Red Twilight the Weaver Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

The Poet

Mint has snuck out of her room, seeking out her mother and the strange women calling herself Jessica the Weaver. Mint gasp and hides off to one side of the door hearing a spooky pounding, she turns to run away but is cut off by a flickering white phantom. She falls over into the waiting arms of the Weaver. The ghost vanishes a quickly as it came. "What was that?!" Mint yelps.

"A 'Phantasmal image,' I learned that spell form the Princess of the Flames. She asked me to write her a story, and she paid me with that spell. It is great for scaring sneaking little mice." She offers Mint a kiss to make up for the little joke.

"You can just throw ghost around like that?"

"To make a ghost appear is simple, to control them it much harder." she femininity wraps her arms around the child and walk her back to the study wherein the other still await. Salt and Garlic have pulled open several scrolls and have strolled them across the floor in an attempt to decipher the magic symbols that hide the knowledge within. Butter shacks her head in disbelief. "You're not going to learn anything by just looking. Someone needs to translate."

"That is very true." Jessica explains. "there were once mighty monoliths dedicated to passing the magic of literacy from parent to child, but that was at the peak of culture. We are now in what would be a dark era when only the privileged know this magic. I could pass my power on to one of you perhaps." She looks down to the scrolls on the ground. "The Poet and the Fall. When I found this scroll, it was half burned. I tried desperately to repair it… but still so much is lost."

"What is a Pilgrim?" Pepper reminds her of his question.

"One who hordes knowledge, the poet, on the other hand, is one he strives to bring that which is hidden back to light." She picks up the scroll beginning to reweave it in place. "I will share with you this one. Maybe you will find the missing paces."

** *

Day 1:

They say the life of an artist is a life of inspiration; 'the Poet' can move mountains and make kings weep. I was an 'artist,' I weaved a tale of swords and sorcery and one of life and loss. It was no masterpiece, but it was mine.

It has been six months since I have put ink to paper. I'm frightened; poetry is all I know. If I can't write, I can't do anything. So, I take the keys to my uncle's summer home; it is up in the tundra of Minnesota. I am going to write again, even if it kills me.

I pack up my car with soda and brownies. Then I take a bottle of Gin and stuff it into my coat, my 'medication,' and I case of 'Jack' just in case. That plus my computer should be all I need to survive up there for two weeks.

The first six days passed without me being able to think of more the five words. So I move on to the next step. I lock myself in the master bedroom! I will deny myself anything of human comfort; even sunlight if need be, speed, soda, imagination, and booze should be all I need.

The first week passes.

Day 7:

The first day locked in the bedroom, 'the night is…' That's all I have, that would be all I've had for weeks. Tomorrow will be better, I'm sure of it.

Day 8:

Sunrise. I've been staring at a blank computer screen for almost twelve hours consecutive. 'It's the best of time it's the worst of time…' 'We hold these truths to be self-evident' 'call me Ishmael' what is the formula for greatness? General Washington convinced four hundred multicultural's to storm the British fleet on Christmas eve with bare feet, and here I am without the inspiration to even complete a thought.

Day 9:

I haven't had anything to eat since noon Friday, the only things sustaining me are carbonated beverages' and the booze, I take my medicine, I feel alright still. I look over my shoulder at the door and imagine it is chained shut. I finally move from my chair and take a step in front of the door. I reach up and turn the switch; the lights go off, I laugh, hit it again, they turn on. This goes on until dusk. My computer is now the only thing illuminating the box I live in. I can hear it raining.

'The night was…' What if the night was moist? Or cold, hot? What if it was hot the previous day but it is cold now, 'the night was foggy?' that is the bane of all poets, the perfect words 'the night was bright' why? How? What if 'the day is dark' is it cloudy?"

Day 10:

My head is spinning; I double down on shots, I almost forget to take my meds, they make me feel better. The key to any story is the illusion that of creation. The right words fashion the world you live in and the people that surround you. A gifted storyteller need not know how a story is going to end only how it will start. The world is an organic place, once it is populated it germinate on its own.

I can hear things outside that I can't understand. The scraping of aluminum against glass is the best way I can put it. I prop my bed against the window to deafen the sound. It becomes impossibly dark. I turn on the light, but they fail to pierce the unnatural darkness. I see eyes staring at me through the void. My computer is the only thing I can see aside from the velvet eyes in the shadows.

I cower in the cold light of the monitor hidings from the darkness in the only light that I can find. 'The night was still…' The house makes noise, it creeks and crakes, rumbles and stirs. The printer alongside me groans spitting out papers, page after page of what looks at first as only binary but as page after page roll out I feel it taking shape. A hand, a head, another hand, a face, many faces, then at-last me lost within the eternity. I sing to myself in comforting madness. I cringe, I'm a mess, balled up hugging my legs to my chest in the darkness. Obsession, we have all been there, nothing becomes something in times of desperation.

Day 11:

As the sun rises, the horrible night is vanquished for the moment. I take my medicine; my mouth is dry, my hands are numb. I find myself sitting in the middle of the floor arranging the montage of papers to admire it in its grotesque completion. I can hear scrapping at the door, as I look up, hand-marks are burning into the wood before me. Then the door is gone swallowed by shadows. Sometimes what we see we do not, what is isn't, what will be, will be no more.

Fear, anxiety, these are things we all feel, that is at the heart of our reality, these are the thing we try to escape in our fantasies. Lust, we all crave the release that sex brings. Hardship is defining. All elements must come together to complete the world of dreams, or we'll fail to believe.

I close my eyes for only a moment. I feel a crushing weight on me. My eyes spring open, the night has come. A woman lays over me, her faces is white as bone, her eyes nightshade, she wears the shadows like a misty robe. I scream. The night end and the day has come again; I'm loosening all perception of time. I smash my folding chair to pieces, then thrash my room, I can't fight my fear. My rage reveals a mag-light hidden behind the nightstand; there's a sticker on it like that which you might find in a church gift shop. It reads 'salvation'.

Day 12:

The night has come for me again. I try to chase it away with the flashlight; it works for a time. 'The night was inescapable…', I had tried to nail the windows shut earlier, but it is useless, rolling blackness steams in through the windows. Death stares me in the face. The night grows hands that reach out to me. Huddled in the corner, I hide between two walls for what it is worth. Why are the shadows afraid of this tiny light I shed on them? Is that the nature of an artist, one that can shine the light on the darkness for all of us?

As the endless night drags on, I reach for my bottle hoping to find courage at the bottom. I'm shaking; I'm crying, I can't remember ever feeling so cold. The night prosiest. My light dies. I hold the light overhead hoping to drink the last drops of life-giving warmth from the otherwise useless mechanism.

Death takes me by the hands; she pulls me over to my computer, I feel ice burning in my lungs. She throws me to my knees and reaches into my body. Death whispers in my ear telling me secrets only meant for her. Like a marionette, she swings me about forcing me to type. I have become a part of the Nothing.

Day 13:

The night is finally over. An empty bottle lays alongside me, a stack of paper sits to my other side. Quivering I reach for documents expecting some horror of a revelation but instead find a cover-page with my name on it. A title, "I am Awake." it's not a statement but a desperate plea. I have work to do. I need to remember where I am and keep going. My story most live. A grin finds my lips; my hands reach for my keyboard, my fingers dances!

'The night was a rolling river of despair, and I can only hope to be washed ashore. For she is alive with the pain and torment of my own doing. The Darkness is coming; moreover, she will never stop, she wants what we have, and what only an artist can give her, life everlasting. In desperation, I called her form her everlasting sleep in hopes of drinking knowledge and inspiration from the night like a vampire fest upon life's blood…'

Ragnarok:

90 days after.

Last year was the grates year of my life. After months of staring blindly at a blank computer screen finely, I finished, my masterpiece. I am a writer; my last and most magnificent piece was "I am Awake." it's popularity was like nothing I have ever heard of. Almost the night after my book hit shelves I started getting calls about interviews and book-fairs, suddenly my social calendar is full tell the end of the next decade. I was at the top of the world...

None of that matters anymore. I know what is going on. The world ended 90 days ago, and I might just have been at the heart of it all. I was touched by a dark force wiliest on my last manuscript, it took control of me, made me work for it. Once I dropped my story on my editor's desk, the darkness left me. I can still see it, or maybe just feel its eyes on me from time to time.

The world grows ever smaller around us here in the days of Ragnarok; the most honorific of what I've seen, I have deemed "the Forgotten." The dark force has a powerful effect on the weary, once ones will to fight has faded one's body follows suit in a reflection of the soul of anyone wishing for an escape from this dying world, one turns to dust. As I travel from town to town in search of a way to place the Jin back in its bottle I have seen an ocean's worth of the ashes of the damned. But the death of the body is not freedom, the dark force gives no quarter to the dead. The forgotten rise from their ashed flesh with the setting of the sun. for the first moment naked and innocent as the last of the purifying daylight fades into oblivion. After all we were born into this world nude and virginal, why should we come back in any other form? Nudity is paramount to purity. but as the blanket of night envelop them in its frozen grip a chain of sin binds them to the night sky like the strings of a puppeteer. Then and until daybreak, they search to infect all they see with the despair that sickened them to their new form in hopes that by giving their fears and guilt to another as if it should free them. This just isn't so.

The forgotten come in two forms that I have seen: the dead, and the dying. once one has been touched by the Forgotten, they are tainted, though there is no cure for what ill's them they pass through an intermediate stage where their body seemingly starts to reduce to carbon before blowing apart in the wind. It is at this time that their identity becomes lost entirely, only lower brain function seems to renames, they will eat, and they will try to mate pointlessly as that may be. At this stage they are not infectious I have seen, so I have studded a hand full of them to try to find in-site to the nature of the beast to which I am at odds.

I have found that the dark-force has rules it must follow, it is a monster that has escaped from imagination, and as such it must follow rule. The provisions of Dreams are not like the rules of our world but seem to remain constant in some sense. In the daytime, the nightmares power is limited, only affecting objects with direct contact.

It has some strange affection for symbols, like a flashlight or candle, it avoids these things, seemingly unable to tell the difference between actual and false light. The dark force has no respect for stone walls, but it does seem to respect windows. A closed window in a room acts like a locked door; it can pass them but doing so seem to make it tiered, whether tangible or intangible the dark force will not attack one if standing before a mirror. The darkness treats water like in rolling flame actively retreating from its. These things I have confirmed for myself.

I find that as of late I have started to sleep during the day leaving my nights open to hunt those that hunt me. I arm myself with these symbols; water, light, and most recently I have found that the Forgotten can be banished back to memory by physical means once burned by one of its other weaknesses, so I now have a big woodsmen's knife and a small gun to protect myself. Where this all ends I can't say. What I can say is that even the dead can die, the stains on my clothing are a testament to that.

Ragnarok:

Day 93

I slept in the middle of the street today. An open area, no building to cast a shadow for over a block I don't fully understand how this happened but I slept for so long, the sun was already setting when a hand on my chest roused me, my tools were not in reach. A forgotten sits on my chest as my eyes opened; she was still alive as it were. The skin everywhere but her and face and crouch were black as coal, she is close to tuning, to close. Desperate for warmth she cries like an animal she runs her body up and down mine. I feel a moment's hesitation as I reach for knife knowing that till the ash of death cover the last inch of her rose skin she Is still human, and my own animalistic needs go unmet. But my thirst for life outweighs my need for a human touch, and I find my blade.

For the first time, I had killed a Forgotten before the darkness consumed it completely. The dark force flies her body as birds flee at a gunshot. I take my first look at a dead body in this world, a REAL dead body, broken and at peace. A frightful realization dawns on me. To murder the Forgotten, is this the kindest thing I can do for them? But now the others are coming from the darkness, the Phantoms, I must run, find high ground, a place I can protect, a place where I have easy accesses to the tool I will need to find them off, at least until they get bored of chasing me.

An hour until day-brake I come across others like me, two fellow hunters: Angelo Katsith, a boy in his late teens with some feline fascination, and Tomas Phear, a word culture expert. These two seem to understand the Dark-force just as well as me, they have learned thing even I haven't. Salt thrown liberally at one's feet will make the Dark-force crawl along the ground in slow motion Angelo tells me. A chain around a box and a gold ring will appear invisible to 'them.' Phear claims.

All we have learned, and it still feels as if we know nothing. We have determined to protect ourselves from the darkness, but not how to defeat it, how to save others. I reflect on the words "the Darkness respect symbols" something in me tells me the key to overcoming the Dark-force is in those words.

I ask Tomas about it, "What symbols might save us?"

"That which called the darkness here might yet have the power to send it back"

Angelo asks me where I was when I first felt the dark presence. Then it all started to add up for me. I freed the evil; I have the power to send it back. It won't be easy, but I can do it. "My uncle's cabin." now it's not the cabin that is important, the Dark-force likely took broader strokes than that, it was something in the cabin. We can recreate IT, the trap that held the darkness the first time around. I just need to figure out what attracted it in the first place. A dark room, a keyboard, a chained door, a window nailed shut, maybe that would be enough to call it back to me. But then what? How do I send it back to the Nothing from which it came?...

Ragnarok:

day 160

I have stood along Tomas Phear and Angelo Katsith in this battle agents the everlasting dusk, but guns and ancient superstition can do nothing but protect us, it can't win us this war. For victory to be ours, we need more. We need a trap for the Dark-force. And for that, we need a Poet. Tomas has pointed out to me that Bards, by some accounts, have the power to capture evil within the pages of books and song. I intend to exploit this.

Modern tales tell of film stealing the soul, be it photographs or motion picture seaming arbitrary. But if it is true, then this battle is not unique, and I find myself inquisitive considering the timeline of our struggle, did I let the demon into this world or has it always been here and I am just another gatekeeper, or is it even me?

We have found a new study, I have dressed it to look as much like where I first so the Dark-force as a can, and I have begun typing a new book. Katsith points out to me that the last time I wrote there was but a single page that was not mine slide into the final copy. A page wherein I am the Poet of old, and I was given the weapons of my ancestry to duel Dark-force with, but Dark-force did not play fair, the weapons I have, the knowledge to use them I did not.

It would be different this time, I know the rules, and I am ready for her attack. As the poet of old, I am not bound by the Dark-force instead I am bound to her, And that means some peace of what she is, is within me, she binds the fabric of my world in on itself to create her legion, I can do the same to the world. But it won't be easy, and I am going to need to pay a price to fight this monster.

'With a quivering hand, Phear pick up the page and instantly he understands... Gordon Meadows has sold him out to the demons.'

As I type these words my heart sinks into my chests, by no means is this certified to work, but it's the beast changes we have.

'The boy Katsith, who has fought largely on instinct, is yet fully unaware of the fate that is to befall him. Tomas turns his eyes to the boy with saddened disbelief then back to Meadows. Even as the reality dawns on them, the Darkness gathers outside the windows like a school of fish, thousands of tiny orbs of condensed shadow swarm as if a singular mass.'

For there to be any victory in all of this I can see that many things must come to pass. First off, I must lure the Dark-force into a form that I understand, then I must lead her back into her world, and at last, I must find a way to lock the door. It is to this end that I must betray my friends. Honestly, I would never have thought of what I am about to do, but I can see the stakes. If violence is the only way to stop someone hell-bent on bringing pain to others, then violence and non-violence are no longer moral principles but tactics. The hard truth of such tactics being that the most time-tested method for opposing evil, violent people, has always seemingly been good people better trained in violence.

'with the utmost of feRokity, the windows shatter, Phear stands gripping the page of Meadows book like a page of scripture to save him for the darkness but that page holds no magic that could save him, he is thrust into the air dragged by the charging mass of evil. The wind howls like a rabid beast; lights burst into flames, books are purged from there resting-places, as Phear finds his feet he struggles for but a breath gripping himself by the sides of his head, the Dark-forces is within him, he fights for his soul, he can't win. eyes fade to a deep purple, Phear is dead, there is only the Dark-force now.'

This is where I got into trouble, now that IT is here, what happens next? Well, I need a weapon that can beat HIM, a gun or a knife isn't good enough, if it were the other poets would have won. No, I need something more colorful, something intangible, something that means nothing in this world but in Dark-force's world is the equivalent of a nuclear warhead in the palm of my hand.

I turn my eyes on Katsith, his headband with cat ears on it; he wears them in the loving memory of his beloved Keith, Angelo believes that Keith's death marked Dark Force entry into this world and that it has somehow protected him so far. Maybe he is right.

Now as a poet this is one of the most challenging decisions to make, Angelo needs to die for the cat ears to work for someone else, but how? He can't just drop dead, so someone needs to kill him, I most certainly could do it but do I want to be the antihero? Or do I let Tomas do the job? I could do that. But how do I know what to do next? Enter Shakespearean law, the three-part drama, and this is the crescendo of the second act.

'Tomas, now as the Dark-force takes but a moment to look at his new body and finds, it is good. Yes, his strength is now limited to that of a mortal man, but, this is hardly a problem, as any methamphetamine addict could point out, fear of mortality is a man's greatest weakness, and pain doesn't heart if you don't feel it. Tom is a powerful looking man for a schoolmaster; his eyes glow as he dances about for a moment to understand what he is, then Tomas grins like a lion thrusting his gaze onto the tender flesh of Angelo. Not yet understanding what has happened Angelo's attention is fixated on chasing the shadows away. Tom holds his arms out calling the shadow to himself and only then does Katsith take notice, he reaches for a bottle of water knowing well the effect it has on the evil, but he can't reach. Tom grips him by the arm and twist him about then with one hand grips his neck and crushes it with the most nonchalant exasperation. Tom drops the body and chuckles triumphantly; the poet has failed, his plan backfired, this man Tomas, Tomas is no weaker than he was before.'

You see in a classical drama; there needs to be a distinct possibility that the hero is powerless in the end. There is no fear if clearly, the hero can stand toe to toe with the devil, Faust, for example, outsmarted the demon in his tale, and Dante outran the devil in his epic. So the same must be true of me, I cannot beat Tomas in hand to hand combat.

'Drunk with power Tomas walks around the office smashing apart the furnishings with his bare hands just to prove he can do it. The look on his face is not one of anger or rages but instead an intoxicating joy. Gordon takes the opportunity to steal the Neko-meme off the dead child's head.'

The final act is now in motion, the trap set, the hero will be tried, the hero tempted, and the vile one will taunt my ineptitude, and he will be terrifying. The only thing left to see is will this be a Greek tragedy wherein I die alone and shamed or a western adventure where a lone warrior overpowers insurmountable force for honor and glory. I think I now already. To carry on now will require Asgard like selflessness.

'the vile one sees the poet take the cat ears and giggles madly pRoklaiming that such childish things can do nothing to help him now.'

Ragnarok has come, the time of man has passed, what will be what is, will be no more, that cannot change. The transformation has done nothing to hinder the monster it seems; Tom commands the darkness.

'The monster calls on his minions to slay the poet and solidify his claim on our realm. The poet draws his flashlight to frighten the darkness away, then makes his escape. Dark-force follows. As the two of them step outside, a collapsed sun can be seen underfoot. The monster is suddenly aware of the trap, the poet has opened the door to the cage that once held her and now their in the cage once again. But the door is still open, one of them can leave, what Dark-force doesn't understand is how. Dark-force is unaffected by the super-gravity of her dead planet, and part of the deal of entering earth was that she needed to gift that power to another so Meadows can withstand the force as well, at-least momentarily. The cat ears in his grip have taken on the form of a tiny stair in the poet's hands, the one thing that this world does not have. The minions of the dead world flee from the punishing light.'

Light, we take it for granted, no man can understand what it must mean to live in a world without light, but that is all Dark-force understands, to her light is a weapon, to use it is only light.

'the light protects the poet form all the evils of this world, and form Dark-force herself, it is also the key to his escape, as a shield the Neko-meme is impenetrable. But the poet can now see he cannot save himself and overcome his foe at the same time.'

'Unfortunately, the dark force knows this as well and so send forth the brunt of her power, waves of darkness topple into Meadows and bounces off the wall of light. Dark-force laughs at the poet then turns to walk bake into the human world knowing well that the poet doesn't have what it takes to lock the door. After all who brings a shield to a sword fight?' and to be fare Tomas wasn't wrong, I was afraid, besides I'm no soldier, I'm no Viking, I have no delusions about what "death" means.

And the Dark force commands "you can't hope to stop me, poet. Your weapon can't protect you and vanquish me." the poet looks to the cat ears, and understands that she is right of course.'

'the poet walks to the edge of the world and looks down into the sun "But you see, I haven't made up my mind yet." and with that Gordon throws the light into the sun and it is reborn in a flash. In the moment that the protection fades a school of evil light descends on the poet crushing him.

And that is how I die...

But now time for some disclosure,

Outside of a dozen Forgotten the only person I have ever harmed is myself. I did not betray Tomas Phear, or Angelo Katsith, they, in fact, helped me construct this bit of performances art. Angelo divined that the use of the word Poet in my story had double meanings and Tom pointed out that in eastern Europe and Asia the words writer, storyteller, actor often share a single noun. This understanding leads us to the consistency that Poet and Bard are one in the same and so we need both to conquer our nemesis.

And so I was sent out into the darkness to make a deal with Dark-force. I showed her the book; I offered it as a gift to her. She accepted. I went back to the loft and took down the magic charms that protected us then sat down at the computer to enact the last pages of the script. Dark-force saw the theatrics and played her role. So long as the three of us did as the pages instructed Dark-force would leave our world. Which meant Tomas, Katsith and myself needed to allow the darkness to calm us.

But then the unexpected happened, Dark-force was sent back to sleep for another decade, but also sent us back in time beforehand, Angelo back to school, Tom back to his home on the lake and me, back to my uncle's cabin.

Tomas was still hunted by the memory of Dark-force and sleepwalking.

Angelo was still largely lonely in the school.

And me? I still had to write my next book.

We each were given a gift by Dark-force it seems. Angelo met a girl the day he was destined to meet the evil presence. Someone just as lost as him. They could be lost together.

Tom sleepwalked right into the mines and found some old cave-drawings; he told his story to the school and found some level of fame.

Me, I got off the drugs, cooled turkey, I finished my book this time without the evil. But withdraw sickness still ran its course. My uncle will find me in the winter when he comes up here camping.

This leads me to my last thoughts. I never told you what dark force was, Mostly because the answer wouldn't mean a thing to you, it has no merit on the story. But she did have a point to make. The most significant stories in the world aren't the ones that go one forever but are the ones that get retold every generation.

I have tried to imagine the timeline as Dark-force must have seen it. In my lifetime she has lived as a timeless snake god only to be banished by a child spell-caster, and ancient dream-eating phantom sealed in a church by a young girl that shared his power and a withered emperor slain by his black knight. A century before that she must have been a best locked in a tower slain by a maddens kiss, before that maybe she was a serpent embattled by the old gods of Asgard and Greeks. I can only imagine where she will be next...

Fin...

** *

"And with that children, I must bid you all a good night." Jessica rolls up her scroll and lead the young ones off to the main room and dresses them in knitted bedrolls.