark splitting away to reveal a wrinkled visage set in a grimace. Above it were four other faces, but it turned away too quickly for me to see much else. I could only the tips of its leafy hair once it disappeared into the crowd.

Everywhere in the city there was more to see. Within one darkened window, I could see a room full of cages, some filled with everyday objects – teacups, pens, and glasses – others were hidden under cloth and were violently rocking, only restrained by a number of heavy chains. In another, a clothing shop full wares where laughing mannequins sat drinking tea. Instead of the long flowing robes and richly embroidered shirts the shop sold, they dressed in identical white shifts. Save for their wooden flesh and painted features, they could almost pass for a human woman. But there was something inhuman quality that distinguished them from people like me that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, a stiffness to their movements? No, a false quality to their tittering laughs?

I realized I had stopped when Herne looked back and barked at me to hurry.

We reached the house at dawn. The house was weathered and falling apart but still it maintained a weary elegance. A set of delicately wrought iron gates led to a small courtyard. Vines had claimed the walls and honeysuckle and trumpet flowers perfumed the air. A hallway shaded with arches led off to a garden and two doors sat on opposite sides. The most surprising feature of the small courtyard was the faded mosaic of a leviathan enwrapping an unfortunate ship which took up most of the floor. Though the colors were dull to being almost indistinguishable, I could still see the genius of the artist, the intricacy of the work. I could even make out a tiny, despairing sailor on the bow of the ship.

Herne struggled to open the west door, muttering and cursing all the while. Gripping the handle and feet firmly planted, he pulled with all his weight. I might’ve laughed if I hadn’t already experienced his short and fiery temper. The dull metal lump of a knocker, shaped into a crude imitation of a face, suddenly gave a maniacal laugh.

“Open, you worthless thing” Herne snarled.

The knocker only laughed. “What have you brought home this time? Another stray bag of bones?” It peered at me, ugly mishappen eyes narrowed in malice. “A youngin this time, eh? Are we robbing children’s hospitals these days, Herne?”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Herne only barked at him for silence. “If you don’t let me in, I really will burn you to the ground this time?” “Should’ve known not to go round the back, I go to all this trouble to avoid Mallory and this is what I get.”

The door creaked open reluctantly. The knocker still had a knowing smirk on its face and when I passed it hissed a “boo!”.

The house was just as decrepit inside as it was on the outside. The hints of a glamourous past showed in the elaborate, yet dirty crowning and the old, nicked furniture made with richly colored, fine-grained wood. An exquisitely thick, woven rug displayed the same leviathan as earlier, as did paintings of other nautical life draped the walls: a ship, mermaids, an octopus. We had entered a sitting room, though I doubted a house this badly kept entertained many guests. The air was full of dust and the smell of mildew. If I had to live here, I feared my lungs would start molding and rotting like a real corpse.

I think Herne noticed my distaste since he glared at me and gave me a nasty smile. “If you don’t like it, you’re always free to die again.” I glared back at him but schooled my features into a neutral look and said cordially, “I’ve changed my mind, I’d like to return home. To Macha’s house.”

“Can’t do that boyo.”

“Why not?” I asked petulantly, not caring that I let a whine creep into my tone.

“There are rules, kid. You’re dead and that means you don’t have the same rights as the living, including going where you’d like.”

“So your options are dying, for good this time, I haven’t heard of anyone who’s come back twice, but I suppose you’re free to try. Or you can come with me and find a patron, which would give you a modicum of freedom” holding his thumb and index finger a sliver apart.

His condescending manner was starting to grate at me. But the fact that I knew almost nothing about this city, where it was, and how I was supposed to leave was a whirlpool of anxiety in my mind. The gate I had entered from could lead anywhere. I might not even be in Scotland anymore for all I knew.

Further inside, past the sitting room, I was greeted by a half rotted, thinly carpeted stairway. The house was too dim for me to see the top and the effect was like staring into the gaping maw of a massive beast, the carpet a curling tongue ready to grab me for the monster to swallow whole. The rest of the room was similarly shadowed, the glowing lichens the rest of the city seemed to favor were absent here.

From the living room crept a girl about my age with sleek chin-length hair and a red cloak as if she was preparing to go out, despite the late hour.

“If you were trying to avoid me by coming round the back, you’ve failed” she said to Herne, disdain dripping from every word.

“Deidre dear” Herne said sweetly, “Why would I avoid you? You know how I love to hear your angelic voice and see that cherubic face of yours” He reached out to pinch her cheek but, she swatted away his outstretched hand. The sudden change in Herne’s demeanor was quite shocking.

Deidre had stalked over to me and was eyeing me the way a cat watches a mouse. She was not a pretty girl. Her lips were very thin, like an old lady’s. All her features were too sharp, nose too pointed, her cheeks were a sharp plane. But together, they gave her an arresting look, intense and intimidating. When she reached out as if to pull me closer, I shrank away. A mirthless smile graced her face, as if my reaction was a test.

“Skittish isn’t he?” she said to Herne.

That rankled. I scowled which only made her grin all the harder as if all she wanted was to get a reaction out of me. All I wanted was to leave the damn place, to stop breathing in the damp, moldy air, to stop fearing that the half rotten beams holding this shack together would fall atop me.

Herne eventually scolded Deidre, “Stop pestering the boy. Have you prepared the attic like I asked?” He gave her a pointed look, to which she scoffed and sniffed, “Good enough for him I should think.” I would hate to know what she thought I deserved, but I’m sure to find out, since I really have nowhere else to go for this night, or day by now, at least.

The attic was cramped and filthy but with the dimly glowing lichen shining in from the streets below and the budding sunrise, it was brighter than the rest of the depressingly dark house. Deidre brought me up and left with a flash of her cloak and a call from the stairs, “I don’t hope that you like it, because you’re not staying long, country boy”. The smell of mildew permeated everything. The blankets were free of dust but that couldn’t be said of the rest of the room. Mouse droppings lined the edges of the walls and I could hear them skittering in the ceiling and behind the walls. With a firm tug, the window reluctantly swung open, letting in a cool night breeze.

I’m not sure how I fell asleep in that dump, but I did because the next thing I knew the lichen lamps were glowing bright as daylight and I could hear the daily clamor of a waking city outside. The room looked even dingier in the daylight.

Downstairs things were not much better. Softly glowing lamps in warm tones flickered throughout the house if it could even be called that. The house had lost its eerie, haunted atmosphere, and now simply looked weary and run-down.

Though the sun had yet to rise for at least another hour, Herne and Deidre sat in the dining room eating breakfast and arguing heatedly.

“I’m not saying we should side with the Underhands but you must admit they have a point” Deidre hissed.

Herne looked pointedly at her, “I’m not doing this again. They’re a bunch of lying, pissing, low-lives who are more likely to dress in drag and dance a musical than sign a rational treaty written in ink rather than pigs’ blood. The heathens.”

Deidre just leaned back and stuck her tongue at him.

They both noticed me standing in the doorway at the same time.

“You sniveling, little eavesdropper. How long have you been standing there?” asked Deidre in a snide voice. “Deidre” Herne warned. To me, he simply gestured towards the food on the table and said “Breakfast, we’ll be doing a test of sorts after you’ve eaten. I don’t know how long it’ll, could be half an hour, could be half the day. It might hurt like a bitch, and you’ll wish your sister left you for dead or it’ll be the most pleasant experience of your short, peasant life. So enjoy this last moment of normalcy, because nothing” he looked me dead in the eyes, with a grin so intense and devoid of any mirth, that I almost ran out the door, “Nothing, will ever be the same again”.

Needless to say, breakfast was a tense affair.

After, we moved to the courtyard where Herne consulted the stars. The night was perfectly clear and the moon was a sliver of crescent light. In other words, it was a perfect night for stargazing. I desperately hoped that was all we were doing, but the knot in the pit of my stomach said otherwise.

Herne looked to us with a smile and his hands clasped together. “Wonderful night for fishing, eh?” From the puzzled look on my face, Deidre sighed, as if my ignorance was a slight to her, and whispered, “Fishing is when you cast about looking for a god or goddess to be your patron. You give them something, emotion, imagination, whatever it is that they want, and in return you get magic.” She whispered a small cantrip and a tear on her voluminous sleeve stitched itself together, “See?”

“Stop whispering, children” Herne commanded, “Finn, come here”. He tapped the eye of the leviathan with his boot. Reluctantly, I did as he said.

“No need to be afraid” he said, trying to be reassuring, but mostly failing. “I was just jesting this morning. Hardly anybody gets any of the Savages, the ones who drive people mad and practice those barbaric rituals of eye gouging and cannibalism. Practically no one, really. Just a joke, thought I could get you to piss your pants boyo, looked like you nearly did” he laughed at his own joke, which really was not funny at all.

He handed me a cup of wine “for courage”. It was a deep red color and moved slow as molasses. One whiff and I almost gagged, it reeked of rot and poison. If I drank it, I was sure I would die. Both Herne and Deidre looked at me expectedly. They couldn’t actually expect me to drink this stuff, could they. I tried to plead with Herne, but he just looked at me the way you would look at a whining toddler. “Just drink it, ya great cowardly oaf”, a hint of an accent accidently peeking out of annoyance.

Herne didn’t seem to be the sort who’d take no for an answer. If I didn’t drink it, he’d likely pry my jaw open and have Deidre pour it down my throat, not caring if I choked or not. I looked over at him, then down at the wine. It looked innocuous enough if you could ignore the smell. I drank it. It was thick and sickly sweet, the most disgusting wine I have ever had the misfortune to drink, if it was wine at all. As I tried to gulp it down, it moved so slowly down my throat, I thought I would suffocate. And I think I did because I started to run out of air, and the black stars of unconsciousness started closing in.

When I woke, I wasn’t in that moldy, rattrap of a home. Where was I? The room around me had queer, off-white walls, tiled in white and yellow stained tesserae. Rough and slightly warm to the touch, it almost felt alive. The floor was carpeted in coarse, black fur that soaked up all the dim firelight from the torches fixed to the walls. Past the bone white door were rooms and hallways made of the same off-putting, white walls.

I must have wandered for what felt like an hour (with my frayed nerves, it was hard to tell how much time had truly passed) when I found a man sitting on an armchair, thankfully made of very normal looking plaid cloth.

“Where are we?” I asked.

He looked at me and I could tell instantly that he was mad. There was a wild gleam in his eye and his lips were pulled into a painfully wide grin, showing off his dirty yellow teeth littered with who knows what.

“Finn!” he cried, like we were old friends, “I’ve been waiting ages for you.”

“This is your house you know, you should know your way around” he tutted at me, with a comical frown on his bug-eyed face. His hair was a rat’s nest, gray and tangled, falling to his shoulders, and I could swear it moved by itself. Rail thin, gaunt really, he moved with a frenetic, almost deranged energy. He wasn’t ugly per say but everything about him felt skewed and off putting.

“What do you mean this is my house?” I asked.

The man only cackled in delight. He cooed and I could see a few crooked teeth hanging from his gums. “Old man Herne is really throwing you in the deep end isn’t he?” he muttered, which set him off on another howling fit of laughter.

The only thing I wanted to do was leave, but the thought of wandering aimlessly amidst the halls of bone sent shivers up my spine. “Pardon me, but could you show me the way out? I wouldn’t want to take up any more of your time.” I asked, trying to suppress the quiver in my voice.

“Oh ho, but don’t you want to make a contract?” he asked as he danced around me. “After all isn’t that why Herne sent you here?”. Suddenly, his voice dropped to a menacing growl. From behind me, he commanded, “Sit”.

I turned around, about to ask where, when an armchair that most certainly had not been there before had materialized in the center of the room. The old man sat with businesslike behind a gorgeous desk of dark wood, hands steepled beneath his chin. He gestured to the chair, his fingers had stopped twitching and dancing, and his gestures were instead laced with polished grace. Even his appearance had changed, he was now dressed in a suit of luscious black silk and his tangled mane was now smoothed back from his face, though I thought I did see it twitch from time to time.

I sat. The chair, like everything else in the room was warm to the touch, and the black leather was disturbingly soft and pliable.

“Now, to business”. He drew a thick sheet of creamy paper from a drawer and laid it in front of me. “Here are the terms.”