Tales From The Wyrd Museum 2: The Raven's Knot (11 page)

Miss Veronica gripped the handle of the cane and uttered a dismal cry. ‘Why do you torment me?’ she whimpered. ‘Begone! Verdandi is no more. She ended when the mists claimed her.’

‘A final message,’ the bird insisted, circling about her head until the old woman began to feel giddy. ‘Wilt thou not listen? Wouldst thou turn thy back on Him?’

Having reached the entrance to The Egyptian Suite, Miss Veronica leaned against the doorway and in an almost fearful voice said, ‘Tell me then. Impart your last message and begone.’

Thought alighted upon one of the sarcophagi and, clearing his rasping throat, he recited what he had been commanded to relay.

‘Princess, all quarrels must finally end. If it were of any avail I would crave your forgiveness but your sweet pardon is more than I may hope to expect. Permit me then to look upon you one last time.’

The raven concluded his rehearsed speech and stared up at the old woman's face expectantly.

Miss Veronica looked as if she might faint. ‘The Captain wishes to see me?’ she murmured eventually.

‘Verily,’ Thought answered. ‘If thou canst recall any warmth for my Lord then grant Him this one boon.’

‘Is he outside?’ she asked, preparing to limp back to the window. ‘He must be made welcome.’

The raven outstretched his wings. ‘By thee, perhaps,’ he cawed. ‘Yet not by thy sister. No, Verdandi, thy beloved will never enter here. He is far from this place and even now He awaits thee.’

‘Where?’ she gasped, breathless with excitement.

‘Canst thou not presume to guess? Hast thou forgotten the trysting place of thy youth? Whence didst thou ride in the days of the World Tree's glory? To which isle didst thou journey?’

A withered hand covered the pale, powdered face as Miss Veronica remembered the marshy landscape of her secret rendezvous, with its majestic Tor dominating the sapphire blue sky.

‘Ynnis Witrin!’ she cried. ‘Is it there he has gone? Does it still mean so much to him?’

Thought strutted across the golden face of the sarcophagi and assured her it was so. ‘No place doth my Master hold so dear,’ he told her.

‘Yes,’ Miss Veronica agreed, ‘we were both very much in love—or so I imagined.’

The raven hopped up and down, his black eyes sparkling as he sensed that his mission was nearly achieved. ‘At sunset tomorrow,’ he squawked encouragingly, ‘my Lord will be waiting for thee. There is much He doth desire to explain. Do not disappoint or dismay His high hopes. Let not the final message of the last raven go unanswered.’

‘Have no fear,’ Miss Veronica whispered. ‘I swear I shall go to him. How could I refuse?’

A sly gleam flashed in the bird's eyes and it spread its wings to take to the air.

‘Then until the morrow's ending,’ he cried, flying back into The Separate Collection where he wheeled around in a wide circle before bursting through the shattered window again.

‘Wait!’ Miss Veronica wailed, holding up her hands in consternation. Ynnis Witrin—how do I find it? The land has changed much since I last scaled that noble hill. Thought! Thought! I am old and spent—how am I to reach it?’

But the raven was gone and Miss Veronica cast the walking cane upon the ground in despair. How could she make such a journey when she could not even walk unaided? Bitterly she knew that away from the influence of Nirinel her strength would diminish even further. Her garishly painted mouth formed a silent shriek as the knowledge of her impotence came crushing down upon her.

Slumped against the doorway she wept forlornly, until gradually an unfamiliar resolve began to harden within her breast. For unnumbered generations, she had suffered under the domination of her sister. It was Miss Ursula who forced her to ride into the mists and assume the mantle of Fate. She had never wanted to measure the span of people's lives and the resentment of her sister tempered her uncertainty and conviction.

Slowly the tears stopped flowing and Miss Veronica crouched down to retrieve the cane. Then, with a grim determination mastering her fears and casting aside her doubts, she knew what had to be done.

The main hallway of The Wyrd Museum was swamped in darkness. Down the stairs Miss Veronica came, clutching the bannister and nervously glancing at the floor below in case Miss Ursula was standing in wait. To her relief she saw that the shadows which flooded that space were empty, yet from somewhere close by a chill damp draught was blowing.

Halting upon the steps, Miss Veronica strained her imperfect vision to glare into the murk. The hidden entrance which led to the subterranean caverns was yawning open. Catching her breath, Miss Veronica hoped that her eldest sister was still in the Chamber of Nirinel and not returning up the winding stair. If Miss Ursula were to catch her sneaking off in the middle of the night, there was no telling what she might do.

Summoning up her courage and reminding herself who awaited her, Miss Veronica continued her descent.

Over her white, diaphanous robe, the old woman had pulled on a large, heavy overcoat and, stuffed into one of its pockets, the tip of a crumpled envelope could plainly be seen. It was addressed to Brian Chapman and inside it contained the caretaker's wages. Miss Veronica had discovered the pay packet upon the mantelpiece of the Websters’ apartment and, being lucid enough to realise she would have need of money, promptly stole it.

At last her slippered feet gained the parquet floor and she moved stealthily towards the main entrance, putting an arthritic, deformed finger to her lips as she passed by the suit of armour.

No one would know where she had gone, and without the power of the cane to assist them, her disappearance would remain a complete mystery. It would serve Miss Ursula right, let her worry and wring her bony hands together—it would never atone for the tremendous wrong she had done her.

Concentrating on being as silent as possible, the old woman stole by the blank panel and paused a moment to listen for any sound of footfalls upon the worn stairs. But there was nothing, she was safe. Miss Ursula was too far below the ground to hear her depart and even if she did would have no time to stop her.

Unable to prevent a proud smile forming upon her face at the thought of outwitting her sister at last, Miss Veronica waddled to the entrance and placed her hands upon the stout oaken door.

‘Oi!’ cried a voice suddenly.

Miss Veronica twisted about and there, sticking her face through the museum's ticket window, was Edie Dorkins—the pixie-hood still tied firmly about her head, its silver strands glittering in the dark.

‘Where d'you think you're off to?’ the child demanded. ‘You're not s'posed to go outside are you?’

Miss Veronica tapped the cane upon the ground irritably. It was too cruel to be caught at this the final obstacle and she whined in dismay.

Edie scowled and clambered through the hatch to drop on to the floor before her.

‘Don't tell Ursula!’ the old woman begged. ‘Please, Edith, she must not stop me, not this time. Let Verdandi live again, just for a short while—let her be free before Veronica returns.’

The girl scrutinised her, then with a slow deliberate movement turned her head towards the open panelling.

‘No,’ Miss Veronica pleaded. ‘Ursula would be furious. You have never seen her angry, child. Nemesis some name her and in that dreadful temper she suits it well. Would you see me locked away against my wishes for the rest of my unending days?’

Edie clasped her hands behind her back and rocked on her heels as she considered the situation, whilst the old woman stared beseechingly at her.

‘Ursula can be a mis'rable old boot,’ the child eventually said. ‘I've found that out already. Expects me to do everything she says. Well, I done decided. If you're goin’ to scarper there's only one way to keep me from peachin’.’

Miss Veronica eyed her uncertainly. Could she trust the girl or was she merely playing some cruel trick? Edie was a law unto herself and no one could ever guess what she might do next.

‘I’ll let you go and not say a word...’ she continued belligerently, enjoying the power she held over the old woman, ‘only if...’

‘If what?’ Miss Veronica cried. ‘Don't torment me. What do I have that you could possibly want?’

Edie grinned and haughtily tossed her head. ‘Only if...’ she teased, ‘you take me with you!’

Miss Veronica stared at her in surprise. ‘I cannot,’ she murmured apologetically. ‘I promised I would meet my Captain—he asked for no one to accompany me.’

‘Then I'll just go shout down to Ursula,’ Edie threatened.

‘Why do you wish to leave so soon? What of Celandine and Ursula?’

Edie shrugged dismissively. ‘P'raps I don't want to do what droopy-drawers Ursula wants me to,’ she said. ‘P'raps I reckon that I've seen all I want to see in here and wanna know what lies out there now.’

‘Then she was wrong about you,’ Miss Veronica uttered sadly. ‘You were never the One.’

The girl giggled and took a furtive step towards the gap in the panelling. ‘Let's tell her you're off then...’ she taunted.

‘No! No!’ the old woman cried. 'I agree. You may join me, you terrible, wilful child. But we must go at once.’

Edie let out a high, gleeful laugh and Miss Veronica glanced apprehensively at the large black opening nearby.

‘Get a move on then,’ urged the girl. ‘Open the door.’

Miss Veronica placed her crippled hands upon the handle and, with her heart in her mouth, gave it a twist.

The great arched door swung inward and for the first time in many ages Miss Veronica crossed the threshold of The Wyrd Museum.

For a moment she stood on the topmost step, framed by the bronze statues which adorned the imposing Victorian entrance. Taking a cautious breath of the cold, bracing air outside, the old woman's eyes roamed about the litter-strewn alleyway but she could not quite believe that this moment had arrived.

A droplet of water splashed upon her head and she craned her neck to glance upwards. There, surmounting the sign which bore the building's name, the severe looking sculpted figure above the arch was weeping.

‘Ursula!’ Miss Veronica cried, cowering in alarm.

Behind her, Edie followed her gaze and nudged her crossly. ‘S'only a bit of old rain dripping off the statue,’ she said.

A wan smile spread over the elderly woman's face. 'Of course it is,’ she uttered in breathless triumph. ‘After all these years, I've finally managed to escape her. No more commands, no more squabbling. I'm free—at last.’

Taking care in the gloom, she descended to the second step and gazed at the sculpted form upon her right.

‘Farewell, Celandine,’ she whispered. ‘The hardest part of leaving is knowing that I am abandoning you. Don't let Ursula bully you too much. Perhaps you might leave yourself one day—when your time comes.’

With that she lowered herself to the third and final step and shifted around to examine the left-hand statue.

The image was that of a beautiful young woman dressed in royal finery and Miss Veronica reached out to caress the cold, moulded metal.

‘So the incarceration of Veronica is over,’ she muttered, ‘and away from the surviving root who knows, perhaps a final ending will be granted to her.’

Slowly she turned and moved away from the steps, allowing Edie to follow her. Not bothering to glance at the sumptuous Victorian artistry which embellished the entrance, the girl capered to Miss Veronica's side.

‘Where are we going?’

Miss Veronica took one last, lingering look at the brooding shape of The Wyrd Museum and let out a long contented breath before giving her answer.

‘Even in my time it was known by many names, Edith,’ she said. ‘The isle of apples, Ynnis Witrin, Mewtryne, Avilion—but I believe it became known in the later years as Glassenbury.’

‘Never heard of it.’

Miss Veronica smiled simply. ‘No reason you should,’ she stated. ‘It is far from here and we must make haste if we are to reach it by sunset tomorrow. I think I once heard Ursula complain of great iron carriages which travel at thunderous speeds upon rails of steel. Come, let us avail ourselves of this marvel.’

And so, leaving the monumental bulk of The Wyrd Museum behind, Miss Veronica Webster and Edie Dorkins wandered into the darkness. Yet from the dangers which lay ahead, only one of them ever returned alive.

Transforming the wet roads into rivers of reflected amber jewels, the street lamps of Bethnal Green buzzed in the cold night, but the Reverend Peter Galloway neither saw nor heard them.

His long, unkempt hair clinging to his skull, the wispy beard dripping with rain, he walked through the East End, his head full of questions and his soul heavy with disappointment.

For over an hour he had been out, walking aimlessly and tussling with the issue which had tormented him for the entire day. Ever since that morning when he had been laughed off the stage at the school's assembly, he had been forced to challenge and reconsider his own ideas.

All he had wanted to do was demonstrate how wonderful faith could be, yet he had only succeeded in making a complete spectacle of himself.

Peter winced when he remembered and clenched his fists so tightly that he drove his fingernails into his palms. For the first time since he had been entrusted with this difficult parish, he was downhearted and at a loss as to how to proceed. He had failed the younger members of his flock and had no idea how to go about repairing the damage he had done.