Tales From The Wyrd Museum 2: The Raven's Knot (30 page)

‘I thought you said they never gave up,’ Neil muttered.

Quoth clacked his tongue in warning, ‘It hath gone to fetch aid,’ he said. 'To the gathering Shrieker doth fly. Then others shalt come, Screamer and Raging, Biter and Tearer. Like unto a mouse set before a dozen cats shalt we be.’

‘Then we've got to get help before they find us,’ Neil cried.

Aidan said nothing. A grave resolve was carved upon his swarthy face and, leaving Bere Lane, he drove the van away from the centre of Glastonbury and up a rising, narrow street called Hill Head.

‘Where are we going?’ the boy demanded. ‘The police station?’

‘Boys in blue won't be no use to us, lad,’ the man replied. ‘No point getting even more folk butchered.’

Neil stared out of the window at the cottages that raced by and saw the lights of the town fall behind them.

‘This is Wearyall Hill,’ he suddenly realised. ‘What's up here?’

‘Something to keep you safe!’ Aidan rapped back. ‘Could be the only thing that can, aside from Saint Michael's tower.’

Abruptly the buildings which flanked the road ended and, where the cramped way bent round to girdle the lower slopes of the long, low hill, Aidan stopped the van and got out.

‘Hurry!’ he shouted, sprinting to a muddy track at the corner of the road where a wooden stile led to the desolate darkness of the hump-backed hill beyond.

Neil and Quoth followed him in confusion.

‘You’re crazy!’ the boy cried, gazing at the empty expanse which stretched before them. ‘If more of those things come we'll be done for out there.’

‘I said you'll be safe,’ the man repeated sternly. ‘Get yourself up there as fast as you can and stop only when you reach the Holy Thorn.’

‘The what?’

Aidan ground his teeth. ‘Joseph of Arimathea,’ he explained impatiently. ‘He came ashore here and rested upon this hill, hence the name, and when he planted his staff in the ground it took root and flowered. A scion of that tree is up there on the hillside. Just keep running straight and you can't miss it, it's ringed about by a railing. As soon as you reach it, hold on and don't let go for anything.’

‘But... what are you going to do?’

Aidan stared back across the valley to where he could just make out the black silhouette of the Tor.

‘They'll all be swarming this way in a minute,’ he said grimly. ‘Urdr sent me to find Verdandi and the girl but I failed her. There's only one thing I can do to redeem myself now. She told you to trust me, well, I'll not break that faith. This is where we part company, Neil.’

The boy grabbed the man's arm, ‘You're not leaving me again.’

‘I'm getting back in the van,’ Aidan told him, his mind made up. ‘Your raven was right, those creatures never abandon their prey when they give chase. They are the Wild Hunt, Woden's raven women. They'll hound my little motor until they catch it. If I leave now I just might be able to lead them off and give you time enough to reach the Thorn.

‘Perhaps you'll even find Verdandi—that's who they're really after. The Gallows God has lured her here to destroy her, don't you see? After that he'll despatch his Valkyries off to London to attack the museum. If I can buy even five minutes more for the Nornir, then that's what I have to do. As a descendant of Askar it's my duty.’

Dismayed by what he was hearing, Quoth scurried over the mud to tug at the man's trouser leg. ‘Thine flesh shalt be their feasting!’ he declared fretfully. ‘Thy death is assured if thou chooseth this path.’

‘Listen to him!’ Neil cried. ‘You don't stand a chance!’

The gypsy's emerald eyes glinted in the darkness as he pulled his arm free of the boy's grasp and hurried back to the van.

‘I know,’ he said solemnly. ‘So don't let it be for nothing. What are you waiting for? Get running—go now! Find the Thorn and may the hand of Fate guard you!’

‘Wait!’ Neil bawled, but Aidan was already slamming the door behind him and the engine turned over.

Hastily, the boy ran to the van and banged his fists upon the window.

‘Don't do this!’ he pleaded. ‘Aidan! Aidan!’

The man held up his hand in farewell then swerved the vehicle around and drove it back down the hill.

‘Stop!’ Neil shouted. But it was no use, the lights of the van quickly waned in the distance then disappeared altogether as it reached the main road.

Standing in the middle of the lonely narrow road, Neil could not believe what the man had done.

‘Good luck,’ was all he could bring himself to say.

‘Master Neil!’ came a squealing squawk. ‘Thou must do as he bid thee. Find this Thorn!’

The boy looked across to the stile where Quoth was wriggling between the bars. Then, with a final glance down the sloping lane, Neil climbed over the rail and rushed into the darkness ahead.

*

Deep shadows filled Tommy's derelict barn, but now a different figure stole into the gloom and the beam of an electric torch flashed about the neglected interior.

A furtive rustling sounded from somewhere nearby and the Reverend Peter Galloway jumped in alarm, as he cautiously crept into the secluded, dilapidated building.

‘What was that?’ he cried. ‘Who's there?’

Behind him there came a fluttering of wings and Thought, the raven, flew over his head to alight upon the remains of an old tractor.

‘Quell thy craven heart,’ the bird told him. ‘Dost thou fear the foraging of rodents?’

‘Mice?’

Thought sniffed and chuckled dryly.

‘Rats,’ he corrected. ‘Now, the hour of the gathering is at hand, let us betake ourselves to the loft up yonder and await our guests.’

The vicar shone his torch over to where the ladder rose to the upper level and Thought flitted in and out of the beam as he leapt from his perch and flew upwards.

‘Pox and plague!’ the raven exclaimed when he landed upon the straw-covered floor boards. ‘Others hath been here this very day. Two at least.’

By the time the Reverend Galloway had ascended the ladder, the bird was busily hunting through the scattered hay, snouting and questing his beak from one corner to another in perplexity.

‘What is it?’ Peter asked. ‘Could it have been that young woman and the child?’

Thought glared at him and ruffled his feathers.

‘Not they,’ he denied. ‘Yet I am uneasy, a third presence I doth detect. A scent familiar—yet not so. I like it not at all.’

The vicar sat upon an old bale of straw. ‘Is there a danger?’ he asked, worried by the bird's uncharacteristic concern.

Thought prowled over the floorboards for a further inspection then stamped his clawed feet. ‘For my Lord's sake, I pray not,’ he croaked. ‘Yet this riddling trail discomforts me. Who would dare meddle in our affairs? I shalt not brook such presumption.’

‘About that woman,’ Peter persisted, unnerved by that last, callous comment. ‘Isn't it time she returned with the Chalice? She and the girl have been gone for hours now.’

Thought cocked his ugly head to one side and his beady eyes gleamed in the torchlight—almost mockingly, Peter thought.

‘Faith, fellow servant,’ the bird assured him. ‘Soon they wilt return and this... this golden prize shalt prove our Master's existence beyond doubting.’

The vicar gave a weak smile. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I'm just finding it difficult to take it all in. From this night on the world will be a different place. The good news will be pronounced in every country, and when He is ready to speak, there will be no more wars, no sickness, no pain.’

‘The world will indeed be changed,’ Thought admitted. ‘Yet prepare thyself for the wonders thou shalt behold this night. Afore the dawn thy faith wilt be tested. Flinch not from what awaits thee and obey my bidding.’

Peter nodded. ‘I am rather nervous though,’ he confessed. ‘But whatever lies ahead, I shall not shrink from the most holy office I am charged with.’

The raven concealed a guileful smirk and strutted over to the wide opening where the shutters hung from their hinges.

‘Yet not alone shalt thou perform thy duties,’ he said cryptically.
‘They
approacheth; the servants of my Master wilt soon be here.’

‘Who are these others we're waiting for?’ Peter asked. ‘And why do we have to meet them in this forsaken place? I just don't understand all this secrecy. Surely we should be proclaiming this from the rooftops!’

Thought gazed up into the midnight sky before answering.

‘Until the time appointed, the way of stealth is the only course open to us. He hath said unto thee to prepareth the way and this have we done and shalt continue to do.’

‘But these others,’ the vicar pressed.

The bird cackled faintly. ‘If ‘twill mollify thee, know then that their number is twelve,’ he said, revelling in the effect his words had upon the man.

‘Twelve...’ Peter gasped.

‘A most sacred host are they,’ Thought continued, then with a more chilling edge creeping into his cracked voice added. ‘Yet their aspect wilt fright and afflict thee. Staunch now the humours of thy terror and snuff out thy lantern. My Lord's messengers wilt be unlovely in thine earth-bound eyes, but fear them not and stand to greet them.’

The vicar thought he understood and remembered what he had told the children at Neil's school the previous day.

‘I know,’ he answered gravely, ‘they're not likely to appear as shining white figures with wings and haloes. I must expect to be mortally afraid, just as the shepherds were.’

The raven leered up at him, before turning back to the opening. ‘Thou art wise to dread them,’ he muttered. ‘Yet this only I doth admit—they art indeed possessed of wings.’

Trembling, Peter fidgeted with the whiskers of his straggly beard as an anticipating silence fell. A few minutes later he stiffened and sat bolt upright as a faint, yammering came from outside and Thought glided over to the man's shoulder.

‘They are here!’ he cried. ‘The Twelve art gathered at last. Harken to their delightful voices.’

The Reverend Galloway thought that the growing clamour was the most evil noise he had ever heard but he steeled himself and prepared to be overcome by the sight of this angelic host.

Outside the barn, the strident shrieks of the Valkyries mounted as they surrounded and swooped about the ramshackle building. The night was filled with their ghastly screams and when vast patches of black shadow began to rush across the entrance to the hayloft the vicar felt a surge of ice-cold fear travel down his spine, but he forced himself to stand his ground and keep his eyes open.

The screeches were unbearable now. The rush of mighty wings shook the corrugated roof and a fine rain of rust drifted down to settle upon Peter's unkempt hair.

Suddenly, screaming at the top of its foul, rancorous voice, the first of the nightmares plunged in through the opening and the vicar threw his hands in front of his face at the repellent sight. Although it was dark within the barn he could see enough of the creature's vile silhouette to despair, and his skin crawled when the atrocity shook its feathers and its grotesque, inhuman eyes glittered malevolently at him.

‘In God's name!’ Peter quailed, recoiling from the horrendous spectacle.

The Valkyrie snapped its beak menacingly and a bloodthirsty screak vibrated the barn as the quilled abhorrence displayed its fury—incensed that the meeting place had been invaded.

At once, a second and a third nightmare came crashing inside and their baleful eyes roved in their scabious sockets to fix upon the petrified vicar.

As more of the deformed scourges burst into the loft, Peter flattened himself against the wall.

‘They are sent by the Lord,’ he kept telling himself. ‘I am in no danger.’

But, for all his theological ponderings, the vicar had never dreamt of such inexorable hideousness as was displayed now before him and he felt both faint and sick.

Yet, upon his shoulder, Thought waited until the last of the horrors had entered before making any kind of move. He could feel the Reverend shivering beneath him and the terrified motion jiggled through the raven's body, but he made no effort to comfort or appease the man and looked instead with pride upon the hellish congregation.

Here then were the local women transformed by the crow dolls which Woden had compelled Dulcie Pettigrew to distribute. Thought laughed under his breath to see the most feared slaves of his master gathered together again.

Eleven ghastly, feather-fringed heads now bobbed and twitched within the cramped loft space, the black ruffs and twig-tangled hair scraping upon the crumbling roof and clattering against the rotting rafters. A fetid stench reeked from their hot, rancid bodies and their malicious gazes were trained solely upon the man cowering in the furthest corner.

Every bitter beak croaked and screeched with slaughterous intent and the lethal talons splintered through the floorboards as they pushed and jostled each other, tensing and preparing to pounce upon the defenceless, paltry human who had dared to intrude.

Peter's heart thumped and pounded against his ribs when he heard the creatures’ revolting, guttural speech as they yelled for his destruction.

‘Hot blood! Ssweet man flessh—tear it, rend and sstrike! Gorge on sspleen, crunch the bone, ssnap the
s
spine! Ssuck out brain, chew grisstle, devour and drain. Death! Death! Death!'

The din within the barn was tremendous and, with one lurching movement, the Valkyries rushed forward to rip out the man's throat and slake their thirst with his blood.

At once Thought left Peter's shoulder and flew before their repulsive faces, emitting a high shrill squawk which knifed through the inflamed yammering. To the Reverend Galloway's amazement, the monsters halted and turned their awful countenances towards the circling raven.

‘Be still!’ the bird cried as a hush fell. ‘I, Thought, command it!’

The creatures croaked and hissed in response, and the raven dived in amongst them, his wings brushing against the sides of their unclean heads. They snorted the air suspiciously before rattling their quills and honking like gruesome, gargantuan geese in recognition.

‘All know me,’ Thought declared. ‘Did I not lead you into battle on that final day when we were routed by the mists?’