Tales From The Wyrd Museum 2: The Raven's Knot (15 page)

Writhing uncomfortably, it squirmed and clawed at its mouth, bashing its head against the side of the tea-chest until the beak snapped shut once more and the one eye fluttered closed in blissful relief.

Finally the bird became aware of the boy peering in at it and vainly attempted to right itself, like an upturned beetle.

‘Don't worry,’ Neil said gently. ‘I won't hurt you. But if I help you to stand, you'd better not bite me.’

Slowly he slid his hand beneath the feathers and lifted the raven so that the scaly feet were standing upon the edge of the chest.

The creature shook itself and, with its single eye, leered gratefully up at him.

Unfortunately, its balance was still rather shaky and, emitting a squawk of surprise, it promptly tipped over and fell headlong on to the floor at Neil's feet.

Clucking and quacking in alarm, it wriggled helplessly on its back, once more gazing up at the boy in despair.

Neil came to its rescue a second time.

Swaying unsteadily, the raven eyed its surroundings quizzically, but when the bird tried to take a step forward it tottered and staggered whilst flapping its one good wing in perplexed agitation, unable to coordinate its movements.

‘You look drunk,’ Neil chuckled.

The raven stumbled back, squashing its tail feathers against the chest and tripping over a fragment of timber. Then, fixing Neil with its ogling eye and looking so comical and impish that the boy laughed, the creature opened its beak and spoke.

'Fie!’ it cried in a gurgly piping voice. ‘As merrie as a malted mouse this knave doth be... nay, as a boiled owl!’

Neil stared at the bird in delight, but he was already too familiar with the strange goings on within The Wyrd Museum to be surprised at a talking raven. ‘He that eateth the king's goose doth void feathers a hundred years after,’ the creature rambled, lurching and teetering precariously. ‘I doth thank heaven thy father wert borne afore ye—most generous of esquires. How goeth the day?’

The boy crouched down and brought his face close to the ranting, incoherent bird. ‘I'm fine,’ he said. ‘But are you all right? My name's Neil. Can you remember yours? You don't seem very sure of anything.’

‘A malmsey dowsing of the noddle-tree, oh courteous gallant,’ the raven replied, shaking its head and hitting it with its wing. ‘The even that brimmeth over doth make for a cloudy morn. No recollection have I of whom or whence—nor know aught save the briny tang in mine gullet and the hammers in mine pate.’

Bobbing its head up and down, the bird cast its monocular glance about the room and gave several chirps of interest.

‘Skewer me for a mallemuck! ‘Tis a most uncommon dungeon—no danksome cave nor maggoty oubliette. Behold there is light, the chariot of the day is risen and peepeth through yonder window! Its glory is never worse for all it shineth on a dunghill. Day and night, sun and moon, air and light—all must have, yet none may buy.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Neil said. ‘This isn't a prison, it's a museum.’

The raven doddered forward trying to comprehend the boy's words. ‘How sayest thou?’ it burbled.

‘Museum,’ Neil repeated. ‘A place full of old things—collections of this and that.’

‘A treasure house?’ the bird declared. ‘A prince's hoard? What hoddy-doddy raving is it thou speaketh? To place a rogue in such a midst—he that stealeth an egg may steal the oxen. The thief is surely sorry he is to be hanged yet not that he is a thief.’

Neil raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you saying that's what you are?’ he asked.

‘Dost the wolf perceive itself as such?’ the creature answered, sorrowfully hanging its bald head and drooping its shoulders. ‘Dost the new day remember the old? In mine brains there is naught to glean, neither repute nor miscreance. The gems of this wretch's mind are robbed and squandered, the casket of the skull is bereft and full of lack. No ember can tutor me in name or descent, yet I am sensible of a darkness behind me, though I know it not, nor from whence it stems. Alack and alas for I.’

The boy smiled reassuringly. ‘Well, you don't seem like a villain to me,’ he said. ‘But I'll have to call you something.’

‘Wilt thou not appoint unto me a name of thine own choosing?’ the raven begged, waddling up to Neil's face, dragging its broken wing across the floor behind it. ‘Squire Neil, fill this hollow pan with a surfeit of tidings and reason, let me gorge upon new wonders and truths. Yea, though ‘tis said “gluttony killeth more than the sword”—let me perish with more learning than I do now possess and with wit enough to answer unto a fair sounding title.’

Feeling sorry for the poor creature, Neil considered his plea for a little while then grinned. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I'll call you.... Quoth.’

The raven cocked its head to one side and muttered the word under its breath before ruffling its scant, frayed feathers and bowing low until its beak tapped upon the floorboards.

‘Verily and amen to that,’ he cried gladly. ‘Henceforth the tale of Quoth shalt begin, aught that he wast can moulder and remain forgot ever more.’

Suddenly a distant scream came echoing through the galleries and the raven ducked under Neil's arm in fright.

‘Zounds!’ he squeaked, his quills standing on their ends. ‘Beat the alarum! Wind the battle horn! ‘Tis murder! Fiends! Ogres! Foes!’

Neil scrambled to his feet. ‘That was one of the Websters!’ he exclaimed. ‘What's happened?’

‘Hold!’ Quoth pleaded as the boy hurried to the doorway. ‘Forsake not this callow wretch. If the banshee is abroad I doth not wish to yield up mine green soul for its harvest.’

‘Well, keep up,’ the boy instructed, hastening into The Egyptian Suite and the rooms beyond.

With his claws clattering over the polished wooden floor, the raven trotted after him, marvelling at each new group of exhibits and clicking his beak admiringly.

*

Down the stairs Miss Ursula Webster came, her gaunt face a portrait of anguish and despair. Gone was the imperious, aristocratic air. Transcending her immortal flesh, she looked at that moment like a frail, frightened old woman who had abandoned all hope and who felt the long ages of her life pressing down upon her.

Clutching at the bannister she descended, taking each step as though every slight movement was a torment to her brittle, aged bones.

Floating down from above, the sound of Miss Celandine's weeping filled the upper storey, but Miss Ursula was too stricken to mourn and mechanically continued on her way.

Only when she reached the first landing did she notice her surroundings, for a figure moved by the doorway and she turned woodenly. There was the oldest Chapman boy but her stony face displayed no recognition and he came forward uncertainly.

‘Miss Ursula?’ Neil ventured, taken aback by her frozen appearance. ‘Is everything all right?’

The usually bright, shrewd eyes stared hollowly at him and the beads in her white hair trembled as she slowly shook her head.

‘They are gone,’ came her whispered, leaden reply.

‘Who?’

‘Veronica and Edith. Whilst I kept the vigil below, they left the sanctuary of the museum. Celandine and I have searched everywhere but to no avail. Can you imagine how long it has been since Veronica left the safety of this building? In this modern age she is defenceless.’

Neil didn't know what to say, but even as he tried to think of something, the sound of the raven's swaggering gait pattered up behind him and Miss Ursula lowered her grim gaze to see him approach.

‘So!’ she snapped, her drained expression abruptly changing as her fury exploded. ‘You, too, have returned!’

Quoth blinked at her in fearful astonishment. ‘Avaunt!’ he wailed. ‘Squire Neil, the turnkey hath caught us. Take flight whilst ye may, she doth have the look of the basilisk! Devil take the hindmost!’

Before the frightened bird could scuttle backwards, Miss Ursula seized him by his good wing and snatched him from the ground.

Dangling from her hand, his feet waggling forlornly, Quoth jabbered and trilled in panic. ‘Death when it cometh shalt have no denial! Farewell mine good days, they shalt soon be gone!’

‘Stop it!’ Neil fumed as Miss Ursula shook the poor raven and glared at him fiercely. ‘You're hurting him!’

The old woman gripped the bird even tighter, hauling him up to stare into his woeful face.

‘The disappearance of Edith and Veronica is your Master's work!’ she declared. ‘The power of the Fates cannot be contested, you know that too well and so does He.’

‘Mercy!’ Quoth yammered, twirling helplessly in her unforgiving grasp. ‘This tender lamb knows naught!’

‘Do not lie to me, Memory!’ she raged, closing the fingers of her other hand about the bird's neck. 'I know your deceits all too well! Shall I wring your falsehoods from you?’

‘Leave him alone!’ Neil cried, rushing forward to drag her hands away. ‘Can't you see he's telling the truth? He doesn't know anything about it.’

Miss Ursula snarled at the boy, then hesitated and examined the raven more closely. Catching her breath, she looked at the damaged wing, the bare patches of skin where the feathers had moulted and at the shrivelled eye socket.

‘Can it be so?’ she muttered. ‘Are you indeed blameless in this?’

‘Course he is,’ Neil told her. ‘I've only just found him in one of those boxes back there.’

The old woman handled the raven more gently and her piercing gaze penetrated deep into his one good eye.

‘Yes,’ she eventually murmured, ‘the damage was too great for Him to repair. No, it was the tears of Fate which recalled you, Memory. This is a most curious chance, it had better not prove ill.’

Turning to Neil, she handed the bird over to him and Quoth pressed his beak into the jacket of the boy's uniform, hiding his face from that formidable old harridan.

‘I see that a bond has already grown between the two of you,’ Miss Ursula observed. ‘Are you certain he recalls nothing of his former life?’

‘As far as I know,’ Neil answered, soothingly stroking the raven's limp wing. ‘He doesn't even know his own name. What did you call him... Memory?’

Miss Ursula eyed the straggle-feathered bird warily. ‘Strange that is precisely what he should lose,’ she said. ‘But does forgetfulness alone absolve him from the crimes of his erstwhile existence? Listen to the wisdom of Destiny, maggot child, you hold in your embrace a viper. He might not be dangerous now, but beware him. If his mind ever recalls his true identity and nature, then he will undoubtedly turn against you. Only one master does that creature serve.’

‘Quoth wouldn't hurt me,’ Neil objected.

The raven chirped in agreement. ‘He is mine friend who succoureth me!’ he chattered, shying away from the woman's suspicious glance.

A knowing smile appeared upon Miss Ursula's stern features. ‘How very intriguing,’ she said. ‘Memory was always peppering his conversation with ridiculous proverbs and sayings. Remember maggot child—I warned you. Not all the chambers of this creature's mind are closed. Do not put your faith in him—the essence of his real disposition is betrayal and malice.’

‘I'll choose whoever I like to be my friend,’ the boy told her crossly. ‘You can't order me around any more. I've already done what you wanted. It's up to that Dorkins girl now.’

Miss Ursula grew serious again and took a shallow breath.

‘Yet Edith is departed,’ she said. ‘Perhaps your path is entwined in the tapestry still.’

With a rustle of her taffeta gown, the old woman stalked forward and looked as though she were about to speak when, abruptly, she halted and held up her hand for silence.

‘Go, child, answer the door.’

Neil frowned. ‘Why?’ he protested. ‘There's no one there,’

Even as he uttered the words, there came a faint tinkling noise from the main entrance.

‘Let him in,’ Miss Ursula commanded. ‘There may yet be time. The day might still be saved.’

Grudgingly, the boy brushed past her and descended to the hallway, still clutching Quoth in his arms.

*

Standing upon the steps outside, Aidan removed his top hat and quickly ran his fingers through his hair.

Straightening the red neckerchief and primping the lapels of his frock-coat he wondered if he ought to press the small brass button a second time, but then he heard the sound of footsteps and he held his breath expectantly.

Slowly, the heavy wooden entrance swung open and he found himself looking into the face of an eleven-year-old boy, holding a fretful one-eyed raven.

Not prepared for this unexpected door warden, Aidan cleared his throat and respectfully touched his forelock.

‘I am here,’ he said, ‘as requested.’

With one hand still upon the door, Neil stared at the short, oddly-dressed man and recognised him as one of the people who placed flowers about the drinking-fountain.

‘Requested?’ he mumbled. ‘You'd best come in then.’

Pulling the door fully open, he stepped aside and the stranger crept forward apprehensively, his eyes bulging with awe and reverence.

Into the sombre, dusty entrance hall of The Wyrd Museum, the place of his annual pilgrimage, Aidan stepped and his throat dried to think of the astounding honour bestowed upon him.

‘Be quick and close the door, maggot,’ came a terse female voice. ‘There are draughts enough within these walls.’

Neil obeyed and, edging a little further inside,

Aidan sought to find the owner of that haughty voice.

Poised with infinite dignity and frosty composure upon the middlemost step was the figure he had venerated for the whole of his life, and he choked back a humble, yet jubilant cry before dropping to his knees and bowing his head.

‘Mighty Urdr!’ he breathed worshipfully.

Arrayed in her black evening gown, the jet beads glinting in the morning light, her head tilted slightly as she considered him, Miss Ursula Webster remained upon the stairs like a regal spider awaiting a fly.

‘I expected you sooner,’ she finally said.

Too afraid to raise his gaze from the floor, Aidan swallowed the lump in his throat and nervously fingered the brim of his hat. 'I came as soon as I received the summons,’ he apologised, ‘but the tyres of my van are not as devoted as I. One of them chose to burst whilst I was still only halfway here.’