The Curse Weaver

1

 

Among fishermen’s and sailors’ chatter, Trist heard the words he was waiting for.

“… The Curse Weaver. He didn’t know it was The Weaver he approached,” a man in the back corner of Blanche’s Tavern said. He wore a thick hood over his head and was the only person dressed half as warmly as Trist.

He sat with three others by a window which overlooked the sullen docks, although the docks could hardly be seen in the dark, especially because of the pelting rain.

The man and his companions glanced at Trist as he approached—one, blonde-haired and only a little older than Trist looked as if she was going to say something, but when she saw Trist’s fixed stare on the storyteller she remained silent.

“The Weaver dropped her car keys in a puddle. The fool bent over and retrieved them. He offered a sly smile to the Weaver, whose hand was held out ready to receive their keys,” the storyteller continued, unbothered by Trist’s appearance.

“The fool wanted to receive something himself, though. He placed the keys on her hands but as she was about to grab them, he yanked them back. He asked, “’So, what’s a lady like you doing all alone? Although I suppose you aren’t alone now that I’m here.’

“The Weaver kept their hand held out. They said, ‘No, but I’d like to be. Give me my keys.’

“The fool never intended to scare The Weaver, at least not consciously, but the fact that she demanded something of him shocked him somewhere inside. Without knowing why, he frowned at her. ‘I got your keys for you, the least you could do is thank me.’ The Weaver informed him that this point, it would have been easier to retrieve them from the puddle in the first place. The man threw the keys as far as he could, cracking another car’s window.

“The Weaver might have left him alone if that was all he did. As they walked away from their car to retrieve the keys, the fool become enraged. She ignored him and somehow that was worse than anything else. He grabbed her hand.

“The last thing he remembered was a tall shadow grabbing his own wrist and yanking him back, into the ground. When he woke up, it was morning, and was lying beneath a bench in a park near the place he met the Weaver. There was a dull-ache at the back of his head and when he went to feel it he felt an assortment of twigs stuck in his hair. Only he couldn’t remove them. They were a lot smoother than twigs too, and when he traced them back to their origin, he found they were attached to his skull.

“Alarmed he ran to the park’s lake and in his reflection he saw red flags jutting out of his head. And that’s when he noticed that same dull ache from his crotch.”

The storyteller gave a chuckle, as did one of his companions who had been grinning. The companion, red-haired and in his thirties, had heard the story before and was anticipating this end. The other members of the group grimaced as they placed themselves in the same position as the fool of the story. Trist remained stone faced.

“And how do you know all this?” Trist asked.

The man lowered his hood. His dust-brown and bushy hair was spotted with tattered red-flags. The blonde at the table and the others mouths O’d in surprise for a moment before the storyteller drew his hood up again. “They grow whenever I lust after someone weaker than myself,” the storyteller said. “Fucker’s itch when they grow, and I can’t cut them off or I start bleeding.”

“I see,” Trist said. “Do you hate The Weaver?”

“No, son. I hate who I was, this is a gift. A chance to be someone better. Some people spend their lives looking for atonement. The Weaver gave it to me for free.”

The blonde made a coughing sound. “Excuses—you’re just too scared to face The Weaver for what they did.”

The older man laughed. “Oh Sam-I-Will-Slay-The-Weaver-James, aren’t you worse then?”

“I am just waiting,” the blonde said. “I do not underestimate The Weaver, but I will slay them.”

“What did the Weaver do to you?” Trist asked. The blonde turned her head quickly and peered at Trist. Trist remained stoned face as he added, “I also want to slay The Weaver.”

“Finally, someone sensible!” Sam was smiling now. “I’ll tell you, but at least buy me a drink.”

“Deal,” Trist said.

The pair departed from the table together for the bar. There Trist ordered six shots—three each. But Sam swiped Trist’s third before he could get to it. Inebriated, they made their way to table in a corner, far from their previous company, lit by a dying bulb.

“To put it bluntly,” Sam said, their words beginning to slur, “The Weaver took my friend from me. They have disciples sometimes, people to teach the ways of cursing to. Ronderrick was an excellent magician. At least as far as the theoretical side was concerned—he was literally studying at The Orb. He could have continued being great but then he met The Weaver. The Weaver showed him curse magic and he couldn’t resist the temptation—apparently even the weakest magicians can cast powerful curses.”

Trist nodded. He knew the power of curses; his whole bloodline did.

“Well, you see where this is going. He dropped out of The Orb and went to train under The Weaver. I never heard from him again since we fell out. But the story doesn’t end there

“I’d been traveling for my trading course—and to get away from Ronderrick, admittedly. But I came back to Brimset last summer. I asked our mutual friends what he was doing lately and was met with dour looks. He’d apparently angered The Weaver and been cursed. I went to find him—he’d move backed in with his parents who knew me well. They seemed to be expecting me, so when I arrived, they led me towards his room. All they said to me was that I should steel myself for what I was about to see.

“Whatever Ronderrick had done had truly angered the Weaver; the curse was severe. Ronderrick’s room smelled of overwhelmingly of blood. There was a thick trail of the stuff from his bed to the door where I stood. Tiny red handprints covered his PS4, his books and his desk.

“Then I saw something shuffle beneath the bedsheets.

“Ronderrick was lying on his bed but I hadn’t noticed him because he blended in with the blood-saturated sheets. Every pour dripped blood, it came from his mouth and nose and eyes—every hole, I’m sure. He couldn’t even see me, but he spoke, bubbled, when he heard me say his name.”

Sam paused. “I—”

Trist put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You don’t need to go on.”

“But I must if you’re to understand me. There is more. What shifted beneath those sheets was not Ronderrick—one, then two, then three of them crawled out of the bedsheet and waddled up to gaze at me with their domed black eyes. They were imps. Pudgy and pink with toothy grins with blood, Ronderrick’s blood, dripping from their slick hair.

“I shoo’d them and they scattered, climbing back over the bed and out of the window, off to the Weaver to provide them with blood. That close to Ronderrick the copper scent was overpowering so I had to cover my nose. I saw there an imp’s head forming out of a dark patch in the mattress. I yanked it out screaming—the imp and me, we were both screaming. But it stopped screaming after I’d wrung its neck.”

Sam stared at their hands.

Trist gulped. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“I was too, for a while. But now I’m just angry. I will make the Weaver lift this curse, then I’ll kill them.”

Trist nodded. “Then we have that in common.”

Sam watched Trist, for the first time since they sat together. “I guessed that we might. What did they Weaver do to you?”

Sam been nothing but blunt since she first spoke, so Trist wasn’t so surprised she asked directly. “The Weaver killed my cousin; she went to see them, begged them to remove our family curse, but she never came back,” Trist said. He whispered the next part.

“A family curse?” Sam leant forward. “I did not know such things existed.”

Trist picked up a toothpick. “Forgive me for this will seem very rude.” He spat on the toothpick.

A few seconds later, it was on fire.

“You cast a spell …? But Blanche’s sigil is plastered all over the place.” Sam went to grab the flameless part of the toothpick but found the fire too hot to even approach.

“I did not cast,” Trist said. “I am this magic. My name is Trist Loztson. My family’s curse is complicated and every generation learns yet more about it. But I’ll tell you the worst if it: to even sit here and not freeze to death I must wear three layers, including one of heavy wool; I can feel stinging from the holy relics in your pocket, and I cannot enter a church; my blood is so hot it should boil but it does not; if I do not burn living things, I whither, and if I were to die, my spirit would wonder the Earth setting alight everything in its path. The Loztson Curse is to bring destruction whenever I go.”

Grinning, Sam said, “Then let’s go to The Weaver.”

 

2

 

The Weaver lived in apartment 34a, Middleton Street. The lower floor was not usually decorated with copies of Sam’s personal sigil, painted in Ronderrick’s blood. Today it was. Trist, holding a bucket of chopped imps, followed Sam into the elevator. She pressed her stamp into the red flesh in the bucket and stamped her sigil onto the walls of the elevator as it ascended to the second far.

When they stepped out, they found The Weaver watching them from halfway down the hall. They wore a dressing gown with a bunny-ear headband and held a cup of hot chocolate in their hand.

The pair approached, stamping the sigil on the walls and doors they passed.

The Weaver asked, “Who are you?” They took a sip of her drink then wiped away their chocolate moustache.

Trist and Sam stopped and looked at each other. They knew not to speak about who they are—for curse magic, the more you knew about your enemy, the easier it was to curse them. “There is a man, Ronderrick, and I demand you remove the curse you gave him.”

The Weaver nodded then looked towards Trist.

“My bloodline is cursed and I want you to free me.” The Weaver tilted their head at this.

“Are you a Loztson?” The Weaver asked.

“Yes—,” Trist said surprised.

“No questions,” Sam cut off. “Remove our curses.”

“I guess you’re not willing to strike a deal?” The Weaver asked. “I was thinking of offering a curse removal service—”

“We will kill you if you don’t comply,” Sam said. She pulled out a revolver.

 “I can remove Ronderrick’s curse,” they said. “Toss me a bit of imp, please.” When neither of the pair did anything The Weaver sighed. “I cannot undo the curse without blood—if you want me to undo the curse, you must at least trust that I’m doing it.”

“It is too easy,” Sam said. They put the stamp away and pulled out a piece of paper. “Sign the contract, first. I’ve had it constructed by a demon so if you break it, tragedy will befall you.” The contract was not constructed by a demon, but rather a forgery. But Sam made sure it was a very good forgery.

“Is this really necessary?” The Weaver asked. “You have a gun on me, what can I do?”

“Sign it,” Sam said. She stepped forward and placed the contract and a pen on the floor. The words The Weaver will cure the curses on Ronderrick and Trist, and will not harm Samor Trist directly or indirectly were written in dark ink. Below them the words Exit condition: The curses upon Ronderrick and Trist are successfully cured. The seal of some high-demon was clearly placed in the bottom left corner of the page.

The Weaver placed their hot chocolate to the side, and signed the contract by spitting on it. They placed it back on the floor. When Sam was satisfied, they threw a chunk of imp stomach at the Weaver’s feet.

The Weaver picked up the chunk with their left hand and held it above the open palm of their right. They then squeezed it until the juices were dripped from their nails. On their left arm, they wrote the words, Release, please.

A few moments later, the imps flesh shriveled and flaked away. The bright-red stamps also grew dark and flaked off. Sam kept her gun pointed at The Weaver.

“Now cure mine,” Trist said. He put down the now useless bucket.

The Weaver nodded. “You are not cursed,” they said. Following this statement they held their hand out towards Sam, pointed their index finger to mimic a gun, then slowly, curled that finger back until it was facing the other direction.

Sam fired and felt a bullet graze her own shoulder. She saw her guns barrel had completely flipped. She rushed at The Weaver, ready to strike their head.

The floor seemed to slip from under Sam. Trist drew his own gun but found it too was twisted the wrong way. He merely stood his ground as Sam crawled back.

“You two have come here with guns and demands yet you do not know at all what happened. Will you listen?”

Neither said anything. They sat down in on the grey hallway carpet and watched The Weaver.

“Three weeks ago, I was in my apartment instructing my new pupil Ronderrick on blood methods to enhance curses. There was a knock on the door. Juliet Loztson came to me and politely asked what you just demanded,” The Weaver said, speaking to Trist. “To remove her family curse. I’ll tell you what I told her: there is no such thing as family curses.” The Weaver smiled. “Curses are fair, curses are just. You can only curse someone who has harmed you or intends to harm you, so your enemy’s offspring and relatives cannot be targets.”

“Then—,” Trist began.

“Shush, I’ll get there.” Trist went quiet. “As I was saying … what was I saying?”

“Juliet Loztson knocked at your door,” Trist said, timidly.

“Yes, thank you. She knocked, and I told her she was not cursed but that perhaps we could cure her by cursing her. I know I just told you curses cannot be cast on people who have not harmed you, but I could simply let Juliet do me a minor harm to make her cursable. There are always ways around rules.” The Weaver smiled at the contract. “Although you all made it easy for me, giving a condition so easily fulfilled.

“Juliet’s cure worked.” Trist’s eyes lit up but he kept quiet. “Juliet was cured of most of her afflictions and perhaps we could have cured her of all—but alas, Ronderrick got in the way. I had recently told Ronderrick that blood—particularly fae or demon blood—can enhance the strength of curses. Ronderrick had also overheard me suggesting to Juliet that she might be part demon. Do I need to go on?”

Sam shook her head. “You’re saying he killed Juliet for her blood? He would never.”

“He would and he did. You do not know your friends as well as you think you do. Ronderrick was talented at curses, sure, but he wanted to do much more. He had designs of his own—apparently which required more power than he possessed. And so he took the opportunity to murder Julliet Loztson in her sleep siphon her blood.

“Naturally, I was furious. I had grown quite fond of her over her short stay and certainly didn’t expect my new pupil to be a vicious murderer. I cursed him for what he did—to produce blood for my own curses endlessly. Admittedly, this was partly me taking advantage of the situation; a significant harm is an opportunity for a significant curse. Of course, now I’ve had to give him up … but I suppose making his poor parents tend to him was a bit cruel so I would have released him anyway.”

The pair looked at each other, perplexed, then Sam turned her head to The Weaver. “How do we know you’re telling the truth?”

“What reason do I have to lie? Your contract is void because I cured the curses. You both certainly intended me enough harm to curse both of you severely—I didn’t even need to tell you this, I just thought you should know how pointless what you just did was.”

Sam stood up first and then helped Trist. “And what now?” she asked The Weaver. But The Weaver was already back in their apartment.

A few hours later, Sam got a call from Ronderrick’s parents. He was dead. His mother said, “We know you did something—I think we’re grateful, but we can’t see you.” Sam didn’t say anything, just hung up the phone, and found her usual seat in Blanche’s tavern.

 

3

 

Trist remained outside the Weaver’s door, prostrated, and begged for forgiveness and for the cure to his condition. The Weaver, reluctantly, let him inside. They had him take a seat on a couch, the one without a blanket over it. Then they went over to the other side of the room. They seemed to be writing something.

The Weaver’s apartment was so tidy he was surprised that it was lived in. The pastel blue cushions were arranged neatly on the couch, and dark pink curtains were kept open, the DVD collection was kept organized by colour beneath the TV stand. The only sign of life was the TV placed opposite the couch, paused on an episode of The Disastrous Life of Saiki-K.

A snap in front of his face brought his attention back. She handed him a knife, “Come here,” The Weaver asked, and led him to table opposite the kitchen. Arranged neatly on the table were seemingly unrelated objects: bones, vials of fluid, wood carvings, scraps of paper, and more than one toothbrush. “I need you to bleed a little into the bowl. I must talk with your blood.”

“Talk … with my blood?”

“Curses are made by convincing. I must convince the blood to curse you; and to do that I must talk to it, in its language.”

Trist made a small cut on his left index finger and bled into the ceramic bowl; in the bowl was a piece of paper, decorated in an intricate symbol. He did not have time to see it, first because his own obscured it, but then because of the fire. The Weaver stared into the flame, which rose high, almost to their head.

Then it vanished. Trist felt very warm. He threw off his coat.

“Is it working?” he asked. “Weaver, are you tricking me?”

“Yes, to both,” The Weaver said. “And may name is Dannie, not Weaver.” They guided him to the bathroom where he flopped into a bath filled with ice. It stung but it was better than the heat. “You did try to kill me after all. Don’t worry; you’re cured. You will, almost always, be an ordinary human. Except when I need you to do something for me, then you must do as I bid or else your blood will return to how it was. But now is not the time. Your body is human now and your temperature is far above what humans can sustain.”

The Weaver placed a cold cloth over his head. They left the room briefly to fetch a gaming console and waited to see if Trist would survive.