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

by Robin Jarvis

  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 assum
ed 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.

  ‘Dusk's coming,’ Tommy uttered apprehensively. ‘Time to be indoors. The dark's no place to be outside no more, not round here it ain't.’

  Unnerved by this unexpected, earnest sincerity, Lauren found herself asking why.

  “Tain't safe,’ the old man answered. ‘You not heard ‘bout the women folk falling sick and lyin’ tired an’ drained in their beds during the day? Strange things is ridin’ under the stars—Tommy knows, Tommy heard ‘em. He knows what they're about and it scares him it does and rightly so.’

  The girl tossed her head and climbed on to the bicycle. ‘Well, if it's only vampires,’ she laughed, ‘then I'll be all right—I love garlic’

  Tommy took off his cap and crumpled it in his fists. ‘Don't be a dafthead!’ he cried. ‘Tommy never said owt about vampires. These are older'n that, older and meaner—they'll freeze your flesh as soon as look at you! But you're right about one thing, they'll have your blood all right. Arr, and your bones ‘n’ gizzards an’ all.’

  With that he rammed the cap back on to his white hair, spun around and pushed through a gap in the hedge to trundle away over the ploughed earth of the field beyond.

  Lauren was still wondering where he was going, and whereabouts he lived when she saw his faintly ridiculous, tottering figure pause in the distance and she heard his woeful voice cry out, ‘Get on home, girlie and you watch out! Watch out!’

  Painted a pleasant chalky blue, the Humphries’ recently-acquired Bed and Breakfast was a large house just off the main road, situated in an acre of land and surrounded on three sides by a sprawling field.

  The tyres of Lauren's bicycle crunched on the gravel as she entered the front gate and, remembering what Tommy had said, looked up at the large windows with their white painted, sturdy-looking shutters.

  ‘Poor old nutter,’ she thought to herself, dismounting and propping her bicycle beside the back door.

  As she feared, her father was not yet home and that meant she would have to spend some time alone with her ‘stepmother’. Still, there was a chance that she could creep upstairs without being heard and she opened the door as quietly as she could.

  ‘Hello, Lauren,’ a woman's voice said immediately and the girl's heart sank. ‘How was your day?’

  Lauren managed a polite grin and hung her coat upon the rack whilst a pair of keen, observant eyes regarded her from the kitchen table.

  ‘Look at that baggy old coat of yours,’ the voice said critically. ‘It makes you look like a sack of potatoes. We really ought to buy you another.’

  ‘It's fine,’ the girl replied firmly. ‘I don't want a new one.’

  The woman put up her hands in surrender. ‘Only a suggestion—don't bite my head off. Come sit with me for a minute, we hardly ever get a chance to talk.’

  Inwardly groaning, Lauren poured herself a glass of orange and sat down.

  Sheila was a pleasant-looking woman in her late thirties. Although not blessed with any natural beauty, she knew how to make the best of her appearance so that she seemed more attractive than she actually was. Her bobbed, auburn hair was highlighted with tints of red and about her soft, grey eyes her lashes were lightly brushed with blue mascara.

  Lauren had never been able to work out why she disliked her so much. Sheila had never tried to take the place of her real mother and the girl understood that Guy, her father, needed to have someone other than herself in his life. Yet the very first time Lauren met Sheila, she knew she could never warm to this meticulous, slightly bossy person.

  She was certain that moving away from London had been entirely Sheila's idea and this was another factor against her. Sometimes Lauren wondered what her stepmother was trying to run away from.

  Sheila lowered her eyes. ‘You're not happy here, are you dear?’ she murmured regretfully. ‘You haven't made a single friend in all this time.’

  Taken aback by the directness of the question, Lauren gulped her orange juice.

  ‘Not really,’ she found herself saying.

  ‘Not even at the sixth form college?’

  The girl gave a vague shrug. ‘S'pose not. Everyone there knows each other from school, they're all right—I'm just not bothered.’

  ‘Perhaps if you were to make more of an effort? Do something about yourself? You haven't touched the make-up I bought you for Christmas.’

  Lauren gritted her teeth and changed the subject.

  ‘Sheila,’ she began. ‘What do you
know about Tommy?’

  The woman sniffed, ‘Tommy who, dear?’

  ‘Dunno his second name, I think the locals just call him Tommy.’

  ‘Lauren, we're locals too now don't forget. Oh, do you mean that funny old tramp? He's round the twist apparently. I always walk on the opposite side of the road if I see him. Last week he followed me, grinning like a baboon and talking to himself. I had to nip inside a shop to be rid of him.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  Sheila coughed in astonishment. ‘How should I know? Honestly, Lorrie, you do ask the strangest things. In some hostel I suppose, either that or with the rest of the winos.’

  ‘Tommy's not a wino,’ Lauren said defensively. ‘He's just a sad old man. He ought to be properly looked after. Hasn't he any family?’

  But Sheila's attention was now given over to a package lying upon the table. Made of dark-blue paper, with silver stars and circles printed upon it she proceeded to open the parcel with a curious look of pride on her face.

  ‘I'm sure I don't know or care,’ she mumbled distractedly. ‘I've had my fill of losers. Now, what do you think of this, Lorrie? I bought it in one of those crystal shops on the high street.’

  From the blue, outer wrappings she brought out a mass of violet tissue paper which she carefully unfolded, sheet by sheet.

  ‘You'll never dream how little I paid,’ she blithely continued. ‘I wasn't sure at first, but that woman with the dangly earrings in there persuaded me in the end. Now, what do you think?’

  Having arrived at the centre of the tissue, Sheila gazed at her purchase for a moment and held it up for Lauren to see.

  The girl stared at the object in her stepmother's hands and wrinkled her nose.

  There, with a shred of violet paper still clinging to one of its legs was the most outlandish doll that Lauren had ever seen.

  Made entirely from scraps of patterned cloth, it was a naive representation of a creature that was half crow, half woman. A tiny straw hat sat upon its black bird-like head, and in the shadow of the brim there sparkled two shiny beads, sewn either side of a long, yellow beak.

  Around the neck, the bizarre effigy wore a checked red and orange scarf and, poking from the sleeves and the hem of a padded gingham dress to form spiky hands and feet, was an assortment of painted twigs. Around the doll's stomach there was a plain calico apron, the pockets of which were stuffed with dried leaves and on to this creamy fabric, above a row of diverse buttons, in bold black thread was embroidered the word ‘HLÖKK’.