Tales From The Wyrd Museum 2: The Raven's Knot (4 page)

‘Come, my old friend,’ the stranger uttered, wearily leaning against the wall as he raised a trembling hand in salutation. ‘Too many ages have passed since you flew before me in battle. It gladdens my heart, my most faithful attendant and counsellor.’

Wincing from the pain of its mutilated and bleeding claw, the raven alighted upon a cloaked shoulder and bobbed its head to greet its ancient Master.

‘Now do I begin to feel whole again,’ the figure sighed. ‘How am I to wreak my revenge without the company and valued assistance of my noble, trusted beloveds?’

The bird croaked softly and brushed its feathery body against the shrouded head.

‘I ought to remonstrate with you for not fleeing that accursed place sooner,’ the voice chided gently. ‘You were rash to assail that child of lesser men, for she has the protection of the royal house. The Spinners of the Wood have favoured her.’

The raven guiltily hung its head but its Lord was chuckling softly.

‘That lesson you have already learned I see. Look at your foot. Is this how you repay the gift of life? To risk it at the first instant, to let spite and hate overcome your wisdom? Such an impulsive deed I might expect from your brother but not of you, Thought. In the past you always considered the consequences of your actions... But where is your brother? Why has he not joined us?’

The unseen eyes within the hood stared up at the broken window of The Separate Collection. ‘I cannot sense him, not now—nor before. Tell me, where is he?’

The raven called Thought rocked miserably to and fro, averting its Master's questioning glance.

‘Answer me!’ the cloaked figure commanded sternly. ‘The trivial art of speech was my first gift to you both. Have the wasting, dust dry years robbed you of that, or do you merely wish to displease me?’

Blinking its beady eyes, the creature slowly shook its head before opening its black beak. Then, in a hideous, croaking parody of a human voice it spoke.

‘Allfather,’ the raven uttered in a cracked, dirge-like tone. ‘Alas for mine brother, I doth fear the words of Memory shalt forever be stilled. The days of his service unto thee art ended indeed. His dead bones lie yonder still, unable to hear thy summons. The weight of years did ravage him sorely, more so than their corroding action did unto mine own putrid flesh.’

Its Master lifted a wizened hand and caressed the bird tenderly. ‘It is to be expected,’ he murmured sorrowfully. ‘The ages have plundered my strength and my greatness wanes.’

‘Never!’ the raven squawked. ‘Thy cunning and craft endure beyond aught else!’

‘Lift your eyes my slave and look about you. This is not the land you knew. You have been embraced by death many thousands of years. Since you and Memory penetrated the encircling mists at the vanguard of our forces, the world has changed beyond recall.’

‘In truth,’ the bird muttered. ‘Is it indeed so long? Then the battle was lost and the Three victorious.’

‘Can you remember nothing of those final moments?’

Thought closed its eyes. ‘The span of darkness is wide since that time,’ it began haltingly. ‘But hold, I can see the field of combat which lay betwixt us and the woods wherein our enemy did lurk. The day is bright with sword play and the air rings with the music of steel as I ride the wind and view the glorious contest raging below.’

‘What else do you see?’

‘Mine eyes are filled with the glad sight of our conquering forces, the Twelve are with us and no one can withstand their fury. But wait, Memory my brother, he hath hastened toward the wood before the appointed time. I call yet he cannot hear. I fear for him and charge after, yet already he hath gained the trees. To the very edge of that forest I storm, ‘til the mist rises and it is too late. I see but briefly the daughters of the royal house of Askar standing beneath the great root and then there is darkness.’

The raven became silent and ruffled its feathers to warm itself.

‘Locked in their custody you have been for ail this time,’ the cloaked figure concluded. ‘Yes, the battle was lost and even the Twelve were routed. I, too, was defeated, but the war was not over and still it continues, for I have arisen. Though I am weak and ailing, so too are they. The enchanted wood is no more, the stags are departed and the well is dry.’

Thought cocked its head to one side as its Master continued.

‘There is a chance, but we must be careful. Although the mists no longer shroud the attendants of Nirinel, they have amassed a great store of artefacts within that shrine of theirs. It is the combined power of those treasures which now protects them. If we are to succeed we must draw the loom maidens out, shake the web and when the spiders fall, smite them.’

Upon his robed shoulder, Thought began to hop from side to side. ‘Verily!’ it cried shrilly. ‘Strike the treacherous scourges down and show unto them no mercy. Dearly will they pay for the doom of mine brother. I shalt feast on their eyes and make a nest of their hair. Tell to me how this delicious prospect may be achieved, my Lord—I ache for their downfall.’

‘Many treasures they have acquired over the sprawling centuries,’ the hooded one answered gravely, ‘yet the greatest prize lies without their walls. A marvel so rare and possessed of such surpassing power that it could bring about their ultimate ruin.’

Crowing delightedly, the raven jumped into the air. ‘How is it the witches of the well have been so blind and blundered so?’

‘Oh, they are aware of its existence,’ came the assured reply. ‘Urdr knows, she recognises this thing for what it is and fears it as do I.’

‘Thou art afraid of this treasure?’ Thought cawed in astonishment.’How so, my Master?’

‘Much has transpired since you passed into oblivion,’ the figure said darkly. ‘The prize I seek is hidden and cannot be won save by one who has drunk of the sacred water. I must endeavour to compel one of the three sisters to deliver it to me—and in this you are to play an important role. Many leagues from here, where this mighty thing is bestowed, the trap is already set and into it I have poured my failing enchantments.’

The raven landed back upon the shoulder and stared into the darkness beneath the hood.

‘Yes,’ the unseen lips answered. ‘I have laboured long to call them back, my most terrifying and deadliest of servants. Daily their numbers increase and soon they will be Twelve again.’

Cawing softly to itself, Thought shook its wings and glared up at the sky.

‘Once more the old armies shalt ride—inspiring dread and despair into the stoutest of hearts.’

‘And you will lead them,’ the figure instructed. ‘The Twelve are wild creatures of instinct and destruction. They have need of commanding but I must remain here to gather what little strength I can for the final days. I had hoped to despatch both you and your brother to order their movements, yet you shall not go alone. Someone shall go with you.’

‘Who Master?’

The figure took a last, despising look at the museum before turning to shamble back along Well Lane.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘There is a great deal to be done and the time is short. There is one nearby who will aid us, although he does not yet know it and will have to be deceived into our service, I believe he will suit the purpose very well. His good must be subverted, we must erode his will and entice him to do our bidding. When the treasure is found it is he who must wield it. Soon the webs of destiny will be destroyed forever and the shrine of Nirinel a smoking ruin.’

With the raven cackling wickedly upon his shoulder, the cloaked stranger shuffled across the street and melted silently into the dim grey shadows of the nearby, derelict houses.

A leaden sky and drenching drizzle heralded the dawn and the thick, slate-coloured clouds that reached across London ensured that the dismal weather was there for the rest of the morning.

It was an uninspiring start to the first day of term after the Christmas break and by the time they splashed to school, the pupils of the local comprehensive were a damp and straggly rabble.

Built just after the war, the buildings were a dreary collection of concrete boxes which, by nine o'clock, were awash with dirty footprints and dripping coats.

For Neil Chapman it was as if he had awakened from a long sleep. That morning was the first time he felt truly free of Miss Ursula Webster's influence since he and his father and brother had moved into The Wyrd Museum over a week ago. It was a peculiar sensation, that forbidding building, and the manipulating controllers of destiny it contained had fuelled his thoughts from the very first day. Now the real, normal world seemed pale and unimportant by comparison.

The boy shook his head, startled at his own thoughts. Now that everything was as it should be he was finding life a bit dull. At breakfast that morning, Josh had been his usual annoying self and made no mention of what had happened, almost as if he had forgotten the entire episode—either that or he had been made to forget. Then, when Neil tried to explain it to his father, he could see that Brian didn't believe a word.

Regretfully, Neil realised that it was no use pining for excitement. For him the adventures were over, he had completed his task for the Websters and would now have to get used to living a mundane life again.

Looking around him, he tried to take an interest in his new surroundings, but wasn't impressed. His old school in Ealing had been much more modern and better equipped, with its own swimming pool and three playing fields, whereas this one had to make do with an all-weather pitch and very little else as far as he could tell.

As for the pupils, they appeared to be a rough looking, slovenly crowd and the uniform which his father had been assured was essential hardly seemed to be adhered to by the majority of them.

Laughing and calling out names, they boisterously jostled their way around the building, scuffling outside classrooms and jeering at each other as they boasted about what they had been given for Christmas.

Waiting at reception, Neil watched them barge by, but hardly anyone bothered to look at the new boy and if they did it was only to snigger and nudge their friends. 'Chapel did you say?’ came a nasal, unenthusiastic voice. ‘Can't seem to find you anywhere.’

The boy turned and looked across the desk at the school secretary, a large, middle-aged woman with bleached hair, wearing a turquoise blouse that was one size too small for her ample figure.

‘Chapman,’ he said with mild annoyance, exaggerating his lip movements in case the chunky earrings she wore had made her hard of hearing.

The woman dabbed at the computer with her podgy fingers and without looking up at him said, ‘You're in Mr Battersby's form. Room 11a, down the corridor on the right.’

‘Thank you,’ Neil muttered, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

‘They won't be there now though,’ the secretary added. ‘There's an assembly this morning. They'll have gone to the drama centre, across the playground on the left. You'd best get a move on—you're late.’

Neil didn't bother to answer that one. He hurried from the main doors and into the rain again. Over a bleak tarmac square he ran to where a low building stood, and hastened inside.

Fortunately, the assembly had not yet begun and Neil slipped in amongst the children still finding their seats.

The drama centre was a modestly sized theatre where school plays, concerts and assemblies were held. It consisted of a stage, complete with curtains and lighting equipment, and tiered rows of seats to accommodate the audience.

Today the atmosphere was rowdy and irreverent. The stale smell of damp clothes and wet hair hung heavily in the air as the congregated pupils settled noisily into their places. The watchful teachers patrolled up and down, keeping their expert eyes upon the troublesome ones. Several of these had pushed their way to the back of the highest row but were already being summoned down again to be divided and placed elsewhere under easy scrutiny.

Neil's eyes roved about the large room. At the back of the stage there was a backdrop left over from the last school production, depicting the interior of an old country house complete with French windows, and he guessed that it had been a murder mystery.

In front of the scenery was a row of chairs which faced the pupils and already some of the teachers had taken their places upon them. There were two female teachers and three male, but against that painted setting they looked less like members of staff and more like a collection of suspects.

Mentally performing his own detective work, Neil wondered which of them was Mr Battersby. Of the three men sitting there, one was fat and balding, another tall and slightly hunched, but the last one Neil dismissed right away for he was obviously some kind of vicar, dressed in long black vestments.

Suddenly, the level of chatter died down as a small, stern looking woman with short dark hair strode into the room. One of the male teachers who had not yet joined his colleagues raised his hand as though he was directing traffic and at once the children in the theatre stood.

Neil did the same. This was the headteacher, Mrs Stride.

‘Good morning,’ she said, briskly rubbing her hands together.

The children mumbled their replies.

‘I said, “good morning”,’ she repeated, a little more forcefully.

This time the response was louder and Mrs Stride appeared satisfied. Nodding her head, she told them to be seated and the room echoed with the shuffling of over three hundred pairs of feet and the usual chorus of pretended coughs before she could begin.

Only half listening, Neil watched the head pace up and down the stage, but his attention was quickly drawn away from her and directed at the person sitting beside him.

Here was a slight, nervous looking boy with untidy hair and large round spectacles, whose threadbare blazer was covered in badges. With one watchful eye upon the teachers, the boy lifted his bag with his foot, unzipped it and drew out a science fiction magazine which he laid upon his lap and proceeded to read, ignoring everything else around him.

Lowering his eyes, Neil peered at the colourful pages and read the bold type announcing ‘real life’ abductions by strange visitors from outer space.

‘Now,’ Mrs Stride's voice cut into his musings and Neil returned his gaze to the front of the stage. ‘You all know Reverend Galloway. He came to see you quite a few times last term to talk about the youth club, before it burned down. Well, I haven't a clue what he's going to tell us this morning but I'm sure it will be most interesting. He's even gone all out and put his cassock on for us. Reverend Galloway.’

The head stood aside as the man in the vestments rose from his seat and a distinct groan issued about the theatre.

‘Not the God Squad again,’ complained a dejected voice close by, and Neil looked at the boy at his side who had glanced up from his magazine to contribute this mournful and damning plea.

Neil studied the vicar more closely. Apparently he was a familiar and unpopular guest at these assemblies.

The Reverend Peter Galloway was a boisterous young man with a haystack of floppy auburn hair and a sparse, wispy beard to match. Suddenly, he broke into an enormous, welcoming grin and his large, green eyes bulged forward as if they were about to pop clean out of his head. Then he held open his arms in a great sweeping gesture which embraced the whole audience.

‘I hope you all enjoyed Christmas,’ he said benignly.

The children eyed him warily as though he were trying to sell them something and an agitated murmur rippled throughout the tiered seats.

Peter Galloway looked at the sea of blank faces. The pupils’ expressions were those of bored disinterest but that did not deter him, in fact it spurred him on. For the past seven months, ever since he had left college, he had ministered to the spiritual needs of this difficult area and never once suffered any loss of confidence, whatever the reaction to his exuberant ministries. His soul brimmed with the joy of his unshakable beliefs and he never missed an opportunity to try and share this with others.

In this short time, however, the Reverend had become increasingly aware that the Church was failing to capture the hearts and minds of the younger members of the community, and was grieved to learn of the trouble they got themselves into. If they could only channel all that youthful, restless energy into celebrating the life that God had given to them, as he did, they could enjoy a faith as strong as his own.

This mission to welcome the youngsters into the fold had become a crusade with him. He was passionate about it and tried many different ways to show them that the Church could be fun. There had been concerts of Christian pop music, youth groups, debating societies, sporting events and even sponsored fasts in aid of the Third World. Yet none had been a resounding success, in spite of his finest efforts. The teenagers he saw hanging around in gangs and loitering at street corners never came along to any of them, but it only served to make him even more determined.

Today he had resolved to take a more direct approach with the children and he returned their apathetic stares with a knowing glare of his own.

‘Let us not forget,’ he addressed them, ‘that Christmas is not merely a time for exchanging gifts. We must remember its tremendous significance. At that season the Saviour of Mankind was born.’

At the back of the audience a girl began to giggle into her hand. Neil looked across at the teachers and found that they too appeared bored.

‘Can you imagine the wonder that the people felt at the time of the Nativity?’ the Reverend Galloway continued, jabbing his finger in the air. ‘It must have been absolutely incredible for them. Think of the shepherds who fell on their faces in terror when the angel appeared—revealed in glory.’

At Neil's side the bespectacled boy muttered in a loud whisper which everyone heard, ‘I'd be scared too if a man in a white dress revealed his glory.’

The children burst into fits of laughter and although the teachers looked stern and accusing, several of them could not completely disguise the smirks which had crept on to their faces.

Peter Galloway waited for the mirth to die down, but he gazed in the direction that the mocking voice had come from and nodded in energetic agreement.

‘But that's precisely my point!’ he exclaimed to everyone's surprise. ‘If we are to get anywhere, you have to dismiss the silly, archetypal image of an angel. That's utter, utter rubbish and belongs only on the top of a Christmas tree. A messenger of God isn't a person dressed up with wings and a halo, with a harp in their hand. That's an invention by medieval artists who had no idea how to illustrate or express such an amazing, celestial being.’

Lowering his voice slightly, the vicar leaned forward to speak to them in a hushed, conspiratorial voice.

‘Imagine,’ he began, drawing his hand from left to right as if pulling back an obscuring curtain. ‘Picture it in your mind, the stony landscape outside Bethlehem. Upon those barren, exposed hillsides it is dark and cold. To live there takes a certain type of stamina and courage, the people wouldn't tolerate any sort of nonsense. These shepherds are used to the brutalities and hardships of Roman rule. Only something truly terrifying could possibly frighten them.

‘There they are, encamped about a small fire perhaps, when suddenly their hearts are stricken with a mortal and petrifying dread. The angel of the Lord! Now, we here today haven't a clue what that really means, but it was a sight so awful that it put the fear of God into those men. What can it have looked like, this monstrous vision? Was it merely a fierce, bright light or did the angel have a more tangible, unhuman form? What is the real shape of a heavenly messenger? Whatever it is, it scares the hell out of ordinary people like you and me.’

At Neil's side, the boy with the magazine listened intently, before glancing down at the glossy pages where a painting of a grotesque, nightmarish alien roared up at him and he nodded appreciatively. ‘Yeah,’ he murmured.

‘All you have to do is think about it,’ the vicar went on, sensing with mounting excitement that his audience was paying attention.

‘These events really happened, they're not legends or myths—they are historical facts. This man with the strange, radical ideas actually lived and, when he was only thirty-three, he was executed because he had dared to think them.’

Taking a breath for dramatic effect, the vicar drew himself up and swept the wild mop of auburn hair from his eyes.

‘Do any of you know what it means to be crucified?’ he asked.

The pupils nodded but the Reverend Galloway shook his head. ‘No, you don't,’ he told them. ‘Oh yes, you've seen all the pictures and statues of Him, with His arms outstretched upon the cross, with nails in the palms of His hands and embedded in His feet. That isn't right—that's a twee prettification for old ladies to pray to and what we'd like to believe. The truth was far, far worse and bloodier than that.’