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

by Robin Jarvis

  Tommy snorted and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his dishevelled overcoat. ‘Why doesn't you ask that there bird of yours?’ he murmured. ‘See if it can't smell owt bad over there.’

  ‘Why would I ask my raven?’ the boy replied cautiously.

  The old man stomped his ill-fitting boots into the ploughed soil and his florid jowls quivered when he shook his head in frustration.

  ‘Drat it, boy!’ he hissed. ‘Tommy done heard that feather duster speak to you before and if there's anyone who can sniff these demons out, it'll be the likes of him!’

  Quoth blinked and looked at the tramp questioningly.

  ‘Right, then,’ Tommy addressed the bird bluntly. ‘Does you sense owt nasty in the air? Be there summat harmful in that there barn?’

  The raven looked over at the neglected structure. It was a forsaken outbuilding of some small farm which had long ago been swallowed by a larger concern, and the surplus barn had been left to stand idle and crumble into the soil.

  Its corrugated roof was rusted and pitted with holes and, halfway up the nearest wall, the shutters to the hayloft were hanging from their hinges. Standing in an overgrown yard at the edge of the field, it was a sad yet endearing sight—a remnant of farming history that would one day succumb to the gusting winds and collapse in upon itself.

  Quoth paced up and down Neil's shoulder as he ducked and jerked his head, leering at the building and lifting his beak into the breeze to sniff and analyse the cold air.

  ‘It would help if he knew what he was supposed to be looking for,’ Neil put in.

  ‘He'll know it if it's there,’ Tommy assured him.

  Presently the bird drew himself up and, spreading his good wing, declared, ‘Nay, though the reek of violence doth make my quills tingle hereabouts, I fail to find aught of special mark touching yonder hovel. ‘Tis as empty and wanting as mine noddle.’

  The tramp smacked his lips and rubbed his hands together. ‘That's good enough for Tommy,’ he proclaimed, happily pushing through the hedge.

  Neil followed him across the weed-tangled yard and the old man led him around the side of the barn to where a rotting wooden door stood wide open.

  Tommy scampered into the gloomy interior and, with a brief glance at Quoth, Neil crept after.

  A pleasant, sweet-smelling dusk filled the ruined barn, punctuated by spears of light which stabbed down from the pin holes in the rusted roof above. With the aid of their glittering beams, the boy gazed around him.

  The outbuilding was crammed with dismantled, fragments of useless farm machinery and various pieces of discarded furniture. Old tractor engines stood alongside three-legged or seatless chairs, plough shares rested against the splintered remains of a Welsh dresser. A jumbled assortment of corroded traps sat upon a mouldering leather trunk and, leaning upon an upright piano that was sadly bereft of keys, was a collection of broken rakes, shovels and pitchforks.

  It was a hoard of junk. If there was ever an opposite to a miser's treasure, then this was surely it.

  ‘Here we are. Here we are,’ Tommy chatted to himself, negotiating his way between the heaps of lumber and crossing to the corner where a mound of bald tyres was partially covered by a tarpaulin.

  ‘This is where Tommy done hid himself last night,’ he told Neil. ‘Nipped under there real quick he did as soon as he heard them a-circling overhead. But ‘twas only cos he had his collection with him that he was spared.’

  Stooping to fish out his cherished mementoes, the old man cast a timid glance up towards the hayloft.

  ‘Good nose on him that bird of yourn,’ he called out. ‘Right, where's Tommy's pretty beauties?’

  Lifting the tarpaulin, the tramp reached into one of the tyres and brought out an old satchel. Tommy hugged it to himself then trotted over to Neil and cleared a space upon the rickety dresser before emptying the contents of the bag for the boy to see.

  ‘There!’ the old man said with undisguised pride. ‘Them's Tommy's treasures. Have a gander, boy.’

  Neil obeyed and saw that the tramp's valuable collection was nothing more than a mass of religious trinkets; postcards, small plastic figures, key fobs, scraps of gift wrapping, a torn advent calendar—anything, in fact, that depicted an angel.

  Quoth clicked his beak in mild scorn, but Tommy didn't notice and grinned so broadly as he lovingly sorted through the dog-eared icons that Neil was reminded of the broken piano nearby.

  ‘Angels have always kept Tommy safe from hurt an’ harm,’ the old man murmured, picking up a blue plastic cake decoration moulded in the form of a cherub and turning it reverently in his clumsy fingers.

  ‘That's how he made it through the Great War. Came down to rescue him from the Kaiser's soldiers they did.’

  Neil leaned forward. ‘You mean the Second World War,’ he corrected. ‘And I don't think there were any angels knocking about then—the odd demon perhaps.’

  The old man's pale blue eyes gleamed at him and he sucked his gums thoughtfully. ‘No,’ he said at length. “Twas the Great War. Tommy was at Mons, you see. In the great retreat, through the clouds of gunsmoke he saw ‘em, the heavenly host—and that's where Tommy fell. In the miry mud's where the medics found him and shipped him off home.’

  ‘But that can't be...’ Neil mumbled, ignoring the ludicrous story of the angels for the moment and puzzling over the more practical problem. ‘If you were fighting then, it would make you nearly a hundred.’

  ‘Arr,’ the tramp sighed. ‘Tommy's had a good innings that's true enough, exceptin’ for a touch of the sciatica now and again. But after the battle, when he woke up in the infirmary, he couldn't remember owt—not a sausage. So bright and glorious were the shining ones as they came charging out of heaven that it made him forget. That's all he could remember. If Tommy did have a family or friends to go back to, or a sweetheart a-waiting, then he never knew and so he was invalided out of the army for being a dafthead.’

  Lapsing into regretful silence, the old man wiped a tear from his eye and began to gather up his collection again.

  ‘Verily canst this addled goose fathom thy loss,’ Quoth whispered with a self-pitying sniff. ‘Melancholia ever sets in when I dwell upon the blank pages which doth lie behind me. To be ignorant of whom thou art and whence thou came—’tis a dry meat to chew and a bitter draught to sup.’

  ‘Then you and Tommy is both lost souls,’ the old man commented. ‘But as he always says, may angels and ministers of grace defend us.’

  Idly listening to the pair of them, Neil wondered why he had wasted his time following the old man to this dingy place.

  ‘Never did like that there spiky mansion,’ the tramp piped up, with a bewildering switch of subject as he slung the bag over his shoulder. ‘Forever gettin’ lost in room after room Tommy was.’

  It took a moment for Neil to realise what he was talking about. ‘Do you mean The Wyrd Museum?’ he ventured. ‘Are you saying you've been inside it?’

  ‘Weren't no museum!’ Tommy stated emphatically. ‘Infirmary he told you it was. That's where he went after he clapped eyes on the angels a flyin’ over the battlefield. Spent a long while there did Tommy, getting his strength back and such. Didn't care for it one jot neither.’

  An uneasy, prickling sensation tingled down Neil's spine as he realised what the man meant. Tommy had been a patient at The Wyrd Infirmary, but between the wars the boy remembered that the place had been a lunatic asylum.

  Immediately, Neil began to feel uncomfortable. What if the tramp had escaped from the institution? He was certainly crazy, that was abundantly clear, but what if he was dangerous? Although he seemed harmless enough, his genial humour might swing into a violent one without any warning.

  Biting his lip, Neil edged away and moved towards the door, but Tommy had already shuffled in that direction and blocked his escape.

  ‘Tommy don't never want to move from round here,’ he muttered. ‘London was a bad place. He reckons this is the best place for keeping a lookout now. Lot
of holy things here boy, bound to attract celestial bein’s to them sooner or later—like mice to grain or foxes to chickens. They'll come, you'll see.’

  From the yard outside there came the ugly sound of crows calling and the tramp instantly shrank fearfully behind the door.

  ‘Keep quiet now!’ he hushed. ‘Them's might be ordin'ry birds and then again they might not.’

  ‘I've got to get back to the Tor,’ Neil insisted.

  Tommy turned to stare at him and the boy was startled to see a ferocious scowl contorting the tramp's face.

  ‘You'll not go nowhere till Tommy tells you!’ he growled, reaching for a pitchfork and guarding the entrance with it.

  Neil glanced at Quoth. ‘He's completely nuts,’ he hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

  The bird squinted at the tramp belligerently, then looked about them and, with a faint cackle, slyly nodded towards the hayloft and its broken shutters.

  The boy understood and when the old man turned his attention back to the yard, spying upon the crows through a crack in the door, he crept towards the wooden ladder which led to the barn's upper level.

  Silently, with Quoth keeping a watchful eye on Tommy, Neil climbed the aged rungs, praying that they would support his weight. Yet, as soon as the boy reached the straw-covered platform above, the bird gave a frightened shriek and toppled head over claw from his shoulder.

  With a flurry of hay dust, Quoth landed upon the loft's floorboards—gasping and squealing in dismay.

  ‘What is it?’ Neil cried, crouching beside the floundering bird and lifting him in his hands.

  ‘Nay!’ Quoth croaked, struggling to be free and leaping back on to the straw. ‘A terror is upon me, Master Neil—a dread so mighty I doth fear mine flesh wilt shrivel.’

  Down by the entrance, Tommy stared up at the hayloft and, glowering, strode towards the ladder with the pitchfork gripped tightly in his fists.

  Tie! Fie!’ the raven shrieked, running around in a circle, thrusting his beak into the straw and shaking his head in despair. ‘Ill betide this place. Fiends, cruel and murderous hath been here. Upon this very board they did stand—I perceive each of their foul scents. Ten at least were their number. How it freezes the blood of this ailing lambkin to be sensible of their presence.’

  Neil could only look on as the bird scurried along, trowelling his beak through the piles of dirty straw and clasping his wings behind him in dejection and anguish.

  ‘What sort of fiends?’ the boy asked. ‘What are you talking about?’

  With his face powdered gold with hay dust, Quoth stole up to him and in a woeful, hollow voice cried, ‘Alas, alack! Large and terrible these nightmares doth loom in mine mind, yet from its locked chambers I cannot prise neither their history nor title. All this fledgling knoweth is that thou must shun these creatures—they are bringers of death.’

  Shaken by Quoth's words, Neil rose and walked over to the opening where the shutters hung from their hinges, and gazed out at the Tor in the distance. Already the daylight was growing dim and the boy reproached himself for ever leaving the vicinity of the tower.

  Lowering his eyes, he stared down at the ground and wondered if he could jump without hurting himself when, suddenly, a warning cry from Quoth made him spin sharply around.

  ‘No, you don't boy!’ Tommy snapped, seizing hold of Neil's arms and dragging him from the edge.

  ‘Get off!’ Neil yelled, battling to free himself, whilst Quoth lunged for the tramp's feet and pecked at his ankles.

  ‘Lay off you barmy bird!’ the old man called, pulling Neil further into the loft. ‘Tommy won't hurt him. Tommy would never hurt his pals.’

  Letting Neil go, he jigged and danced across the floorboards as Quoth continued to nip him.

  ‘Ouch! Ow!’ the tramp yelped. ‘Tommy didn't mean to scare, he were worried about them crows that's all. Ooch!’

  ‘Quoth!’ Neil commanded. ‘Leave him alone.’

  Obediently the raven bounded back to him and Tommy eyed the boy with gratitude.

  ‘Punch holes in oak fences your chum could,’ he smiled ruefully.

  ‘Why did you drag me away like that?’

  Tommy's face was a picture of puppy-like innocence and already Neil was beginning to doubt his suspicions about him being dangerous.

  ‘You was too close to the brink,’ the tramp breathed. ‘You might have fell.’

  ‘All you had to do was tell me.’

  The old man wiped his nose and stared dismally at the floor. ‘Tommy was scared of them crows,’ he whispered. ‘He don't think too good, when he's frighted. All his braveness ran out in the Great War and he's not had an ounce since. He's mighty sorry if'n he spooked you—it were just them dratted flappy crows.’

  ‘Well, they've flown off now,’ Neil said feeling foolish for ever doubting Tommy's good nature—he might be mad but, looking at his guileless, lined face, there wasn't a shred of harm in him.

  ‘This is where they were,’ Tommy blurted, blithely forgetting the boy's suspicions and dropping to his knees to forage and grub about amongst the straw with his bare hands.

  ‘Awful noisy an’ all, with their nasty voices and foul way of talking. Tommy heard them scrabbling about—and look!’

  The old man brushed away the loose straw, blew the dust from the floorboards then gazed triumphantly up at Neil.

  ‘There,’ he breathed, ‘see how sharp them claws must be.’

  Neil stared down and murmured in surprise. Scored and sliced deep into the wood were the marks of three barbed talons.

  ‘What on earth could have..?’ the boy began but at that moment Quoth came scuttling” over the floor, yammering with excitement.

  ‘Master Neil! Master Neil!’ he cried. ‘Observe that which I too hath found!’

  Neil and Tommy turned as the raven scampered back to the corner, where he hopped around the things he had discovered.

  There, poking from the hay, were two huge, black feathers.

  Neil reached out to take them, but Quoth beat his hand back with his wings.

  ‘Hold!’ he squawked. ‘Touch not that evil filth.’

  ‘The little fellow's right,’ Tommy agreed. ‘Better to pick up hot coals than mess with those.’

  Neil straightened and looked up at the old man in confusion. ‘What's going on around here?’ he mumbled.

  ‘This is where they've made their gatherin’ place,’ the tramp uttered fearfully.

  ‘But who? What are these creatures?’

  ‘The same as what killed that young couple in the motor a week back,’ Tommy answered darkly, gripping his satchel and assuming a haunted, anguished expression, ‘and what did the same to them nice folk in the bright bus late last night. Heard ‘em croaking about it Tommy did—heard ‘em lickin’ their claws and cleanin’ their beaks.’

  Removing his cap in respect for those who had perished, Tommy held the precious satchel close to his chest then turned his startling blue eyes upon Neil.

  ‘We must leave here,’ he said urgently. ‘Right away—or sooner. See how the light fails outside. This is nowhere to be after dark. They're certain sure to be back tonight!’

  Calling for angels to help and guard them, the tramp hurried back to the ladder, telling Neil to follow.

  ‘Been here too long!’ he cried anxiously. ‘You must meet your pals by Saint Michael's tower. Get a move on lad! Stir your stumps!’

  Lifting Quoth up to his shoulder, the boy clambered after him. The tramp picked up the pitchfork he had left at the bottom of the ladder only to throw it down again.

  ‘Won't do no good ‘gainst them,’ he whispered. ‘Only angels can save us from them, boy, only angels.’

  Neil hurried after him. But, even as they set off towards the Tor, the afternoon was fading and it was already too late.

  Chapter 17 - Skögul

  In the centre of Glastonbury, just outside the town hall, a small Badgerline Bus came to a halt and, amongst the people who alighted, a young girl stuck out
her lower lip and waited impatiently.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Miss Veronica's frail tones drifted from the open doors as she enthused her compliments to the driver. ‘I did enjoy myself. You've been most kind and it was so pleasant conversing with your delightful friends back there. I do hope fortune favours you, Mr Badger—I shall be sure to tell my sister next time I see her.’

  ‘Veronica!’ Edie called. ‘We ain't got all day.’

  The elderly woman waved to each of the other passengers and gingerly stepped from the vehicle, leaning heavily upon her cane.

  It had been a long, tiring journey. They had spent most of the night finding their way to Paddington Station and, when they arrived, discovered that they would have to wait until morning for the first train.

  When it pulled out of the station, however, they were not aboard, nor were they on the one which followed, because Miss Veronica had somehow managed to lock herself in the ladies’ convenience and over an hour was wasted endeavouring to get her out.

  The train they ultimately boarded was very crowded, and the pair of them formed a curious spectacle wandering up and down the carriages searching for two seats together.

  Eventually they settled themselves close to the buffet, where Miss Veronica caused a great commotion when she asked for jam and pancakes, and tapped her stick petulantly upon the counter after the steward informed her that the nearest they could offer her was a jam doughnut.

  As there was no station at Glastonbury, they were forced to change at Bristol and travel the remaining distance by bus. Standing at the wrong stop, another hour was squandered but, finally, they made it and Miss Veronica waved a grimy handkerchief after the bus as it rumbled away.

  ‘Look at those charming folk gazing back at us,’ she sighed. ‘How enchanting it was to pass the time with them and how captivated they were by my company.’

  ‘They ain't gazin’,’ Edie laughed, ‘they're gawkin’ and that's cos you told ‘em you hadn't been back here for thousands of years. Thought you were off your head they did.’