Tales From The Wyrd Museum 2: The Raven's Knot (10 page)

Neil peered at the stranger, wondering why he appeared so familiar.

‘The museum?’ he muttered. ‘It's all right. You get used to it.’

The man's high forehead creased and the grin vanished as swiftly as it had appeared. ‘You know it's a museum?’ he stated in wonder. ‘Well done, boy, well done. Not many know it's even here at all, much less what it is. Well, well, well.’

‘I'd be pretty stupid if I didn't,’ Neil replied, not liking the stranger one little bit. ‘I live there.’

The craggy face changed abruptly and the old man appeared shocked and stunned.

‘You... You live in there?’ he stammered. ‘Get away, lad.’

Neil wanted to do just that, but he had provoked the man's curiosity and it was apparent that he wouldn't budge until he had learned what he wanted.

‘My dad's the new caretaker,’ Neil said bluntly.

At this the stranger became excited. ‘Tell me,’ he said, casting an eye at the museum's square Georgian windows. ‘What about the sisters who live there—have you ever seen them?’

‘Of course I have,’ Neil answered, but he wondered who this person was and why he was so interested in the building.

The man saw the boy's puzzlement and drew a small business card from the inside pocket of his mackintosh.

‘Here... the name's Pickering—Austen Pickering. Have you ever noticed anything...’ he paused to find the appropriate word, '...peculiar about that place? Odd noises, unnaturally cold areas? Have items disappeared only to emerge somewhere different a few days later?’

Neil smirked unconsciously, thinking how mundane those occurrences would be compared to what really happened within those forbidding walls.

‘Have I noticed anything peculiar?’ the boy murmured, more amused than anything else.

‘It's a very ancient site,’ Mr Pickering interjected. ‘Ancient and watchful. I've been studying it for quite a time now. I've seen it in most of its moods, from brooding to antagonistic, self-pitying to jealous. Old structures are like that lad, they absorb the atmosphere of the times in which they stand and, if they're particularly archaic, that's when they can prove most tricky—dangerous too. Some places grow to be just plain bad, from chimney pot to cellar.’

‘Studying it?’ Neil whispered as the realisation struck him. ‘Now I know where I've seen you before. When we first moved here, when those people brought the flowers—you were standing outside the yard.’

‘Ah!’ the man cried. ‘Then you witnessed the procession did you? Worth a couple of chapters on its own that will be. Amazing wasn't it—very nearly medieval in its structure and performance.’

‘Chapters?’ the boy repeated. ‘Listen, what is all this?’

Mr Pickering cleared his throat and pushed his spectacles further up his bulbous nose, the thick lenses shielding his eyes so that Neil could no longer see them.

Then, in a clear, proud voice he said, ‘I'm a ghost hunter.’

There was an embarrassing silence in which Neil wanted to laugh but the man was deadly serious.

‘I'm not joking, lad,’ he barked bluffly. ‘That building is, I believe, one of the most haunted locations in this country.’

Neil looked away and all trace of amusement left him. ‘You might be right,’ he said softly.

‘No doubt about it, lad, no doubt at all. I've done my research and I'm always very thorough. It's been all sorts you know, between the wars it was an insane asylum, before that an orphanage, then a workhouse... all good meat for a ghost hunter to get his teeth into. I should dearly like to investigate it more fully, execute some scientific tests, conduct a few controlled experiments—collect data.’

‘So you can write a... book, was it?’

Mr Pickering tutted and pulled a disgusted face. ‘A paper to the Psychical Society, that's all I'd write. No sensationalism, only more facts to add to the already overwhelming body of evidence.’

‘Then why don't you?’

‘I've tried. I've written countless letters to the Webster family but nothing, not even a courteous refusal.’

Neil rolled his eyes, acknowledging the stubbornness of the Websters. ‘Then it looks as if your paper's going to go unwritten,’ he said.

‘Hang the paper!’ the man snapped. ‘That's the least important aspect of my investigations. Don't you realise? There are hundreds of tormented souls locked up in that museum. My one ambition is to set them free and help them attain peace. Heaven knows they deserve it after all this time, trapped in there!’

The impassioned speech was more than Neil could bear, this so-called ghost hunter was too intense and the boy decided it was time to leave.

‘Well, I really ought to get back,’ he said, edging past him and wishing he was already within the small caretaker's quarters. ‘I've got a lot of er... homework to do.’

Mr Pickering made no attempt to follow him, but his words had had more of an effect upon Neil than the boy had expected. As he made his way around the back of the building to let himself into the rear door, he could not help but think that it was all true. The Wyrd Museum did guard a wealth of dark secrets.

Wavering before he turned the key in the door Neil hesitated as, from over the high walls, the ghost hunter's chill voice came echoing.

‘Beware that place, lad. Be careful of the lonely, unquiet spirits which tread upon its boards and roam under cover of night. Don't approach them—not all are gentle with good intent. That site is like a great psychic sponge—it sucks up souls and covets them jealously. If you can't protect yourself you'll never escape it and you'll be doomed with all the rest!’

Night crept over The Wyrd Museum.

Whilst Neil slept fitfully in the bed he shared with his young brother, far below in the Chamber of Nirinel, Miss Ursula Webster stared up at the withered root and waited.

Up on the third floor, in the sisters’ cramped apartment, Miss Celandine sat before a tarnished mirror, a lighted candle in her hand as she gazed morosely at her reflection—her meandering thoughts recalling happier times.

Nearby, the armchair closest to the window was empty and, upon a silver tray, another heaped plate of jam and pancakes, brought to placate Miss Veronica, remained untouched.

Downstairs, within the labyrinthine galleries illuminated only by the slanting moonlight, a bowed, crippled shape limped its way through the building. Like a phantom of some ancient pagan priestess driven out of her sacred grove, the hunched figure moved through the endless rooms—the grubby material of her flimsy white gown shifting around her shrivelled form as the different draughts billowed about her.

Into The Separate Collection Miss Veronica hobbled, her eyes blinking in the gloom as she surveyed the swept devastation.

Haltingly, she crossed to the far side where the crates and boxes stood and found at once what she sought.

With the powder on her face crumbling, her expression became one of intense sorrow and, leaning her cane against the wall, she tenderly lifted out the remains of the stuffed raven.

She held the long-dead creature to her bosom and a great, uncontrollable sob surged up into her throat as the cold, bleak knowledge of who she was returned to torment her.

‘Verdandi,’ she whispered desolately, the tears welling up in her eyes. ‘Oh, Memory. What did she do to you? Why did I allow it? Forgive me, my sweet little messenger, forgive me.’

Down her face the tears streamed, ploughing long, dribbling channels through the plastered white make-up as they coursed to her chin, dangling for a moment before splashing upon the mouldy feathers of the bird in her gnarled hands.

‘Verdandi,’ she sobbed. ‘Verdandi of the royal house—why did you harken to the words of your sister? Why did you let her take Him from you? Look what you have become—a dried, old, haggard corpse, no better than His beloved raven. At least, Memory, you were permitted the indulgence of death. Not for me any sweet closure of this burdened life, not for Verdandi. As Veronica she must endure to shamble through the coming seasons of the world. Pity poor Verdandi.’

The old woman fell silent as she surrendered to the consuming grief and the bird in her grasp was awash with her sorrow—its broken beak flapping uselessly and filling with salty tears.

Yet Miss Veronica was not allowed to mourn the wasted years and miseries of her life for long. Even as she wept, a black shape flew across the one unboarded window and alighted upon the sill outside.

A pair of sharp eyes which burned with a fierce, calculating intelligence, switched to and fro as the creature peered into the room. Then, when it was satisfied that the woman was alone, it pecked fiercely upon the glass.

Engulfed in her woe, Miss Veronica did not notice the sound at first but, as the noise became increasingly more frantic and compelling, she raised her head and gasped in bemused confusion.

Silhouetted against the window, its sleek, inky feathers edged by the cold moonlight, was perched another raven—only this one was very much alive.

Miss Veronica let out a small shriek whilst the bird executed a mannered bow in greeting.

‘Thought!’ the old woman exclaimed in wonderment. ‘Can it really be you?’

Letting the tear-drenched, mortal remains of Memory fall back into the box, she seized her cane and waddled excitedly to the window where she pressed her face against the pane.

‘How can this be?’ she cried, her fervent breath steaming up the glass.

The raven hopped up and down in agitation, scratching at the window with its talons.

‘I can't open it,’ Miss Veronica wailed.

Unfurling his shadowy wings, Thought took to the air and beat upon the glass with them before whirling suddenly to one side where its claws raked upon one of the wooden boards covering a broken pane.

Miss Veronica understood and, using the handle of her cane as a lever, she started to prise the board free.

With a loud clatter, the wood fell to the floor and into The Separate Collection the raven flew.

‘Dear, dear friend!’ Miss Veronica called, raising her hands in welcome as the bird settled upon a table, shaking his feathers and eyeing her keenly.

‘What marvel is this?’ she cried. ‘I heard Ursula and the child talk of you, but I did not understand. You live, you are back amongst us. Oh, do not let this be a deceitful vision wrought by my decayed mind. Yet even if you prove to be born of my fancy, or a poisoned over-indulgence of jam, it does my aged heart good to see you again.’

The creature nodded its head three times in reverence. ‘Hail to thee, daughter of Askar,’ his dry voice cawed. ‘Verdandi, youngest of the three princesses. No dream standeth before you, Thought hath indeed returned. Long years have passed since the fair green day when thou didst entrust unto my master the two orphaned chicks thou hadst found upon the borders of thy mother's realm.’

‘I remember!’ she laughed, smearing her streaked make-up as she wiped the tears from her face. ‘You poor things were nearly dead, but he nursed you with his own hands and loved you both so dearly—like his own children you were to him.’

‘And more than parent was He unto mine brother and I,’ the raven croaked. ‘Willingly did we serve Him and no gladder than when He bade us convey His messages unto thee—fairest of those who dwelt in that blessed age.’

The old woman sniffed, ‘But that was so long ago. See how I have aged. I am as old as the stones and more frail than a moth's wing. The countenance which once drew the Captain of the Guard has caved and putrefied.’

‘Yet the inferno of thy spirit blazes still.’

‘If there is any spark left to burn,’ she sighed, ‘then it is all but extinguished. This is a rare moment for me, at present my thoughts are clear. Likely this clarity will soon fade and I shall be Veronica once more—a sleepy hag who recalls nothing.’

‘Not thou, oh, keeper of my Master's heart.’

Miss Veronica gave a meek laugh. ‘You are wrong, Thought,’ she said. ‘I lost any claim to him when he listened to my sister's words and nailed himself upon the World Tree. When he became a god, there was no room in the chambers of his heart for anyone, least of all Verdandi.’

‘Blame not my Master,’ the raven squawked. ‘ ‘Twas thy sister who beguiled Him. If any blame can be placed upon my Lord, then scold the folly of His callow youth and His rash though valiant desire to save the realm. If thou accuseth Him, then condemn His trusting nature but never doubt the unbounded love He had for thee.’

Leaning upon the cane, the old woman gave a sad smile. ‘What does it matter now?’ she murmured. ‘What was done is past. From Yggdrasill he attained godhead and that was an end to my dreams ever after. It is good to speak with you, Thought, even if you are imagined, but I feel Veronica's rusted wits creeping up and clouding my senses. It is late. Upstairs there awaits a plate of pancakes which she shall surely devour.’

Turning, Miss Veronica began to shuffle away but the raven beat its wings furiously and flew before her.

‘Hold!’ he crowed. ‘Mine errand hath yet to be accomplished.’

‘Errand?’ she said, faintly amused. ‘Can a phantasm have any purpose other than to tease and stir the stagnant waters of remembrance?’

‘If thou doth not believe in my substance then trust in my words,’ Thought told her. ‘One last message hath my Master instructed me to deliver unto you.’