Chapter Three
Umbra Sweets
“You are really leaving?”
Art was brought out of his thoughts by the voice of Senny Greiventine, formally a fellow novice. She had passed her Haunting Weir test and was now officially a Weiriman. By now, the whole graduating group of no more than ten people, knew Art did not pass his test due to “grievous complications”. Though it was rumored that once his “affliction” was cleared up he could try again, Professor Minevur had made it clear he would be protesting Art’s re-entry into the Weirimen Guild.
Art could barely contain his rage. He felt his whole life had come up against a wall. Everything he had worked so hard for had been snatched away by this mysterious demon. How could he have a demon inside him? Why was his Weir some kind of prison? How could they not have known? He felt a certain amount of unwanted anger towards his instructors and the Guild. Should not the foremost elite group of demonologists and exorcists have known he was carrying a demon so malevolent, so vast in power, that not even the best group of Weirimen could banish it from Art? The only thing they knew was to kill him and send the demon back to hell? He bit his lip hard at the bleak options.
Perhaps, if he knew more about his family, his parents, something about his past more than just that night he was found by Evendale, alone. He had no memories and she did not seem to care. She raised him as her own, without questions and Art never felt right to ask. She always seemed like she did not know. But, perhaps she did. Maybe she knew more about him than she had let on and was unable to tell him before she was suddenly killed. He hated the idea that she might have been able to prevent the horrible situation he was in.
“Art?” Senny asked again. Much smaller than him, she leaned in to look up to his face.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he mumbled through full lips and clenched teeth. “Yeah, I have to leave.”
Looking at him with large eyes, he could see pity there and it made him feel all the more angry. He had been top of his class, so promising, so ready to jump into his life and now this. The very thought of it burned a hole in his stomach.
“Is it true?” Her voice was gentle but he loathed that she had asked the question.
“Which part?”
She looked uncomfortable but Art did not care. If she wanted the answer she would have to clarify.
“You didn’t graduate?” He had harbored a slight hope she would not actually say it. “And they say you have a demon trapped inside you.”
“It’s true,” he reluctantly answered. “I’m going to see someone called the Weaver. All they gave me was this lantern.” He held up the small wrought iron lantern, deep bronze, nearly black, with long a glass housing. It emitted no light, but when Art placed it on the stone wall, by which they stood, its handle sprouted a mounting from which the lantern hung. The handle could change from hanging to standing, metal bending as if the thing were alive.
“Wow.” Senny blinked, watching the metal fully settling in the ornate beautiful shape of a hanging lantern. “Is it a soul lantern?”
“Cindervail says it’s more than that,” Art explained. “Of course, it will aid me against the evil I will now be attracting, since my Weir is not fully closed. But, I don’t know how to use it as anything special. She said instinctively, I’ll know when the time comes.”
“So, you really are leaving.”
“I have to.” Art nodded, quietly, running a gloved hand through his long dark blond hair, and over the shaved parts under the lengths. “If I can’t cure myself before the demon breaks out and consumes me, the Guild will hunt me down to put me down.”
The statement was grave and there was little for Senny to say. She knew at the very least, Professor Minevur and his supporters would carry out the threat. A demon the Guild could not exorcise could not be unleashed onto the world. Making matters worse, the type of demon was very rare, so it was near impossible to know how to make the demon tell its name. Without the name, it could not be deported back to its own hell.
“I’m sorry, Art,” was all Senny said before several of the other graduates called her and she had to leave him waiting at the front gate alone.
“Yeah,” he mumbled, “me too.”
“Self-pity will do you no good, Storygrove.” Cindervail was suddenly at his side. “You will need great inner strength to see you through this journey.” Art frowned but did heed her words. “Here,” she held out a book and a rolled up map of old soft hide. “This will show you the way to the Weaver, at least the last known location of the man. I hope he is still there. It is a treacherous road, so you must be careful. Our world is not a safe one, even for someone who would have become a Weiriman.”
Art tried not to wince at the reminder that his dreams were likely gone. The reality of it was, he had to forget about becoming what he desperately knew he could be and concentrate on staying alive now.
“Is there anything else I should know about this man?”
“He is a strange one. He lives just beyond the Woods of Reaching. Do not go into those woods if you can help it. Most who travel that route do not come out and those who have are half mad. We have even lost Weirimen to the woods. Go to the town nearby and stay on the east road. Little is known about the Weaver, other than he helped found the Weirimen, but he had a falling out with the Guild and left long, long before my time.”
“Is he even going to allow me audience?” Art frowned. “I may not be a Weiriman yet, but I certainly have the look, manner and abilities of one. If he’s part fey, as you say, I might even smell like one to him.”
Cindervail smiled just a little, something her face did not often do. It was clear his memory and intelligence would serve him well. Had it been any other novice, she would have condemned them and spared them the fleeting hope and the painful, dangerous attempt Art was about to undertake. “If you come through this you will be an even greater Weiriman, Art Storygrove. Evil will be drawn to you and the night will only bring further danger. Life and light is your only refuge. Remember all that has been taught you and believe in your own heart. It will see you through the darkness. Farewell.”
She did not allow Art any words of goodbye or thank you. She only turned sharply, her long brown jacket, billowing in the evening air as she disappeared into the growing fog gathering around the seminary.
The place had been Art’s home for many years, especially after Evendale died. He rarely returned to the small cottage she left him. It only made him feel even more alone now. He let his eyes linger on the large stone buildings for only a moment longer before snatching up the lantern once more. It morphed and changed in his hand until it formed a handle. His own soul would light it when it was needed. Art wondered how long he could sustain such a thing. If he felt any darker than he did now, would the lantern too abandon him to the darkness?
Art took the train out of the city. It was the fastest way to Riftenshire, the first place Cindervail told him he needed to go. He would not find the Weaver there, but there was a very special place he had to visit prior to his quest. The Bohurst Shadow Confectionary was the best among its rivals and competitors. Though a Shadow Confectionary could be found in nearly all the large towns and cities, the Bohurst brand was owned by one of the oldest and most talented families of Shadow Confectioners. In a world filled with demons, evil, and darkness there was more than one way to combat dark forces and the making and consumption of Umbra Sweets, as they were called was one way. These could help protect against possession, minor demons, negativity caused by evil, and other things seeking to feed on people.
Art did not have what Weirimen referred to as a nuisance haunting, where certain kinds of these Umbra Sweets could dispel hauntings and minor creatures of the night. His problem was far more severe than most things treated by Umbra Sweets but Cindervail said certain candies, specifically from the Bohurst Shadow Confectionary, might aid him in dispelling some of the evil that would be attracted to him. She also thought they might have something a littl
e stronger to help him fight the demon that would soon be trying to claw its way out of his cracked open Weir.
Trying not to dwell on the thought that there was a Pith demon within him, perhaps watching him now, maybe even listening to his inner thoughts, Art tried to turn his attention to the train car. It was lavish, beautifully adorned as all the gilded first class cars were. Weirimen were handsomely paid by either the afflicted or the towns and institutions that hired them. A prized and most needed skill against the darkness, they could afford to make at least part of their long journeys in some comfort when traveling by train, stagecoach, or flying ship. The train ride to Riftenshire might be the only part of Art’s trip that was comfortable. The region in which the Weaver was said to live was a landscape of horror, dark forests, treacherous paths, and lost towns: the Wyld. When the evil first spread through the world, some places became like cesspools of dark energy unable to be reclaimed by people, given over to the demons. Not knowing when he would be able to sleep again, Art tried to lay out on the couch provided in the roomy train car; thankfully it was a private place. Dressed as a Weiriman on Cindervail’s orders, he did not truly want to be approached. He only had a temporary license and felt uncomfortable explaining his reasons. Weirimen were almost always in pairs. He already knew he seemed odd.
He did not think he would actually be able to sleep, his chest tight, his mind racing but before long he was lost in misty, dark dreams of the terrifying figure that had emerged out of his Weir. The voice melted over him like cold fog, deep, familiar, and horrific. When it spoke to him he would not listen, trying to run through darkness without footing until he was waking at the sound of the train whistle.
Shaking slightly, feeling dry-mouthed and sick, Art gathered himself up along with his pack and long knives. He waited until the rest of the train had disembarked before making his own exit. Pulling his hood up, he hoped to go unnoticed as he followed the crowd out of the train station.
The city was darkening, lanterns were being lit, and the business of the day was coming to a hurried close. Riftenshire was closer than most large cities to haunted ground and could be very dangerous at night. If he did not hurry, he would not make it to the Shadow Confectionary before they closed. Cindervail had told him to get the candies before the end of the first moon that night.
Using a compass with a special needle attracted to strong concentrations of demonic energy, Art was quickly pointed in the direction of the Bohurst business, just on the outskirts of the city. He was glad it was nearer the train station then he thought it would be. After a short walk through a darkly wooded area, he saw the shop aglow and the smell of confections lacing the night’s growing chill. Quickening his pace, he went up to the door of the old but well kept building and knocked heavy. The sign already read closed and Art cursed softly, hoping the owner would open despite the night’s growing dangers.
After a few nervous moments, a face appeared at the window of the shop. The man paused a moment but then noticed Art’s manner of dress. The Weirimen did not have a uniform but the silver and red knives strapped to his thighs and belt were a clear indicator of his profession. It did not take him long to open the door, eyes slightly wide.
“Good evening,” the man said cautiously. Art assumed he was a Bohurst, long bangs of brown hair and strange colored eyes. Shadow Confectioners usually had very distinctly colored eyes. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I apologize for the late hour. I only just arrived in town but I am in great need of your services,” Art said gravely.
The man looked at him for a moment longer than most would have, his silvery purple eyes turning a brighter shade before his expression turned to alarm.
He knows! Art thought to himself as the man ushered him inside.
The place was large, all manner of shelves and displays lining the store and littering the sales floor. Sweet and delicious smelling, Art could hardly believe the things they sold were actually manufactured from demonic energy, purified and treated to function as sort of an anti-venom to evil. It was a remarkable skill and discovery that aided people in protecting themselves from little evils that whispered and paved the way for greater evil to invade. Art had been to the confectionary in his town but the Bohurst place was something else entirely. It was far more beautiful and elaborate; each candy and confection in a jar, basket, or some other form of lovely display all labeled, explaining their use and function.
“Being a Weiriman, I know you must know that your Haunting Weir is not fully closed,” the man spoke quickly, his voice tinged with urgency knowing the true meaning of how much danger Art was in from possession as well as the evil he might draw to him.
“Yes,” Art nodded. “That is why I am here. Professor Cindervail Grandmaster of the Weirimen Seminary sent me to your establishment because she said you would have product that would aid me in suppressing the ‘scent’ of my Weir to demons and perhaps something stronger.”
“Something stronger?” The man frowned. “What truly ails you, sir?”
Not wanting to explain but knowing he had to, Art relayed a small part, emphasis on the demon within him.
The man’s face paled. “A Pith demon…! That…that is a very serious problem... I…” he seemed at a loss for words, his face bending into a hard frown. “While I have nothing specific for such a powerful demon, I do have something that might give you more time while you hunt for your answers.” He turned and headed towards the back, indicating Art should follow. When they reached a long orange curtain separating the showroom floor from back room, the man indicated Art should wait, though he continued to speak to him even as he disappeared behind the thing.
“This is very rare, I was only a boy when these were made but it has no expiration date so please do not worry about that. Though I think this will help you, please note that nothing I have will keep this thing at bay for good.” Re-appearing he handed Art a small jar of little red spheres, looking like the most delicate cherry flavored candies. “Use these only when you cannot keep the thing in check yourself. They will function almost as soon as they dissolve in your mouth, but Sir, use them sparingly. This is not something I can make again quickly. It will take two years of work and rare ingredients for me to make half this batch again.”
Art’s amber rimmed green eyes turned serious. “I understand. Thank you.”
“Also take these.” He handed him a pack of twisted vine sweets. “I have written the dosage on the card inside. They will suppress your open Weir’s scent and help with demons, but there will still be things that can smell you and sense you. I would advise staying away from haunted ground.”
Art chuckled darkly. “I wish that were an option, good Sir, but my quest takes me to one of the darkest places.”
“Then you will need skill, luck, and hope.” The man tried to give him a smile but Art could not return it.
“Thank you.” Art nodded as the pair moved towards the door. He fished in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” the Bohurst shook his head. “A Weiriman in such need, your coin is no good here.” He gave Art a comforting smile.
“But the item is so rare.” Art held up the red candy reading the label: Scarlet Extinction. “I must give you something.”
“Your survival and service to our world against the darkness will be payment enough. Life against darkness, Weiriman.” He held out his hand and Art shook it, grateful beyond words. The kindness was enough to at least shift, slightly, the burden he had so suddenly taken on alone.