Chapter Eight
The Woods of Reaching
Art had never expected his quest to take such a dramatic turn. But as Lucid donned boots, pack, and a short cloak, the Weaver added to the growing list.
“When you get the knife, don’t come back here.”
“What? Why? I’ll have the lantern and the knife so—"
“Don’t interrupt as if you have anything of value to add to this situation, because you know nothing about anything.”
“But you do,” Art jumped in, growing tired of the Weaver’s attitude. “And you’ve hardly told me anything! What do you know about this Pith demon?”
“I am getting to that, boy,” the Weaver, glared as he stuffed food into Lucid’s pack. Art noticed the boy’s vest, shirt and even cap had an open hole in the back which seemed purposely sewn in that manner. The opening displayed a large tattoo, a circle twisted to form a giant dream catcher.
Curious, but having other issues, he dismissed it and went on to say, “Do you know the demon’s name?”
The Weaver shook his head. “I never did learn it. If they knew it, they didn’t tell me. Demons names do me little good. I don’t exorcise people.”
“But once I get this knife and lantern and cut the demon out of my soul, aren’t you going to be exorcising me?”
The Weaver threw his head back and laughed. “Is that what you thought? Well, Weirimen really can be so stupid. Of course not. I’m no exorcist. I may have helped found the early Weirimen Guild, back then they were made of real grit and skill, but I’m not built for exorcism.”
“But you exorcised the demon out of you!”
The Weaver dropped a look on him as if Art had said the most obstinate thing imaginable.
“I forced the demon, who was still attached to your soul and Weirs, back into your mind. It hadn’t taken full hold of me. I’m not so vulnerable that I can’t push something out of my mind when I don’t want it there!”
Art did not really see the difference, since that was basically the first step of self-exorcism. But he decided to stop arguing.
“Well, if you’re not going to exorcise me what am I going to do?”
“Worry about that later,” the Weaver chuckled. “First you need to find the knife, second you must have the demon’s name.”
“I thought you didn’t know the demon’s name.”
The Weaver blew air hard out of his nose, cocked a hand on his hip and saying with exacerbation, “That’s why you have to find it, you dolt!”
Art chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Where do I even start to learn this thing’s name? The Guild’s library had no information, according to my professors.”
“Go to the Consciatosium.”
Art blinked, surprised. “That’s a myth.”
“It is not!” the Weaver chided.
“A great library of all knowledge of the world beyond the Veil and demonic information assembled by mysterious forces? It does not even sound real.”
“It is real,” the Weaver insisted. “I have been there.”
“How do I get there?” Art asked flatly. “Is it close?”
The Weaver shook his head. “No, but you’re resourceful. I can’t remember the city it is in. But once there Lucid can guide you to its door. If you make it out of the Woods of Reaching alive, that should be your next stop.”
“Great,” Art’s tone remained flat.
“Just concentrate on one task at a time, boy. You better be more talented than you seem. Someone so dull witted will never make it out of the Woods alive. The forces in there will be trying to eat you and your soul and that demon will be ready and waiting for when you become weak. So keep that in mind too. And for the sake of the Muses, would you use those Umbra Sweets if you need them? That’s what they are for. But don’t over use. You’ll run out and that thing will eat you before you even make it to the library.”
“Thanks.” Art did not need the reminder.
“And you better take good care of Lucid. Don’t let any harm come to him and don’t let the Guild take him. If you allow the Weirimen to imprison or take him for any reason, I’ll hunt you down and take your head. He is in your charge and will be kept safe at all cost. Do you accept this responsibility?”
“Why would they imprison him? The Guild is not in the habit of imprisoning people, some demons….” Art looked at the boy, who only blinked at him with his large pale eyes. “He can’t be a demon, I would have sensed it by now. Surely, he is not possessed. I would know that too.”
“Of course he is neither of those two things.” The Weaver glared. “But, is he made of something that the Weirimen might not approve of.”
“Made of something?” Art was confused.
“Lucid Dreamare is a dreamcatcher.”
Art frowned. He had not heard of that kind of fey, fairy, or other reference other than an actual dream catcher: a tool used to trap nightmares. People often used them to keep tiny demons out of their dreams and sometimes Shadow Confectioners used their energy to make Umbra Sweets.
“Is that some kind of special fey?” Art asked, thinking of nothing else, but did note the tattoo on the boy’s back was indeed a dreamcatcher.
“No,” the Weaver explained. “Lucid is an actual dreamcatcher. I had acquired a great and powerful dreamcatcher many years ago from a Pitch Threader. Over time, it caught so many nightmares that it actually took on its own consciousness.”
Art’s eyes were huge. “It did what now?”
“I know it was remarkable!” The Weaver was grinning, looking at Lucid as if he were a prized child. “With all the negative energy and dreams something else manifested, something to balance the darkness.”
“This boy is the balance to the darkness that the dreamcatcher caught? He has a soul?”
“More bright and more pure than yours or mine. Sometimes life answers the dark call of death or evil by giving the world a balance.”
“But I saw him all black before,” Art said remembering the scary form Lucid took with the onyx skin and long clawed hands.
“He has two forms. The one you see now, the dream form, and then there is the nightmare form. That is the one you saw before. Using the power of the nightmares within him, he is a great weapon against evil. He will be the only way you can sleep at night. You will be at greater and greater risk the longer you live with this demon clawing its way out of you. Lucid will protect you as you sleep from the things that come to feed from you. Even though you have an abnormal Weir, you are still bleeding life while it is open, boy. Lucid will protect you but you must protect him. The Guild might not look kindly on a boy with nightmare powers. They did not like items that developed a mind of their own, that were created from evil but emanate light. They never trusted that process. And for that I left them. Life is about balance, young Weiriman. Great good can be born out of great evil. We have often seen the reverse. But I believe the forces of good have just as much power against the darkness, and sometimes it is the only answer to the darkest of questions.”
Art was staring at Lucid, who only blinked at him quietly with lagoon blue eyes. The Weirimen could sense nothing but good things from the boy, no demonic energy, nothing evil. Had he not seen the nightmare form himself, he could not believe this pleasant person harbored the darkest nightmare powers inside. But looking at the boy, Art could not see allowing any harm to come to him. He was a pure soul as any other a Weiriman should protect.
“You have my word, Sir. As a Weiriman I should have been, and as a decent man, I will protect him.”
“Good,” The Weaver nodded and turned to Lucid saying, “You will take good care of each other. You are brothers, all right?”
Lucid acknowledged, smiling broadly. He leaned in and gave the Weaver a great embrace. “Thank you, Father,” he said in a gentle voice. “I will protect him.”
“When you have the name and the knife, come back here,” the Weaver instructed once they were outside and passed t
he pit. He bid a farewell and went back inside, not watching them go.
Dawn was just arching over the forest. Art had slept little the night before, still plagued by strange nightmares but it did not matter much to him yet. He had functioned just fine on less sleep, through some of the trials and tests at the Seminary. The words of the Weaver floating through him again and again as he and his new companion made their way through the Other Side Woods. He knew demons were far more active at night, but he had yet to truly experience what his new condition and midnight might combine to make.
The sun was not even half way through the sky when they exited the Other Side Woods, finding the country trail that Art had departed from to find the Weaver. It felt like a long time ago, though it had only been one night. He was tired all of a sudden, and knew that would not serve him at all.
“Let’s have some lunch,” Art suggested, which made Lucid grin widely.
Finding a nice spot near the side of the road, they sat. Lucid prepared the sandwiches and some fruit. Art only nibbled at his food, noticing he had lost most of his appetite since the stew lunch a day ago. Hopefully, it was temporary and brought on by stress but Art had a sneaking suspicion it was related to his condition. Noting that, he tried to eat a little more, despite his lack of hunger for it.
With the day nearly at the half gone point, it was hard to decide what to do. Going in the woods at night seemed like a very bad idea. The haunted place was dangerous enough in the middle of the day, but at night Art imagined it would be a great deal more like a layer of hell than a forest wood. Waiting half a day and another night did also seem like another very bad idea. He was on a timeline and there was no real idea how long he could withstand the demon. It was unclear how much he should risk.
The forest beyond was dimming, even though the sun was still casting more than enough light to penetrate the haze. The fog gathering around the skinny trees was definitely not natural. Art was frowning. The same whispering he had heard when he first passed the wood called to him once more. Only now, instead of just soft voices, he heard humming as well. It was haunting but also somewhat beautiful. His fist clenched. Either the woods had a special effect that made the sounds of evil temping or Art was being tempted because of the great evil in him. He had to fight against this change. He was not going to let evil seduce him.
Feeling angry, his stomach knotting so the nourishment he had just taken in tasted sour, he felt at a loss as what to do. Usually cautious, but not normally paralyzed by doubt, Art stood stressing over his next move when Lucid came up next to him. The boy looked at the Weiriman, then to the forest, and then back to Art.
Art hardly took notice of him, staring so hard at the forest his eyes were starting to brim gold. Lucid, frowned slightly with worry, thinking for a moment to himself. Then, as if all had been made clear, the boy smiled and started into the woods. As he passed, Art was jogged out of his frustrating thoughts to see the boy heading towards the woods.
“Hang on,” he called, gathering up his pack before pulling his hood back up.
Lucid slowed a little but did not wait. Art caught up and seeing the confidence in the boy’s eyes, allowed Lucid to lead him into the forest.
The border of the woods was felt, rather than seen. Instantly, the temperature difference could be felt and both Weiriman and boy shivered at the sudden loss of heat. The fog gathered in great billowing puffs of slate tasting breezes. Had Art not walked into the wood in the middle of the day, he would have thought it was an ashy evening, everything a slight teal gray and muted.
Art did not wish to linger and hurried them along the path that was quickly narrowing to something more like a trail of dried dirt made for fleet footed creatures, rather than booted travelers. The trees were growing ever denser, blocking out more and more sunlight with their shriveled black and brown leaves. Art could taste the taint in the air like old tin. The place was heavily touched.
“You know where we are going, right?” Art asked Lucid as they turned at a crossroads of strange and twisted little paths.
Lucid nodded and pausing for only a moment, pointed in a direction and beckoned Art to follow. Art wanted to know how the boy knew where they were going, but the close narrowness of the woods and the growing feeling of being watched kept him quiet. They just needed to reach their destination as soon as possible. He hoped they would not be woods-deep by the time the sun winked its last light out of the sky and the night opened the world up to all array of ugly possibilities.
Moving along, their boots rustling in the growing thickness of the underbrush, Art thought he heard an odd sound. It had been quick and had it not been for the thick silence of the wood, he was not sure he would have noticed it at all. Before his senses could tell him to dismiss it, the sound happened again, a strange sort of hollow slap. Art slowed his stride just a little, reaching out to Lucid and tapping him on the shoulder. The noise happened once more, and the boy heard it too. Lowering his head just slightly, both man and boy scanned the woods, caution driving their breathing to quiet even more.
All the talk of the woods being full of the kind of mysteries that killed travelers, ensnared Weirimen, and led fully aware adults to disappearance, trickled back to Art’s memories but he tried to shut them out. Giving into fear would only make him vulnerable, but a touch of it just might spark his instincts to save his life. He had to maintain the balance.
Again, the sound drew their attention but it was almost recognizable like a slap of a hand on something hard. It happened again, loud and deliberate, and close. Getting antsy now, Art finally spotted something that only gave rise to a whole new set of terrifying questions.
Nearby stood a tall, thin tree. It looked sickly like all the others, its form bent and twisted as if by some blight. But it was not its pathetic shape or the droopy branches that had Art looking horrified and confused. On the trunk of the dull wood were sets of pale, almost white blue hands. They were just gripping the tree tightly, the muscle almost too tense with the effort to hold on. Flexed but unmoving, Art thought there had to be two people standing behind the tree. But leaning back just a little to get a slightly different perspective, it became clear there was no one standing behind it. The hands were completely disembodied, seeming to grow at bent, awkward angles out of the tree itself.
“Oh, that’s not good,” Art mumbled under his breath, going for one of his knives.
Alarm panged in both Art and Lucid when another hand sprang from what appeared to be nothing and gripped the tree, the others moving and twitching a few moments before settling in place, one above another in some form of horrible totem pole. Art was unfamiliar with the apparition, creature, or some terrible combination thereof and, was not at all interested to find out.
Turning, he and Lucid started down the little path only to be greeted by the same phenomenon happening on another tree, now closer to them. Startled for a moment, the Weiriman frowned and Lucid tilted his head just slightly, looking curiously at the hands. But when he moved just a hair closer several more popped out, all wriggling and grabbing at the boy like maggots in a gut. Lucid yelped and jumped back in surprise, flashing white and black eyes and fanged teeth.
Art stepped forward and took him by the arm, his step falling into a jog as the trees around them all came to life with the gripping hands, flailing, clawing and grasping at the pair. Art let go of the boy who fell into a run behind him, allowing Art to draw both blades. The path all but disappeared and they were running through more waving hands than branches. Slicing and cutting, Art tried to get them through to a clearing.
“Which way?” He got out between blows and breaths.
Lucid, pushing and fighting off the hands trying to pull his hair and tear at his cloak, whipped his head back and forth a moment and then exclaimed, “Brother! This way!”
Art followed his lead cutting more hands which dropped onto the ground still wiggling, but not seeming to be made of flesh. They did not bleed. Climbing a sm
all incline in the forest, the hands did not dissipate. Soon they were embroiled in them again, some tearing at their faces and throats. Lucid whimpered when one grasped him hard, nails digging into his neck. Clawing at his face, it started his change, pupils going white again, whites turning black.
“Don’t fight them.” Art was suddenly at his side chopping arms away, releasing both the boy’s throat and clothing from their grips. “Just push on!”
Lucid obeyed and stayed close to Art who hacked his way to another clearing.
“We won’t last long like this,” the Weiriman took a breather, wiping a cut on his cheek. “Are we close?”
Lucid looked into another part of the forest, still full of arms but he seemed to sense something beyond them. He gave Art a grin and pointed, excitedly. Art returned the smile and stood again.
“All right, I’ll start by cutting in. Guide me the best you can. I’ll try to protect you.”
Lucid nodded and Art was surprised by the easy trust that had sprung up between them. He had never worked all that well with people before. Yet, he had no time to dwell on the thought and started into the grasping, whirling arms to make their path.
Art was not sure how much longer he and Lucid could go on, when he felt a distinct chill rush over him like hot water on cold limbs. He physically shivered as they burst from the woods into a fog ridden clearing. The hands behind them stopped moving as the pair headed away from the woods. All sound grew strangely dull in the growing closeness of fog, air, and cold.
Cautiously, they went into the thick mist, a gray and white so dense Art could hardly see two feet before him. He still had his knives out, ready for anything, when Lucid grabbed his arm and they stopped. The fog started to dissipate and before them lay a small mote circling a great and terrible tree. Awing, the thing rose to massive height, bent, and twisted as if the willow had grown to a staggering size and shape and then suddenly lost its will to live and sagged back to the earth in strange and lazy forms of trunk and branches. The branches were rolling and contorted, making knots and odd shapes with their lamented growth.
“This has to be Willow’s Unrest,” he muttered, eyeing the thing. “So where is this ‘Weir Hewn’?”
Scanning, he was disturbed by the lumps and shaping of the tree’s roots and branches resembling bodies, even faces, in small ways. Trying to ignore the growing unrest rising within him, Art started to take a step onto the ice when a feeling flared up in him. He pulled his foot back. The ice was moving, just a little, or something just below its surface was. Seeing Lucid starting to do the same thing, he pulled the boy back.
“Wait, something is wrong.” He pointed and Lucid took a step back even further.
It was not ice at all. It was an illusion, similar to the Weaver’s pit. Art tried to suppress the smug smile at the corner of his mouth. He was not about to fall for the Weaver’s trick a second time.
“Your father is not above using a good trick twice, hm?”
Lucid gave a wide smile and nodded. Art returned to thinking how much he did not really like the Weaver. He could have warned Art about the trap, but if the Weiriman said anything he knew the Weaver would take it as whining and likely make comment about how Art should be more talented, or observant, or maybe completely clairvoyant.
Putting that in the back of his mind, Art tried to assess what their next move would need to be. The ice mote completely circled the tree and there appeared to be no way around the thing. Art could not jump that far nor could he fly. Spotting a fallen tree, he had an idea. Going to the thing, he rooted in his pack for something as Lucid watched curiously.
Pulling out a device that looked like a rolled up whip, Art smiled saying, “This thing is called a Light Load. Wrapping it around what you are trying to move, it shifts the thing just slightly beyond the Veil. Their weight and matter feel different, so it, in a sense, lightens the load of what you are moving. Weirimen use it when trying to remove obstacles or dead bodies of demons and monsters.”
Lucid beamed, nodding to indicate he understood. Taking one end, he and Art encircled the fallen log, and with some effort got it tied off. Energy glittered down the rope and seeped into the tree. After a moment Art anchored his boots into the earth and pulled. Much lighter than it would have been, the tree moved, nudging out of its shallow dip in the ground. Adjusting his grip again, Art heaved the thing towards the frozen mote, and yanking it hard, slid it out onto the ice. A flick of the wrist and the Light Load released and whipped back into its folded circle in his glove.
Art gave the thing a kick with his foot but the log, now back at its normal weight, did not budge. Removing his pack, his eyes mapped the best way he thought he should cross.
“Not bad, huh?” He flashed a smile at Lucid who returned it, nodding enthusiastically. “You stay here. I’m going over to that tree.”
Before he went, Lucid patted him on the bicep then pointed to the dark knot only a few branches up the tree.
“What? Is the knife there? You can sense it?”
Lucid confirmed.
“All right. I’ll get it,” Art promised and climbed onto the fallen tree.
Steadying himself he headed across, being careful of the broken branches and his long jacket. All was well until about halfway across the log suddenly started to move. Alarmed, Art dropped to his knee for more balance as the thing started to shimmy and jump. Thinking that perhaps the tree had reaching arms starting to pop out, but then realized that was not the case.
Lucid called, “Brother! Brother!" over and over again and pointed to what Art was already looking at.
The frozen “water” was not water at all. It rolled and twisted, rising out and up like icicles. The higher they got the more their tops looked like heads until they sprang arms and gripped the tree. The one nearest Art twisted its strange top around, and his eyes widened as the thing’s muddied gray face broke into a scream, empty eyes and huge maw.
Getting to his feet, Art broke into a run as the icy beings swiped and grabbed for him. Every place they touched the tree it turned to brittle ice, some even shattering as Art dashed across. He stumbled but caught his footing and diving the last few feet to avoid a large creature, he leapt onto the island of dirt the Willow’s Unrest occupied. He rolled over and looked back, the creatures continuing to wail in frustration.
Breathing a little hard, Art did not waste time, worrying they might be able to come out of their frozen mote. He sprang to his feet and started to climb the tree. Its bent and strange form made it easier for Art to find footholds and before long he was at the knot Lucid had indicated. Uncertain what to do, but driven on by the wails of the creatures below, he felt around the thing with his glove until he felt something move. Drawing his hand back, the knot seemed to slip just a little in the tree and a trick door in the wood opened. Peering inside, Art saw the glint of a blade in the little alcove.
Uncertain if he should reach in, he made a rash decision and stuck his hand inside. Half expecting it to get bitten off, Art was extremely relieved when he pulled both hand and weapon out unharmed. It looked just like the drawing Art had seen at the Weaver’s, but even more beautiful. He pulled it from its sheath to inspect it. Undamaged by time, the long knife gleamed along the silver metal, a blood red vein of colored gem or shell woven in.
Knowing this was the wrong time to be admiring the coveted artifact, Art stuffed it in his belt, making sure it was secure and headed down the tree. The creatures were tossing about the water madly, angry, and agitated. The log was still laying across the mote, patches of it in treacherous ice. He could not see how he would make it across again with the things fully awake and all waiting for him.
Thinking hard, Art went through every lesson, every drill, anything he could think of from his schooling. He had not read anything about creatures like this, not knowing if they were demonic or some other form, but he did have an idea. Inching closer, he neared the one closest the tree. It roared at him,
sending cold air icing over his face, but smelling slightly sour and rotten. It made Art think these things might be touched or tainted in some way. This gave his idea even more merit.
Standing just out of reach, first making sure the creature could not grab him where he stood, Art centered himself. The whispering of the woods had dimmed in his ears since the reaching arms had come to life, one demonic presence over shadowing another. This aided him now, able to hear nothing but his own thoughts. He started to bring up his own energy, his own life force. Weirimen could control the flow of their own life’s spirit.
Just as he felt his focus come into the perfect alignment with this goal, Art heard a deep voice ripple through him like a hand over his cheek. It spoke his name, gently, cooing-like. A wave of sick passed over him. It was the demon. He had to ignore it.
“I can taste the rise of your life within you.” It continued the rumble of its voice making his gut tremble. “Release me.”
Art ignored it again. He went back to his task. He had to focus. Suddenly Lucid yelled to him and Art’s eyes opened just in time to miss a piece of the log narrowly sail past his head. He could not afford to stay there. They would tear his bridge up or actually hit him with it.
“Release me, child,” the demon cooed again, the soft tone contrasting with the ugly slime of the voice.
“Leave me be, demon.” Art grit his teeth and forced the voice from his mind. It took more effort than he wanted, but he went back to his task again.
Focusing his life’s energy, he removed a glove and held his hand out towards the creature before him. It could almost be seen, just the whisper of spirit move from man to monster. Slightly gold hued, it hummed as it poured over the thing and out of Art. He shut it off quickly and waited to see its effect. Almost instantaneous, the ice the thing was made of turned liquid and the monster broke into a cascade of water, running into the others, causing them to also melt.
Art knew he did not have much time. He had not shared enough life to dispel the demon for long. Running up and onto the log, the first creature was already taking ice form again as his boot passed its reaching arm. He dashed across the log-bridge, the thing breaking and crumbling under him; ice patches cracking and bursting, making it even more unstable. Trying to be careful but quick, Art ran across as the monsters were coming back to ice, roaring and wailing angrily.
Just at the end his boot slipped on an ice patch and caught in the tree. Falling forward he righted himself quickly. He was so close to the other side. Tangling with his boot, an arm of ice reared up, crashing down towards him. Lucid was suddenly there. Combining efforts, man and boy tore Art’s boot free of the tree’s pit and they flung themselves out of the creature’s reach.
Breathing hard on the other side, the pair watched as the creatures howled their frustration. Then suddenly, like a vacuum, the cold mote seemed to suck them up, making a clean, perfect, and undisturbed circle of ice once more. The tree lay in pieces and ruins, the only evidence that anyone had breeched the treacherous field where the ice monsters lay in wait, now once more in their prison.