by Robin Jarvis
Lauren gazed down at the melting darkness that had been the Valkyrie. Already it was human again and she knelt beside the now motionless figure of her stepmother to see if she was alive.
Dressed in the torn, ragged fragments of her clothing, Sheila lay unconscious upon the floor and nothing the girl could do would wake her.
‘I need light,’ she said. ‘There's matches and a few candles in the drawer over there. Could somebody get one?’
Clutching his side, Neil moved to the drawer and rummaged in the shadows until he found what he sought.
But, in the heavy darkness which lay beneath the cupboard where Tommy had thrown the crow doll, a faint glimmer of red light was already sparking into life.
Upon the sinister creation's calico apron, the thread which formed the embroidered letters of the evil spirit's name began to shine brightly as the indwelling, malignant force roused itself and the glass beads glittered with hatred.
With a slow, jerking movement, the doll turned its head to view its victims and, flipping itself over, began to worm its way out of the dusty space.
Fumbling with the matches, Neil lit one of the candles and set it upon one of the few remaining saucers, but before he could give it to Lauren he heard Quoth's dismayed voice squawk out in alarm.
‘Gadsbud!’ the raven yelped.
From under the cupboard the crow doll had dragged and heaved itself and even as they all turned to stare, it tottered to its twiggy feet and purposefully advanced towards them.
‘Defend us, defend us!’ the tramp wailed. ‘Tommy's braveness is gone again. He has to get himself to the tower—he has to go!’
Incapable of facing any more horror, the old man lurched for the door and scuttled outside.
‘Tommy!’ Lauren called after him. But it was no use, clinging to his precious satchel the tramp hastened over the gravel and was gone.
Watching the small crow doll approach from the shadows, with the fiery letters emblazoned across its apron, Quoth scratched the ground, as an impetuous and brash desire raged within him and the bird bullishly lowered his head only too pleased to have a foe more suited to his own size.
‘Woebegotten spirit of evil design!’ he growled, flexing his primaries and jutting out the lower part of his beak. ‘Prepareth thou to be unstuffed!’
Whooping at the top of his croaky voice, he recklessly barged forward to butt the eerie mannequin in its soft stomach then stamp upon its foolish straw hat and unpick the raddling thread which held it together.
When the crow doll saw the raven charging towards it, the creature dodged nimbly aside and spun sharply around to catch Quoth on the back of the head with its stick fingers.
Quoth cried out in astonishment for the blow was more than he had reckoned with. The effigy was possessed of a terrible strength which sent the hapless bird sailing, beak over claw, through the air, to land in a sorry, dishevelled heap.
‘The fool's bolt is soonest shot,’ he groaned mourning for his bruised dignity.
Rotating upon its spindly feet, the doll whirled about to proceed upon its way, back towards the unconscious woman it had claimed as its host.
Into the flickering circle of candlelight the animated cloth mannequin waddled and, to Lauren's distress, she saw that the twigs were already shooting from the checked sleeves—snaking out to wrap about her stepmother's neck and knot within her hair.
‘No, you don't!’ Lauren yelled, diving across to snatch up the infernal creature, just as it leapt at Sheila's head.
‘This time you're definitely for the fire!’ the girl declared, gripping the wriggling object tightly in her hands. ‘Bring me that candle.’
Neil came forward, but in doing so, the candle glow fell upon Sheila's face and the boy beheld the woman for the first time.
‘Quick!’ Lauren snapped and she turned her head to see what was keeping him. The boy was staring at Sheila, utterly thunderstruck, although Lauren could not begin to guess why.
All Neil's senses withdrew from his surroundings and the saucer shook in his wavering hand as he peered long and hard at the woman's pale, weary features.
‘Mum,’ he whispered.
*
There upon the floor, Lauren's stepmother, the human host of Shrieker who only minutes ago had tried to butcher them all, was Neil's own mother, Sheila Chapman.
Since abandoning her family over four months ago, this was the first time the boy had seen her and a raw, empty numbness consumed him. What should he feel? His mother had left them to live with a man she had met at evening classes. He recalled that day with surreal clarity. She had coldly lined him and Josh up to inform them that she was going, and that dreadful moment had, up to that point, been the worst of his young life.
Between then and now he had wished many times that she had taken him with her, but not any-longer. He was happy to have remained with his father.
Yet there she was, lying at the boy's feet and Neil did not know what to do.
He could only gape in confusion, and his stupefied delay was all that Hlökk required.
Its stunted arms flapping and waving, the doll in Lauren's grasp gazed up at the curling mass of carrot-coloured hair which trailed down the girl's shoulders and the fabric of its face creased and puckered into a parody of a smile.
Having exposed the back of her head to the repository of Hlökk's unhallowed spirit, Lauren had placed herself in the same danger as her stepmother, for she was just as vulnerable a target as Sheila.
‘What's the matter?’ she asked Neil. ‘I have to burn this...’
Into her hair the twigs suddenly went winding, spiking into her scalp and stretching about her neck.
Not expecting the sudden onslaught, the girl was totally unprepared and screamed in panic as the growing branches lashed around her skull and the first black plume came rupturing from her forehead.
‘NO!’ she screeched. ‘NO!’
At once Neil snapped out of his bewilderment, but it was too late.
The crow doll had leapt upon Lauren's neck and tangled itself in her hair, whilst the girl's flesh turned grey and a festering crust of scabs and ulcers crackled across her face.
Locked in torment, she doubled up with agony as her arms snapped and splintered, stretching and rearing back to form the skeletal frame of a huge pair of wings.
Throwing the candle down, Neil darted over and plunged his hands into the girl's hair where the crow doll had rooted itself, but nothing he could do would prise it loose.
‘I can't do it!’ he cried. ‘The thing won't budge! It just won't budge!’
Lauren's shrieks altered as her jaws split and cracked, the now papery skin flaking back as the first points of a lethally sharp beak pushed and speared forth.
‘It's no good!’ the boy sobbed, his wrists surrounded by a rising collar of quills and feathers. ‘The doll's welded to you! God knows what Tommy did before, but I can't do it!’
A harsh, gurgling note crept into Lauren's voice as she howled and Neil backed away in despair, there was nothing he could do. Lauren was changing into the Valkyrie before his eyes.
‘Master Neil!’ Quoth suddenly cried, reeling towards him. ‘Thou must flee whilst ye may. Go now, afore the portly maid is utterly consumed!’
‘We can't just leave her!’
Quoth yanked at the boy's shoe-laces. ‘She is gone!’ he squealed. ‘An instant more and she shalt be feasting upon thee!’
Lauren was now completely unrecognisable. Her eyes had swollen and the beak had grown to its full size. Enormous feathers were tapering from her dwindling fingers and in a chilling, rasping voice she croaked. ‘Hlökk...’
‘Master Neil!’ Quoth begged.
But the boy was looking in anguish upon the body of his mother and, grasping her by the arms, he tried to drag her towards the door.
‘What madness is it thou doest?’ Quoth yelped. ‘Leave this one, leave her!’
‘You don't understand,’ Neil shouted. ‘I'm not going anywhere without her—she'
s my mother!’
The raven blinked in astonishment, then spun around to see that Lauren's transformation was nearly complete and already the great dark eyes were fixed upon them.
Chirping in fear, Quoth bounded up on to Sheila's unconscious body and hopped on to her lolling head to stare urgently up into his master's face.
‘Go now, afore ‘tis too late!’ he squawked. ‘Hlökk will not harm this one—the scent of the Valkyrie is still strong upon her. Tis thou it shalt rend and devour. Fly! Fly!’
Neil stared at the raven, then glanced across to the feathered nightmare.
A shrill, strident shriek issued from the creature's gullet as it reared up to its full, menacing height and it shook its massive wings.
‘I hope you're right!’ Neil muttered, letting go of Sheila and plucking up the raven.
‘Make haste!’ Quoth yowled.
With the wailing bird in his arms, the boy bolted for the door and flung himself through it. Then, slamming it behind, he pelted out into the darkness.
Over the drive he ran as fast as he had ever done. Within the kitchen, the Valkyrie screeched in fury and Neil glanced over his shoulder to see a dark, horrendous silhouette thrown across the gravel as the door splintered and buckled before the monster's might.
‘Aaiiieee!’ Quoth squalled.
Neil wrenched his eyes away from the terror behind, but too late he saw a black shape step out in front. Before he knew what was happening, two strong hands had caught him by the shoulders. ‘Let me go!’ the boy yelled. ‘Let me go!’ The raven in his arms helplessly beat his wings against Neil's captor, then whimpered as the kitchen door was suddenly shattered from its hinges. On to the gravel the Valkyrie came hunting.
Chapter 22 - The Tomb of the Hermit
Deep in the earth, far below the streets and drains of Glastonbury, Edie Dorkins and Miss Veronica Webster stumbled through the pitch passages—blindly tripping over unseen stones and grazing their shins against outcrops of the invisible, encasing rock.
With no method of measuring the passing hours, it seemed as though they had been sealed down there for ages, yet neither of them were dispirited.
Although she was old and haggard once more,
Miss Veronica kept her thoughts fixed upon her beloved Captain.
Holding the old woman's hand, listening to the walking cane tapping out the way before them, Edie Dorkins was actually enjoying the experience. She adored the enveloping dark. If it had not been for Miss Veronica, she would have liked to have gone scurrying into the perpetual shade and wallow for an eternity in that resplendent, embracing night.
In silence they wandered, following the tunnel's curving walls until, gradually, they became aware of a lessening in the profound blackness ahead.
In the distance a faint, pallid radiance began to glimmer and when she raised her hand, Edie could just make out its outline against the waxing glow.
‘Our goal is near,’ Miss Veronica said.
As they advanced down the passageway, by degrees the light welled up—bathing the surrounding rock in a cold, silvery gleam.
Into this pale aura went Edie and the old woman, discovering that it emanated from the far end of the tunnel where a low archway was cut into the stone.
Eagerly, Miss Veronica's halting pace quickened and Edie leapt away to be the first one to reach this intriguing portal.
The arch was an opening to a much larger space and, standing upon the threshold, with the soft, silvery light playing across her young features, Edie peered within.
Beyond the low entrance was a great round chamber whose one encircling wall curved inwards to form a geometrically perfect dome.
Yet the vaulted space was devoid of any decoration or device and apart from the rushes which were strewn upon the floor, it contained only one, albeit unusual, object.
Situated in the centre of the chamber, and looking distinctly odd in this peculiar environment, was a large wattle hut.
Built of woven strips of reed and willow, with a pitched, thatch roof, it was this primitive structure which housed the source of the bleak, glimmering effulgence—almost as if a detached, luminous nugget of the lustrous moon had been placed within.
Through the gaps between the interlaced withies, countless argent rays fanned out to form a dandelion clock of light, whose radiating beams dappled the cavern with a ravishing, dancing pattern.
Beguiled by the shimmering display, Edie stole inside, stepping through wavering beams which painted her clothes with pearlescent patches of gentle brilliance. Tilting her head back, she held out her arms and spun wildly around until she ran out of breath and fell dizzily against the wall.
Pausing in the archway, Miss Veronica gazed upon the scene and gripped the handle of her cane as her legs buckled beneath her. A power equal to that of the Nornir was manifest in that chamber and the unexpected force of it took her breath away.
‘Edith,’ she called, ‘assist me, I am weaker than ever.’
At once the child ran over to her and, steeling herself, Miss Veronica entered.
‘What is this place?’ Edie asked.
‘A tomb, dear,’ the old woman answered feebly. ‘Now, stay by me child, I have need of your strength.
Here, I am no longer sustained by Nirinel and must not remain. What we seek lies in there, let us take the device and go quickly.’
Over to the wattled hut the old woman limped with the girl, staggering purposefully around its blank, wicker sides and halting when they came to an ancient tapestry draped across one of the four walls.
Edie looked at the hanging's faded fabric. It was crudely woven and the images it depicted were simply executed, yet she could still tell what they were intended to represent. In the middle of the time-stained cloth, upon a field embroidered with stylised droplets, alternately picked out in red and white thread, were two thorny boughs which formed a rudimentary cross and, on either side of this, was a vessel fashioned in silver wire.
Miss Veronica studied the motifs carefully. ‘The arms of he who lies within,’ she reflected. ‘Draw it aside, Edith, dear. I'm afraid we must disturb the poor man's peace.’
Edie stepped forward to pull the curtain, but when her fingers touched the cloth, the fibres disintegrated into powder and the entire tapestry went crashing to the floor sending up a billowing, musty cloud of dust and dry decay.
At once the hidden light burst through the suddenly exposed doorway, turning the swirling particles into a brightly churning tempest of glittering rain and Edie stepped back, covering her mouth and nose so as not to breathe it in.
Yet Veronica could not wait and, seeing her stride through the entrance, the child rapidly followed, only to gawp in wonder upon the origin of the beautiful glare.
‘Lor!’ she marvelled.
Within the hut, upon a long, low plinth of granite and flanking a large lead box, were two sealed vessels made of the purest silver.
Like supernatural lanterns, ceaselessly shining and glimmering in the subterranean darkness, they stood upon the stone table. Beating from their untarnished, brilliant metal, the heavenly radiance steadily poured.
Steeped in the glistering glow, Miss Veronica eyed the fabulous treasures and nodded as though listening to a voice which only she could hear. At her side, Edie Dorkins was too enthralled by the captivating spectacle to notice and, with the light blazing in her eyes and flaring in the tinsel strands of her pixie-hood, she reached out to touch the vessel nearest to her.
‘No, Edith,’ Miss Veronica said sharply. ‘They are not what we have come for. Listen to your senses, can you not understand what these hallowed cruets contain?’
Edie's forehead creased as she strove to look beyond the splendour, then raised her eyebrows as she said, ‘Life! This one has life and magic in it!’
‘I suppose it does in a way,’ Miss Veronica considered. ‘But what it really holds is blood.’
The child chuckled with relish.
‘Yet from the veins of no mortal did that preci
ous fluid drip,’ Miss Veronica added. ‘It is the blood of a divinity, and the other vessel houses sweat that was bitterly wrung.’
‘I want to see,’ the child insisted.
‘Do not break them open,’ the old woman said. ‘One day another shall come to this place. Do not cheat him of his destiny—Ursula would be so displeased and cross.’
‘Well, what have we come for?’ Edie grumbled.
Miss Veronica shuffled alongside the granite plinth and placed her bony hand upon one end of the large, lead box.
‘What we seek lies in here,’ she said. ‘Within this coffin.’
‘That's a coffin!’ the girl breathed. ‘Is there a skeleton inside?’
Miss Veronica looked at her in mild astonishment. ‘Oh, Edith, dear,’ she apologised. ‘I didn't stop to think you might be afraid.’
‘I ain't scared of no old bones,’ the child retaliated, already prising the lid off with ghoulish glee. ‘I want to see what's in there!’
Quickly her small, nimble fingers worked the soft lead flanges of the cover free and, with Miss Veronica's help, she pulled it clear and sent it thudding to the floor.
At once Edie sprang forward to peer inside, but the sight she saw was not what she had been expecting and the child staggered back in astonishment.
Within the open coffin lay an elderly man, dressed in simple hermit's robes. An expression of perfect peace and contentment was upon his old face, the lids of his eyes were lightly closed and the skin of his brow was smooth and free from the furrowing cares of the world. About his head, as though it had continued to grow throughout the centuries, a mane of dark grey hair filled the surrounding casket, twining with the whiskers of a long white beard which spread over his chest and stretched down to his waist.
Edie had seen many of the various faces of death from her time in the war but this one was new to her. It was as if the man was merely sleeping and she prodded him suspiciously.
Miss Veronica knew what she was thinking and put her doubts at ease. ‘He is dead, Edith,’ she said, ‘and has lain here for what you would consider to be a terribly long time.’
