by Robin Jarvis
'Cor!' Edie mouthed.
The dim silhouette in The Egyptian Suite let the girl stare in fascination for a while longer before concluding the tale.
'Balor was eventually slain by the hero, Lugh,' the voice recounted, 'who hurled a great stone at the Fomorian's head, even as the lid was being lifted. The ogre's skull exploded and the eye catapulted clean through the other side. But, even in death, the Eye of Balor lost none of its slaughtering might and was wielded as a merciless weapon. Today, out there in the modern world, its memory lives on. When the ignorant gesticulate to defend themselves from the evil eye, it is to that they are referring.'
The old woman's dark figure stirred and her Victorian gown swished with the movement.
'Yet there is no protection,' Miss Ursula declared and her voice was harsh and censorious. 'That is why the Eye was entrusted into my care. Sealed within that orb of gnarled hide and rigid vellum, it is still as deadly as ever.'
Edie gave a wicked cackle and flung her arms about the cabinet as far as they could reach—to hug it.
'Better 'n all the bombs and air raids!' she rejoiced.
'The museum is host to many dangers,' the old woman intoned. 'When my wits have crumbled, it will be your duty to ensure that nothing leaks from these confines.'
Edie stepped away from the Eye and darted across the room to where a column, adorned with gilded, scrolling ferns, formed the pedestal of a shapely foot sculpted in ivory.
'Where's the rest of it?' she demanded.
The darkness of The Egyptian Suite rustled and a sudden, sharp breath caused Edie to forget her question.
Into the faint light Miss Ursula stole, leaving the extreme shadows behind her. Wonder glimmered over her features and she turned her face towards the surrounding panelled walls, as if listening to what they might tell her.
'Can you sense it, Edith?' she gasped, her voice trembling with excitement. 'It is beginning. The museum awakes!'
Whirling around upon her heels, the old woman let out a peal of giddy laughter, then hastened towards the other doorway.
'Quickly!' she urged. 'Let us return and share this with Celandine.'
Edie Dorkins gaped at her. She had never seen Miss Ursula behave like this but, even as she stared in bemusement, an almost imperceptible, tingling sensation prickled down the back of her neck. Swiftly it grew within her until an electric thrill buzzed inside the child's head and she squealed with a bubbling excitement.
Miss Ursula was right—the atmosphere within The Wyrd Museum was changing. It was as though the vast, slumbering building was starting to rouse itself and the girl raced after her, boisterously firing a string of questions.
'My head feels like there's stars in it and there's bees in me feet!' she cried. 'What'll happen? Does this mean Woden can't get at us? Will it last?'
Hurrying down the corridor past the fixed, glassy stares of the stuffed menagerie, Miss Ursula could only shake her head at the girl's impatient cries.
'Silence, Edith,' she commanded when they reached the end of the passage and stepped out on to the first floor landing. 'Listen.'
Clapping her mouth shut, the girl obeyed. From the ground floor, flowing through the flame-flickering collections, an indistinct, disembodied voice rose into the heights, melting into the invisible space above the heads of those two figures who listened by the banisters.
Edie strained to catch the words, but the echoing distance made them impossible to decipher. 'Is it ghosts?' she whistled, jumping eagerly down the top step. 'I want to go see!'
Miss Ursula caught her by the arm and pulled the child back. 'No, dear,' she instructed. 'It is the sound of our new guest, reading aloud.'
'That old geezer!' Edie groaned, unable to prevent a sneer from stealing over her face.
The eldest of the Websters laid a tapering hand upon the banister rail and gazed down into the black void below. 'His is the force which pricks and goads this realm from its lethargy,' she told the child. 'You must learn to use every instrument in your gift, Edith.'
Pausing a moment longer, Miss Ursula breathed deeply. ‘I was right,' she uttered in relief, 'and tonight is but the start. The museum's defences will soon be revived and vigilant once more, and we shall have nothing further to fear.'
Lifting the skirt of her gown, the old woman began to climb the stairs. 'There is nothing more we can do this night,' she said. 'The pettifogging wraith seeker is performing his role perfectly, as I hoped he would. Will you retire with me?'
'I'll stay up for a bit more,' Edie answered, lingering as Miss Ursula disappeared into the gloom above.
The night was charged with marvellous possibilities and the child ached to go scampering through every room to experience this euphoric awakening to its utmost, and giggle at the dizzy lightness which inspired her.
'Goodnight, Edith dear,' Miss Ursula called from above.
Resting her head against the banister, Edie continued to listen to Austen Pickering's droning tones, and she wondered how long it would take for the museum to become an unassailable fortress. Her capricious nature demanded the answer straight away and she decided to chase after Miss Ursula and ask.
Tearing herself from the landing, she headed for the Websters' apartment, scrambling up the stairs to the third floor and throwing herself through the door which led to a long gallery called The Tiring Salon.
Thronging this spacious, night-drenched room, a multitude of headless mannequins stood massed in an eerily frozen gathering, crowding the way to the small door which led to the attic rooms. Edie had to duck under an outstretched, wooden arm when she entered.
Miss Celandine had a passion for this place, although it was too close to the Websters' apartments and her sister's watchful eye for her to enjoy its delights to the full. Today, however, having been given the liberty to roam where she wished, she had played with the dummies and positioned them in appropriate attitudes, as if they were attending a ball. Naturally, she had not returned her motionless partners to their rightful places when she had finished her frolicking play, and now they stood in an inert assembly, as if waiting for their enchantress to return and waltz with them again.
A jumbled pageant of costume and garments from many different ages surrounded Edie as the child pushed into their midst, passing medieval nobles and tripping over their cloaks. Grunting in annoyance, she ploughed into the fixed embrace of a flamboyantly tasselled flapper from the Twenties, then kicked the legs from under it in irritation.
At the far side of the gallery, above the severed necks, and between the hats and bonnets that were propped on poles and stands, she could just make out Miss Ursula's retreating figure. The girl shoved the motionless crowd aside as she surged forward. A minute later, a wake of stricken, richly-robed figures lay toppled and overturned behind her, as though some terrible tragedy had decimated a fancy dress party, and Edie wiped her nose upon her sleeve.
The door before her was decorated with a skilful carving of the World Tree and its three roots. Edie could not resist touching the golden circle framing the inlay of lapis lazuli which represented the sacred well beneath Nirinel, then she turned the handle and hurried inside.
Miss Ursula had already ascended the narrow staircase, which rose up past the great oil painting of the three sisters, to where a damask curtain was draped over the entrance to their apartment. Taking the steps two at a time, Edie capered after her.
In the Websters' apartment, six tall candles burned in the ornate candelabra which stood upon the round, central table. Admiring herself in the mottled mirror, Miss Celandine had arranged a green, sequinned shawl around her sagging shoulders. A toothy grin smoothed the old woman's crabbed lips as she tilted her head from left to right, assessing the effect that the spangling cloth had upon her reflection.
'Do you like it, Veronica?' she addressed the empty room. 'Such a day I've had. So many handsome gallants wishing to dance with me. I declare I shall have to look my very best tomorrow, dear. You will too; they asked where you were—
they did.'
Bundling the shawl about her head so that only her dark, bright eyes peeped out through a twinkling gash, she thought how mysterious and alluring she looked and twittered girlishly.
'What a party it will be,' she rattled on, unwrapping the fabric and tying the corners under her chin like a glamorous headscarf. 'You mustn't be jealous if I get asked to dance more often than you. It's not my fault I'm popular—it isn't, it isn't.'
Framed by the green, glinting sequins, Miss Celandine's brown, wrinkled face was speckled in lustrous dots and she was pleased to see how well they detracted from the upturned, bulbous blob of her nose.
Just then, Edie Dorkins burst in and Miss Celandine struck a wobbling pose so that the girl could praise and flatter her. But Edie barely looked at the old woman. The incorrigible child was staring about the poky little room as though searching for something and not paying her any attention at all.
'Where's Ursula?' the impudent girl demanded.
Miss Celandine decided to give her a second chance and revolved prettily to give Edie that extra nudge of encouragement.
'Where is she?' the waif snapped. 'Stand still, Celandine, an' take that daftness off yer 'ead.'
'Well!' the old woman cried, her grace and poise deflating as she tore the shawl away and threw it at the little savage. 'Oh, you're so rude and spiteful! I shan't talk to you ever again—I won't, I won't!'
Edie ignored her wounded ramblings and ran around the attic room looking behind the armchairs and in the cupboards. Plopping herself down on to a cushion which exploded with dust at the violence of her descent, Miss Celandine folded her arms and pouted peevishly.
'Where did she go when she came in?' Edie pressed, when it became obvious that there was nowhere Ursula could be hiding.
Miss Celandine turned her face to the wall. 'Not talking to you,' she said petulantly.
Edie scowled and gave one of the old woman's plaits a sharp tug. A shrill howl blasted through the attic and Miss Celandine buried her head in the mildewed velvet of her dress.
'Not fair!' her muffled voice whined. 'That hurt. It's not fair—it isn't, it isn't. Ursula hasn't been in here, she hasn't—has she, Veronica?'
Edie's forehead creased all the more and she ran back to the doorway. Yanking its damask curtain aside, she glared out suspiciously. The narrow flight of stairs leading down to The Tiring Salon was deserted.
'Not a sign of her,' Edie murmured.
Chapter 9 - Tick-Tock Jack
The countless spires which jabbed up from the turreted roofs of The Wyrd Museum seemed to puncture the low, oppressive clouds, and cold airs flooded down to whisk the weather vanes and tousle the feathers of the raven who perched upon the topmost spike.
With his head pulled into his hunched shoulders, Quoth trilled despondently and gave a dispirited sniff. Forbidden to sleep in the children's bedroom, the living room or the kitchen, only the bathroom of the caretaker's apartment had remained for him in which to rest his weary wings.
A contented hour had passed when everyone snuggled into their beds. Quoth had made himself more than comfortable on a large towel he dragged down into the trough of the bath and was soon fast asleep.
Yet Brian Chapman could find no peace, for the bird's slight snoring was amplified by the bath. When he could endure no more of those uncanny, echoing peeps, he opened a window and jostled the startled raven outside.
Stupefied and baffled by this brusque awakening, Quoth found himself expelled into the walled courtyard at the rear of the museum. Fluttering forlornly at the windows, like a huge ragged moth tapping against a lantern, he pecked at the panes, but Brian Chapman refused to let him back in.
Quoth flew to Neil's bedroom window, but his master was sound asleep and so the raven tried to nestle upon the sill. But the ledge was too narrow and after a few teetering minutes, he judged that not even a starved sparrow could be comfortable there.
Up to the roof of The Wyrd Museum he soared in a wide, climbing spiral and cawed his unhappiness across the chimneys of Bethnal Green. Feeling sorry for himself, the raven swooped through the slate-covered canyons and gullies, seeking for a roost. But all the best perches, which were shielded from the wind, were already taken by a swarm of dirty pigeons.
Up around the turrets and spikes Quoth circled, until he finally alighted upon the highest spire. The bump on his head stung in the cold and his tattered feathers were scant insulation against the cutting breeze. Shivering, he told himself that he if could only wait until the morning, then his beloved master would call for him and all would be well.
All around, Bethnal Green glittered in its rest. Tower blocks checkered the night with small, bright squares and the noise of the late traffic was borne to him on the chill breeze. Glancing at the ground far below, Quoth wondered what would happen if he fell whilst sleeping, then he stiffened and his eye opened wide.
Down in the lane, a river of mist was moving.
Directed by some guiding power, the curdling vapour poured into the litter-strewn alleyway in front of the museum, where it mounted into a swirling cloud.
'Memory...' came a sibilant hiss inside the raven's head.
The bird trembled. That voice reached deep inside his decayed brain, to those vague, remote images he preferred to leave buried with his former existence.
Within the rolling smoke, a hooded shape began to form and Quoth whimpered piteously.
'Behold!' he croaked in a small, fear-cracked voice. 'The God of the Gallows hath come.'
From the thick, heaving fog, the shrouded figure of Woden stepped and the dark shadows beneath his concealing hood stared up at the roof where the raven quivered and shook.
'Will you hearken to me, my true, trusted companion?' he called.
Quoth gripped the spire more fiercely than before and, although he felt faint at heart, he gritted his beak and made no reply.
'Your master is here to receive you back into his service,' the commanding whisper told him. 'When I attempted to recall you and your brother from the corruption of death, I had not the power to restore both. The Witches of the Wood completed the task I had commenced. But at what cost to your sanity, my faithful advisor? I know the tumult that burns within you, I know the war which rages in your damaged mind.'
Quoth squeezed his eye shut and tucked his head underneath his wing. But he could not evade those insistent, compelling words that drummed inside him.
'Thought, your brother, is dead once more and from that gulf I cannot deliver him again. But you, Memory, I can bring peace to your divided reason. My arts will repair the cunning intellect you once possessed.'
Flustered and frightened, the raven fanned his feathers and peeped through the spaces of his outspread wing. 'Verily this white-livered rascal doth lack the menseful load,' he called wretchedly. 'Yet I wouldst rather a small fire to warm me than a great one to burn me.'
A laugh of recognition issued from the shadows beneath Woden's cowl, but the sound was unpleasant and needling.
'So!' he declared. 'Not all is forgotten. Still you speak in those ridiculous mottoes which so infuriated your brother. Assume your rightful place by my side, Memory, and united we shall vanquish the Nornir.'
Quoth clicked his tongue whilst his impaired mind strove for something to say. "Tis better to live in low degree than high disdain,' he managed at last.
'And better to bow than break?' the hooded figure retaliated sharply. 'Don't fire those absurdities at me. Better alone than in bad company—is that what you would tell m, who raised you from a fledgling. Can you reject your Captain so easily? Would you spurn your true lord?'
Quoth projected his beak through the scruffy feathers and nodded feebly. 'This pot-headed marplot hath a fresh, magnolious master,' he announced. 'Memory, thy felonious vassal didst perish and shalt ne'er take wing no more. Hurroosh for that!'
‘I warn you, Memory,' came the severe, cautioning hiss, 'be not hasty in this. Are you so mad you would side with the Spinners of the Wood against me—I
who hung for nine nights upon Yggdrasill?'
Shuddering in his quills, the raven squawked miserably. 'Depart this world, oh jargoozling shade! This cockalorum, craven cove hath no desire to heed thy honeyed distorts.'
Alarmed by the brash insolence of his own words, Quoth withdrew his beak and, in the alleyway, the mist curled about the dark folds of the figure's cloak.
'Because of the great love I bore you,' Woden uttered coldly, ‘I forgive you this once. Three times I swore I would appeal for your return. This has been the first.'
Raising a wizened hand, the cloaked figure pointed an accusing, bony finger at the woe-filled bird and, in a chilling whisper, pronounced a terrible warning.
'Twice more will I visit you,' he vowed. 'If my lieutenant returns to me, then he shall be all that he was and more. Yet if you flout my invitation a second time, Memory, then my clemency will be sorely strained. On that occasion, if you persist in this imbecilic attachment to your new master—then a forfeit must be paid.'
Quoth nearly dropped from the perch in fright, for Woden's voice growled with menace and the raven knew that the threat would indeed be carried out if he refused again. Shifting uneasily, he gazed down and the sinister figure continued his decree.
'Should there be a third instance,' he snarled, 'you will be at the brink. If your ingratitude and folly deny me then, you will pay the ultimate price. Do your rusted wits understand my meaning?'
The raven gave a hopeless cheep and his wings drooped at his side.
'Quail and think on my words,' Woden declaimed, the fog creeping up around him again. 'Though I would rejoice in your company, there are others only too eager to obey my bidding. Already there is one I have chosen and I go now to recruit him into my service.'
