Chapter 6: The Archivist

Chapter 6: The Archivist

Panic seized Tamara, cold and absolute. The hand clamped over her mouth was rough, smelling of soil and something metallic like rust. She was lifted and dragged backward with a wiry strength that belied the attacker’s lean frame. Her feet scraped uselessly against the grimy cobblestones of the alley as she was pulled deeper into the oppressive dark. She bucked and twisted, but the arm around her waist was an iron band. A muffled grunt was the only sound her captor made.

The darkness was total. He propelled her forward until her shins hit something hard and wooden. A low groan of protesting hinges followed, and then she was being forced downward, into a space that was even blacker, the air growing colder, thick with the scent of damp cellar earth and decaying paper. They descended a set of steep, rickety stairs. Tamara’s mind raced, picturing a cellar where she would be locked away, another girl who broke the rules, another offering for the Merry Man.

At the bottom of the stairs, her captor finally stopped. He pushed her forward into a small, cramped space and released her. She stumbled, catching her balance on a tall stack of books. As she spun around, ready to fight, a match flared.

In the sudden, dancing light, she saw him. He was a man in his late twenties, with a lean, weathered face and eyes that looked far older, burdened with a knowledge she was only just beginning to comprehend. His dark hair was unkempt, and his jaw was set in a line of permanent cynicism. He wasn’t a monster. He was just… tired. His gaze was sharp, analytical, and utterly devoid of welcome. It was the face of a man who had survived by trusting no one.

He used the match to light a single kerosene lamp on a cluttered desk. The flame steadied, casting a warm, flickering glow over the most extraordinary room Tamara had ever seen. They were in a hidden cellar, a secret library. Books were crammed into every available space—piled on the floor, stuffed into makeshift shelves that bowed under their weight, spilling from open crates. Maps were tacked to the damp stone walls, showing Solenvol in obsessive detail, with annotations and symbols she didn't understand. It was a pocket of forbidden knowledge, a fortress of memory in a town suffering from weaponized amnesia.

“You’re attracting attention,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Walking down Rust End in broad daylight, wearing new-issue socks and a face that doesn't know how to fake a smile. You might as well have been waving a flag.”

Tamara’s breath was still coming in ragged gasps, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. “Who are you?” she demanded, the words escaping before she could temper them with caution.

He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something that might have been amusement in his weary eyes. “I’m the one who just stopped you from getting yourself ‘gifted’ in a back alley. The question is, who the hell are you?”

She clutched the strap of her pack, the worn paper inside a talisman. “Elena Volkov,” she said, her voice shaking but firm. “She was my grandmother. Elena sent me.”

The man’s cynical expression didn’t soften, but it changed. The sharp suspicion was replaced by a profound, bone-deep weariness. He let out a long breath, running a hand through his messy hair.

“Elena,” he said, the name a strange and foreign sound in the dusty air. “Of course. We heard she died. Never thought she’d send someone back. Nobody ever comes back.” His eyes dropped from her face to her boots, peeking out from under her jeans. “Nice socks. Got the orange and green special. Lucky you.” He deliberately lifted his own trouser leg a few inches, revealing a mismatched pair: one the color of a faded bruise, the other a dull, muddy brown. It was a grim gesture of solidarity, the shared uniform of the damned.

“You’re Rory,” she stated, not a question.

He gave a curt nod. “And you’re Tamara. Elena wrote about you. In the last letter that got through, years ago.” He gestured to the chaotic archive around them. “Welcome to the real Solenvol. The part they don't show visitors.”

“My grandmother’s story…” she began, “about her sister, Lucinda. It’s all true.”

“True?” Rory let out a short, bitter laugh that was entirely without humor. “What you read isn’t a story. It’s a field report from a prison camp. You think this is a tradition? A quaint folk belief? Look around.” He swept his arm across the room. “This is a history of a parasite. A god-parasite.”

The term hung in the air between them, clicking into place with horrifying precision. “Parasite?”

“It’s not a god that demands worship,” Rory explained, his voice low and intense, the voice of a man who had spent a lifetime studying his jailer. “It’s a predator that demands a specific emotional response. Gratitude. Joy. Festive spirit. That’s what it feeds on. The smiles, the prayers, the ritual—that’s not for our benefit. It’s our blood. We are its livestock, and this whole town is its farm.”

Everything Tamara had seen—the forced smiles of the Ivanovs, Marta’s venomous piety, the oppressive, watchful silence—it all snapped into focus. They weren’t appeasing a deity; they were feeding a monster.

“The socks are the delivery system,” Rory continued, picking up a tattered journal from his desk. “The Merry Man—whatever it is—is bound to this place. To the plants. And through them, to us. The socks are its mark, its claim. A daily renewal of our contract. You accept the gift, you wear the shackle, you feed the beast. You live another day.”

“And if you don’t?” she whispered, the image of Lucinda’s severed legs flashing in her mind.

Rory’s face hardened. “Then you become a lesson. The Merry Man doesn’t just punish. It makes the punishment part of the festive display. It twists dissent into a grotesque gift for the rest of us. A warning to stay grateful.”

He opened the journal. The pages were filled with the same cramped, spidery handwriting as the letters in Tamara’s box. But these were not letters. They were lists. Names and dates, followed by a short, brutal description of their fate.

Misha Petrov, 1981: Refused his gift. Body returned in pieces over three mornings. Anna Ivanova, 1987: Wept during the prayer. Tongue removed, left on her pillow. Stefan Orlov, 1993: Attempted to cross the barrier. Skin found draped on the trees like ribbons.

On and on it went, decades of quiet, horrific executions. This wasn’t just a library; it was a mausoleum. The collected memory of a town’s slow, agonizing slaughter. Her great-aunt Lucinda was just one of countless victims.

“My grandmother escaped,” Tamara said, the words feeling thin and unbelievable in the face of this overwhelming evidence.

“No one escapes,” Rory corrected her grimly. “She got out. It’s different. She punched a hole through the wall of sun, somehow. Never been done before or since. We thought… it doesn’t matter what we thought. Point is, you’re here now. Inside. And the door you came through is gone.”

A sudden, sharp tolling of a bell echoed from the world above, muffled by the earth and stone. It wasn't the 7 a.m. bell. It was a single, urgent peal.

Rory looked up, his expression instantly sharpening with alarm.

“What is that?” Tamara asked, a new wave of fear washing over her.

“That’s the summons,” he said, his voice dropping to a grim whisper as he extinguished the lamp, plunging them back into near-total darkness. “Someone broke a rule. Openly. The price of a lie is always paid in public.” He moved to the base of the stairs, peering up through a crack in the cellar door.

“You wanted to know what happens when you don't show enough gratitude?” he said, his silhouette barely visible against the faint light. “You're about to get a lesson.”