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

by Robin Jarvis

  But the old woman didn't seem to hear and gazed adoringly at the buildings around them.

  ‘My my, how it has altered,’ she cooed. ‘Yet still I can feel the thrum of the ancient power which flows through the ground here. Can you not sense it, Edith?’

  The child nodded. From the moment she had set foot upon the pavement, an electric thrill had buzzed inside her head and the silver tinsel in her pixie-hood sparkled fiercely.

  ‘Over this very spot my barge carried me in my youth,’ Miss Veronica murmured, dreamily closing her painted eyes. ‘And in the marsh time, only He and I knew the secret way to our special place. Joyous days, Edith, joyous days.’

  Taking the girl's hand in her bony fingers, she hobbled up the street. The wizened old woman with a white-powdered face and garish vermilion lipstick smeared all around her mouth, carefully picked her way alongside the grubby little urchin who was dressed in clothes that would not be fit for a jumble sale. Yet in Glastonbury, no one batted an eyelid.

  Then, turning the corner, Miss Veronica let out a delighted squeal which swiftly evolved into a peal of twittering laughter.

  ‘There it is!’ she cried, madly thrashing her cane in the air and jabbing it towards the end of the lane. ‘Ynnis Witrin. Oh, we were so happy there Edith, me and the Captain. How wonderful to see that it has changed so little in spite of everything around it. I can hardly believe that I am to see him again—after all this time, after all that has happened.’

  Edie Dorkins said nothing as she stared at the Tor. During her short life she had never been to the countryside and the unfamiliar sights and smells excited her. Yet as she gazed upon that beautiful green mountain, a coldness crept into her heart and she held her breath, fearing that something dreadful was about to befall them.

  Hunched over the handle bars of her bicycle, Lauren Humphries pedalled furiously down Bere Lane. She hardly glanced at the figures of Edie and Miss Veronica when she flew past them, for the red-haired girl was troubled and determined to find an answer to the riddles which agitated her.

  She had remained in the Bed and Breakfast until shortly after lunch, when her stepmother had come down the stairs holding her head and groaning for an aspirin. Sitting in the kitchen, mustering her dwindling strength, Sheila decided that she had lain in bed for far too long and, although she was still unwell, had stubbornly driven off to the cash and carry to stock up in case any last minute guests arrived.

  Lauren knew that she shouldn't have allowed her to leave, but trying to talk Sheila out of anything was difficult at the best of times and the woman dismissed the girl's concern outright.

  Listening to the car pull out of the drive, Lauren was suddenly relieved to be alone in the house and, gripped by a sudden rash impulse, ran to find her father's toolbox.

  Shortly afterwards she hastened to the rear of the building and emerged lugging a long set of ladders which she carried around to the front and propped up against the chalky blue wall.

  Then, stuffing her pocket with a handful of three inch nails, the girl tucked a hammer into her belt and carefully climbed the ladder until she was level with the window of her parents’ bedroom.

  Quickly she closed the wooden shutters and in twenty minutes had nailed them firmly closed.

  ‘There!’ she panted, inspecting her handiwork. ‘That'll keep it out—or her in.’

  With one problem still to solve, she returned the ladders and rode off on her bicycle towards the town.

  Into Magdalene Street she sped, her flame-coloured, curly hair flowing behind her. But when she rounded the corner of the High Street she took her feet off the pedals and dismounted.

  Through the entrance of The Glastonbury Experience Lauren wheeled her bicycle and leaned it against the statue of a Celtic goddess which stood in the courtyard beyond.

  The pungent, almost sickly fragrance of burning incense laced the air, imbuing the atmosphere with a surreal, decadently exotic quality. The girl nervously nibbled her fingernails, feeling almost stupid for having taken Sheila's no doubt mundane illness so seriously.

  Encompassing the pleasant enclosure, the collection of New Age shops exhibited their enigmatic wares. Signs advertising ‘crystal healing’ and ‘colour reading’ hung in some of the windows, whilst others displayed the work of local artists who specialised in depicting the Tor wreathed by rainbows or rising from a sea of ethereal mist. Tie-dyed scarves fluttered just within the doorways and the sweet tinkling of wind chimes played an endlessly random, tuneless jangle.

  One shop in particular held Lauren's attention. In the windows of the small craft emporium which was called Moonshine squatted row upon row of grotesque, big-bellied ceramic earth mothers and, after a moment's doubtful hesitation, the girl entered.

  The lilting music of pan pipes mingled with birdsong filled the shop's interior—just one of the many relaxation tapes available to the holidaying, harmony-hungry city dweller. But this kind of earnest, slickly-packaged serenity always grated upon Lauren's nerves and she strove to ignore it. This was where Sheila had purchased the sinister crow doll.

  Glancing quickly around, the girl saw that she was not the only customer within the shop.

  A middle-aged American couple were examining an unattractive ceramic bowl which had been fired in a glaze that was the dingiest shade of mud conceivable, and were bickering in low whispers about whether to buy it or not.

  ‘Jo-Beth would just hate it!’ The woman mouthed to her husband. ‘I tell you, Murray, you get that monster for our daughter and I'll break it on your head.’

  Lauren suppressed a smile and, pretending to admire a lumpy vase, looked instead at the owner of the shop who was sitting behind the till.

  In her early forties, Dulcima Pettigrew had lived in Glastonbury for five years and had run Moonshine for the past three.

  Normally an attractive, bubbly woman, that afternoon she looked irritable and tired, and about her eyes were dark circles which she attempted to conceal by wearing a pair of sunglasses.

  Lauren studied her keenly. The striking bleached blonde hair which usually tumbled down her shoulders was hidden beneath a black headscarf, and today was the first time that Lauren had seen her without ludicrously long earrings dangling from her pierced lobes.

  In accord with this new, puritan image, the girl also noticed that Miss Pettigrew's wrists were untypically bare, for they routinely clinked and rattled with over a dozen bracelets.

  Sneaking another glance at Dulcima's tired face however, Lauren wondered if the woman's current aversion for ornament might not simply be because she was too exhausted to bother decking herself out. She appeared to be as drained as her stepmother.

  Why Miss Pettigrew had felt compelled to open the shop when she was so ill was another matter, but before the girl could give it much thought, her gaze shifted to an object that was hanging behind the woman's head.

  Wearing a hat of black straw and a dark brown, checked dress was a crow doll.

  Only the colour of the material and the dried plants sticking out of the apron pocket distinguished this creepy little effigy from the one Sheila had brought home, and Lauren moved forward to examine it.

  ‘Oh, now, Murray—if that isn't the very thing for Jo-Beth!’ the American woman abruptly cried, pointing to the doll with her pearly pink nails. ‘It's so cute and quaint—she's just gotta have it!’

  Barging past her husband, she tapped the counter and waved at the object eagerly.

  ‘I'll take that please, Miss,’ she told Dulcima. ‘I've never saw anything like it before. Such sweet twiggy fingers—oh, I just love it. Are they made local? Could I get one with my daughter's name stitched on it?’

  Miss Pettigrew regarded the woman through her sunglasses and in a polite, but firm voice, said, ‘I'm sorry, it isn't for sale.’

  ‘Not for sale?’ the customer moaned. ‘Oh, Murray, she says I can't have it.’

  Her husband stepped forward and reached into the pocket of his tartan sports jacket for a bulging wallet.
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  ‘How much do you want for the doll?’ his rich, rumbling voice drawled. ‘I know you Britishers like to haggle.’

  Dulcima lowered her glasses. ‘It isn't for sale,’ she repeated, a little more forcefully this time.

  The American narrowed his eyes and put his wallet away. ‘Come on, honey,’ he said taking hold of his wife's arm and leading her to the door. ‘We're leavin’.’

  ‘Did you see her eyes?’ his wife declared. ‘Is she on drugs?’

  ‘Who cares—this whole backward country's full o’ crazies. Let's go on down to Bath like I wanted in the first place.’

  With a slam of the door the couple departed, leaving Lauren alone with Miss Pettigrew and feeling rather uncomfortable.

  ‘Do you need any help there?’ Dulcima asked.

  Lauren shook her head. ‘Only browsing thanks... but, about those Americans...’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘I'm just curious—you sold my mother one of those crow things yesterday. Why wouldn't you let them have that one?’

  A ghostly smile appeared upon the woman's face. ‘Because the dolls are very special,’ she replied. ‘Don't you think so?’

  ‘I'm not really keen,’ Lauren confessed.

  ‘Have a closer look.’

  The girl edged nearer and peered at the cloth figure hanging upon the wall.

  ‘I like to know that they're going to a good home,’ Dulcima said. ‘Somewhere nice and local. That's why I let your mother have one.’

  ‘You talk about them as if they're children.’

  ‘Perhaps it is we who are the children. Sometimes we're the ones who need guidance.’

  Dulcima reached up, took the doll from the hook and offered it to Lauren.

  ‘Why don't you have it?’ she said. ‘It's the last one, there were only twelve—no need to pay me, I know you'll look after it.’

  Trying to hide the revulsion she felt, Lauren gazed at the cloth crow creature. If anything it was more horrible than Sheila's. Those tiny black, bead eyes seemed to be watching her and she wondered how the American woman could have possibly been enamoured of it.

  She couldn't explain why she disliked it so much, but all her instincts told her that the effigy was malignant and she didn't want to have anything to do with it—even going so far as to put her hands behind her back in case they accidentally brushed against the fabric.

  ‘Who made them?’ she brought herself to ask. ‘Was it you?’

  The woman laughed faintly. ‘Me? I'm not... gifted enough. No, I merely sell them. Someone far cleverer than I is responsible. The first time I saw them I was captivated and simply had to claim one for myself.’

  ‘What does the writing on the apron mean? This one's different from my stepmother's. Hers says “HLÖKK” but the stitches here read “GÖLL”.’

  ‘”Shrieker” and “Screamer”,’ Dulcima informed her, drawing out the vowels—relishing the sound of the words, ‘and the one that owns me is “SKÖGUL”—which means “Raging”.’

  ‘Owns you?’ Lauren murmured.

  The smile disappeared from Miss Pettigrew's face as she realised she had said too much. ‘Do you want the crow doll or don't you?’ she demanded curtly.

  ‘No, thanks,’ the girl replied.

  ‘Then you're making a very big mistake.’

  Lauren backed away—the woman's tone was hostile and threatening.

  For a moment Dulcima glared at her, then relaxed and shrugged.

  ‘You'll never see their like again,’ she resumed in a more normal manner. ‘Well, there are plenty of other people around here who might be tempted. Now—was there anything else you wanted?’

  The girl answered that there was not and made for the door.

  Dulcima watched her leave then, giving the crow doll a loving pat, returned it to the hook.

  ‘Perhaps she wasn't suitable after all,’ the woman whispered into the fabric.

  *

  In the courtyard outside, Lauren sat at one of the cafe tables, struggling to figure out what was happening.

  For over half an hour she stayed there, watching the tourists mill in and out of the shops until, eventually, a woman she recognised as being local wandered into Moonshine. After several minutes she came out with a parcel wrapped in dark blue paper, printed with silver stars and circles.

  Lauren guessed at once what the package contained, and her suspicions were confirmed when Miss Pettigrew closed the shop a short while later and strode purposefully out into the high street.

  ‘At last!’ she heard the woman laugh. ‘We are complete!’

  Chapter 18 - Charred Embers

  Like the webbed strands of a great, luminous spider, a network of fluorescent tapes criss-crossed the country road, fencing off the grass verge and threading into the nearby wood.

  A queue of police cars, their lights idly flashing and radios crackling, lined the edge of the trees and sombre-faced constables paced about the cordon, exchanging grim looks. One young policeman stood away from his colleagues. All the colour had drained from his face and he took deep breaths of the acrid, burned air to try and conquer the nausea which had seized him.

  ‘You all right now, Col?’ a corpulent sergeant called.

  The man waved back, but remained where he was and stared blankly at the darkening sky. If he ever saw another sight like the one which had just turned his stomach then he would definitely resign from the force. How the forensic guys managed, he couldn't begin to imagine.

  At last the queasy fluttering in his guts subsided and, although his face was still ashen grey, he mopped his forehead, preparing to rejoin the others.

  Wandering back, his legs still a trifle shaky, he saw a small blue van skid to a halt in the middle of the road and an oddly dressed man, who was obviously some kind of gypsy, came leaping out to charge towards the tape barriers.

  ‘Hey!’ the policeman yelled, his voice combining with the shouts of his colleagues. ‘You can't come through here!’

  Aidan slithered beneath the cordon and at once five burly officers came running to stop him.

  ‘Let me pass!’ he demanded when strong hands grasped his shoulders.

  ‘This is a sealed area, Sir,’ the overweight sergeant snapped, roughly bundling him back towards the tapes. ‘The scene of a very serious incident and we don't want no ghoulish souvenir hunters. Now get lost before I charge you with something.’

  Frog-marched through the cordon, Aidan's temper exploded and in one smart movement he ducked and slipped out of his much-patched coat to round furiously upon his captors.

  ‘Be still!’ Aidan commanded and such was the tremendous authority which rang in his voice, that the officers froze and stared at him in stupefied amazement.

  ‘Now,’ he continued, taking his coat from the sergeant. ‘Let's have no more nonsense and be a bit more civilised, shall we?’

  The policemen swayed unsteadily as though stirring from sleep.

  ‘You can't come through here,’ the sergeant reiterated, albeit with less confidence this time.

  Aidan glared at him. If there was one quality he couldn't stand it was bull-headed stupidity. It would be so easy to daunt them with a few of the simple tricks he knew, but in spite of his anxiety to discover what had happened to his friends, he knew he would learn more if he followed their tedious procedures.

  ‘Who's in charge here?’ he demanded.

  The sergeant wanted to tell the funny little man that police matters were none of his business, yet when he looked at those emerald flames he found himself saying, ‘Chief Inspector Hargreaves, Sir.’

  Aidan's grave expression brightened considerably. ‘Charlie Hargreaves?’ he cried. ‘There's a bit of luck. Be a good fellow and toddle off to fetch him would you?’

  ‘I don't think so, Sir.’ the officer refused, avoiding those weird glittering eyes. ‘Like I said, this is an extremely serious incident.’

  ‘I know that!’ Aidan snapped, dragging his fingers through his long hair in frustrat
ed outrage. Mastering himself, he leaned forward and spoke to the overweight officer in a low, conspiratorial whisper.

  ‘Listen,’ he growled. ‘If you continue to obstruct me, I for one really will lose my rag and I don't think your superior would appreciate this shameful treatment of one of his oldest friends.’

  The sergeant swallowed audibly, ‘You really know the Chief Inspector?’

  ‘He and I used to scrump apples together when we were boys. Terror of the orchards we were.’

  A sceptical sneer formed upon the sergeant's face but the gypsy was so assured that his doubts rapidly trickled away.

  ‘Colin!’ he called out to the young constable. ‘Go tell the Chief Inspector there's a Mr...’

  ‘Aidan.’

  ‘A Mr Aidan to see him.’

  The grey-faced constable hesitated before following the orange tapes into the trees.

  ‘Don't worry, lad,’ the sergeant told him. ‘It'll all be bagged up by now.’

  The young officer nodded feebly and hurried into the wood.

  ‘Bagged up?’ Aidan muttered, staggered by the man's crass insensitivity. ‘Would you care to explain that deplorably callous comment? What exactly did you mean?’

  ‘Can't say, Sir,’ came the unhelpful reply.

  Aidan considered him anew and in a cold, cryptic voice, earnestly intoned. ‘You want to watch those night shifts. Too fond of the late take-aways aren't you—and then a beer or five with the lads?

  ‘I'm a good reader of people, my fine, fat sergeant. Faces are the maps of our lives, did you know that? Well, by my reading of your ugly, pugnacious mug, you've got two years before the first heart attack and, six months after that—it's the biggie.’

  The policeman opened his mouth but said nothing and could only gaze at him in consternation.

  ‘Aidan!’ a voice cut through the uneasy atmosphere. ‘Thank God.’

  Hastening from the trees came Chief Inspector Hargreaves; a tall, solidly built man with dark hair that was turning grey at the temples who possessed a rather caved-in looking face framed by a neatly clipped, brindled beard.

  Thank you, Sergeant!’ he barked gruffly. ‘Let him by.’