Chapter Seven
Lucid
It was like waking from a heavy induced dream. Art’s limbs were numb, his mind sluggish. His thighs and lower back were aching from sitting in the cross-legged position for who knows how long. Groaning under his breath, Art bent his head from side to side, listening to the crack of his fatigued body. He did not know inner mind experiences could be so taxing. He had awoken sore and hurting after his failed final test but he attributed that to the attempted exorcism and the battles between the Weirimen and the demon trying to take over his body.
He had actually been shocked he had not been more heavily injured than he was. Perhaps that had been due to the healers in the Seminary’s hospital wing. The Weirimen did employ some of the best healing in the land. Wishing he was back there now, so one of them could work the aching kink out of his shoulder, he rose to his feet and stretched his arms over his head. The Weaver looked unchanged, still sitting motionless and Art knew better than to disturb his body. If some kind of inner battle was taking place he needed to let the man be.
Knowing there was nothing to do now but wait, he was about to remove his jacket, just to allow for more stretching, when something caught his attention. Art was not sure it was the breathing or maybe there had been movement, but his eyes snapped to a dark area in the small room, shadowed by a massive wardrobe. The moon was casting light in through the huge skylight above them and despite the deep shadows Art could still see it.
Smaller than him, thin but lean muscled, stood a figure. All dark, skin like black alabaster, the thing looked at him with pitch hued eyes, no color only white irises. It scanned him, glowing just a little like the moon’s surface. Shaped like a boy, perhaps a teenager, its scruffy hair cut wild. It wore a loose-sleeved shirt, vest and pants cropped at its shins, held up by suspenders. Unusual dress for a demon, but Art dismissed it as his hand slid to the knife at his hip.
He shifted a glance at the Weaver who was still entranced, unmoving save only his eyes fluttering slightly. Art would have to defend him against this thing. Slowly, he started to pull the knife, watching the thing in its crouched position. Shifting and moving, its eyes on Art, it looked to the window, then to the door as if it was watching for something. When the knife made a noise, starting to come out of its sheath, the thing whipped its attention back to Art and hissed, barring teeth, equally black as its body but twice as shiny, long canine fangs gleaming.
Art drew the knife quickly, and suddenly the thing was in motion. Sailing through the air with cat-like grace, it leapt up onto the top of the wardrobe and hissed at Art again, clawed hands touching lightly as it landed. Circling the room, Art moved with it, drawing his other knife, keeping an eye on the Weaver and demon both. It came to the end of the furniture and paused, with eyes glowing, clicking its tongue irritably at Art.
Frowning, the young man only watched. As high as it was, he would be at a disadvantage to attack. Yet he did not want to wait for the thing to jump on him. He thought about using some of his abilities to topple the wardrobe over. He was a fairly powerful telekinetic and could move things of that size, though how the Weaver would respond to Art destroying things in his home gave the man pause. He did not want to end up in the demon pit again.
Suddenly, the creature’s eyes went from Art to the wall behind him. Art did not want to take his gaze off the thing, but he had to turn just a little to see what had caught its attention. Something was moving, churning, and shaking as if the shadow was turning the wall’s wood into a soft amorphous plaster. Alarmed, Art turned slightly, trying to keep both wall and creature in sight.
The creature looked angry now, though, its eyes transfixed on the thing now seeping from the wall like a huge goo of black oils. Flopping onto the floor, it suddenly rose, the goo having a humanoid shape and face twisting out to give an eyeless scream. Art suddenly knew what the thing was; a type of demon known as the Oil of Despair. It was created by an immense collection of negative emotion of extreme hopelessness, given life over a long period of time, urged on by suicide and strong emotional regret soldered with pain.
These kinds of demons were never from a hell realm like possession demons, and could be dealt with by Weirimen, Blackenmancer hunters, or Scarborough Knights. Art was trained in dealing with the like, as such things could appear in haunted areas where possession often took place. There was the problem of what to do about the pitch-black creature behind him while dispatching the Oil of Despair demon at the same time.
Even before he could make that decision though, something happened that dropped Art to his knees. Pain roared through him, originating from deep within. He cried out, trying not to drop his blades but the pulse was so strong his hearing dimmed for a moment. Suddenly, the Weaver gave a great scream, his head dropping back and his eyes opening only to reveal they were rolled completely into the back of his head. White eyed, mouth open, black smoke puffed out of the Weaver’s open mouth.
Art was as horrified as he was mystified when the pain blurred through him again and he could not hold onto his weapon. Clattering to the floor, Art’s gloved hands went into his hair and he let out another short scream of agony.
“Give yourself over to me!” The Pith demon’s voice wracked him from within, deafening inside his head. “You cannot resist me, boy!”
Art grit his teeth against the onslaught of pain and terror the thing was inducing within him. He could feel it moving around inside his mind’s eye, hurting him, trying to force him back up into the psychic space within.
“No!" Art refused, tasting blood. “You’re going back into my Weir!” He bit each word out, trying to force the thing back into its prison. He was hoping that with his knowledge of exorcising a Weir he could apply the same pressures to force this thing back.
“You are not strong enough to defeat me!” It bellowed. “Give me your soul!”
Art screamed aloud in protest, but fought against the feeling of it trying to tear him apart. Suddenly he felt aid, perhaps the Weaver? He kept pushing it back until the pain started to ease. It was going back inside to its prison. Its screams pulsed and just as it had come upon him, it let up. Art was shivering, breathing hard.
He had no time to recover, for when he looked up the oil demon was on him. A great slick, shambling mess of wails, faces, and black tendrils reaching for Art. The man leaned back, but his strength was gone. He felt his knees give and he crashed to the floor, nearly unconscious. Panic was mixing with his fading mind and his last thoughts were of the demon on the wardrobe as it dropped down to loom over him, hissing at the Oil of Disappear. He wondered which one of them was going to eat him.
Something was pushing on his mouth. It was not hard or rough but something was definitely pressing against his lips. It was the first thing that pulled him out of yet another haze of unconsciousness. He had hoped that next time he awoke he would not be in such tremendous pain. Reality was brutal as his head hammered, his body aching.
Willing his heavy eyes to open, hoping the thumping on his skull was just a headache and not the symptoms of something worse, his attention went to his mouth. Awake, his lips were more yielding and whatever it was that was trying to push its way past his full lips clinked against his teeth. He could taste the slight flavor of cherry candy. Confused, Art focused on the figure leaning over him.
It was a boy, possibly a teenager, black hair, blue eyes and a face that look oddly familiar. Frowning, Art started to sit up, groaning with the effort and the thing at his mouth withdrew. It had been the boy. He had been trying to push something into Art’s mouth, and now the Weiriman understood. The boy was trying to aid him in suppressing the demon by giving him the candy he had gotten from the Shadow Confectionary.
“Why didn't you take that before I examined you?!” the Weaver’s angry voice was suddenly behind him. “That thing almost killed me and you! Why didn’t you tell me you had that Scarlet Extinction before?!”
“I didn’t know you needed to know!” Art barked ba
ck, hating how the loud tone of the Weaver’s voice was bouncing off his ear drums like the man was actually boxing his ears.
“Stupid Weirimen! They were always so stupid. I tried to teach them, but they just ended up being narrow minded, limited, and stupid!”
Art was rubbing the back of his neck to try and ease the dull pain flooding down his head when the boy was crouching next to him again. Wild-cropped hair and a handsome face with large eyes, he smiled at Art and held up the candy again, nodding. Uncertain what to make of the lad, Art took the sweet from him and starred for a moment longer. The boy proceeded to mimic the eating of it, seeming to think Art did not know what to do with the shiny red thing. Starting to crack a smile, Art experienced a recognition, looking at the boy’s shirt, vest and suspender clipped pants.
“You’re that black creature from before!” He suddenly exclaimed.
The events from shortly before he passed out came rushing back and he twisted around painfully to see what had become of the Oil of Despair demon. The only clue that it was ever present was a dark shadow on the wall, from which it had been hanging, and another in the spot Art had last seen it oozing its way over to him. Seeing his blade on the ground near him, Art reached for it, when the Weaver was right there, slapping his hand hard.
“What are you doing?!” The man snapped.
“Ow!” Art barked, pulling his hand back. “What are you doing?!”
“You attacked Lucid! You’re not thinking about doing that again, are you?! I’ll rip your head off right here and leave you for the demons beyond the Veil to find! You remember that, Weiriman!”
“I didn’t attack him,” Art protested. “I thought…,” he looked to the boy who was still crouching near him, though he had moved a few feet away when Art had exclaimed. “I thought he was a demon that had come to attack us. You said this room is inside the Veil and I was warned I would be attracting demons now that my Weir is open.”
“Well, we are and you do. We should get out of this room,” the Weaver snapped, standing again, and running a hand through his silvery hair, still visibly irritated with Art. “But that’s why Lucid is here. He was protecting us while we were in your mind. You were going to attack your protector, you moron.”
The Weaver swept by him and blustered out of the room. Art sat on the floor for a moment longer, tired out by the events of the past few hours, days, and the antics of the odd man. Sighing, he turned his head towards the boy again, who had not followed the Weaver, but stayed with Art. He gave Art a smile and motioned again that he should eat the candy. Giving a slight, tired smile Art obeyed and popped the candy into his mouth. Flavor exploded on his tongue and he was surprised by the texture and actual pleasantness of the little sweet.
“Scarlet Extinction, this is called?” Art said to the boy as he got up.
Lucid nodded continuing to smile and coming to a full stand as well. He was the same as he had been before but his skin was no longer the rich ebony, like midnight. Now, he was pale, similar in skin tone to Art. He wondered if he also did not get out in the sun much. Art was notorious for staying inside to study, while others enjoyed the daylight hours. The boy’s eyes looked mostly normal, with the exception that they were the lightest pale blue with a translucency to them that Art had not seen before. He was almost like an inverted version of the dark creature he saw before.
“Your name is Lucid?” Art asked and the young man nodded. “I’m sorry I scared you before. I thought you were something bad. I do appreciate you protecting us though.”
Lucid gave him a big grin and stuck his hands into his pockets, looking pleased with himself. The simple act of the honest smile made Art do the same, though his was still small and tired. “Don’t talk much do you?”
“He hardly talks at all,” the Weaver snapped, reappearing in the doorway. “Get out of there, both of you before Art attracts another demon. And eat one of those candy twists. I won’t be having demons attacking my house tonight. I’m already spent enough, dealing with that thing inside your Weirs. I never thought I’d see that monster again in this life time!”
He whipped back out the door again leaving Art to ponder the mess of cryptic things he had just alluded to. Cindervail had said the Weaver had been present for the one recorded incident of a Pith demon on record. Did that mean that the demon in Art’s mind was the same as the one in the incomplete history? Brimming with questions, Art followed after him quickly, the boy in tow.
It took Art a few minutes to find the Weaver. His house was much bigger than it appeared from the outside, full of rooms and strange spaces filled with life and things Art did not have time to inspect. Ultimately, Lucid had to lead the way. The pair found the man in a low ceilinged back room. Twisting tree trunks lined the far wall under which were dozens of huge pillow seats. The Weaver was curled up in one, mumbling angrily to himself.
“There you are!” He barked as soon as Art entered. “Where have you been?! We need to talk about this.”
Knowing that protesting that he had no idea where the man had disappeared to in a foreign house he had never been in, would only make the Weaver more unpredictably annoyed, Art said nothing. Moving past the hanging lights that looked more like vines and mushrooms than real fixtures, Art came to stand before the man. Not looking at him, the Weaver motioned for the Weiriman to sit down, Lucid taking to a chair in between them.
“So, you battled the demon. Did it possess you?” Art asked after a long moment in which the Weaver said nothing, only gazed out of the large round window sitting before him.
“It tried,” the Weaver spat, still angry about the incident. “But, I’m not that easy to possess and the thing is tied to you. Had it been free of you completely, it could have had a chance at devouring me.”
“Tied to me?”
The Weaver nodded. “It’s trapped in your Weirs. The events you witnessed in your mind when I touched with the thing was the ritual performed to trap it.”
“And you were there for this?” Art pressed.
“Not the actual ritual,” the Weaver corrected, squinting as if trying hard to remember. “It was so long ago but if I remember correctly, I made the lantern. If we had that maybe…”
“You mean this?” Art took his pack off and pulled the lantern from the compartment he had it stowed in.
“Yes!” the Weaver exclaimed, sitting up, a smile spreading across his face. “Where did you get that?!”
“The Weirimen Guild had it stored in the Wine Vault at the Seminary.”
“I’m surprised they could be counted upon to safe keep this all these years. I thought I left it with someone, can’t think of who.”
Art noted the Weaver, unlike most people, did not think highly of the Weirimen. He wanted to know the reasons. What had caused the falling out between the fey-descended and the Guild? But this was not the time nor the place. He needed answers about his problem first.
The Weaver took the lantern in hand and turned it over. Inspecting its condition and function, he placed it on the floor and watched as it transformed from hand lantern to standing and back again when he picked it up. It was then Art noticed the slot in the top of the lantern shaped as if to sheath a blade. The events of the imprisonment of the demon flashed back through his mind. This was the original lantern, the slot was meant for the dagger that had pierced the two Weirimen.
“I don’t understand what happened.” Art confessed. “I saw the lantern, the ritual and then the two Weirimen used a knife to kill themselves. With the knife and this lantern that somehow sealed the demon, right? So why is it inside me and not in this lantern? And why do I have an abnormal Weir?”
The Weaver was quiet a long time, thinking, rubbing a hand over his silver mustache.
“The lantern and the blade were only tools to help deliver the demon to its prison. The demon had to be housed inside at least two Weirs, but why it is in you and not inside the lantern with the Weirs…,” he paused again and the
n grew wide eyed. “It’s not possible!” He blurted out before rising and shoving the lantern back into Art’s hands.
“What?” Art begged to know. “What are you talking about?! What’s not possible?!”
The Weaver did not wait to listen, instead he was rushing out the door, Lucid right behind him. Screwing his face up with irritation and confusion, Art stuffed the lantern back in his pack and took off after the others.
“Wait!” He called as they disappeared down a hallway.
Art had to jog after them until they arrived at what could only be described as a workshop of the most strange. Several levels all connected with tree carved stairs and hanging baskets that moved up and down like lifts. A water wheel was half inside the room, bringing in water from a small stream outside, irrigating standing beds and hanging contraptions of all manner of plants. Fairies were at work, flitting back and forth, doing what Art could only guess at. Books, jars, cages, and an enormous variety of raw components such as: metals, wood, wire, and their like were neatly stacked, housed, and collected in shelves, bins, and any other form of storage Art could imagine. The Weaver lived up to his reputation as the greatest inventor in Haunted Weir Workings history.
Awed, Art said nothing, only heading to the Weaver, spying Lucid sitting high on a spiral stairs above them. He smiled at Art who nodded, but his attention went to the Weaver who was pouring over a book so large it would have been a two arm full just to carry it.
“Sir, what did you—"
“Shush!” The Weaver ordered and continued to look over his book. Turning many pages, he stopped at one with an illustration of the knife Art had seen used with the lantern. “Here!” The Weaver grinned, pointing to it. “This is Weir Hewn! I also helped make this blade. You will need this and the lantern.”
“To imprison the demon?” Art frowned, looking at the long, silver and red blade.
“Oh no.” The Weaver shook his head, looking serious. “Like I said before, the demon is fused with you, boy. You first must cut this thing from your soul. Only then will you even worry about containing it. Because now that your Weir is opened, it is only a matter of time before it gets out and you two will do battle for your body and soul. You’ll lose, of course, at this rate. But that’s not important right now.”
“Not important right now?” Art’s eyes were huge, his brow heavy with frown.
“No, the first order of business is to get the knife, and cut this demon from yourself.”
“So, where is the knife?” Art was almost afraid to ask.
“Oh well, it’s close,” the Weaver said, not looking at Art. “I hid it in the Woods of Reaching.”
“You did what?!” Art was trying not to sound too angry.
“It’s a dangerous blade,” the Weaver defended himself with no apology. “It has the ability to cut a Haunting Weir out of someone and other such uses.”
“Why would you make something like that?!”
“It has practical uses!” The Weaver crossed his arms, looking boyish. “Look at you! You need it, don’t you? Pretty glad I made it now, aren’t you?!”
Art wanted to say he did not know about that since he had no idea how the lantern, knife, and his soul would work together to rid him of the Pith demon locked inside him.
“So I have to go into the Woods of Reaching to find this thing?”
The Weaver nodded. “It is located at the heart of the wood in the a great tree known as the Willow’s Unrest.”
“Is it easy to get to? Do you have a map?”
The Weaver shook his head. “But Lucid can guide you. Come dawn, you two will head there. I hope you are a better Weiriman than you let on. Falling into my front yard trap makes you seem like a noob of a Weiriman, bottom of the barrel quality. Because if you aren’t, this will be a short trip for Lucid and a very ugly end for you.”