Tales From The Wyrd Museum 2: The Raven's Knot (12 page)

With these desperate concerns churning within him, he had roamed without an umbrella or a raincoat. Finally, when the deluge stopped, his jacket was drenched and he was soaked to the skin.

Down the back of his dog collar the rain had trickled and he trod in so many puddles that his socks squelched when he walked.

Yet to him, such corporeal discomforts did not matter. His one anxiety was the problem at hand and his lanky frame continued to range through the quiet streets, until finally he began to shiver and Peter realised that it was time to return.

It was past two o'clock when he neared his home. Peter hurriedly crossed the main road and decided to cut through the small park nearby.

Away from the sodium glare of the lamp posts, beyond the iron railings and screened by the trees, the park was layered with shadow and the empty rectangles of the rose-beds quilted the ground with darkness.

With his feet making ripe, sucking sounds inside his waterlogged shoes, the vicar strode onward until he drew close to the old library where a wide pool had flooded the pathway, stretching back as far as the small cenotaph.

Bringing himself to a sudden standstill, he gazed down at the perfect stillness of the water, unwilling to mar its flawless, glass-like surface with his careless passing.

As a liquid mirror the rain lake appeared and, leaning over its smooth edge, Peter regarded his reflected face which in turn stared back at him.

The image was such a dishevelled, weary sight that he hardly recognised himself and he jumped back, startled.

‘Stay,’ called a quiet voice.

Peter whirled around and saw, standing by the white stone cross of the cenotaph, a robed figure whose features were hidden beneath the folds of a great hood.

‘Who's that?’ the vicar demanded.

The black recesses of the, cowl turned to face him, but Peter still couldn't see any clue to the stranger's identity.

‘I don't have any money, if that's what you want,’ he shouted, casting around to see if the nearby shrubbery concealed any more bizarrely dressed muggers.

A low chuckle sounded within the shadows. ‘You have no reason to fear me, Cephus,’ the voice soothed. ‘A moment ago, you were alarmed by your own reflection—is all mankind now so abashed and afraid?’

Peter continued to watch the figure suspiciously. ‘It's been a tough day, that's all,’ he mumbled. ‘Wait—what did you call me?’

‘The waters show but the outward aspect,’ the mellifluous voice resumed, letting the question go unanswered. ‘Only the heart can tell what lies within. I have looked and I have seen. You are the one I have chosen.’

The Reverend Galloway swept his hands through his bedraggled hair. ‘Look,’ he announced with mounting impatience. ‘I don't know who you are, but go play your daft games with someone else—I'm tired and have had more than my fill for one day.’

‘I have returned, yet all I see is despondency and faithlessness. The dance is faltering. Will you not help me to restore the hopes of mankind?’

Peter grew angry. It stung him to think that this might be one of the older children he had performed before that morning.

‘That's enough!’ he bawled. ‘How can you be so twisted? Clear off!’

Unperturbed, the figure raised one of its hands. ‘Peace,’ he said. ‘I know the pain which drives you—it is a sadness we both share. You look around and grieve for those who have spurned their Maker. You have tried to lead them but they will not be led. Your attempts fail at every turn, yet still you pursue your goal. The determination of your faith is like grains of gold shining in the muddy river bed. You are hope itself, Cephus.’

Peter narrowed his eyes, his curiosity overpowering his indignation as the robes about the figure stirred and the stranger moved a step closer into the centre of the pond.

‘Do you still not know me?’ the voice asked.

The vicar made no reply, for he was staring at the water in sheer disbelief. Although he had just witnessed the mysterious stranger walk through it, not a ripple disturbed the perfect surface and he rubbed his eyes incredulously.

‘Again you see only the outward aspect,’ the voice told him. ‘Look deeper. What do you behold, there, in the dark inner depths?’

Peter stared down at the shallow water, catching his breath when the pool shimmered and the image of the robed figure dissolved—to be replaced by an expanse of thickly swirling mist. But the dense, writhing clouds quickly dispersed, ripped savagely apart by a blinding spike of lightning, and gusted swiftly away to reflect an entirely different scene from that of the park.

Filling the surface of the water, the vision of a vast and mighty tree creaked and groaned as a storm boomed and raged about its squall-lashed branches—enmeshing them in a brilliant net of bolting fire.

‘What... What is this..?' Peter breathed in awe, his stunned face flaring in the intense flashes erupting from below.

‘The tree is the world,’ the figure replied cryptically. ‘Is there aught else you can mark?’

Peter stared harder at the wondrous mirage unfurling within the pool and then, his eyes widening in dumbfounded amazement, he beheld a man impaled upon the gargantuan trunk, with large iron nails hammered through his wrists.

From his wounds, rivers of blood streamed down the bark and the tempest beat into the man's upturned face as he called out in his searing agonies. But his cries were snatched by the ferocious gale and the lightning licked about his tortured body, splintering the boughs overhead and setting flame to the wind-torn leaves.

‘Long I hung there,’ the robed stranger said, his voice wavering as he recalled the pain. ‘Never have I known such torment, but the sacrifice had to be made.’

The scene within the water faded with his words and the mist flooded across the image until it was hidden from view. With a shiver, the pool grew black and once more reflected the cloaked figure and the park around him.

Battling to comprehend what he had witnessed, Peter jerkingly raised his face and gazed at the stranger in stupefaction.

‘I have said that I am returned,’ uttered the velvety voice. ‘Now do you know me?’

The Reverend's legs were shaking visibly and, as they buckled beneath him, he finally, mistakenly mouthed, ‘Dear Lord!’’

Into the water he fell, landing with a great splash upon his knees and in that prostrate state he clasped his hands together in worship, humbly hanging his head and weeping like a child.

‘Tears?’ the figure intoned.

‘They... they are the sobs of joy,’ Peter declared. ‘I... I don't know what else to do...’

‘Then let them fall and I shall tell you of my purpose here. The faith of the world has diminished, and must be forged anew. It is up to you, Cephus, to deliver unto the doubters and sceptics the proof they require.’

‘Proof?’ the vicar murmured. ‘What further proof can there be? Let them come—speak to them, let them know.’

The cowl moved gently from side to side. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘That time has not come. All doubts and suspicions must be brushed aside. This is your blessed crusade my friend. In the sacred heart of this favoured land, where once my own feet did tread and where now grows the Holy Thorn, lies buried a testimonial to the passion. Go seek out this thing, then display it to the world that they will know what is written is indeed the hallowed truth.’

‘Me?’ Peter gaped. ‘You want me to do this? What is this thing? Where will I find it?’

Slowly, the figure stepped back to the memorial. ‘A companion shall I send with you,’ he said, ‘for guidance and counsel upon the road. Farewell, my Peter.’

The stranger stepped into the deep shadows and suddenly he was gone.

Still kneeling in the pool, Peter took a deep, thunder-struck breath and shook his head.

‘I didn't imagine it,’ he told himself strictly. ‘I didn't—I didn't!’

Gingerly, he rose and peered at the memorial, half expecting to see a glimpse of the hood peeking up over the stone. But no, the figure had vanished into thin air.

‘Then... what do I do now?’ he whispered.

With water running down his trousers and leaking into his socks, he paddled back to the path, not knowing whether to sing out loud or weep uncontrollably.

Standing there, like a saturated scarecrow, his attention was abruptly seized by the sound of beating wings and he looked up into the night to see a large bird circling the park.

Suddenly, the creature swooped from the sky and zoomed over the grass at tremendous speed. Still reeling from his encounter, Peter watched the raven in bemusement until he realised that the bird was heading straight for him.

Like a bullet the creature hurtled and the vicar threw up his hands to ward it off. Then, at the last possible moment, before its glinting beak rammed into his chest, the raven soared upwards in a perfect, graceful arc.

Crowing with amusement, Thought wheeled about and touched down upon the path only inches from Peter's sodden feet.

The man stared down at the curiously tame bird and the raven cocked its head upward, its eyes twinkling at him.

‘No time, no time,’ Thought cried and Peter's jaw dropped open. ‘Thou must leave this night—make haste, make haste.’

A delighted chortle sounded from Peter's lips.

‘What other marvels am I to see?’ he laughed. ‘A talking crow!’

The raven glowered and prowled around him, his flat head pulled into his hunched shoulders until, with a shake of its primary feathers, he rose from the ground and alighted upon Peter's shoulder.

‘Cease thy prattling,’ Thought demanded gruffly, snapping his beak dangerously close to the vicar's earlobe. ‘Thou must prepare to obey His bidding.’

‘Then... you—you're to be my guide?’

His beady eyes glaring at him, the bird gave an indignant squawk.

‘What of it?’ he cried. ‘Dost thou doubt the wisdom of thy Lord?’

‘No, no, of course not!’ The vicar rapidly apologised. ‘It's just that... well, wouldn't a dove be more appropriate?’

His feathers bristling, the raven cackled quietly, bobbing his ugly head from side to side. ‘No more questions,’ the rasping voice said. ‘We must needs leave without delay.’

‘I'm not sure where we're supposed to be going,’ Peter began nervously, ‘and... if it's a long way... well, I don't possess a car, only a bicycle.’

Thought clicked his beak in agitation then shuffled nearer to the man's ear and in a low, persuasive whisper, said, ‘Falter not at this, thy first trial. Much trust hath been placed in thee. This is the hour to prove thy devotion. Many leagues lie twixt us and our destination, we must be fleet.’

‘I understand,’ Peter nodded uncertainly. ‘In the morning I can ask my sister if we can borrow her car.’

‘Nyarrk!’ Thought shrieked, digging his sharp claws deep into the vicar's shoulder. ‘Didst thou not hear?’ he snapped. ‘Upon this very instant our journey must begin. If thou hast not one of these wagons, then we must contrive a way to take one.’

‘What, you mean steal?’

‘Consider the glorious outcome of this most sacred quest,’ the raven goaded. ‘What matter a borrowed trifle against the wealth of rejoicing that is to come?’

His judgment impaired by the momentous experience and inspired beyond all reason, Peter readily agreed.

‘Then let us forsake this drear place,’ Thought told him, ‘and cast thine eyes to where the highway drains into yonder road.’

Peter began walking and looked across the park to Roman Road where the headlamps of a car were pulling into a residential street.

‘The driver must live in one of those flats,’ he muttered. ‘But it's no use, we'll need the car keys. I can't just smash the window, climb in and fiddle with the wires!’

The raven gave an impatient hiss and took to the air. ‘Thought shalt do this,’ he cawed. ‘Be sure thou art ready when I command. Get thee to that wagon as fast as thy spindle-shanks allow!’

With a final, petulant grunt he flapped his great dark wings and rushed headlong towards the street.

In Victoria Park Square a maroon hatchback eased into the only remaining parking place and its driver, a small chubby man, squeezed himself out then pulled the seat forward to retrieve his briefcase and a sheaf of papers.

Slamming the door with his foot as he set off along the pavement, he waved the remote control over one shoulder and the headlights blinked as the alarm was activated.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a black-feathered mass crashed into the man's face, shrieking and screeching, battering him with its wings.

Panicking, the driver dropped his case and papers as the nightmare clawed at his face then pecked at his podgy fingers until the keys fell from his grasp.

At once the raven plunged after them, snatched the tumbling prize in his beak, then rocketed upwards, with the keys jangling discordantly.

‘Hey!’ the man cried, when the initial shock had abated and he saw what the lunatic bird had done. ‘Give me those, you demented budgie!’

Thought landed upon a railing just out of his reach and shook his head teasingly, making the keys jingle even more.

The driver rushed forward to grab him but the raven was too quick and leapt away, drawing him further down the road and cackling with mischief.

‘Perishin’ bird!’ the man fumed. ‘Stay just where you are.’

With one eye fixed upon the figure creeping self-consciously from the park gates towards the maroon hatchback, and the other trained on the approaching driver, Thought waited. If he could only lure the annoyed human away a little more then all would be well.

‘That's right,’ the driver said, trying not to startle the wretched bird, ‘you just drop them keys and Uncle Donald might not wring your thieving little neck.’

The raven lingered a moment longer then hopped backwards, enticing him even further from his car.

‘Stay put, you cat's breakfast!’

Thought scowled and almost dropped the keys in anger, wanting to squawk at the man. Then flitting from the railings on to the top of a pillar box, he executed a neat, taunting jig—mocking him unashamedly.

Enraged, the driver lunged for the pillar box and, emitting a shrill cry of scornful, victorious glee from the side of his beak, the raven tore back to the car where the Reverend Galloway was waiting.