Chapter Seventeen
Face of Hunger
The first experience in the Eternal Reading Room taught the party much. When the Librarian led them into a hallway even Art’s lantern could not illuminate, he was already on edge and cautious.
“Where are we?” He asked, knowing the Librarian would answer, but that was where its aid would end.
“This is the Hallway of Endless Deep. Here you can find the collected works of anyone who has felt dramatic despair. Their stories have caused this deep blackness, devoid of hope.” Its voice was almost too accommodating.
“This thing means to see us eaten by its master,” Ever spoke to him telepathically as he pulled out a small glowing stone that could act as a light, only to have its illumination swallowed by the pitch as well.
“I had the same thought,” Art answered in his mind. “Devoid of hope,” he mumbled aloud thinking fast, not wanting to linger waiting for whatever danger the Library had in store for them to manifest.
“Art, what are we to--” Ever started but the man hushed him.
Art was running though what he knew of despair and its connection to demons. The darkness seemed to be making Lucid nervous and Art felt him move closer to both he and the elf. Art suspected that he had shifted into nightmare guise and still could not see through the black. Nothing they had could penetrate it. Suddenly, the man looked up and turned around. Orchid was behind the group, her glow not illuminating as a traditional light would, Yet Art could still see her.
“Orchid!" Art exclaimed and the ghost blinked at him surprised, her large eyes confused by his outburst.
“I can see her,” Ever added. “Orchid, are you able to see in this darkness?”
She shook her head, floating hair shifting softly about her lovely face.
“She might not have to,” Art went on. “She glows because she is a ghost, but she glows much brighter than most because she has hope that she will live again. Most ghosts do not have that and are locked in a constant state of despair. It’s possible if Orchid wishes to leave this hall, her light will actually draw her out of the darkness.”
“Will you try, my love?” Ever asked as the ghost closed her eyes smiling.
“Yes, of course. What do I do, Art?”
“Just think of what it would be like to live again, how this darkness is only temporary in your life. Concentrate on those feelings.”
She obeyed, and though Art thought it would take a little time for her to focus, it was mere moments before her glow started to intensify. Art was actually quite astounded by her progress when her luminosity went from its ghostly hum to an almost shimmering blind, like a star. She started to float away from them and Art followed, telling the others to pursue. Before long they had walked quite a distance, guided by Orchid’s light, until a door and the Librarian appeared right before her.
Art stopped them and Orchid returned to her natural state. They watched as the Librarian tapped its scaly hand on the door’s latching handle and the room flooded with light. Art was about to follow the guide out when Lucid yelped, causing Art to turn and be greeted by a startling sight. The long hallway was much wider than he expected, a single rug running down its corridor. There was little in the space but aged wooden-lined walls. No furniture and few fixtures, but in the space between them and the long rug that they had followed to the exit door, was lined with row after row of lifeless standing bodies. They were all of mixed dress, race, and age, so many Art was not even sure how many were collected in the long room. They stood motionless with nothing in common but their state of being and the empty hole of black that occupied where their faces should have been.
Lucid looked pale, something about the rows and rows of empty people bothered him, but Art did not get the chance to ask.
“Depression and despair leaves you blackened and empty,” Ever said quietly, his eyes full of pity. “I do not know if these things we look upon are people or if they are just the shadows of their pain, but these represent souls without hope, unable to dream. This is personal madness and broken life. We should leave this place.”
His eyes lowered and he headed towards the door, Art following, taking Lucid by the arm and pulling him along. He was not sure if the boy was moved by the pain or if there was something more, but Art felt a tinge of real fear as well. It was not just demons and evil that reduced people to a state of emptiness. It was the loss of hope. Without hope, evil could get inside too easily and Art had to remember that. Once he learned the demon’s name and he was able to cut it from him, he would be facing the exorcism of it from his soul. It would require strength, focus and above all hope. He would have to find a way to remember that the next time he faced the fiend.
More rooms, more stairs, and strange forms and figures: “patrons” victimized by the Consciatosium. After they passed a woman bent completely backwards so that both her knees and shins were on the floor but her form was so severely bent that her face too was laying flat against the carpet, Art was on his last nerve. She was not still alive, but she was also not quite dead. There was nothing he could do for her. The Weiriman grew angry.
“Are you going to lead us to the books we asked for or is this just a tour through hell before you try and devour us again?!”
“Good Sir,” the Librarian stopped and waved his hand before a set of doors. “What you seek is just through here. I am sorry to keep you all waiting. The Consciatosium is a very large facility.”
“That’s been made very clear,” Art grumbled and headed into the next room, expecting to be greeted with a huge monster or some other form of trap or trick. To his surprise, they walked into something that looked more familiar. Aged but warm colored wood pillars held up a second level, lined with books, reading desks and large comfortable chairs. Lamps lit the space well and nothing macabre or sinister haunted the room. Art was made even more suspicious.
“Here you will find what you have been looking for.” The Librarian motioned to a table at the center where books lay on the polished wooden surface.
Art glanced at the hooded figure and hesitated, but Lucid and Ever proceeded to the table, Orchid beckoning to him. Giving a last glance at the Librarian, Art came to stand next to Ever and the elf pulled forward the first book.
“Demons of the Ever-Hunger,” Art read aloud.
“The Ever-Hunger is a level of hell?” Orchid inquired as she admitted she had little knowledge of such places.
Art nodded saying, “Yes, there are many layers, more than we know about. No one is sure just how many. I don’t know much about the Ever-Hunger other than it is a rare and deep layer full of the most dangerous and evil, though I suspect much of hell can be described as such.”
Ever crossed his arms, tossing some of his long hair back saying, “It would appear your plight hails from that very place.”
“So it would seem,” Art muttered opening the book cautiously.
It was old, the pages a withered color, the leather binding worn and snug against its spine. The embossed emblem of some demonic symbol was pressed deeply into the cover brushed with gold and peeling at the edges. It felt heavier than it looked and Art slid a chair out to sit, setting the book before him.
The first page was blank but the next after depicted an illustration almost too horrible for Art to look at. Demons twisted together, writhing in flame and smoke, feeding on one another in a violent tornado of agony and rage. Art did not want to turn the next page but knew he had to.
“I really don’t want to see this.” Orchid’s voice was small and she folded her hands in front of her, floating away a little.
“Don’t wander off,” Art warned. “I could be here a while though. This thing is pretty large and I don’t know how much I’ll have to read to determine which demon I’m hunting.”
“But how will you know?” Ever questioned, taking to a seat near where Orchid had floated. Lucid joined him, but sat on the table rather than a chair and smiled up at Orchid trying to
get her to smile back. It distressed him that she was disturbed by the book's imagery as well as the whole Consciatosium experience itself.
“Normally, during an investigation of a possession, sessions with a demon would either reveal its name or force clues from it. It will use certain phrases, reveal details of the hell it comes from, or things it does during possession will hint at its origin. Our schooling taught us how to detect these things and usually gives us an idea of where to start the research. Also, every Weiriman has psychic abilities and at times interacting with the evil gives us a clear idea where to start. However, I’m the possessed this time. I’m not just engaging the demon, it’s actually in my mind, taunting me, trying to break me down. It has given me little clue to who it is, and I’m sure it is doing this purposely.”
“It does not want you to learn its name,” Ever confirmed. “This is could be a positive development, though, Storygrove.”
“I had the same thought,” Art nodded, pulling his hood down and running a hand through his hair, feeling suddenly tired. His body had been sluggish and sore. Finally sitting after so long felt good, but also made him ache more as his muscles settled.
“You think it could mean it really is threatened by you?” Orchid asked understanding what man and elf were getting at.
“It’s my hope,” Art said, eyes scanning the warning at the front of the book that the demons contained there in were never to be summoned and never conversed with for they were of the most dangerous ilk. Art chewed on his inner cheek. “But everything I’ve seen so far would indicate I have little chance against this evil.”
Lucid leaned forward and gave Art a pat on the shoulder. The man turned to look at him and the youth smiled. He gave him another reassuring pat and pointed to the book indicating Art should read.
“I agree with the boy. You should read the book before you waste a moment on despair.” Ever was not looking at Art but reached out for the second book on the table. “Read, Orchid and I will see what can been discovered from this.”
Art read the title upside down, Abnormal Weirs: a Study in Experiment, Treatment and Ritual by Doctor Nicklaus Bancroft. It was the book Orchid had been reaching for in the Eternal Reading Room. They hoped her draw to the book might indicate it would shed some light on her and Ever’s predicament.
Before Art started to read, his eyes flashed towards the Librarian who stood unmoving, as if no longer alive, near the door of the room. The thing made Art nervous, and he hoped he was just on edge. Pushing other thoughts from his mind, his eyes returned to the tea colored pages of the book, to the first chapter: Lords of Hunger.
The title had a list scrolled under it of several different kinds of demons, some he had heard of and some that were unfamiliar. He stopped when he read Pith demons. Carefully, as not to damage the old pages, Art leafed through until he came to the title page. Anxiously he read:
Pith demon, also known as the demonic marrow or core demons, hail from a dense pit in the Ever-Hunger. Little is known about them as few have made their way out of the hell to the physical world. Once summoned and having crossed over to a physical form, they are nearly impossible to destroy. Imprisonment is the only tested and tried method of containment. The method of deporting them back to the Ever-Hunger is unknown as they get into the ‘marrow’ of the world and are very difficult to remove. They feed off of doubt, fear, and other core dark emotions. Known to be heavily intuitive. Also known to eat and prey on other demons.
Art rubbed his hand over his goatee and sighed long through his nose. There seemed to be no way to deport the thing back to hell. Even if he were able to exorcise the beast, what would he do with it? Learning its name might only give him the ability to exorcise it, but if even its name did not give him the power to expel it, he was at a loss. Knowing there was little to do other than to read on, Art turned the page.
A frightening image of a demon greeted him accompanied by a name. The picture was unfamiliar and there was little written about it. Art recognized nothing so he went on. He surveyed three more images of demons and three more names, nothing seemed right. They did not look anything like the demon he had seen.
Art found the depictions puzzling. There were always two figures pictured, though only one name was assigned. One bore an almost normal appearance with a face like that of man or other similar race. Though they still had horns, fanged teeth, clawed hands and other such demonic-like features, they were surprisingly mild. The other figure was grotesque, skeletal, frightening with all the imagery that invoked the word demon. Art suspected the demons had two faces, but not more than one consciousness unlike some nests of lesser demons. Demons with a singular consciousness were always more powerful. Nests of demons had to huddle together, because they needed each other just to survive, like smoky tendrils of wispy evil.
“Two faces,” Art muttered when he flipped another page and his blood iced within him. There, in clear ink, was the demon from inside his Haunting Weir prison. The thing’s horrific face grinned up at him from the paper, the empty eyes and the massive black twisted horns gleamed as it reached towards the reader from its illustration. “I found it,” Art half whispered, feeling ill, a rush of sick washing over his throat, hitting his stomach.
The others were moving, coming to stand over him. Orchid made a small sound and covered her mouth with both hands as everyone’s eyes came to rest on the horrifying depiction of the evil struggling to free itself from Art.
“This is your demon?” Ever asked, voice hushed, though he did not require an answer.
“Yes,” Art mumbled, staring at the empty eyes of the thing.
“Art what is the meaning of this?” The elf asked, alarmed.
“What?”
Art frowned, starting to look at him but instead followed the point of Ever’s finger as the Knight laid his hand over the illustration to the more normal looking face, smiling up at them, looking just as demonic, but handsome and familiar. Art griped the book and yanked it closer to him, eyes burning into the face.
“That….That's me!” he exclaimed his voice trembling, shock and awe shadowed by fear and confusion. “What?! What is the meaning of this?”
“The name…!” Orchid whispered, leaning over Art’s shoulder.
Art’s eyes fell on the name: Artcainecru, eater of kin, ilk of ink, seer into souls.
“Art…!” He uttered his own name in a shaky voice. His very name came from the demon’s name. The floor felt like it had dropped out from under him and he was falling. He went on to read that the demon was one of the few to be recorded as entering the physical realm. It was mysteriously contained by a Weirimen hunting party but not before slaying many. Art read through the names listed but paused on two: Karvin Storygenner and Neth Grovebell.
“Storygenner….Grovebell….” Art was trembling.
“Storygrove.” Ever breathed realizing the connection. “Are these the two you saw use the lantern and Weir Hewn to contain the demon in your vision when you were with the Weaver?”
Art had almost forgotten he had shared his experience with Orchid and Ever and he nodded slowly.
“I don’t understand, what does this mean?” Orchid asked, looking at Art’s ever-paling face.
“I don’t know,” the man confessed, confused and shocked, feeling almost desperate.
“You do not remember your past? Your parentage?” The elf pressed.
“No,” Art felt the panic rising in him. “I have no memories of my parents. I was adopted by a Weiriman.”
“But your name,” Ever interjected. “Who gave you your name?”
“I don’t know,” Art shook his head, dropping the book down on the table as if it had given him some contagion. “I can’t remember! It’s just always been my name. My childhood is fuzzy. But this demon was sealed many, many years ago, long before my life began, before my guardian was even born. And what does this mean?! Why do I have this thing’s face?! I….I don’t know what
this means!”
Art felt a rush of anxiety, his breathing hastening, the thump of his blood drumming in his ears. Fear coursed through, feeling like liquid fire between his ribs. Was he a demon? Was he something else entirely? What did this all mean!? He could feel the thing inside him, uncoiling like a great snake, smelling his terror, drinking his panic. It was going to come up from within him, it was going to consume him. His eyes glossed, air felt like it was burning his lungs.
Ever and Orchid were speaking but Art could not hear them. He wanted to be sick. He could feel it bubbling inside him. Why had Evendale never told him? Did she know?! How could she have kept something like this from him? Why had he felt the need to become a Weiriman if all he amounted to was some mirror of demonic filth? He wanted to die, wanted to be rid of the festering puzzle that was his life. He could feel the demon’s hands at his throat, moving under the skin to grip the windpipe. It would melt into him and consume him.
“Brother!” Lucid’s voice jarred Art back from whatever was happening inside him.
Blinking, Art slowly unclenched his hands; the bones clicking at effort at which they had been squeezed. He sniffed, feeling blood trickle out of his nose and went to wipe as Ever handed him a handkerchief. His mouth tasted like old metal, and he let out a shaky breath, looking to the boy.
“Brother, you are you,” he said quietly. “You are real and you have a soul.”
Art stared at him a long moment, his amber brimming eyes slowly returning to their greenish color. The boy looked on him steadily as if to say he needed to let each word sink into his mind.
“You are not a demon.”
Art let out another shuttering breath. “I am not a demon,” his words were almost inaudible.
“You cannot be,” Ever said drawing Art’s eyes to him. “If you were this demon you would not have a soul it wanted to consume. Does it not covet your soul?”
“Yes, you mentioned something,” Orchid reminded him. “It wants to eat your soul. A demon is incapable of having a soul, Art, it only consumes them. You have one.”
“I’m not a demon,” Art reaffirmed, his panic unraveling slowly. “I am real, I have a soul. Then…Then what am I?”
Ever and Orchid looked at one another and then back to Art.
“We do not have an answer. However, we know you to be Art Storygrove, a great Weiriman. You must keep this knowledge strong in your mind.”
“Yes,” Orchid floated down so that she was kneeling next to Art. “You cannot lose to fear. That will only allow the thing inside to destroy you. Now that you know its name you can force it from you. It does not matter where you came from.”
“All that matters is the task before you, Storygrove,” Ever spoke confidently, firmly, “and that has not changed. You now have the fiend’s name. We can return to the Weaver and cleanse your soul of this filth.”
Art’s eyes were huge, staring at the demonic image before him. He sat, stone still, feeling the demon shift within his Weir. It whispered to him, recited his fears, but he would not listen.
“You are right,” he muttered. “I’m going to cut this thing out of me. I won’t let it consume me.”
Lucid patted him on the arm, nodding and Art tried to smile, though it ended up looking more like a wince. He could do this, he told himself, getting to a shaking stand. He had to. He had not come such a long way, faced horrors and put his whole life on the knife’s edge to be consumed by the very monsters he had been training all his life to defeat. It did not matter what he was before. He was a weapon now, and this knowledge would only seek to sharpen him against the demon…against Artcainecru.
The name rumbled through him and he felt the demon’s deep chuckling.
“Knowing my name will only bring us closer together, boy.”
“Good,” Art bit the word out, hands balling into fists, “the closer you are, the deeper my blades go in.”