Chapter Twenty
The Walking Weir
Cutting Orchid free of Ever’s Haunting Weir read as a straight forward procedure. Art was nervous, but also fairly confident that he could achieve what he had read in the strange tomb. When he made the first slice into the fused Weirs, Orchid’s soul bust out of the female tree form, screaming as if Art had actually cut her deeply. The man knew then why he had felt so hesitant to follow any process laid down in a book authored by a monster that would actually experiment in cutting Weirs out of people in the first place.
She was as ghostly in Ever’s psychic space as she was in the physical world but that did not stop the elf from kneeling by her, showing his agony at being unable to physically touch and comfort her. Translucent tears that floated out of her eyes like clear pearls, rather than stream down her face, bubbled out of her eyes. Her arms were wrapped about her, showing the pain had wracked her whole form.
“What happened?!” Ever turned rage filled eyes to Art.
“I don’t know! The book didn’t say anything about the procedure being painful.”
“Look at her!” Ever stormed, pointing at Orchid who was trying to stop her sobbing, shaking her head.
“It’s all right,” she stammered. “G-go on. I can endure it.”
Art hesitated as Ever’s face paled, his expression a clear hatred at even the idea of causing her pain.
“Please,” Orchid spoke, her voice shaking. “Please go on. I will endure it.”
Art looked to the elf for permission, knowing that even if Orchid gave her consent, should Ever object, he could be facing the same angry elf that had nearly killed him to take Weir Hewn. Orchid was clearly the most important thing to Ever in his whole life. His quest to free the woman from his Weir might have started out as a humanitarian act, but it had become something else entirely for the elf. It had become a labor of pure love. When elves fell in love it was almost always for life. Should Art harm or kill her, Ever’s wrath would be unpredictable.
The two males exchanged a long, tense moment. Art was uncertain what was going through Ever’s mind when Orchid spoke again, pleading for Art to continue. Her voice was small but persistent. Ever’s jaw tightened almost painfully, but he closed his eyes and nodded shortly at the Weiriman. Art was not certain he was glad he had told him to proceed.
Turning back to the Weirs, he chewed on his tongue for half a moment then sliced another of Orchid’s tree limbs from Ever’s gate. The woman tried but could not stifle the cry of agony. Art’s psychic abilities, as un-tuned as he was trying to make them, could hear clearly the momentous amount of pain the cut had caused her. This pain was far more than that of the body. The cutting and bleeding as deep as the soul, was like the mixing of physical and emotional pain, amplified by the raw cut of something meant to be hidden within you. It was an intrusion on a severely violent level. Art felt sick.
“I can’t do this.” Art turned to the couple.
Ever was next to Orchid, his hands around her, unable to touch her. Their faces were masks of fear and heartache. Art felt even more sick, seeing them in such a state.
“But if you don’t cut it, I’ll be stuck inside Everther!” Orchid protested though heavy breathing and stifled sobs.
“But look what it’s doing to you!” Art’s face was twisted up. “I can’t hurt you like this. I can feel what it feels like for you. It’s a violation to do this to you.”
Ever’s eyes were large, his face stony. Art turned away from them. There had to be something he could do. He had been confident he could help her. There had to be another way other than this ugly thing. He wanted to help them, even needed to help them. His intuition was saying that he could in a way that did not cause such deep seeded agony. He looked at Weir Hewn.
“Yes, Art Storygrove, there is much more to our function together than blade and Weiriman.”
Art almost dropped his blade. It had spoken to him. He frowned at it, confused, alarmed. Perhaps it was the demon. Could the demon trick him into thinking the blade had a voice? Yet the voice carried no malice, no malevolent feeling. The weight of its words were light, like the shine on the Crimson ripple running through its handle.
“You…You spoke to me. Are you Weir Hewn?” Art answered it in his mind.
“Yes, I am the blade. The other half of Meliveraze, the soul lantern. We existed before you, but you are our perfect master. No soul before could use us in such ways than those that shall be open to you.”
Art was stunned. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You, Art Storygrove, are a walking Haunting Weir. You are the soul born out of two sacrificed Weirs.”
Art’s mind flashed to the two Weirimen he had seen in the ritual with the demon and again in the mirror at the demonic library.
“Karvin Storygenner and Neth Grovebell?!”
“Yes,” the blade’s voice continued to speak into his mind. “They sacrificed themselves, their Haunting Weirs, to imprison the Pith demon within you. I was taken by the Weaver, locked away for my dangerous violent abilities that could be used by anyone strong enough to wield me. While the lantern, Meliveraze, was passed down through the generations to your guardian, Evendale Trenaveeve.”
“But, what does that make me!? What am I?”
“Your body was born of the power and energy of every Weirimen that used Meliveraze, through their pure intention and their battle with the darkness. Over time it was enough to take the power of the two Weirs and give you soul and form. You became the walking prison for the demon, more powerful than the lantern ever could be, with a Haunting Weir and soul all your own, life born of sacrifice.”
Art suddenly understood and his eyes fell on Lucid. This was why the boy had called him brother, why the Weaver had alluded to them being the same. Art was like Lucid. He was a soul born out of something that fought the darkness, a balance to the evil. While Lucid was a dreamcatcher, Art was a Weir. Stunned, he swayed on his feet, his knees shaky.
“What have you learned?” Ever was suddenly standing next to Art.
“The blade spoke to me,” he said in a faraway voice and proceeded to explain.
“Your resemblance to the demon’s humanoid form is purely environmental. You were born to house the thing, so in a sense your body just took on the characteristics of its face.” Ever was astounded.
“It would seem so,” Art affirmed, still feeling dazed.
Lucid suddenly clapped him on the back, nodding, as if he had already known.
“The Weaver suspected this, didn’t he?” Art turned his eyes on the youth, who nodded again.
“What does this mean?” Ever pressed. “Does this aid you against the demon or in your task with Orchid and myself?”
Art stared down at the blade and turned the shinning metal over in his gloved hand.
“Yes,” he said, ideas forming in his head as he ran through everything he had learned about soul lanterns, the use of his own life’s energy in the battle against darkness, and what he had learned about the power of a Weiriman’s soul. “Yes, I think I know what to do to help Orchid and you.”
Art removed his gloves, handing them to Lucid. He gripped the blade in both hands, knowing his eyes were changing to their amber-gold. He was no longer limited by the thought that he was just a man, lacking history, lacking a future. At this moment he was a Weiriman in a truer sense than any of his brethren had ever been. He could sheath this blade and protect Orchid from the pain, he could absorb that pain and set her and Ever free.
With his eyes fully amber, Art was opening himself up to feeling and sensing all he could. He knew this made him more vulnerable to the Pith demon, but he had to take the risk. He could sense and feel the life forces of both the dryad and the elf through their Weirs. He could even now see it as lights, flowing through the branches, each at its own pace, its own color.
Blade in hand, Art touched the lantern as it floated free of Lucid’s hands. For the first time he co
uld sense it, a quiet consciousness like the blade. They were alive in some fashion, perhaps even more so now that Art was connecting with them. He was sharing his life force with the things. He could feel the blade encircle in energy: his own amplified by the healing light of the lantern. Through this, Art somehow knew the knife would behave differently than before.
Carefully, he brought Weir Hewn to another of the branches of Orchid’s tree Weir. Eyes wide he felt her Weir pull back, like a flower folding up for the night, rather than the blade actually cutting her. Shifting his gaze slightly, Art caught a sideways glance of the woman and elf. She no longer acted like she was in pain but seemed more like she was slipping into a quiet unconsciousness. Art could hear her thoughts, feel her emotions, and knew the blade was no longer harming her.
Gaining confidence and getting a feel of the energies moving through him, Art repeated the task slowly, carefully with each part of her Weir twisted in Ever’s. Each time a branch curled back, Art felt more of the woman return to herself, her form taking on more color, becoming more solid. However, with each “cut” Art could feel his own energy waning. It was taking quite a toll on him to manipulate the powers of his own soul, the lantern and the blade.
As he neared the end of the procedure, only a few more branches left to separate, Art felt the demon at the back of his mind, clawing at him, its voice muffled but carrying weight. He could not allow the thing to break through and stop him in his task. He was not finished. Powering through, Art’s head grew hazy, pain hummed through his ears and down into the depth of his brain, but he ignored it until Orchid was finally cut free.
The woman, nearly completely solid and teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, floated over until she started to fall. Ever reached out to catch her, but Lucid stopped him. He left Art's gloves with the Weiriman and caught Orchid’s slow fall. Lifting her, he nodded at Ever.
“I have her. She is safe.” Lucid headed towards the protective gate they had passed through.
“You did it,” Ever breathed, hardly believing it. “How can I ever thank you?”
“This is only step one,” Art’s voice was ragged. “I have to reattach her Weir. We need to head out of your mind’s eye now.”
The elf nodded and closed his eyes, disappearing from his own mind, Art following.
Back in his own body Art let out a shuttering breath. His body hurt all over, aching, trembling and tight with pain. The ritual had taken much out of him and he felt as if he could not catch his breath. A stream of blood had started from his nose, dripping down his lips and chin, but Art brushed it off hastily with his gloved hand and moved towards Orchid’s body still nestled in her tree.
“Art, you are bleeding,” Ever said but the Weiriman ignored him.
Lantern in hand, blade sheathed once more, Art held the thing up to the woman. He closed his eyes. Lucid was within her mind, he could hear him though Art had not entered her psychic space. He did not need to. The lantern whispered to him, in a softer voice than Weir Hewn, almost wordless just feelings. Art knew what he needed to do.
His life would help her, the lantern would aid him, he could do it. He could almost see her Haunting Weir in his mind, a beautiful circular gate of vines, flowers, and gracefully arching branches. He could see it in her own garden, placing it back where it belonged, natural hinges slipping into place, attaching. Art was trembling but he knew he had to hold on, heal her, put her right. Finally, it was done and the Haunting Weir opened, allowing Lucid carrying the unconscious Orchid, through into her mind again.
Art felt faint and stumbled as Ever leaned in to support him.
“It’s done,” the man breathed, his mouth tasting like blood.
With his words, the woman in the tree opened her eyes and took a sudden deep breath. Lucid was suddenly by Art’s side, shouldering the man’s weight as Orchid’s tree released the woman floating out and into Ever’s arms. Tears filled both their eyes and the coupled embraced for the first time, arms around one another, crying and laughing, hands touching faces until their lips met.
Lucid had helped Art to the ground, where he lay breathing shallowly but still smiling. It had worked. He had done what no other Weiriman could have. The happiness he witnessed gave him all the vindication that had been robbed of him since his expulsion from the Weirimen Guild. He felt whole for a moment, content and happy that he had aided people truly in need of his gifts. He had righted a wrong done by evil, and it felt euphoric despite his pain.
“How can we ever repay what you have done for us?” Ever was leaning over the man.
“I wouldn’t have made it this far without your help.” Art smiled through tired eyes. “But I’m afraid I have another problem.”
“The demon,” Lucid said, very seriously. “We have to get him back to Father!”
“I’m afraid I need that last candy if I’m to make the journey back to the Weaver and I don’t have another to take before my exorcism. It might be no good. I…I might need you to end me!”
Art could hardly believe what he was saying, but the demon baying in the back of his mind was very real. He knew he would not have the strength to battle the thing now.
“Can you not take the Umbra Sweet and then exorcise the thing here?” Ever said, horror in his expression.
“I haven’t the strength,” Art protested. “And even with the blade, cutting it free of my Weir would only free it. I still have no idea how to actually deport it back to the Ever-Hunger hell. I need the Weaver to help me. I don’t know what to do with the thing.”
“You need rest?” Orchid asked, her face solid and full of color for the first time since Art had seen her.
“Yes, but more than that, I need the demon to be stilled long enough to get back to the Weaver.”
“I can do this!" Orchid exclaimed, her excitement enhanced by the flow of her long sleeves when she brought her hands up and grabbed Ever by the arm.
“What? What do you mean?”
“I can suspend him with the pollen of my tree. It will put him into a deathless sleep for a short period. His mind and body will still. My healing abilities will keep him alive while he slumbers.”
“Will we be able to return to the Other Side Woods in time?” Art asked, not daring to hope yet.
The elf’s eyes grew large. “We shall, with the help of the Birchwood Garrison. They will accompany us in our passage. Orchid, perform your slumbering, I shall speak with Captain Finnafor.”
Ever rose and departed the garden, and the woman moved to place Art’s head on her lap. Her face was still pale, the color in her cheeks not as pink as Art suspected she looked. Still, she was the loveliest woman he had ever laid eyes on. As she leaned over him, her cool hands on his temples, he noted how light and ethereal she seemed. Her movements were still so floaty and she gave off a slightly ghostly light.
“I didn’t know you were a healer,” Art mumbled, hating the taste of blood in his teeth, and tried to wipe the blood trickling down his cheek from his nose.
“I was before the accident,” Orchid confirmed as warm light emanating from her hands washed Art with a pleasant tingle and started to numb the thundering pain in his head and the screams of the demon within him. “They believed it was part of the reason I was not instantly killed and able to fuse with Ever’s Weir.”
“Explains a lot,” Art chuckled as petals started to fall round him from her tree above. The air filled with a rich perfume scent, making Art tired and so comfortable a sloppy smile spread across his face.
“Thank you, Art,” was the last thing he heard of her lyrical voice before his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he slipped into a soundless unconsciousness, the demon’s wails of frustration falling away.