by Robin Jarvis
*
Deep shadows filled Tommy's derelict barn, but now a different figure stole into the gloom and the beam of an electric torch flashed about the neglected interior.
A furtive rustling sounded from somewhere nearby and the Reverend Peter Galloway jumped in alarm, as he cautiously crept into the secluded, dilapidated building.
‘What was that?’ he cried. ‘Who's there?’
Behind him there came a fluttering of wings and Thought, the raven, flew over his head to alight upon the remains of an old tractor.
‘Quell thy craven heart,’ the bird told him. ‘Dost thou fear the foraging of rodents?’
‘Mice?’
Thought sniffed and chuckled dryly.
‘Rats,’ he corrected. ‘Now, the hour of the gathering is at hand, let us betake ourselves to the loft up yonder and await our guests.’
The vicar shone his torch over to where the ladder rose to the upper level and Thought flitted in and out of the beam as he leapt from his perch and flew upwards.
‘Pox and plague!’ the raven exclaimed when he landed upon the straw-covered floor boards. ‘Others hath been here this very day. Two at least.’
By the time the Reverend Galloway had ascended the ladder, the bird was busily hunting through the scattered hay, snouting and questing his beak from one corner to another in perplexity.
‘What is it?’ Peter asked. ‘Could it have been that young woman and the child?’
Thought glared at him and ruffled his feathers.
‘Not they,’ he denied. ‘Yet I am uneasy, a third presence I doth detect. A scent familiar—yet not so. I like it not at all.’
The vicar sat upon an old bale of straw. ‘Is there a danger?’ he asked, worried by the bird's uncharacteristic concern.
Thought prowled over the floorboards for a further inspection then stamped his clawed feet. ‘For my Lord's sake, I pray not,’ he croaked. ‘Yet this riddling trail discomforts me. Who would dare meddle in our affairs? I shalt not brook such presumption.’
‘About that woman,’ Peter persisted, unnerved by that last, callous comment. ‘Isn't it time she returned with the Chalice? She and the girl have been gone for hours now.’
Thought cocked his ugly head to one side and his beady eyes gleamed in the torchlight—almost mockingly, Peter thought.
‘Faith, fellow servant,’ the bird assured him. ‘Soon they wilt return and this... this golden prize shalt prove our Master's existence beyond doubting.’
The vicar gave a weak smile. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I'm just finding it difficult to take it all in. From this night on the world will be a different place. The good news will be pronounced in every country, and when He is ready to speak, there will be no more wars, no sickness, no pain.’
‘The world will indeed be changed,’ Thought admitted. ‘Yet prepare thyself for the wonders thou shalt behold this night. Afore the dawn thy faith wilt be tested. Flinch not from what awaits thee and obey my bidding.’
Peter nodded. ‘I am rather nervous though,’ he confessed. ‘But whatever lies ahead, I shall not shrink from the most holy office I am charged with.’
The raven concealed a guileful smirk and strutted over to the wide opening where the shutters hung from their hinges.
‘Yet not alone shalt thou perform thy duties,’ he said cryptically. ‘They approacheth; the servants of my Master wilt soon be here.’
‘Who are these others we're waiting for?’ Peter asked. ‘And why do we have to meet them in this forsaken place? I just don't understand all this secrecy. Surely we should be proclaiming this from the rooftops!’
Thought gazed up into the midnight sky before answering.
‘Until the time appointed, the way of stealth is the only course open to us. He hath said unto thee to prepareth the way and this have we done and shalt continue to do.’
‘But these others,’ the vicar pressed.
The bird cackled faintly. ‘If ‘twill mollify thee, know then that their number is twelve,’ he said, revelling in the effect his words had upon the man.
‘Twelve...’ Peter gasped.
‘A most sacred host are they,’ Thought continued, then with a more chilling edge creeping into his cracked voice added. ‘Yet their aspect wilt fright and afflict thee. Staunch now the humours of thy terror and snuff out thy lantern. My Lord's messengers wilt be unlovely in thine earth-bound eyes, but fear them not and stand to greet them.’
The vicar thought he understood and remembered what he had told the children at Neil's school the previous day.
‘I know,’ he answered gravely, ‘they're not likely to appear as shining white figures with wings and haloes. I must expect to be mortally afraid, just as the shepherds were.’
The raven leered up at him, before turning back to the opening. ‘Thou art wise to dread them,’ he muttered. ‘Yet this only I doth admit—they art indeed possessed of wings.’
Trembling, Peter fidgeted with the whiskers of his straggly beard as an anticipating silence fell. A few minutes later he stiffened and sat bolt upright as a faint, yammering came from outside and Thought glided over to the man's shoulder.
‘They are here!’ he cried. ‘The Twelve art gathered at last. Harken to their delightful voices.’
The Reverend Galloway thought that the growing clamour was the most evil noise he had ever heard but he steeled himself and prepared to be overcome by the sight of this angelic host.
Outside the barn, the strident shrieks of the Valkyries mounted as they surrounded and swooped about the ramshackle building. The night was filled with their ghastly screams and when vast patches of black shadow began to rush across the entrance to the hayloft the vicar felt a surge of ice-cold fear travel down his spine, but he forced himself to stand his ground and keep his eyes open.
The screeches were unbearable now. The rush of mighty wings shook the corrugated roof and a fine rain of rust drifted down to settle upon Peter's unkempt hair.
Suddenly, screaming at the top of its foul, rancorous voice, the first of the nightmares plunged in through the opening and the vicar threw his hands in front of his face at the repellent sight. Although it was dark within the barn he could see enough of the creature's vile silhouette to despair, and his skin crawled when the atrocity shook its feathers and its grotesque, inhuman eyes glittered malevolently at him.
‘In God's name!’ Peter quailed, recoiling from the horrendous spectacle.
The Valkyrie snapped its beak menacingly and a bloodthirsty screak vibrated the barn as the quilled abhorrence displayed its fury—incensed that the meeting place had been invaded.
At once, a second and a third nightmare came crashing inside and their baleful eyes roved in their scabious sockets to fix upon the petrified vicar.
As more of the deformed scourges burst into the loft, Peter flattened himself against the wall.
‘They are sent by the Lord,’ he kept telling himself. ‘I am in no danger.’
But, for all his theological ponderings, the vicar had never dreamt of such inexorable hideousness as was displayed now before him and he felt both faint and sick.
Yet, upon his shoulder, Thought waited until the last of the horrors had entered before making any kind of move. He could feel the Reverend shivering beneath him and the terrified motion jiggled through the raven's body, but he made no effort to comfort or appease the man and looked instead with pride upon the hellish congregation.
Here then were the local women transformed by the crow dolls which Woden had compelled Dulcie Pettigrew to distribute. Thought laughed under his breath to see the most feared slaves of his master gathered together again.
Eleven ghastly, feather-fringed heads now bobbed and twitched within the cramped loft space, the black ruffs and twig-tangled hair scraping upon the crumbling roof and clattering against the rotting rafters. A fetid stench reeked from their hot, rancid bodies and their malicious gazes were trained solely upon the man cowering in the furthest corner.
Every bitter be
ak croaked and screeched with slaughterous intent and the lethal talons splintered through the floorboards as they pushed and jostled each other, tensing and preparing to pounce upon the defenceless, paltry human who had dared to intrude.
Peter's heart thumped and pounded against his ribs when he heard the creatures’ revolting, guttural speech as they yelled for his destruction.
‘Hot blood! Ssweet man flessh—tear it, rend and sstrike! Gorge on sspleen, crunch the bone, ssnap the sspine! Ssuck out brain, chew grisstle, devour and drain. Death! Death! Death!'
The din within the barn was tremendous and, with one lurching movement, the Valkyries rushed forward to rip out the man's throat and slake their thirst with his blood.
At once Thought left Peter's shoulder and flew before their repulsive faces, emitting a high shrill squawk which knifed through the inflamed yammering. To the Reverend Galloway's amazement, the monsters halted and turned their awful countenances towards the circling raven.
‘Be still!’ the bird cried as a hush fell. ‘I, Thought, command it!’
The creatures croaked and hissed in response, and the raven dived in amongst them, his wings brushing against the sides of their unclean heads. They snorted the air suspiciously before rattling their quills and honking like gruesome, gargantuan geese in recognition.
‘All know me,’ Thought declared. ‘Did I not lead you into battle on that final day when we were routed by the mists?’
Croaking sounds of agreement rippled through the assembled mob and the raven weaved in and out of the hulking, misproportioned bodies—swaying them with his words and calling them back into his service.
‘Biter!’ he crowed. ‘Thou didst bear the standard. Raging and Screamer, Torment and Ruin—the cloth of war didst thee uphold. Hate—the arrow of doom wast thine. To contend with the enemy of our Lord we rampaged over the plain, only to be confounded at the last by the witchery and devilment of those within the wood. Now the wheel is turned, the hour is here once more and this time we shalt not fail. The mists are departed and they shalt pay most dearly.’
The Valkyries caterwauled their pleasure and Thought whirled once more around them before returning to Peter's shoulder.
‘This mortal is high in our Master's regard,’ he told them. ‘No injury nor hurt wilt I permit thee to inflict upon his person.’
A low, disgruntled hiss issued from the nightmarish audience and the assembled eyes glowered disdainfully at the man whose tender flesh was denied to them.
“Tis the Lord's bidding!’ Thought reiterated forcefully. ‘Thou must all yield to my...’
The bird broke off as he suddenly realised how many Valkyries were present and screeched furiously.
‘One of thy number is absent!’ he cried. ‘Where is Shrieker? Was this day not appointed for the final moot? All were to be ready. Where is the last of thy company?’
The apparitions twisted and turned, wondering what could have become of her, but just then the noise of beating wings came rushing about the barn and into the hayloft Hlökk came.
Furling its wings, the unholy creature which had consumed Lauren Humphries stood upon the ledge, threw back its head and gave a calamitous scream.
At the far end of the loft, the Reverend Galloway winced at the sound and prayed for deliverance from this unceasing parade of terror.
‘We are betrayed, my ssissterss!’ Hlökk thundered in a fearsome, gargling voice. ‘The dessign of our Masster iss in hazzard. A traitor iss aiding the Nornir. With my own eyess I ssaw him!’
The others snarled and snapped, raking their talons through the floor when they heard this, then Thought called for silence and Hlökk's hostile glance burned upon him.
‘Why are you here?' the monster demanded.
The raven blinked in astonishment at the insolent question. ‘I am the emissary of thy creator!’ he declaimed. “Tis not thy place to challenge me! I am Thought, he who is deep in His counsel, who knoweth all the reaches of His subtle mind.’
‘What truth iss there in your wordss?’ the creature demanded, lowering its foul head and stealing forward. ‘When your own kinssman asssisstss our enemy!’
Thought scowled in confusion.
‘Kinsman?’ he squawked.
‘Yes!’ Hlökk growled. ‘Your own brother!’
The raven jerked his flat head left and right as at last he understood the strangely familiar scent which had perplexed him earlier.
‘Memory!’ he screeched. ‘My brother lives?’
‘He doess and hass renounced our Masster’
‘Thou liest, Shrieker!’
‘Even now he ridess with two who sstink of Nirinel. They are here to defeat uss. Thiss very night I wass asssailed and wrenched from my hosst. A power wass with them I could not undersstand!'
The other creatures spat and clacked their dismay but Thought narrowed his eyes and hunched his shoulders.
‘Memory must be found!’ he declared. ‘If he hath indeed turned traitor then we cannot allow him to thwart us. Hark, oh devoted servants, the hour long awaited fast approacheth. Verdandi hath been enticed from the shrine's protection and unto us she shalt deliver the device our Lord doth seek.’
A macabre, croaking chorus rang about the loft as the Valkyries screamed their approval and Thought stretched his wings dramatically.
‘My brother must be taken! Go search him out. Shrieker, lead us to these vainglorious fools. They must be slain!’
The barn shuddered as the monsters shook their feathers and thundered from the opening, to soar into the dark night.
‘What's happening?’ the Reverend Galloway asked when the raven flew back to him. ‘I don't understand this.’
Thought sneered at him, but knew he had to keep up the pretence a little while longer.
‘A Judas hath been discovered,’ he snapped. ‘We must find him afore the prize is brought to us. Our Lord must not be betrayed. Now, make thyself ready.’
Peter shivered, ‘What for?’
‘The war twixt good and ill hath begun anew,’ Thought told him with a devious grin. ‘Thou must come with us.’
‘Me?’ the vicar blurted. ‘Out... up there?’
The raven cackled. ‘Thy presence is needed,’ he laughed. ‘Into the heavens thou shalt be drawn. Come, ride with these angels.’
To Peter's dismay, the bird ordered him over to the opening where he stared fearfully up at the horde of black shapes now swarming above the barn.
‘Biter!’ Thought cried. ‘I have a burden for thee.’
There came a fierce rush of feathers and a putrid stench blasted upon the vicar's face as one of the circling Valkyries plunged towards him.
‘Hold up thy hands!’ the raven instructed.
Peter obeyed and felt mighty talons seize his arms, the hooked claws snapping like vices around them, squeezing and clutching so tightly that he yelled in pain.
But his voice was lost in the surrounding uproar and he felt his arms almost wrenched from their sockets as the winged horror above snatched him into the air and his feet were plucked off the floorboards.
With sickening speed the vicar was hoisted into the sky to join the others and Thought fluttered before him, crowing his instructions to the waiting, slaughter-starved nightmares.
‘Dear Lord!’ Peter howled closing his eyes, unable to gaze down at the empty gulf beneath him, and unwilling to look upon the terrifying spectacle of the dark host which bayed and screamed upon every side.
Like a black storm the assembled Valkyries hurtled through the sky and, with the Reverend Galloway dangling helplessly from their claws, they went screeching into the tortured night.
Chapter 24 - Within the Frozen Pool
A blast of freezing air sliced into Edie's lungs as she struggled to make sense of what had happened.
Down into the pit she had fallen, clinging to her splintered section of rocky floor, until the bottom of the great dark chasm was finally reached. With the dreadful, jolting violence of the impact, the child was thrown cl
ear.
Shattered pieces of rubble still rained down from above and Edie could hear them rattling on to the ground. Fortunately, she had been flung out of their path and for the moment was content merely to listen to the clattering percussion of pebbles and debris.
The girl's eyes were squeezed tightly shut and she felt bruised and sore all over, yet it was not until an icy numbness began to bite into her limbs, especially her legs and hands, that she started to feel afraid. What if the terrible fall had broken her back? What if she was to die slowly in this forsaken abyss? No one would ever find her, she would become just another fossil in the unexplored roots of the world.
Edie cackled to think of it—perhaps she too would one day be placed in a museum as a dried and shrivelled exhibit.
Opening her eyes, she sat up to find herself in a large drift of feathery frost which had cushioned her fall. Scooping a handful up to her lips, she licked it and stared about her.
The cavern which had lain beneath the hermit's tomb was immense. All around, rising like a forest of shimmering, crystal columns, were momentous pillars and towers of ice. Up from the hoary, rime-covered ground they thrust, rearing high into the blackness above. From that same dark ceiling, the tips of mighty icicles came spearing, hanging threateningly high over the child's head.
It was like being in the palace of winter. In the distance Edie could see galleries and cloisters formed entirely from ice and, gingerly stepping from the frost drift, she moved towards the centre of the huge, glittering space, to where the remains of Joseph's grave lay in fractured ruins.
Lying upon their sides, dented but not broken, the silver cruets still blazed their glorious light and it was this which illuminated the gargantuan space. Twinkling over every frost-bristled surface, the hallowed vessels steadily shone, turning the monstrous, glacial trees into distorting mirrors and warped prisms which threw back the beautiful, lustrous gleam a thousand times.
At any other time, Edie would have been enraptured by the vivid display but now only one thought burned within her.
