Tales From The Wyrd Museum 2: The Raven's Knot (6 page)

Then how did Yggdrasill die?’ Edie pressed, before the elderly woman had a chance to be distracted.

‘It was the others!’ she cried, astonished at the girl's ignorance. ‘I thought everyone knew that! It was the other giants. They saw what happened to their leader and knew that weapons more cunning than axes would have to be used to be rid of it. They drew silly, weak people and unwary creatures into their service until eventually they discovered the whereabouts of two of the World Tree's roots.

‘Oh, it was terrible, into them they fed the bitterest poisons, fouling the waters of the wells and springs which nourished them with their dirt and filthy charms. How we cried when a second shudder quaked the earth and Yggdrasill sickened. We thought that the end had come, but a ray of hope still glimmered, for no one—not even the enemy's watchful spies, knew where the third and final root could be found and so the tree survived.’

Resting her chin in her hands, Edie closed her eyes and recalled the impressive sight of the withered Nirinel in the subterranean chamber far below the museum.

‘But they did in the end,’ she muttered glumly.

Miss Celandine stroked her head. ‘Don't be silly,’ she said. ‘The end hasn't happened yet, at least I don't think it has. Ursula would have told me, I'm certain. The ice lords haven't returned have they? The sun still shines doesn't it?’

Turning to the window, she stared at the dismal day outside and sharply drew her breath. ‘Has the last day closed? Are they stirring in the frozen wastes? We must get Ursula. The darkness is coming—the cold and dark are here!’

‘No, Celandine,’ Edie assured her. ‘It's only raining. Tell me what happened next, after the two roots were poisoned.’

The elderly woman squinted once more at the window and shifted in the chair.

‘Great expanses of the World Tree started to rot,’ she murmured sadly. ‘In those decaying wounds, all the sicknesses and plagues were spawned. There was no death in Askar in the early days, but soon the bleak northern winds began to carry disease and the spores of pestilence. Many fell ill and perished, and so the glory of Askar began to dwindle and wane.’

‘That's sad,’ Edie mumbled as Miss Celandine sniffled into the lace of her collar.

‘It was, and is,’ the old woman agreed, blowing her nose upon the sleeve of her dress.

‘But the Frost Giants were not wholly successful,’ she added. ‘They had not killed Yggdrasill completely, for the third root was still sustaining it and whilst they continued to hunt and search for its whereabouts, something wonderful happened.’

Running her fingers over the child's pixie-hood, she beamed to herself and tilted her head to one side.

‘When the first bough was hacked from the ash,’ she said, ‘no one knew what to do with it. Obviously we couldn't just leave it there for the ogres to make their nasty weapons out of. The wood was that of the World Tree and no one could imagine what powers it might possess. Then our mother had a vision in which she saw what had to be done.’

‘Did the people of Askar listen to her?’ Edie asked doubtfully.

Miss Celandine stared at the child in surprise. 'Of course they did!’ she declared. ‘She was their Queen! Hasn't Ursula told you?’

Edie grinned and gazed at the old woman as if viewing her for the first time. ‘Then you're a princess!’ she laughed.

‘I was,’ Miss Celandine answered mournfully, ‘a long, long time ago when my name was different. I don't know what I am now. I forget so much of the in-between years, after the great early days. Sometimes I wonder how we came here and all I want to do is get away from Ursula and go dancing down through the galleries. Veronica feels the same, but her legs are bad. If it weren't for her pancakes I don't know how she'd...’

‘Celandine!’ Edie said firmly, assuming a tone not unlike that of Miss Ursula at her most severe. ‘What did they do with the fallen branch? What did the vision tell your mother to make out of it?’

‘Why the loom of course!’ the elderly woman grandly declared. ‘The loom of destiny, where we weaved the fortunes of mankind and the webs of doom. Veronica would measure the threads, I would spin them and Ursula would cut them. That's what we did for many, many years—ordering the affairs of everyone and everything—the whole world was caught in our tapestry, no one escaped us. No one at all, even we were trapped.’

Thrilled to the marrow, Edie marvelled at Miss Celandine's words and her skin prickled with excitement. ‘Doooom,’ she echoed. ‘Loooom of Doooom.’

‘Of course,’ Miss Celandine added, ‘at first nobody dared to string it and so the very first day it was completed, the loom was left in the courtyard until the night came.’

‘What happened then?’

Miss Celandine turned and pointed to a small painting half hidden in the shadow of a bookshelf.

Edie peered at it. Within the dusty frame there was a woodland scene enshrouded by dense curling mist and, from the swirling vapours, reared the dim outlines of four great stags.

‘At the dead of night,’ Miss Celandine said, ‘Ursula looked out of her window and saw those milk white creatures come boldly into the court and carry the loom away upon their silver antlers. Of course, she raised the alarm at once, but it was as if they had vanished, no one could find any trace of them.’

‘But you did, didn't you?’

Miss Celandine however was growing restive and she looked across the room to Miss Veronica who was peeping over the back of the armchair with a curious, intense look graven upon her face.

‘I won't say any more!’ Miss Celandine announced, putting one of her plaits into her mouth and chewing it stubbornly. ‘I've said too, too much!’

‘Please!’ Edie cried. ‘What happened next?’

Miss Celandine clenched her teeth and refused to utter another word, then she folded her arms upon her chest and dug her heels into the frayed carpet.

‘It was Ursula's fault,’ Miss Veronica's voice piped up. ‘It was she who walked under the leaves, she who learned too much, more than was good for her—or any of us.’

Miss Celandine spat the hair from her mouth and tutted disagreeably. ‘Veronica, stop it! Oh, Edith, you are a wicked child—look you've made our sister go and remember. It's better if she doesn't, Ursula always says so. How could you be so hateful?’

But Edie wasn't listening to her any longer. Drawing near to the armchair, she brought her face close to the heavily painted eyes which peered over the back and smiled persuasively.

‘It was years later,’ Miss Veronica continued, ‘on a night of calm. Ursula was roaming under that part of the tree which was still untouched by poison when, in the rustling of the leaves, she heard a whispering voice.’

‘Stop her someone!’ Miss Celandine squeaked, hopping from her place by the hearth and clapping her hands over her ears. ‘I had nothing to do with it, I swear. I didn't make her remember, I didn't, I didn't. It was that disobedient girl. Why, I wasn't even here—I was downstairs. I'm not here now—I'm down there, that's what. I'll tell her that too if she asks.’

Miss Veronica watched her spring about the cramped room, and gazed dumbly at the folds of faded velvet which thrashed madly about her sister's wizened form, making a sound like great flapping wings. With a start, the old woman gripped her walking cane.

‘The ravens!’ she cried abruptly. ‘Thought—Thought and Memory! That's what they were called!’

Miss Celandine stumbled to a standstill and shuddered, before letting out a shrill squeal as she pointed at Edie in fear.

‘You've done it now!’ she scolded. ‘Oh, you've done it now!’

Along the curiously named Coursing Batch, that stretch of main road which cuts across the lower slopes of Glastonbury Tor, a plump figure with a mass of curling, carrot-coloured hair, strained at the pedals of her bicycle.

Lauren Humphries scrunched up her face as yet another heavy lorry thundered by, and wobbled unsteadily in the buffeting draught of its passing.

‘Thank you!’ she growled through gritted teeth, her cheeks spattered with dirty water thrown up from the wet road. The lorry roared away and the girl gently squeezed her brakes, stopping beside the narrow pavement to wipe herself clean.

Although she was now seventeen, she had lost none of the chubbiness that had made her childhood so miserable. There were just so many unkind names for idiots to choose from when shouting abuse, it was like a sport that anybody could play. Lauren had grown used to it, from an early age she had taught herself to ignore the cruel taunting, but that did not make it hurt any less. No matter how hard she tried, sometimes the insults hit their mark and stung her.

Mopping a handkerchief about her freckle-covered features, she glowered at the receding, rumbling lorry, her hazel eyes lost amid the fleshy expanse of her round, pink face.

It was a treacherous road—so much for escaping the traffic and pollution of the city, this was almost as bad.

Pulling away from the kerb, she set off once more. Past the gates of the large boarding houses whose rooftops screened off the view of the Tor, to where Coursing Batch seamlessly became the Edgerly Road.

Here, only the hedgerow separated her from the great green bulk of the strangely shaped hill which rose high upon her left.

Glastonbury Tor, with the solitary tower dedicated to Saint Michael spiking up from its summit, was a singular, stately sight.

A holy place, venerated down the ages by countless pilgrims seeking for truth and enlightenment, it rose from the Somerset levels like an enchanted, enduring symbol of faith. Deep were the foundations of Glastonbury's magical appeal and like a magnet it attracted things esoteric and occult from all over the globe. Obscure sects of enigmatic religions founded temples there, people sought healing from its ever-flowing springs and legends both Christian and pagan abounded.

Nowhere else was quite like this small town, it was a special, haunting place and the powerful vision of the Tor presided over all.

Lauren hated it.

She had only lived there for four months but already she loathed the district and, as she cycled homeward, did not take her eyes from the road to even glance at the Tor's majestic, imposing outline.

Hoping that her father would be back before she arrived home, she sailed by the high banks of the reservoir and saw in the distance ahead a group of five boys larking about at the roadside.

Still dressed in their uniforms, they had obviously just left school and Lauren pitied them. There was little for young people to do in small towns such as this. It was fine for the tourists who came to see the ruined abbey, investigate the legends, climb the Tor and explore the beautiful countryside, but to grow up in such a place had to be difficult. Holiday makers and seekers of wisdom could leave when they wanted to, but for a child born into a bleak rural landscape that was impossible.

Yet as Lauren cycled closer to the group, a furrow creased her brow and any sympathy she had felt vanished as her small eyes stared at them suspiciously.

Their voices were jeering with laughter and that was a sound the girl knew only too well.

‘Barmy Tommy!’ they cried. ‘Barmy Tommy!’

Only then did Lauren see that in the centre of the gang was a pitiful looking old man and, with anger bubbling up inside her, she began to pedal furiously.

Surrounded by the group of twelve-year-olds, the man known locally as Tommy, laughed good-naturedly, nodding like a donkey at everything the boys shouted in his ears.

‘Do us yer teapot, Tommy! What do dogs do, Tommy?’

The white haired old man crooked one arm in compliance and waggled from side to side, pouring imaginary tea from the pretend spout of his hand as he yapped like a terrier.

‘That's right, Tommy!’ the boys goaded, pushing him roughly. ‘What else do dogs do? Cock your leg—go on!’

Like a performing monkey he obeyed them, acting out stupid and humiliating tricks for their callous delight.

‘Give us yer hat, Tommy,’ one of them called, reaching across and grabbing the battered cloth cap from his head.

‘Pyeeuuurrgh!’ the boy cried, mangling it in his hands. ‘It stinks—you dirty old beggar! When was the last time you had a bath?’

The old man grinned, revealing an almost toothless set of gums. ‘Was a Tuesday,’ he declared.

‘What year?’ the gang shouted back.

‘Tommy doesn't know,’ came the mild reply. ‘Can he have his hat back now?’

‘You'll have to catch it first!’ they taunted, throwing the cap from one to another.

‘Please,’ Tommy asked politely. ‘It's getting dark. You lads should get yourselves home. Give Tommy his hat, he's got to get going an’ all.’

In front of his ruddy face they dangled it, only to snatch the cap away as soon as his large, red knuckled hands rose to claim it.

The old man staggered to and fro as they threw the cap over his head and back again, yet not once did he lose his temper or cry out in despair.

‘Hey!’ Lauren's angry voice interrupted the cruel game. ‘Stop it! Leave him alone.’

Propping her bicycle against the hedge, she pushed her way into the middle of the group and pulled the thoughtless boys away.

‘Let go!’ they yelled as she yanked them aside until only one was left, the cap still in his hands.

Graham Carter, the oldest of the bullies, glared at the girl and a horrible leer twisted his face that was already pocked with the first flush of acne.

‘What do you want, fatty?’ he asked with a snigger.

Incensed, Lauren dashed forward and knocked him into the hedge but, as he fell, Graham threw back his arm and let the cap go sailing into the road.

‘Get off, you fat cow!’ he bawled when she pushed him even further into the thorns. ‘Get your sweaty, lardy hands off me!’

‘Least I haven't got a face with craters in it like the moon!’ she retorted.

‘Better than being as big as the moon!’

Lauren stared at him as he squirmed in the hedge, then stepped back—ashamed that she had allowed herself be drawn into a slanging match. ‘Just clear off,’ she said gruffly.

Graham tried to pull himself from the thorns, but two of his accomplices had to help him to his feet.

‘You wait, blubber mountain!’ he warned, inspecting his blazer for holes. ‘We'll be waiting for you next time.’

Lauren shook her head. ‘Oh, drop dead,’ she told them.

Grudgingly, the boys walked off singing out a string of insults.

‘Tubby or not tubby—fat is the question.’

The girl ignored them and looked around to see if the old man was all right. At once all thoughts of the stupid boys were flung from her mind as she saw Tommy go doddering into the centre of the road to retrieve his cap—wandering right into the path of a speeding juggernaut.

‘Watch out!’ she screamed.

Stooping, the old man glanced up as the driver of the lorry gave three warning blasts upon the horn. There was no way he could stop in time and all Tommy could do was blink in timid surprise.

With a hideous squeal, the tyres skidded over the tarmac as the brakes were stomped upon, but still the vehicle came. Then, at the last moment, Tommy snatched up the cap and leapt nimbly aside. The lorry ploughed past, finally lurching to a halt yards beyond where the old man had been standing.

‘You stupid old git!’ the driver bellowed, sticking his head out of the window. ‘You nearly got yourself killed!’

Tommy placed the hat upon his head and chuckled as if the man had said something funny, and proceeded to do a little dance upon the grass verge.

The driver drew a hand over his forehead and directed his anger at Lauren instead.

‘Why don't you keep a closer eye on your granddad? Kids like you got no idea.’

The girl opened her mouth to object but the driver was already revving his engine.

‘Useless fat lump,’ she heard him mutter just before the lorry roared off.

Leaving a cloud of choking blue exhaust fumes in its wake, the lorry lumbered away. Lauren pulled a face after it hoping the driver was looking in his mirror.

‘That's not very lady like,’ a gentle voice said.

The girl gazed at Tommy and shrugged. ‘It wasn't meant to be,’ she answered. ‘But how are you? You all right? Did those lads frighten you?’

The old man stared at her bewildered. ‘Frighten?’ he murmured. ‘Why should Tommy's pals frighten him? We was only playing a game, they wouldn't want to scare old Tommy.’

Lauren groaned and walked back to her bicycle.

‘You were a bit rough with them,’ he added. ‘That's no way for a pretty young girl to behave now, is it? You'll never get a boyfriend acting like that you know.’

Exasperated, she turned to stare at him. Tommy was a peculiar looking character. His face was a florid map of broken veins. Fine silver stubble bristled along his chin and, although he had never been seen without a smile, there was an element of sadness about his wrinkle-webbed eyes.

He was a sorry, tramp-like sight. Under his shabby, second-hand overcoat, over a collarless shirt, he wore a hand-knitted, purple jumper that had been darned umpteen times, and a long piece of grubby string served as a belt to hold up his baggy, colourless trousers.

Lauren had seen him about the town on numerous occasions, but had never spoken to him before now. At first she had assumed him to be one of the forlorn crowd who gathered outside the church upon the benches to drink themselves silly during the day and shout at passers-by. Yet during the short time she had lived there, the girl had never seen so much as a tin of lemonade in Tommy's large, clumsy looking hands.

‘That's a good bike,’ he observed. ‘Got two wheels to go round and around. Tommy likes bikes.’

Lauren smiled indulgently.

‘I should learn to drive really,’ she said.

The old man tutted and sucked his few remaining teeth. ‘You doesn't want to do that,’ he commented. ‘Tommy sees folk chargin’ here and there all the time in their big hurries. ‘Tain't natural. A bike's good enough for you I'd say.’

‘Really?’ she mumbled, tiring of his chatter. ‘What would you know about it?’

‘Takes you to your college and back don't it?’ he replied.

Lauren eyed him uncertainly. ‘How do you know where I go to?’ she asked. ‘You been watching me or something?’

Tommy laughed and nodded.

‘Arr,’ he admitted proudly, ‘He knows a lot does old Tommy. He knows when the rain'll fall by the smell of the soil. He knows how much fruit the apple trees'll have come autumn by the shape and colour of the leaves. He knows how far down the rabbit warrens go and where hares lie in the field during the day. He knows what's goin’ on in this place, he knows what's happening—oh, yes, he knows.’

Clicking his tongue, he looked thoughtful and afraid for a moment, then he tugged at one of his ears and the mood passed as he added, ‘He knows where you live, too. Your mum and dad had many guests yet?’

Wanting to ride off but not wishing to appear rude, Lauren started to push the bicycle along the pavement and walk beside him.

‘Not a lot,’ she said, ‘and she isn't my real mother—not even a real stepmother yet.’

‘Tommy knowed that too. Yourn died nigh on three year ago, didn't she? Arr, Tommy done seen a lot of folk come down here from the city to try what yours are a doing. Not many manage, ‘tis hard graft that and mighty sore when the grockles don't show. Still when they do, it ain't all rosy.’

Trotting a little way in front of her, the old man raised his cap and in a high, affected voice proclaimed, ‘Do you got any softer pillows? This frying egg hain't yellow enough—another bit of toasta here, more marmylady there. Mine tea is gone a coldy and the cup is a chippta. What no hotty water for the scrubbing of my daft holiday makey face? I not be a hostelling at this kennel again, you betcha!’

Lauren smiled. ‘Some of them are a bit like that,’ she confessed. ‘I try and keep out of their way.’

Tommy displayed his gums again. ‘Good place, yours though,’ he put in. ‘Tommy likes it there—builded strong and safe.’

‘The roof needs doing,’ she told him.

‘Ah, but there's shutters on them windows,’ he murmured in a low whisper as he looked warily over his shoulder. ‘Nice solid shutters to keep out the wind—arr, the wind and owt else what wants to get in.’

‘We've got a burglar alarm,’ Lauren said, slightly perturbed at the hunted look that had settled upon his craggy face.

Tommy peered at her. ‘Have you now?’ he breathed. ‘Well, that just might not be enough. Depends on what them burglars want to steal ain't it? Not all after silver forks and bangles you know, no, not all of them. There's worse ‘uns out there.’

‘I'll be sure to tell Dad,’ she said, humouring him.

‘You do that,’ he warned, his gaze wandering up past her head to squint and scrutinise the sky.