Tales From The Wyrd Museum 3: The Fatal Strand

by Robin Jarvis

  Tales From The Wyrd Museum

  The Fatal Strand

  By Robin Jarvis

  Many thanks to Ann-Janine Murtagh for guiding me along The Woven Path. Then Stella Paskins for helping me tie up The Raven's Knot and ensuring I wasn't left Fatally Stranded.

  Bethnal Green : London 1.30 am

  Shrill screams, raging with grief, echoed throughout The Wyrd Museum. From the rambling attics, where frightened pigeons shuffled uneasily upon their perches, the hideous shrieking blistered. Down, into the shadow-filled rooms it poured, an incessant flood of anguish, streaming from chamber to chamber until finally it seeped beneath the foundations and babbled through the subterranean caverns.

  Miss Veronica Webster—she who was Verdandi, youngest of the immortal Fates—was dead. She who had once measured out the lives of men, who had sat at the ensnaring Loom upon which every strand of existence was woven; she who wielded the ultimate tyranny of Doom and Destiny, was no more.

  A darkness more profound than the pressing night smothered the museum and the incessant lament endured.

  Outside, one of the bronze figures which flanked the main entrance lay shattered upon the ground and the shadows within The Wyrd Museum deepened, swelling the rooms with a solid suffocation of light.

  To one neglected niche of the ancient building, the chilling dirge eventually penetrated, ripping through the previously inviolate night. Wretched and racked with pain the dismal chorus tolled, filling every invisible corner with the agony of loss.

  Then it happened.

  In that choking gloom appeared a soft pulse of light and a new sound was born. Softly at first, a gentle creaking began, like floorboards easing and groaning after a long day underfoot. Gradually, the noise grew louder. Creaks became snaps and the troubled dark rang with the frenzy of splintering wood.

  Suddenly, another noise joined the increasing clamour. A panting, rattling breath which rasped and heaved when the rupturing of timber escalated to its height. Then a yelping, pig-like squeal spiked through the black gloom.

  With one last, straining effort, the unseen creature was free. A hiss of exultation steamed from its wide mouth and it dropped to the floor.

  Clawed feet clattered upon the ground as the small imp landed. For a moment it paused, a pair of large eyes blinking in the eternal dark, its tail switching from side to side. Then, with a gargling gasp upon its lips, the creature leapt forward—gnashing out a constant cacophony of barks and grunts. Through the ebon shadows it scurried, and in that jumble of guttural chattering, repeated a single word over and over again.

  'Gogus... Gogus... Gogus...'

  Chapter 1 - The Homecoming

  The chill night airs which encircled Glastonbury Tor sliced through the barren trees, crowding its lower slopes and gusting with icy vigour up the narrow track that climbed the shoulders of that steep, ancient hill. The desperate conflict between the hideous forces of Woden and the small group from The Wyrd Museum was over. Upon the Tor a horrible battle had been fought and now, for those few who remained, this was a horrible, grief-filled time. Standing there in the cold, his school uniform providing meagre protection against the biting breeze, Neil Chapman's flesh trembled—but the boy made no other movement.

  Upon his shoulder the feathers of a mangy looking raven stirred as the bird considered his young master with its single beady eye.

  'Gelid doth the blood flow thick and laggard,' Quoth cawed faintly. 'Cold as a frog art thou, yet the icy breath of the Northern wind is blameless in this.'

  Lifting his head, the raven gazed upon the dreadful scene which lay before them and clicked his tongue sorrowfully.

  There, lying across the muddy path, was the body of Miss Veronica Webster. By the old woman's side an eight-year-old girl knelt in the crimson pool which had formed around her, weeping hopelessly. In that macabre mire lay a rusted spearhead which was steeped in blood.

  Quoth sniffed and wiped his beak upon one wing. It was a terrible moment and although he racked his decayed brain he could find no words of comfort to offer.

  Beyond the sobbing figure of Edie Dorkins, several small fires burned upon the hillside and the raven stared at them thoughtfully. There the last of the enemy's servants, the Valkyrja, were burning. The small crow dolls which had taken possession of twelve local women were utterly consumed in the greedy flames and their reviled existence in this world was finally banished forever.

  It had been a terrifying contest and Quoth pulled his head into his shoulders as he counted the cost of this unhappy victory. His brother, Thought, and many others had been lost in the horrendous violence. Aidan, the mysterious gypsy who had brought Neil to Glastonbury, now lay dead upon Wearyall Hill which reared into the darkness across the valley.

  Almost drowned out by the dejected cries of Edie Dorkins, the raven could hear faint whimpers from the few lucky survivors and he shook his feathers in readiness to seek them out. But, before he could unfurl his wings, a wail of sirens joined the common grief and the night began to strobe with harsh blue lights.

  Turning, Quoth peered down the track. Through the screening trees he saw many vehicles gathering in Wellhouse Lane, and heard the voices of men raised in wonder and dread, amidst the confused blare of alarm and engine.

  'Squire Neil,' the bird croaked into the boy's ear, 'the reckoning hath come. We art besieged and guards toil up the mountain's side to seize us.'

  Slowly, Neil Chapman wrenched his eyes away from the desolate sight of Edie and Miss Veronica and moved like one roused from a fathomless sleep, gradually surfacing back into the grim, waking world.

  At first he was only vaguely conscious of the frantic sweeps the torch beams made as they blazed through twigs and branches, dazzling in the muddy puddles and searing the shadowy night. Then one of the lights shone directly in his face and he threw up his hands to ward off the blinding glare.

  Suddenly, he was aware of everything: the angry, bewildered yells and the urgent progress of the figures hastening up the track.

  'There's a kid up here!' someone bawled.

  'This is the police,' another barked with authority. 'Stay right where you are.'

  Captured in the accusing glare of a dozen dazzling torches, Neil squinted and automatically raised his hands whilst Quoth gave a frightened squawk and buried his beak in his wing.

  'We haven't done anything!' Neil protested, his mind racing. How could he possibly explain what had really happened and expect anyone to believe it?

  Then the torches fell upon Edie and Miss Veronica.

  'Another two behind him!' one of the officers cried. 'Get the medics up here—quick.'

  Edie Dorkins tossed her head at the intrusive light and she curled her mouth into a ferocious snarl. If one of those men so much as touched Miss Veronica she was ready to fly at him, biting and clawing as rabidly as any wild creature.

  'God almighty,' someone muttered, seeing the rivulets of blood streaming from the old woman's body. 'Explosion or summat, they said. She's been knifed—look at the state of her!'

  The first of the policemen drew level with Neil and the confused man stared at the boy questioningly.

  'Don't you do nothing,' he snapped as others pushed by him. 'What the 'ell's gone on 'ere?'

  Before Neil could reply, one of the policemen ventured too close to Edie and there followed a savage struggle as he fell backwards into the mud, with the feral girl scratching and kicking him.

  It took two of the astonished officer's colleagues to drag the fierce child away and, although they kept a firm grip of her arms, their shins suffered vicious blows from a barrage of kicks.

  We're not going to hurt you,' th
ey assured her through gritted teeth. 'Let the doctors by to 'ave a look at her.'

  'She's dead!' Edie screeched in a thin, shrill voice.

  'Let her 'lone. Don't you touch her. Veronica! Veronica!'

  Neil tugged the sleeve of the distracted superintendent, and the man started nervously.

  'Keep your hands where I can see them!' he ordered, but Neil could tell that the policeman was almost afraid of him. Did he think that Neil had murdered Miss Veronica? The whole town must be wondering what had happened upon the Tor. Tremendous rumbles had shaken the earth and angelic fires had raged upon the summit, spreading a blistering light across the surrounding countryside. Perhaps the officer thought that he and Edie were responsible.

  Watching the man's expression, Neil was certain of it. Yet there were more immediate concerns.

  'There's others,' he said, nodding towards the dark hillside where the small, scattered fires still crackled. 'People—up there. Some might still be alive.'

  The superintendent stared at him for a moment, then gave a shout to the surrounding police. A group of them hurried up the track, their torches thrashing the night as they searched the surrounding slope.

  Feeling helpless, Neil looked on as a team of paramedics from one of the ambulances clustered around the body of Miss Veronica. Then he saw a fat sergeant carefully place the blood-covered spearhead into a plastic bag.

  'Looks like this is what did it,' the man said, unable to hide his ghoulish glee at having been the one to bag the murder weapon.

  'Who did this?' the superintendent demanded sharply. 'Did you see? Was there someone else up here?'

  Neil shook his head. Upon his shoulder the raven shifted his weight from one foot to another whilst ogling the man with the utmost displeasure.

  Before anything further could be said, a new, abrupt voice called out, 'Willis, get your lads out of the way! I'll deal with this.'

  The policeman turned and shone his torch straight into the face of a man who had quickly pushed his way up the track.

  Neil looked at the stranger. He was a tall, big-boned man whose greying beard framed a hollow-cheeked face that was corrugated with irritation.

  'Turn that damn thing off.' he rapped severely.

  'Chief Inspector!' the superintendent exclaimed, fumbling with the flashlight. 'We've got a right royal mess here. I was just...'

  ‘I said, get your lads out of the way,' his superior insisted. 'Those damn reporters'll be here before you know it. Set up a cordon right around the Tor and one over at Wearyall Hill. Hurry up, man—I mean now, not some time next week!'

  Cowed by Chief Inspector Hargreaves' unusually curt directives, Superintendent Willis set about organising what had to be done and left him alone with Neil.

  Staring at the stretcher which now bore Miss Veronica's body, Hargreaves' face looked more sunken than ever and he gripped hold of Neil's shoulders to steady himself. Then, in a rush of anguished words, just low enough to prevent anyone else overhearing, he implored, 'Is it true? Can Verdandi really be dead? How can the deathless die?'

  Neil stared up at him. 'Who are you?' he asked in an astonished whisper.

  It was Quoth who answered. 'Canst thou not perceive it, my Master?' the raven cawed. "Tis another scion of Askar who standeth afore thee. That fairest of cities doth glimmer dim yet steady in his eyes. As Aidan was, so too is this spindle-shanked bean pole—a servant of the Loom Maidens is he.'

  The Chief Inspector lowered his eyes, murmuring. 'To the descendants of Askar, the world's first civilisation, Aidan was our leader. I've just come from Wearyall Hill. I—I saw him there. It's up to the rest of us now to continue his work.'

  Setting aside his consternation and sorrow, he cast a wary glance over his shoulder before hastily continuing. 'There's not much time. You've got to trust me. Can you get the girl to come with us without a fight?'

  'Where are we going?'

  'Back to the museum. The sooner Verdandi is returned to that sacred place, the safer we'll all be. The Cessation of the Three has begun. Anything may happen now. The order of Destiny has been interrupted. Go calm the girl. If we don't leave soon it'll be too late.'

  With that, Hargreaves directed the two officers holding Edie to release her and at once the girl sprang forward to hare after the stretcher.

  Neil caught up with her and whirled the child around.

  'Lay off!' she squealed, brandishing her woollen pixie hood in the boy's face. 'You an' your crow stay 'way from me.'

  'Listen!' he hissed back. 'Keep quiet and do as you're told for a change or we'll never get home. That man wants to help us; he's the same as Aidan—do you understand what that means?'

  The girl ceased her struggles and swept the hair from her eyes to regard the Chief Inspector more keenly. 'Then he must take Veronica to Ursula,' she demanded. 'An' the spear—that has to come as well.'

  To the surprise of his men, Chief Inspector Hargreaves announced that he was personally taking charge of the children and would drive them to the police station at Wells. Any awkward questions were abruptly swept aside when a shout sounded upon the Tor and Neil guessed that yet another mutilated body had been discovered.

  In the ensuing confusion, Hargreaves led the children down the narrow track to where his car was waiting. A private ambulance with dark, tinted windows was already moving off with Miss Veronica on board and Edie glared up at the Chief Inspector, suspecting treachery.

  'Don't worry,' he assured her. 'The driver is one of us. He's going to wait on the Wells Road, then you can sit by Verdandi's side all the way to the museum. The weapon is with her also. I know just how dangerous it is.'

  Presently Hargreaves' car pulled away and, perched in the back, his feathery face pressed against the rear windscreen, Quoth watched the vast, black shape of the Tor recede into the distance.

  In a small, dejected voice he croaked a final farewell to his deceased brother and soon the lights of Glastonbury were left far behind.

  ***

  Still wet from the previous day's downpour, the roads of London's East End reflected a dun-coloured sky.

  The night had grown old and a dim, grey dawn was beginning to reach over the irregular horizon of ramshackle rooftops. At Bethnal Green, the many turrets and spikes which crowned The Wyrd Museum were mirrored in the countless dirty pools that surrounded it. When viewed from the corner of the alleyway, the dark, forbidding building appeared to become a sinister, moated castle.

  At the rear of the museum, within the drab, cemented courtyard, a solitary figure stood in the reservoir of shadow which gathered deep beneath the high, encircling walls.

  Wearing only an old T-shirt and a pair of ragged pyjama bottoms, Neil's father, Brian Chapman, was staring up into the fading night. Even the brightest stars had fled from the brimming heavens, yet still he gazed at the realm of diminishing darkness high above.

  A cloud of vapour streamed from his lips as, slowly, he lowered his eyes. The unlovely shape of the museum filled his vision and he shuddered involuntarily.

  'There was a crooked man...' he muttered under his breath, 'lived in a crooked house...'

  Gooseflesh prickled his bare, scrawny arms and he looked down with surprise at his naked feet which were now purple with cold. Just how long he had been standing out there he had no idea and could not recall what had drawn him from his makeshift bed in the first place. All he remembered was the shrieking which had awakened him. But there had been something else too—a compelling urge to venture outside and be wrapped in the embracing cold.

  That might have been hours ago. Under the blank gaze of the museum's darkened windows he had remained. The violent weeping had ceased, but what had happened in the mean time? Surely he could not have fallen asleep out here in the yard?

  'Blood and sand!' he scolded himself, pattering towards the caretaker's small apartment once more. 'This lousy place'll drive us all nuts.'

  Clambering back on to the couch, he wriggled inside the sleeping bag beneath his duvet—but the
memory of the cold lingered with him and refused to thaw.

  Even as the caretaker tried to get warm, the tall, gaunt shape of an elderly woman stood silhouetted within the grand Victorian entrance of The Wyrd Museum, silently watching the last dregs of night melt into glimmering day.

  Upon the topmost of the three steps she waited—Miss Ursula Webster; Urdr of the Royal House, the eldest of the Fates. She, who throughout the long tale of time had been feared far more than her sisters, appeared drawn and defeated. In former ages it was she who had severed the threads of life, determining that irrevocable ending which sundered families and lovers with a single, merciless cut. Now a similar parting had been visited upon her and the pain of that loss was something she had not felt since the first days of the world.

  Over her delicately-boned features a fine dew sparkled—perfectly matching the glitter of the jet beads which bordered her black evening gown.

  A cauldron of emotions seethed and boiled within her. Rage and guilt battled with her grief, but she remained erect and alert, steeling herself against the contest that she knew was to come.

  At the bottom of the steps, scattered in a disjointed snarl of twisted bronze, lay the fragmented image of Verdandi. The sightless eyes of that broken, upturned face seemed to stare up at her sister, but the old woman avoided meeting that steady gaze and maintained her unwavering vigil, glaring out into the alleyway.

  She knew exactly what had transpired on Glastonbury Tor and who was responsible for this heinous tragedy. His unseen hand had driven that enchanted blade through her sister's immortal flesh as surely as if he had gripped the spear himself. In some dank corner her great enemy waited, weaving his evil designs just as she and her sisters had spun the Cloth of Doom.

  Perhaps even now he was watching her, savouring to the full the extent of his abhorrent crime.

  'Do you hear me?' she asked, abruptly snapping the silence, her clipped voice charged with contempt and condemnation. 'Is this what you have yearned for? Is this the triumphant victory you have sought these many centuries? How pitiable you have become, Mighty Woden! Is this the same god of war who hung for nine nights upon the World Tree? Is this He who fought with axe and sword against the ogres of the first frost? Has the Captain of Askar been reduced to this—murdering a woman too old and too witless to defend herself?'