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

by Robin Jarvis

  ‘You'll be well,’ she said huskily. ‘You're a Webster, you'll mend and get better. I know you will. Please, Veronica—you have to.’

  As she bent over her, Quoth flitted down to join them and the raven hung his head in sorrow.

  A faint, expiring breath floated from Miss Veronica's wrinkled lips and the webbed eyes fluttered open.

  ‘Edith,’ she uttered in a barely audible whisper, ‘the spear has done its work.’

  ‘No,’ the girl denied. ‘I won't let you!’

  The fingers of the old woman's hand twitched feebly and Edie clasped it in her own.

  ‘Tell her,’ Miss Veronica breathed with difficulty. ‘Tell Ursula. I'm sorry—I forgive her. Poor Celandine, who will watch her dance now?’

  ‘We both will!’ the child insisted.

  The pale eyelids slid shut. ‘No more,’ the hoarse, vanishing voice whispered. ‘No jam and pancakes.’

  ‘Don't go!’ Edie wept.

  But the wizened woman eased into death and with her final breath murmured. ‘I love all my family, the youngest not leas...’

  ‘VERONICA!’ the girl bawled, squeezing her hand and brushing the hair away from the aged face. ‘VERONICA!’

  Thus the youngest and once most beautiful of the three Fates of the ancient world perished. Edie Dorkins pressed her face next to that of Miss Veronica and whined piteously.

  Wiping his eyes, Neil staggered away as a fierce rush of wind tore about the lower slopes as the shining vision upon the Tor was enveloped in a searing flash of light.

  Greater the gale grew, ripping through the trees, and the ground shuddered. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the angel was gone and darkness reclaimed the night.

  Stumbling down the path, Neil Chapman heard the blare of sirens as fire engines and police cars finally arrived in the street below. Feeling utterly lost and alone, the boy gazed back at the young girl grieving over Miss Veronica's body and knew that an ending that should never have occurred had come to pass.

  Nothing would ever be the same again. The structured order of things beyond his understanding was broken and he looked up at the solitary tower of Saint Michael. But the Tor was lost in profound shadow and, as Neil lowered his eyes, a feathered head gently rested against his cheek.

  Below the foundations of The Wyrd Museum

  Deep beneath the ancient, brooding building, within the Chamber of Nirinel, the lone figure of Miss Ursula Webster stood still and silent.

  Her gaunt features turned towards the mighty, withered root which arched above her, she waited for the moment which she knew must come—an expression of dread and suffering etched upon her face.

  Then it happened.

  A hideous pain ripped through her breast, at precisely the same moment as the spear blade stabbed into Miss Veronica far away in Glastonbury.

  Crying out, Miss Ursula fell to the ground, gasping and weeping as she experienced her sister's dying moments.

  Above her the last root of Yggdrasill trembled ominously and a deep, resonant groan reverberated throughout the chamber.

  ‘It's done...’ the old woman howled, ‘The Cessation has begun!’

  Slumped upon the earthen floor, Miss Ursula Webster sobbed uncontrollably and the torchlight dimmed about her—plunging the cavern into a deep, despairing darkness.

  Outside, in the hollow night, Miss Celandine's hysterical screams rang from their small apartment until a tremendous splitting of stone and metal abruptly drowned out her dismal wails.

  The grand Victorian entrance to The Wyrd Museum was shuddering and one of the bronze figures which flanked the oaken door suddenly toppled from its plinth and went crashing to the ground, where it shattered and exploded.

  A deathly calm descended as Miss Celandine's insane screeching gradually faded and into the alleyway a dark, grey mist swiftly flowed.

  Through the curling fog a hooded figure came, the profound shadows beneath its cowl fixed intently upon the broken fragments of sculpture and a faint sigh hissed from his unseen lips.

  ‘Verdandi is no more,’ the sepulchral voice murmured. ‘The Witches of the Loom are divided at last. Soon Skuld and the mighty Urdr herself will fall victim. Such is the will of Woden.’

  Turning, the sinister figure stepped back through the spectral mist and melted into the consuming gloom.