Chapter Four
House on the Other Side
A night train was much harder to find and Art ended up riding in a small speed train with a group of Scarborough Knights heading out to help eradicate a nest of touched creatures sighted near the city. Animals could also be afflicted, possessed, or tainted by demons and their ilk. When it happened, they would sometimes become twisted, turning into touched creatures. These things were no longer an animal but a monster, destroying, killing, and maiming with no reason other than to hunt and kill. Sometimes, Weirimen would deal with these things but usually the task fell to Scarborough Knights, an elite fighting force consisting mainly of elves, but also did employ half-elves and mixed fey blood descendants. They had superior martial ability and faced these fearsome things with far more success than races of men.
Grateful they were mostly a quiet lot, taking to the bunks and sleeping compartments of the train, Art was left alone in a car to himself. Far different from the luxurious first class cabin had been, Art did not mind the modest couch provided. He was not sure he could sleep again after his last dream. He worried that the encounter had been more than just a vague nightmare. Perhaps it had been an actual interaction with the demon inside him. Frowning, he watched the reflection of his cabin in the dark window as the train raced through the night. Art munched on the chewy twist he had gotten from the Shadow Confectionary. He had yet to take one of the red candies, hoping it would not come to that.
Morning came slowly, and Art had spent a restless night between waking and disturbed sleeping, his dreams confusing and heavy. The Scarborough Knights were up early, most of them needing less sleep than a man, and they were in the breakfast car when Art arrived. Some of them eyed him, nodding respectfully if they made eye contact. Even among full blood elven Knights, who did not often care for the races of men, Weirimen were held in high regard. Art wondered if he would even be wearing the badge of one having earned it, rather than just the shadow of it, still a novice. He could see why Cindervail allowed him the temporary license, telling him he should behave as one. It gave him rights and eased some things that might be more awkward for him if he were just an ordinary citizen.
Sitting at a back table by himself, he had coffee and toast, watching a hazy pink sunrise peak through the growing woods around them. The Knights would be exiting soon but Art would be continuing to a smaller town and then he would have to arrange another way of getting out to the haunted ground and the Woods of Reaching. He might be traveling by foot soon. He doubted there would be many who would want to take him to such a dangerous place.
He picked up food in the next town as a train would not arrive for a few hours. He had been outfitted with the best traveling equipment the Guild had to offer and had special compartments on his pack that would preserve his food for extended periods, allowing him to take more supplies. The area near the haunted ground would be scarce of food or drinking water. The very land itself could be tainted, resulting in even demonic vegetation. It might be trying to eat him more than he would want to try and eat it. Animals could be hard to find and the ones that he would run into could be more toxic than edible.
Bearing all this in mind, Art supplemented his supplies as wisely as he could. The Seminary had taught survival skills, as well as all the book learning and combat training. Weirimen often had to travel to the strangest places in the world and face the worst conditions in order to deport a demon or exorcise a person or building. He never expected to be doing everything on his own the way he was though. Weirimen always had a partner or worked in teams. Art was resolved to the fact that he could do it on his own if he had to. He was not that popular with his classmates anyway. He was not sure why, perhaps too quiet? Or maybe he was too gifted. Things came to him easily in the Seminary. He was both talented and intelligent. Whatever the reason, he was on his own a lot. He just had to view this as no different from those instances.
As he was departing his last train and heading into the small town that was the last piece of civilization before the haunted area, an ugly thought did occur to him. Would Minevur be recruiting Weirimen from his graduating class to help hunt Art down should he loose the battle with the demon? Would former classmates be running him through with their silver infused weapons? Would he be watching Senny fill him full of crossbow arrows when the end came? The picture of his bloody death at the hands of his former colleagues filled him with a cloudy mood. It lingered still as he ate lunch and inquired to the café owner about the forest east of the Woods of Reaching.
“You don’t want to go out there, love.” The big round woman shook her head as she served him a meaty smelling soup and crusty bread. “That’s real close to the Woods of Reaching. That place will swallow you up if you get too close. It eats people, you know. The trees will actually eat you whole!”
“I don’t want to go to the Woods of Reaching,” Art tried to clarify, wishing she would put his spoon down. The stew smelled so good, he wanted to start eating it. But when she started talking she forgot to put his spoon down and started waving it about like a baton, emphasizing her alarm at the very idea he would go anywhere near the cursed place. “I just need to go to the forest on the East side of the trail.”
“Oh you don’t want to go in there either, love! That place is not as bad but it is still real near haunted ground. Weird things live in that forest. I wouldn’t be surprised if the taint has spread across the road from the Reaching to the Other Side.”
Art decided to give up explaining. “What is it called?”
“What’s what called, sweetie?” She started to put the spoon down but pulled it back when she spoke again and Art tried not to follow it with his eyes.
“The woods.”
“The Woods of Reaching. I thought you knew that. You asked about ‘em.”
“No.” Art shook this head thinking maybe he should just reach out and take the spoon from her. “The wood across the road from the Woods of Reaching.”
“The Other Side.”
“Yeah, the other side. What’s it called?”
She laughed, “No, honey, we just call it the Other Side. It all used to be under one name many, many years ago. But since the woods became haunted, we call one side the Woods of Reaching and the other, the Other Side.”
“Ah.” Art nodded, watching as her hand brought the spoon down, nearing the table. “That’s not on the map.”
“Of course it ain’t,” she laughed loudly again, a booming laugh, abrupt, not feminine at all. “No one wants to go there, or hardly anyway. Guess they didn’t update the map with places people shouldn’t go.”
She turned to head back towards the kitchen when Art reached out and nabbed the spoon from her. She blinked a couple of times startled but Art did not care. He was content to start eating.
“But you should heed what I say. You got no business going to the Reaching or the Other Side.”
“Leave him alone, Mable,” the cook from the back called. “Can’t you see he’s a Weiriman?”
She turned and took a long look at Art, then gave a slight snort. “Weiriman or not, you’ll die if you go there, love.” She did not say another word, but waddled her round form back to the bar.
Art said nothing, returning to his lunch. It would be pointless to tell her he did not want to go there either. He knew the dangers and with a powerful demon inside him, it might only make matters worse.
No cart, buggy, or guide would take Art out to the Other Side woods. No one wanted to even pass the Woods of Reaching. There were extreme rumors that the forest could enchant people and pull them inside. Others said the path that ran between the two sides was tainted and could lead you into the wrong woods before your senses were regained. Under the fear of the area, Art had no choice, and as the noon sun started its decline, he was walking out of town towards the haunted forest beyond, alone.
The woods still looked like a beautiful place. As the worn path changed from well walked to a country t
rail, Art was surprised by the natural beauty. Rich greens of the trees were tempered by ruddy reds of the lower brushes and trail’s clay. Shining in the sun’s light, the forest did not seem to live up to its fearsome reputation. The path between the two sides became much more apparent when Art actually stepped from the open path to the tree lined corridor of the woods.
The East side was warm, basking in the afternoon’s rays. The Woods of Reaching to the West was dimmer somehow. Staring into the trees, Art noticed how his vision blurred the further he looked in. A heavy fog lingered just beyond the threshold of the wood, muting the colors until it seemed only black and brown, muddied by a bramble of trees much too dense to be natural.
As he stood, the sun warming his back and hood, he frowned. Something was coming out of the woods, a very low, slight whispering. He felt a tinge of cold in his hands and a bristling of his skin. He was well dressed, a long leather coat, vest, and hood worn by most Weirimen. Tall boots, well made gloves, and the leather face mask that covered just his nose, mouth and chin completed the signature look. There was little skin left exposed to the elements, so the deep cold creeping in now was wholly not natural.
Art flexed his hands open and closed, listening to the sound of the leather move. He was nervous and he did not want to be. It was common to hear whispering, noises, and voices from haunted places. Even people without gifts could at times hear the noises of the unnatural. Art had been hearing them most his life, the callings of demons, the weeping of tormented souls. There was something different now. The voices were clearer, almost lyrical. There was a seductive beauty in them that he had not heard before.
He worried this could be because of the demon within him. Was that creature making the sounds of evil more accepting to him? This might make him more vulnerable. If he could not see the difference between beauty and danger he really would be unfit to be a Weiriman. The evil would consume him before he knew he was in its embrace. Turning from the woods and the quiet singing of the monsters within, he took the path into the Other Side. Perhaps the Weaver would have answers and he would not have to face these growing questions.
There was little direction on his map to where the Weaver would be found. Cindervail told him to use the Weirimen’s compass because the Weaver worked heavily with demonic energy. He had been a tinker and an inventor, responsible for many of the weapons, traps, and prisons the Weirimen used to the current day. His genius was credited with a great deal of the reason the races of the world could hold back the darkness that threatened to invade, one possession at a time.
Drawing the thing out, Art held it in his hand and watched the tiny delicate needle spin. It whirled and whirled until finally stopping in a clear direction. Art was thankful that it was away from the Woods of Reaching. His tall, thick boots aided him when he had to veer from the path and head into the dense woods, some of the ground muddy. Traveling nearly into twilight, Art saw the glow of a cottage. He hoped it was the home of the Weaver.
Coming up to the place, he was surprised there had been little effort to get there. Cindervail had indicated it would be far more difficult, fearing there would be traps, guards and other such things that she could hardly imagine. With the cottage in sight, covered in vines, a triangle of a building seeming to rise out of the forest, Art felt he should pause his trek forward. His instincts had always served him well in training, but there was something else now, something stronger, he could almost taste the metal of something wrong in the air.
Art scanned the forest around him, the little cottage beyond. It was dense, quiet and strangely still. Eyes squinting, he let his senses open, his gaze shifting from their amber rimmed green, to a bright gold. This ability was called the Demon Sight; it allowed those with the gift to see beyond the Veil of the world and into things unseen. All Weirimen had to have the ability.
Looking again, Art was amazed by the activity in the forest. There were all manner of incorporeal spirits, some benign and harmless, some hungry and viscously watching him. All were floating around a strange energy field that encased the cottage like a dome, clear and barely there, but radiating power.
“A spirit shield,” Art murmured, wondering how he would cross such a thing, or perhaps it was only meant to keep the spirits, ghosts and demons out.
He took a step forward but yelped as he fell. The ground that looked to be there had been an illusion and he was tumbling down, arms scrambling back to catch the branches of the fallen tree he had been standing near. Grasping, gritting his teeth he clung on, trying to get a better grip to pull himself up. The tree was slippery, the branches bending and threatening to break under his weight.
Dropping a quick glance below, Art’s heart leapt into his throat at the dark pit that greeted him. He had no idea how deep it was but it should not have been so opaque, so completely black. Something was keeping the light from entering it. Watching, still trying to pull himself up, Art saw the black pit move. Perhaps it was actually filled with dark water, or maybe oil. It rippled but seemed to have no physical substance. He had no idea what it was but he knew he did not want to fall into it.
“Hey!” A man’s voice jerked Art’s attention away from the strange blackness. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“Are you the Weaver?” Art’s question tumbled out. “I’m here to see the Weaver! Please! Help me, I don’t think I can pull myself up.”
“Damned tree,” the man grumbled. Art was unable to swivel his head well and he could see little of the man, save a long coat. He was standing on the cottage side of the pit. “I should have moved that thing away. I didn’t mean for you to catch it like that.”
“What?!” Art squeaked out. “I don’t mean any harm! Please, I’m from the Weirimen Guild. I need to see the Weaver.”
“I don’t want to see anyone,” the man almost spat, sounding even grumpier. “This pit is here to keep visitors away. You shouldn’t be out here this close to dark fall anyway, unless you were meant to be hunting. Very dangerous. What are they teaching young people in that Seminary now? Oh well, your mistake. You wouldn’t have lasted long as a Weiriman anyway with instincts like that. No good being in a wood near haunted ground this late in the evening, and alone. Not good. No one to pull you out, right?”
“You could pull me out!” Art pleaded.
“Nah,” the man’s tone was so light, as if Art falling into the pit meant little more than if he were going to have tea or coffee that night. “Why would I do a thing like that? I don’t want visitors. I just want to be left to my studies. I didn’t ask you to come out here.”
“I had no choice!” Art barked, his arms tiring, his grip not improving. “I have to see the Weaver; my life depends on it!”
“Well, presently your life depends on you getting out of that pit, doesn’t it?” The man broke out in dry, harsh laughter and he started back into the cottage.
“Wait!” Art yelled after him but the call fell on ignoring ears.
Cursing, struggling, and accomplishing nothing, Art knew he was failing. The grip was too awkward. Swinging his body up would snap the branch, breaking it before he could reach for another. He knew there was no way he could pull himself out without aid. Anger at the man meant little, as in the next second the branch gave out and with a cry, Art disappeared into the black, swirling pit.