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

by Robin Jarvis

  The old woman stared at the image of the warrior before her, then gazed down at the bracelet. At once Edie snatched it from her and stuffed it under her coat.

  ‘The scruffy bird's right,’ Edie agreed vehemently. ‘That ain't your Captain—we been ‘ad.’

  Perched in the trees, the Valkyries snarled and their beaks clacked as they ruffled their feathers.

  ‘Grumble all thou wilt!’ Quoth shouted back at them. ‘Against the Nornir thou art powerless. Cruel and mighty the Gallows God made thee, yet thy strength is no match for they.’

  ‘Is it not?’ Thought raged, zooming over Quoth's head and scratching the bald scalp with his claws. ‘We shalt soon see.’

  Alighting upon Peter's shoulder, the evil raven leered down at Edie and in a foul, menacing voice said, ‘Surrender the device into our keeping.’

  ‘Shan't!’ she rapped back. ‘An’ if you try to grab it, I'll pull your wishbone!’

  A revolting cackle issued from the bird's throat.

  ‘ ‘Ware him,’ Quoth cautioned.

  Thought's dark eyes blazed with cruelty and loathing as he contemplated the girl. Then the raven gave a loud cry.

  Staring upwards, Edie and Miss Veronica exclaimed in dismay as the dim outline of Hlökk spiralled slowly down and in its clutches they saw Neil Chapman.

  ‘The caretaker's boy!’ Miss Veronica gasped.

  ‘If thou dost not obey me,’ Woden's lieutenant threatened, ‘the young dog shalt plunge to his death. Deliver unto us that most precious object.’

  Edie looked at Miss Veronica and the old woman nodded. ‘We must,’ she told her simply.

  “Ere,’ the girl said sullenly, as she pushed the bracelet into Peter's hands. ‘But it won't suit you.’

  At her feet, Quoth was relieved that his master had been spared and could see Hlökk swooping down to drop him among them, but Thought was hooting with foul glee and the sound was hideous to hear.

  ‘Fools!’ Woden's lieutenant crowed. ‘Didst thou not guess the true nature of yon golden trinket? Didst the shape strike no chord?’

  Edie didn't like that conceited, confident laugh and she pressed closer to Miss Veronica.

  The old woman, however, was looking at the man she had been tricked into believing was Woden, for the illusion was fading. Tears brimmed in her wrinkle-ringed eyes as she finally beheld him for who he truly was.

  ‘Ursula was right,’ she whispered bitterly. ‘I am a fool and always have been. He did love me once, long ago I'm sure. But a greater love fanned the flames of His heart—His ambition. It was the craving for power and position which usurped me in His affections—He sought Ursula out and begged her knowledge, and she is blameless. I see that now. Here at the end I see it.’

  Upon the vicar's shoulder, Thought's face twisted with malice and derision. ‘Now thy reign hath concluded!’ he spat. ‘The instrument of thine own destruction ye hath brought from the deeps of the earth. Henceforth the Nornir are no longer Mistresses of Destiny. They are vanquished at last!’

  ‘Go lay an egg!’ Edie rallied. ‘There's nowt the likes of you can do to us.’

  A sly, knowing light flickered in Thought's eyes as he regarded her. ‘Is there not?’ he cawed.

  Confused by everything he had heard, Peter glanced up briefly to see Hlökk cast Neil upon the ground and watched the loyal Quoth go scampering over to him. Then he returned his studious gaze to the glittering object in his hands.

  ‘I don't understand,’ he muttered. ‘This is no Chalice. It's just a piece of jewellery—it proves nothing!’

  Hearing him, Woden's raven tutted in a mock, injured tone, enjoying this the last part of his Master's intricate plan.

  ‘Not true,’ he denied. ‘Thou didst desire testimony to The Passion of thy Lord and Saviour and these misguided dolts hath provided it for thee.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ the vicar cried. ‘It's only a lump of bent gold! Is that what this has been all about? Some stupid treasure hunt?’

  Thought grinned sadistically. ‘Look again,’ he goaded. ‘No proof could be more concrete, in that thou wert not deceived.’

  As Neil stumbled towards them, keeping a cautious eye on the large and sinister shapes waiting in the trees, the Reverend Galloway turned the circlet over in his fingers. Suddenly his stomach lurched as he finally recognised the twisted shape.

  ‘No!’ he breathed.

  Thought chuckled callously, savouring the poor man's horror.

  ‘Unbend the bangle,’ he prompted. ‘Return thine evidence unto its former guise.’

  A cold sweat pricked out over Peter's forehead and his hands trembled when he began to uncurl the coiled, tapering piece of gold.

  As the yellow metal warped and unfurled, hair-line cracks crackled through it and the gem stones burst from their settings to go rolling into the grass. But no one paused to find them, for all eyes were upon that glimmering, buckling ornament.

  From the original base metal to which the gold and jewels had been applied, the rich encrusted gilding flaked and shattered. When Peter had finished, he stared at its true, tarnished shape, then a desolate cry of revulsion issued from his lips.

  There, in his hands, was a plain if distorted spearhead.

  The object's baneful form imprinted itself upon the vicar's collapsing mind and the raven upon his shoulder screeched with evil laughter.

  ‘Only now dost thou comprehend the full measure of thy folly!’ Thought scorned. ‘Behold, the spearblade which Longinus, the centurion, formerly didst own.

  ‘Witless dolt, thy faith wouldst not suffice thee and thou wert ripe for the choosing. In thy impatience thou didst crave to show unto the world a proof that the Christ did live.

  ‘Look then to thine hands—what better witness than the very dart which robbed him of his fife?’

  Peter's eyes filled with a fevered madness, for he was in no doubt that the object in his hands was the weapon which had pierced the side of the man from Nazareth as he suffered upon the Cross.

  From the tarnished metal a rust-coloured powder stained his fingers, and a strangled shriek of torment wailed from him when he realised that the substance was dried blood.

  Falling to his knees, the Reverend Galloway finally went tumbling into the madness that Woden and the raven had planned and prepared for him, and the broken man sobbed uncontrollably as his mind was left in ruins.

  Rising above him, Thought squealed with infinite malevolence.

  ‘Now thou knowest!’ he snapped at Edie and Miss Veronica, 'I hath in mine power the most powerful instrument of destruction there hast ever been and the one most fitting to wield it. Behold thine own destruction, for this is in truth a God killer!’

  Chapter 28 - Blood on the Tor

  ‘No will of thine own dost thou possess,’ Thought hooted at the shivering figure upon the ground. ‘Hear me now and arise, oh, slave.’

  Still clutching the spearblade, Peter Galloway rose mechanically. No expression was upon his face, and in his eyes no light shone. The man's shattered reason was now totally subject to the whims of the raven and the disgusting bird returned to his shoulder.

  Thought's beady glare flicked from Neil, to Quoth, then Edie and finally came to rest upon Miss Veronica.

  ‘Old witch,’ Thought croaked venomously. ‘Too long hast thou cheated death. Go now into that cold embrace and tell the reaper thy sisters shalt soon be following.’

  Cackling, the raven opened his wings and in a forceful, commanding voice cried, ‘Raise now the blade—plunge it deep into the harridan's breast! Let the fount of her heart's blood spill o'er the soil of her trysting place.’

  Peter gripped the spear fiercely as he lifted his arm and stepped forward, but Neil and Edie pushed between him and Miss Veronica.

  ‘Stop this!’ the boy yelled. ‘Listen to me—you can't do it.’

  With a brutal sweep of his fist, Peter sent Neil flying, but Edie leapt up to bite the hand which held the blasphemous blade—only to be knocked violently aside.
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  Thought laughed to see their futile efforts and, in the trees behind, the watching Valkyries uttered abhorrent chants of death.

  ‘Naught thou canst do wilt stop my vassal from executing the task set for him!’ the raven vaunted. ‘He doth hear only my voice and knoweth only my will.’

  The way was clear now. Only Quoth fluttered through the air quacking impotently and, defenceless, Miss Veronica staggered back towards the gate, as Peter strode after her.

  ‘Kind sir,’ she said. ‘Come to your senses, I have done no harm to you. I know you will not strike me down.’

  Thought sniggered, relishing every instant.

  Gripping her cane, the old woman shambled down the grassy slope until she bumped into the railings and any further escape was made impossible.

  Pinned against the gateway, Miss Veronica looked into the man's face, searching for a spark of humanity. But Thought's unbounded malice consumed Peter totally and there was nothing she could do.

  ‘Kill her!’ the raven screeched, rising to his full height, his eyes blazing with hatred. ‘Impale the withered hag!’

  Tossing back her head, Miss Veronica threw up her arms to fend off the terrible blow as the spear came stabbing down.

  Into the night the old woman's despairing cries ripped—cleaving through the deep shadows. But the blade never reached her and Thought shrieked with rage when he saw a grubby, red-knuckled hand gripping Peter's arm.

  Whirling a cartwheel in the air, Quoth gave a shout of joy as a timid, friendly voice spoke from the shadows.

  ‘Why don't you just put that nasty spiker down, old son? You got no call to go murd'rin’ decent folk.’

  Edie ran over to Miss Veronica and the old woman hugged her desperately, whilst Neil stared across at the shabby-looking figure who had stepped from the darkness.

  ‘Tommy!’ he cried, laughing in spite of the savage hisses which sounded in the trees above them, as the raven women shook their quills in readiness.

  ‘Kill the oaf!’ Thought yelled whilst Peter wavered, his arm still locked in the tramp's large grasp.

  ‘You listen to Tommy now,’ the old man told Peter. ‘No use hidin’ in that head of yourn and turnin’ into a daftie. Tommy knows—he tried it.’

  To Thought's fury, his newly-created slave gradually turned his head to stare at the ridiculous, toothless tramp. Tommy's pale eyes shone softly in the light which glimmered from the spear.

  ‘Come back, old son,’ Tommy coaxed gently. ‘You can't dance with the devil on your back.’

  Flying from the vicar's shoulder, Thought beat his wings in Peter's face and screamed at him.

  ‘Hear me!’ he demanded. ‘Thou must tear thyself from this vagabond and slice the hide of Verdandi. My Master shalt not be thwarted—thou must obey!’

  But whatever Peter Galloway had seen in the tramp's face, it was enough and his mind was already clearing.

  ‘Gut her!’ Thought shrieked, putting forth all the power that Woden had bestowed upon him. ‘Spit her! Gore! Slit! Stab! I want her dead!’

  At that, the battle for Peter's soul was finally won. Yanking his arm loose and glancing at Miss Veronica, the vicar threw back his hand and the spear went hurtling through the air.

  *

  Shrill were the screams which resounded about the lower slopes of Glastonbury Tor.

  Straight through the evil raven's heart the blade of Longinus went plunging and the bird's diabolic screeches were turned into yowls of surprise.

  With the blade caught in his ribs, Thought was flung back as the spear crunched clean into solid stone and the raven was impaled against the stile. With a final jerk of his ugly head as it lolled limply on to the tarnished metal, Woden's deceitful, pitiless lieutenant expired and a cloud of sawdust gasped from his gullet.

  At once the spells which rejuvenated the bird were broken. The feathers fell out of his skin as it perished and decayed—crackling like parchment and crumbling to powder. Into the skull the gleaming black eyes shrivelled and the jaw clattered to the floor when the bare bones turned to chalk. Soon only the spear remained embedded in the stone.

  Fluttering down to land upon the nearby rail, Quoth gazed at the sorry pile of dust scattered over the ground and shook his head sadly.

  ‘Farewell, brother,’ he mourned.

  But his voice was overwhelmed by a sudden outcry from the unholy monsters perched up in the trees and, screaming in outrage, the Valkyries came ravaging down—their talons outstretched.

  Like a raging tempest of quill and claw, the twelve raven women flew from their perches. With Thought gone, nothing could check them and they screeched at the top of their infernal voices, baying for slaughter as their beaks savagely snapped and clashed.

  Frantically, Peter Galloway reached for the spear and wrenched it free of the stile.

  ‘Stay here!’ he cried to the others as he rushed to meet the oncoming nightmares.

  ‘Wait!’ Miss Veronica called to him. ‘Stay by Edith and myself—the Valkyrja fear us.’

  But the vicar did not hear her and ran forward, shouting fearlessly.

  ‘Come on, then!’ he cried, brandishing the blade above his head. ‘Who wants to taste this next?’

  Charging into the enemy's midst, he leapt underneath the first of the crazed, harrying furies as its raking talons came reaching wildly for him. Peter brought the gleaming spear slicing down—to cut and hack through the vicious hooks, and black blood gushed from the splayed scaly toes as the curved claws were shorn away.

  Above him the Valkyrie shrieked in pain and Peter laughed grimly, thrusting the blade up into the mass of razor-sharp feathers. A hideous scream discharged from the murderous beak. With a flurry of black quills, the misshapen brute toppled from the air and the vicar swerved aside as it came crashing down.

  On to the ground the fiend smashed. From its twig-crowned head a prickling black mist steamed into the night, whilst the creature quivered and screeched in its death throes and every trembling feather melted into smoke.

  All that remained, lying upon the grass, was the unconscious body of a woman and, tangled in her hair, were the slashed tatters of a crow doll.

  ‘One down!’ Peter yelled triumphantly, but more of Woden's unhallowed conjurations came shrieking in wrathful vengeance, rending their claws through the vicar's clothes and scoring bloody gashes across his face.

  In the chaos of flaying quills and plunging beaks, the gleaming spear ripped and stabbed, but there were too many of the hellish horde for Peter to contend with and the lethal, yammering storm seethed slaughterously about him.

  Edie wanted to run to help him but five more distorted terrors had fixed their unclean sights upon Neil and Tommy, and came whooping in to snatch them away from her and Miss Veronica's presence.

  ‘Get back you, ‘orrors!’ Tommy wailed, abruptly seizing Miss Veronica's cane and thrashing it in the malformed, feather-framed faces, as the ferocious claws gripped his coat and started to drag and pull at him.

  Defying the abject terror which consumed him, the tramp brought the stick cracking down against the corpse flesh of the grotesque heads and clattered it roughly from side to side, jabbing it into the great dark eyes, incensing the winged abominations all the more.

  Flesh-freezing screams rang over the slopes of Glastonbury Tor and the tramp was clawed and bitten, but still he battled, striking and prodding, clouting and beating.

  Edie ran to his aid and the Valkyries shied away from the fey, sprite-like child, caterwauling in disarray, for the forces of doom sparkled in her pixie-hood and they dared not attack her.

  Despairing, Neil wondered what he should do, but he had no weapon to fight with. He stared helplessly at Tommy's valiant figure with Edie Dorkins capering around him, before switching his gaze to the dark, frenzied cloud which roared and assailed the Reverend Galloway.

  Peter was totally obscured by the screeching monsters, their battering wings and scything talons engulfed him completely. Yet in the midst of that furious mass of
hate and malice, the spear sliced arcs of light and the grass smouldered where the poisonous Valkyrie blood dripped and splashed.

  From the clamouring mob there came a curdling yowl and another of the feathered ogres crashed on to the ground, shortly followed by a third. Their bodies blistered and scorched, withering down to the human frame beneath, and the ragged remnants of the controlling dolls were whisked away by the wind.

  But Peter's strength was failing. The numbers were too great and their evil might finally overcame him. Neil and Miss Veronica watched in dread as, torn and bleeding, the vicar gradually succumbed to the destroying, shrieking creatures.

  His attacking blows were beginning to miss their mark and the spear floundered in his grasp, overshooting the plumed targets and swiping through empty air.

  Stumbling, he toppled unsteadily on his feet and at once a bitterly sharp beak snapped at his neck and tore out a hunk of flesh.

  Peter howled and clasped his hand to the wound. Lashing out feverishly, he ripped the blade through a flailing wing, but the creature leapt up and hit out fiercely with its claws. The barbed talons hooked into the vicar's wrist. His arm was flung back over his head which threw him to the ground, and the blade went spinning from his grasp.

  With triumphant yells of carnage and bloodshed gargling over their slavering tongues, the apparitions pounced upon his fallen body and their dark wings wrapped about them.

  High over the heads of Neil and the others, the enchanted blade catapulted, racketing through the overhanging branches, before plummeting down and embedding itself in the soft mud of the narrow trackway behind them.

  Horrified at the sickening spectacle of the tormenting Valkyries, Neil bolted through the stile to retrieve the spearhead and Quoth flew after him.

  Hearing the vicar's howl of pain, Edie whirled around and gasped to see the hideous raven women clawing at his body, lowering their leprous heads to drink his blood and gorge upon his flesh.

  Hollering, she barged across the slope, her arms outstretched. The foul creatures hissed their displeasure but fell back all the same.