Tales From The Wyrd Museum 2: The Raven's Knot (19 page)

Following Aidan's counsel, Neil took the Wellhouse Lane approach to the Tor. This route began as a narrow track fenced in upon either side by a thick growth of trees and bushes. It finished abruptly at a metal gateway, beyond which the great hill swept impressively upwards.

It was not until he was halfway up this momentously steep slope that the boy's anger began to diminish. The climb was not difficult, for a stepped pathway had been cut into the inclining turf, but his leg muscles ached all the same.

Tackling it from this direction however, a trick of perspective lent the tower of Saint Michael the illusion that it was retreating behind the mountainous hill—sliding steadily down the bank opposite to the one which Neil was doggedly toiling up.

Pausing to gaze at the odd, solitary structure, that tall stone finger which claimed the pagan site in the name of the Archangel, the boy assured himself that it could not be much further. Yet, just when he thought he had neared the summit, he discovered that he had only reached a shoulder-like formation and that there was still some distance to go along the Tor's deceptively long spine.

Exhausted for the moment, he took the opportunity to look around him and turned to gaze down upon the town of Glastonbury.

Neil was high above it now and, from that uncanny vantage point, it felt as if he was standing upon a circle of grass which had been cut adrift from the anchoring earth and was floating up to the clouds.

Sitting patiently by the boy's ear, Quoth delighted in the lofty airs which streamed through his mangy feathers and he flexed his primaries experimentally, longing to be able to soar over the tree tops. But his right wing was still too weak and he tucked it glumly by his side, jealously watching the other birds casually traversing the sky.

‘Thou must learn to endure thy affliction,’ he grumbled softly. ‘Envy may shooteth at others but doth ever wound herself.’

‘It doesn't look real,’ the boy said, contemplating the small houses below. ‘Like a toy landscape for a model railway.’

In the middle distance, the collection of buildings and streets branched out to form a spur of brick and slate—neatly lassoing a slightly smaller hump-backed mound than the one he was currently standing upon.

‘That must be Wearyall Hill,’ Neil muttered. ‘Aidan would know why it's called that. Do you think he really will come back? Miss Ursula said that I could trust him.’

Quoth rocked back and forth. ‘Trust him, verily,’ he chattered darkly, ‘yet look to thyself.’

Neil resumed the climb and the tower grew larger with every step until, finally, he was standing before its gaping arch.

Exposed to the ravaging gales, which on wild, wintry days whistled and ripped through the two door-less entrances at its base—those age worn stones had once been joined to a church, but an earthquake centuries ago had destroyed the nave. Now only the tower was left—a striking monument to resilience and a resolute, comforting beacon for every latter day pilgrim who came to the town in search of enlightenment.

Craning his neck to look up at the crenellated upper storey, Neil paced about the four solid grey walls before turning his back and gazing at the shrinking countryside around him.

‘Well, there's no one else here but you and me,’ he said to Quoth. ‘If Edie and potty Veronica did arrive before us, it looks like we missed them. Either that or they haven't made it yet.’

The raven proffered no reply, for he was shooting suspicious, darting glances into the tower's shadowy interior.

‘We'll just have to wait,’ the boy remarked, buttoning the blazer of his school uniform and wishing he'd had the foresight to bring a coat with him from home.

‘There's no rain due—not this day nor the next,’ came a sudden, unexpected voice.

Neil jumped in surprise and whirled around, wondering how anyone could have scaled the Tor so quickly without him noticing.

‘You be a real dafthead standing out there in the wind though!’ the voice added. ‘No scarf, nor bobble-hat neither.’

Neil stared into the archway and noticed, sitting upon a stone bench and half hidden in the shadows, a shabbily dressed old man.

‘Get a nasty head cold you will,’ the man commented, his wrinkle-framed eyes peering curiously at the boy and narrowing when regarding the bird perched at his shoulder. ‘But there's other reasons, better ‘uns. Only barmpots stand about in the open like what you do. Tommy wouldn't do that—he knows as to keep out of sight.’

Neil moved a little closer but remained outside.

‘Arr,’ Tommy continued, rising from the stone seat and shambling forward. ‘Gets you in under cover, afore
they
spots you, lad. Listen to Tommy, he knows, he saw ‘em, oh, yes, he saw ‘em all right and wishes he hadn't.’

‘Who did you see?’ the boy asked. ‘Was it an old lady and a young girl? Were they here?’

With a shake of his head, the trampish figure pulled off his grimy cap and pointed purposefully at Quoth.

‘Never been so scared in his life has poor Tommy,’ he gibbered, staring at the bird and shivering. ‘Almost had him they did, sure to come back an’ all. Makes him homeless again that does, for Tommy won't never dare kip down in that place again—not for a hundredweight of cabbages he won't.’

Neil folded his arms and Quoth muttered softly in his ear, ‘Methinks thou couldst truss up the wits of yon muggins in a wren's egg.’

‘Feathers black with beaks and claws deadly sharp! Tommy clapped his peepers on ‘em but he were lucky—he was watched over, so them nasties never spied him a-hidin’ there.’

The boy gave him a humouring nod. The old man's face rumpled into a sorry display of misery and he twisted the cap in his large hands and uttered a forlorn whimper.

‘Soon as he could, soon as day came, Tommy scarpered from that barn,’ he wailed, ‘but he forgot summat didn't he? He left it behind—not so clever as he thinks sometimes he ain't, but only natural under them circumstances. He had to leg it real quick. But, oh, how could he have forgot his precious belongings—lost without ‘em he is. When the night comes he won't have no protection this time. Tommy doesn't want them horrors to get him.’

Burying his ruddy face in the greasy lining of his cap, the old man gave a morose sniff, then his eyes lit up and he rammed the hat back upon his brilliantined hair.

‘You'll go with Tommy and see he's safe, won't you, lad?’ he declared suddenly, with a wide smile that revealed his few remaining teeth. ‘He won't be so afeared with a bit of company and it won't get dark for a while longer. Tommy's got to fetch his bits and pieces, see.’

Neil spluttered. T'm sorry,’ he began, wondering why he always had to contend with the local lunatics. T've got to wait here.’

Tommy stepped from the archway, glanced warily at the clear sky and grunted. ‘That's all well and good but we won't be long. Just nip down and collect Tommy's gear.’

‘I'm not going anywhere,’ Neil insisted.

Pausing, the old man lifted the peak of his cap and studied the boy carefully. ‘Funny, the company you do keep,’ he said, indicating the raven. ‘A right scruffy looking specimen that is. Been in a real skirmish that ‘un—nearly got plucked for Christmas did he?’

Quoth cleared his throat indignantly and let out a low, insulted caw.

‘Still,’ the tramp rattled on, ‘you always did have mighty rum pals. Tommy liked the look of that Teddy Bear of yours best though.’

Neil stared at him in complete amazement. How could he possibly know about Ted?

Tommy chuckled. ‘Oh, yes,’ he announced. ‘Hasn't always lived here hasn't Tommy. Used to live in London he did.’

‘In the war?’

The old man rubbed his stubbly chin in concentration. ‘Now which war would that be?’ he mused.

‘The second.’

‘Arr!’ Tommy agreed, snapping his fingers. ‘That'd be it. He was out of the hospital by then and lodgin’ in one of them dingy houses right alongside it. He saw you then, boy, oh yes.’

‘What did you see?’

‘Enough to know you're a lad who'll help him get his belongings back.’

With that he turned and headed for a second track that lay behind the tower and which zig-zagged down the Tor.

Tommy!’ Neil called. ‘Wait.’

Uncertain of what to do, Neil gazed back at the road, but there was still no sign of either Edie, Veronica or Aidan.

'For all his years the clot is fleet of foot,’ the raven observed, watching the old man disappear below the rim of the hill.

‘Right,’ Neil decided. ‘I'll have to go after him. He
must
be linked to this. If only you could fly, then you could stay here and come find me when Aidan or the others arrive.’

Quoth hung his head in shame and trilled a pathetic cheep.

‘Oh, never mind,’ Neil told him, breaking into a run.

*

Down the far side of the immense hill they went, with Neil plying the old man with questions. But all Tommy cared about was the retrieval of his beloved possessions.

“Tain't far,’ he said, when they left the Tor path and entered one of the surrounding fields. ‘Tommy used to like it there, snugger than owt else he'd found for a long while. Been there a tidy few years now—a sore pity he has to leave it.’

Plodding alongside him, the boy listened to his concerned mutterings as they crossed the barren fields, until Tommy abruptly halted and caught hold of Neil's arm to prevent him going any further.

‘This is it,’ he exclaimed, jabbing a thumb over the hedge towards a dilapidated and disused barn. Tommy's homestead.’

‘Well, let's go and get your stuff,’ Neil prompted.

‘Not so hasty,’ the tramp answered, doubtfully scrutinising the derelict building. ‘Might not be safe. Though it's still early, they could've come back.’

The boy looked at him intently. ‘Who is this “they” you keep talking about?’ he asked. ‘Why won't you say? Is it social workers or something? Are they trying to put you in a home?’

Tommy snorted and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his dishevelled overcoat. ‘Why doesn't you ask that there bird of yours?’ he murmured. ‘See if it can't smell owt bad over there.’

‘Why would I ask my raven?’ the boy replied cautiously.

The old man stomped his ill-fitting boots into the ploughed soil and his florid jowls quivered when he shook his head in frustration.

‘Drat it, boy!’ he hissed. ‘Tommy done heard that feather duster speak to you before and if there's anyone who can sniff these demons out, it'll be the likes of him!’

Quoth blinked and looked at the tramp questioningly.

‘Right, then,’ Tommy addressed the bird bluntly. ‘Does you sense owt nasty in the air? Be there summat harmful in that there barn?’

The raven looked over at the neglected structure. It was a forsaken outbuilding of some small farm which had long ago been swallowed by a larger concern, and the surplus barn had been left to stand idle and crumble into the soil.

Its corrugated roof was rusted and pitted with holes and, halfway up the nearest wall, the shutters to the hayloft were hanging from their hinges. Standing in an overgrown yard at the edge of the field, it was a sad yet endearing sight—a remnant of farming history that would one day succumb to the gusting winds and collapse in upon itself.

Quoth paced up and down Neil's shoulder as he ducked and jerked his head, leering at the building and lifting his beak into the breeze to sniff and analyse the cold air.

‘It would help if he knew what he was supposed to be looking for,’ Neil put in.

‘He'll know it if it's there,’ Tommy assured him.

Presently the bird drew himself up and, spreading his good wing, declared, ‘Nay, though the reek of violence doth make my quills tingle hereabouts, I fail to find aught of special mark touching yonder hovel. ‘Tis as empty and wanting as mine noddle.’

The tramp smacked his lips and rubbed his hands together. ‘That's good enough for Tommy,’ he proclaimed, happily pushing through the hedge.

Neil followed him across the weed-tangled yard and the old man led him around the side of the barn to where a rotting wooden door stood wide open.

Tommy scampered into the gloomy interior and, with a brief glance at Quoth, Neil crept after.

A pleasant, sweet-smelling dusk filled the ruined barn, punctuated by spears of light which stabbed down from the pin holes in the rusted roof above. With the aid of their glittering beams, the boy gazed around him.

The outbuilding was crammed with dismantled, fragments of useless farm machinery and various pieces of discarded furniture. Old tractor engines stood alongside three-legged or seatless chairs, plough shares rested against the splintered remains of a Welsh dresser. A jumbled assortment of corroded traps sat upon a mouldering leather trunk and, leaning upon an upright piano that was sadly bereft of keys, was a collection of broken rakes, shovels and pitchforks.

It was a hoard of junk. If there was ever an opposite to a miser's treasure, then this was surely it.

‘Here we are. Here we are,’ Tommy chatted to himself, negotiating his way between the heaps of lumber and crossing to the corner where a mound of bald tyres was partially covered by a tarpaulin.

‘This is where Tommy done hid himself last night,’ he told Neil. ‘Nipped under there real quick he did as soon as he heard them a-circling overhead. But ‘twas only cos he had his collection with him that he was spared.’