Tales From The Wyrd Museum 2: The Raven's Knot

by Robin Jarvis

  Edie gazed up at the vast root, vainly trying to imagine the unbounded size of Yggdrasill.

  ‘The first civilisation was founded about the eastern side of the World Tree,’ Miss Ursula continued, ‘and Askar was it named. In that early time there was no sickness and its people knew no death. All were content and Askar flourished and thrived.’

  Miss Webster's voice trailed off as she stared into the flames of the torches.

  ‘Was you there then?’ Edie asked. ‘Is that where you're from?’

  The elderly woman smiled gravely. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘My sisters and I were born in that silvan shade.

  ‘Yet there were other beings who roamed the globe,’ she continued, shivering slightly. ‘Before the first blossom opened upon Yggdrasill, unclean voices bellowed and resounded in the barren wastes of the ice-locked north.’

  Edie grinned and leaned forward, eager to learn more. ‘Was they monsters?’ she demanded. ‘Is that where Belial came crawling out?’

  ‘No,’ came the patient reply. ‘Belial was much, much later and compared to them his evil deeds are like those of a mischievous schoolboy. Although he will one day pour fire upon the world—they shall come after. They were here before and they will be here at the utmost end.’

  Relishing every word, Edie squirmed and rested her dirty chin upon her hands. ‘Who are they then?’ she urged.

  ‘Spirits of cold and darkness,’ Miss Ursula breathed. ‘Drawn from the freezing waters when the world was formed, who clad themselves in chill flesh as giants terrible to behold. In a desolate, forsaken country where none of the World Tree's roots had delved, they dwelt. A great gulf and chasm which stretched down to the very marrow of the earth, separated their unhallowed realm from the main continent and over the never-ending darkness they reigned absolutely.’

  Miss Ursula paused to gaze up at the huge, decaying root and clicked her tongue with irritation.

  ‘You and I can only suspect the extent of their fury when the first light burst forth to herald Yggdrasill’s unfurling,’ she said. ‘They had considered themselves to be lords of an echoing darkness and now their dominion was threatened by this unlooked for challenge.’

  ‘What did they do?’

  ‘Sought for ways to destroy it,’ Miss Ursula told her. ‘For it was prophesied that as long as there was sap within the smallest leaf of the World Tree, their previous lordship and tyranny would be denied them. So began the building of the ice bridge to span the great chasm. Malice and loathing seethed in their frozen hearts but the people of Askar were unaware of the peril which awaited them...’

  ‘Oh, Ursula—!’ cried another voice suddenly and, with a jolt, Edie turned to see Miss Celandine and Miss Veronica standing by the gate.

  Their gaze fixed upon the withered root, the two sisters shambled inside. Then, leaving Miss Veronica to lean upon her stick, Miss Celandine skipped forward—clapping her hands in delight and cooing dreamily.

  ‘It's been so long since you let us come down here!’ she declared reproachfully. ‘You are a meanie, Ursula—you know how I adored Nirinel so. Why look how shrivelled it has become. We must anoint it with the water like we used to and make it hale again.’

  Anxiously, she trotted over to where Edie and her sister were sitting, then checked herself sharply and gazed at the circular dais in consternation.

  ‘But, the well!’ she gabbled in a flustered whine. ‘Such neglect. Ursula—what has happened? Why is nothing the same? First the loom was broken and now this!’

  Clambering up beside them, she feverishly dragged the dead moss away and Edie saw that the stone platform was embellished with a sumptuously moulded frieze overlaid in tarnished silver and small blue gems. But even as she admired the decoration, Miss Celandine's knobbly hands pulled away a great swathe of mouldering growth and there in the centre of the dais she uncovered a wide and precipitously deep hole.

  Over the brink Miss Celandine popped her head, casting handfuls of the dead lichen down into the darkness—waiting and listening for the resulting splashes. But no sound rose into the cavern and a look of comprehension slowly settled over the woman's wrinkled face.

  ‘I... I had forgotten,’ she whispered in a small, crestfallen voice. ‘The waters are gone, aren't they, Ursula? The well is dry, it is, isn't it?’

  Her sister nodded. ‘The sacred spring dried up many, many years ago,’ she said wearily, as if repeating this information was an hourly ritual. ‘And every last drop of the blessed water was drained fifty years ago in order to vanquish Belial.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Miss Celandine sighed in regret. ‘So we can never heal Nirinel's wounds. It makes me woefully sad to see it shrunken and spoiled. Oh, how lovely it was when we first arrived, how very, very lovely. Veronica, do you recall? Veronica?’

  She whirled about to look at the sister she had left by the gate, then gave a little yelp when she saw the expression on Miss Veronica's face.

  Resting heavily upon her cane, Miss Veronica was staring up at the tremendous root with a ferocious intensity that was alarming to witness. It had been an age since she had last been permitted to venture down here and now the sight of it was stirring up the muddied corners of her vague, rambling mind.

  ‘I see four white stags ahead of us,’ she uttered huskily, wiping a trembling hand over her brow and smearing the beauty cream which covered it.

  ‘I don't want to follow them,’ she wept, edging backwards. ‘Let me return, I must... I... there is something I have to do!’

  Lurching against the carved wall, Miss Veronica lifted her cane and waved wildly about her head as if trying to ward something away.

  ‘Urdr!’ she shrieked, staring at Miss Ursula with mounting panic. ‘Do not force me to go with you. I must go back—I am needed!’

  ‘Veronica!’ Miss Celandine called, hurrying back to her stricken sister. ‘You have nothing to fear. That time has ended. We are safe—you are safe.’

  Her sister's eyes grew round with terror and she threw her arms before her face. ‘Safe!’ she wailed hysterically. ‘We are old, ancient and haggard, accursed and afflicted from that very hour. Won't someone save me? The mist is rising. I beseech you—before it is too late. Please, I beg you my sister. Release me! Release me...’

  Her cries melted into sobs as she buried her anguished face into Miss Celandine's outstretched arms.

  ‘Hush,’ her sister comforted. ‘Come back, Veronica, it's over now—it is, it is.’ But as she soothed the crumpled, whimpering figure she shot a scornful glance at Miss Ursula.

  Still seated upon the edge of the well, Edie Dorkins watched the elderly woman at her side and was astonished to see the extent to which her sister's outburst had distressed her.

  Sitting stiff and as still as one of the stone images which swarmed over the walls, Miss Ursula's small, piercing eyes glistened with tears and Edie could sense her inner struggle as she battled to control her emotions.

  Then, mastering herself at last, Miss Ursula rose and, clenching her fists until they turned a horrible, bleached white, said, ‘Celandine, take Veronica back to the museum. This is no place for her, the... the musty atmosphere is injurious to her. You know that neither of you are allowed down here, I shall lock the doorway behind me next time.’

  It appeared to Edie that Miss Celandine was on the verge of retaliating with some choice words of her own, but she must have thought better of it for she turned and helped the weeping Miss Veronica to hobble out through the gateway.

  ‘It was her,’ Miss Veronica's blubbering voice sniffed and warbled. ‘She made me do it. I didn't want to come... I didn't want any of this.’

  Rigid and wintry, Miss Ursula watched them depart.

  ‘An unhappy family have you joined, Edith,’ she said keeping her voice level, hoping she betrayed nothing of the turmoil which boiled beneath her stern exterior. ‘My two poor sisters are wasting away in mind as well as body. Their lives and mine are bound closely to that of Nirinel—as it fades so, too, do we.’
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br />   Edie eyed her shrewdly. ‘And mine?’ she demanded.

  ‘The young will not perish as swiftly as the aged,’ came the unhelpful reply. ‘I do not foresee what is to come for the loom is damaged and the web was never completed, but I believe you shall be our salvation—in one way or another.’

  The child looked down at her feet. Then she asked, ‘What happened to the ice giants? Did they kill the World Tree?’

  ‘The lords of the ice and dark?’ Miss Ursula paused. ‘The rest of that tale must wait. You have learned much this night, but now I am obliged to go and make certain that Veronica is settled. Let us return to the museum, I too find this environment disturbing. I have recounted all I care to for the time being and you must be patient.’

  Edie jumped from the dais and took hold of Miss Ursula's proffered hand, but the woman's palm was cold and clammy. The girl knew that Miss Veronica's words had shaken her more than she dared to admit and she could not help but wonder why.

  Chapter 3 - Thought and Memory

  Far above the subterranean caverns within The Wyrd Museum, all was at peace. Only fine, floating dust moved through the collections, the same invisible clouds of powdery neglect that had flowed from room to room since the day the smaller, original building was founded.

  Night crawled by and the museum settled contentedly into the heavy shadows that its own irregular, forbidding bulk created.

  In the small bedroom he shared with Josh, Neil Chapman's fears were cast aside with the old clothes he had brought from the past and the eleven-year-old boy was steeped in a mercifully dreamless slumber. Beside him, his brother snored softly, while in the room beyond, their father was stretched upon the couch—a half drunk cup of tea teetering upon the padded arm.

  Outside the museum, in the grim murk of the sinking, clouded moon, a black shape—darker than the deepest shadow, moved silently through the deserted alleyway, disturbing the nocturnal calm.

  Into Well Lane the solitary figure stole, traversing the empty, gloom-filled street before he turned, causing the ample folds of his great black cloak to trail and drag across the pavement.

  Swathed and hidden beneath the dank, midnight robe, his face lost under a heavy cowl, the stranger raised his unseen eyes to stare up at the blank windows of the spire-crowned building before him.

  From the hood's profound shade there came a weary and laboured breath as a cloud of grey vapour rose into the winter night.

  ‘The hour is at hand,’ a faint, mellifluous whisper drifted up with the curling steam. ‘The time of The Cessation is come, for I have returned.’

  The voice fell silent as the figure raised its arms and the long sleeves fell back, revealing two pale and wizened hands. In the freezing air the arthritic fingers drew a curious sign and, from the hood, there began a low, restrained chanting.

  ‘Harken to me!’ droned the murmuring voice.

  ‘My faithful, devoted ones—know who speaks. Your Master has arisen from His cold, cursed sleep. Awaken and be restored to Him. This is my command—I charge you by your ancient names—Thought and Memory. Listen... listen... listen and yield.’

  Steadily, the whisper grew louder, increasing with every word and imbuing each one with a relentless yet compelling power.

  ‘Let dead flesh pulse,’ the figure hissed, the voice snarling beneath the strain of the charm it uttered. ‘Let eye be bright and cunning rekindle—to obey my bidding once more.’

  Up into the shivering ether the strident spell soared, propelled ever higher by the indomitable will of the robed figure below, until the governing words penetrated the windows of The Wyrd Museum and were heard in the desolation of The Separate Collection.

  Amongst the jumble of splintered display cabinets and fallen plinths, over the shards of shattered glass and buckled frames, the mighty sonorous chant flowed. Summoning and rousing, invoking and commanding, until there, in the broken darkness—something stirred.

  Responding to the supreme authority of that forceful enchantment, a muffled noise began to rustle amid the debris. At first it was a weak, laboured sound—a halting, twitching scrape, like the fitful tearing of old parchment. But, as the minutes crept by, the movements became stronger—nourished by those mysterious, intoning words.

  Suddenly, a repulsive, rasping croak disturbed the chill atmosphere and a horrible cawing voice grunted into existence.

  In the shadows which lay deep beneath a toppled case, half buried in a gruesome heap of shrunken heads, a black, wasted shape writhed and wriggled with new life.

  Brittle, fractured bones fused together whilst mummified, papery sinew renewed itself and hot blood began pumping through branching veins. Within the sunken depths of two rotted sockets a dim light glimmered, as the grey, wafer-thin flesh around them blinked suddenly and a pair of black, bead-like eyes bulged into place.

  In the street outside, the cloaked figure was trembling—struggling beneath the almighty strain of maintaining the powerful conjuration. From the unseen lips those commanding words became ever more forceful and desperate—spitting and barking out the summons to call his loyal servants back from death.

  Answering the anguished grappling voice, the movements in The Separate Collection grew ever more frantic and wild as the room became filled with shrill, skirling cries accompanied by a feverish, scrabbling clamour.

  In the shadows, the shrunken heads were flung aside and sent spinning over the rubble as a winged shape dragged and heaved its way from the darkness.

  Emitting a parched croak, the creature yanked and tore itself free, staggering out from under the fallen display case to perch unsteadily upon the splintered wreckage.

  In silence it crouched there, enwreathed by the sustaining forces of the incantation as, within its small skull, the crumbled mind was rebuilt and the eyes began to shine with cruelty and cunning.

  Bitter was the gleam which danced there—a cold, rancorous hatred and loathing for all of the objects in the room, and its talons dug deep into the length of wood it balanced upon Soon the rebirth would be complete.

  Suddenly, outside the museum, there came a strangled wail and the cloaked figure collapsed upon the pavement. He had not been ready, the effort of invoking and sustaining those mighty forces had drained him and he lay there for some minutes, gasping with exhaustion—the breath rattling from his spent lungs.

  Immediately, the link with the creature in The Separate Collection was broken and, giving a startled squawk, it tumbled backwards.

  But its lord's skill and strength had been just enough. The infernal charm was complete and the shape floundered upon its back only for an instant before righting itself. Then, with a flurry of old discarded feathers, it hopped back on to its perch and spread its replenished wings.

  Yet no beauteous phoenix was this. The bird which cast its malevolent gaze about the shadows was a stark portrait of misshapen ugliness. Coal black was the vicious beak which speared out from a sleek, flat head, and powerful were its tensed, hunched shoulders. As a feathered gargoyle it appeared and from the restored gullet there came a chillingly hostile call.

  Stretching and shaking its pinions, the raven moved from side to side, basking in the vigour of its rejuvenated body, scratching the splintered furniture with its claws and cackling wickedly to itself. The Master had returned to claim it back into His service and the bird was eager to demonstrate its unswerving obedience and fealty.

  Fanning out the ebony primary feathers of its wings, the bird flapped them experimentally and rose into the air, cawing with an almost playful joy. It was as if the uncounted years of death and mouldering corruption had only been a dark, deceiving dream, for the bird was as agile and as supple as it had ever been.

  Yet the euphoric cries were swiftly curtailed and the creature dropped like a stone as a new, terrible thought flooded that reconstructed brain and its heart became filled with an all-consuming despair.

  Leaping across the wreckage, the raven darted from shadow to shadow, hunting and searching, its cracked voi
ce calling morosely. Through the litter of exhibits the bird searched, tearing aside the obstacles in its path as its alarm and dread mounted, until finally it found what it had been seeking.

  There, with its head twisted to one side, its shrivelled face covered in shattered pieces of glass, was the moth-eaten body of a second raven.

  The reanimated bird stared sorrowfully down at the crumpled corpse and the sharp, guileful gleam faded in its eyes as it tenderly nuzzled its beak against the poorly preserved body.

  Mournfully, its yearning, grief-stricken voice called, trying to rouse the stiff, lifeless form—but it was no use. The second raven remained dead as stone and no amount of plaintive cawing could awaken it.

  Engulfed by an overwhelming sense of loss, the bird drew back, shuffling woefully away from the inert dried cadaver, its ugly face dejected and downcast.

  Abruptly the raven checked its staggering steps—it was no longer alone. Another presence was nearby, the atmosphere within the room had changed and curious eyes were regarding it intently.

  Jerking its head upwards, the bird glowered at the doorway and its beak opened to give vent to an outraged, venomous hiss when it saw a young human child.

  Her face was a picture of fascination and not at all astonished or afraid at the emergence of the revivified creature.

  Immediately, the raven's sorrow changed to resentment and it swaggered forward threateningly, pulling its head into its shoulders and spitting with fury.

  The girl, however, merely stared back and made a condescending truckling sound as she patted her hands together, beckoning and urging the bird to come closer.

  Incensed, the raven gave a loud, piercing shriek and leapt into the air, screeching with rage.

  Up it flew until the tips of its wings brushed against the ceiling and with a defiant, shrieking scream it plunged back down.

  Edie Dorkins watched in mild amusement as the bird dived straight for her like an arrow from a bow. But the pleasure quickly vanished from her upturned face when she saw the outstretched talons that were already to pluck out her eyes and slash through her skin.