Tales From The Wyrd Museum 3: The Fatal Strand Read online

  Puffing and blowing, the old man stared at the weapon before him and drummed his fingers upon the table.

  'How are you feeling?' Neil asked.

  Mr Pickering coughed politely. 'Been better,' he confessed. 'Feel as if I'd gone three rounds with a tiger myself. Well, lad, what a nasty little object this is and no mistake.'

  Leaning back, he eyed the spear a little longer. 'I've never come across so hideous a thing,' he said gravely. 'Death and ruin crawl all over it. Where did you get it?'

  'Jack Timms had it,' the boy answered. 'We... we saw him just before.'

  The ghost hunter raised his eyebrows then nodded with understanding. 'That makes sense,' he declared. 'The spear has a positive thirst for blood. It would suit that villain down to the ground.'

  'That's why I brought it to you,' Neil told him. 'If you could keep and guard it, then Tick-Tock won't be able to use it again. You're the only one I can trust.'

  'I'd best put the wretched object out of harm's way, then,' Austen Pickering muttered. 'Although will anywhere be safe enough?'

  'How do you mean?'

  The old man shook his head and, in a solemn, warning voice, said. ‘I learned a great deal from that unholy relic. But the one thing that sticks out strongest in my mind is this one simple, yet awful, fact: I was wrong, that time when I said you had nothing to fear from the departed. I was going by all the other investigations I've done. This building isn't like them—it's unique, and therein lies the danger.'

  'What are you saying?'

  'Before too long,' the ghost hunter murmured as he pointed at the spear, 'this profane bit of goods will be used. I know, I felt it. The murderous appetite will be appeased. Pretty soon that blade will kill again.'

  In the unsettling hush which followed, Quoth squirmed and pulled his head into his shoulders whilst Neil could only look at the spear and wonder. 'Do you know... who?' he finally managed to utter.

  Mr Pickering shook his head. 'Only that it's someone under this roof, that's all I could tell. But it's enough, don't you think?'

  'Then Dad's right,' the boy said. 'We should get out. While we still can.'

  'Amen to that!' Quoth crowed eagerly.

  'I'll get going then,' Neil announced, edging towards the door. 'I've got to talk to Dad.'

  The old man waved him away. 'You do that,' he called. 'Probably a good idea to leave this place far behind.'

  'What about you?'

  'A good general doesn't desert the field,' Mr Pickering answered confidently. 'There's still too much to do. I'll be careful, don't worry. Remember, if you need me—I'll be right here.'

  His thoughts churning, Neil took Quoth out of The Tiring Salon and Austen Pickering covered the spear with his handkerchief. Then, glancing quickly at his tape recorder, the ghost hunter grumbled in annoyance and snapped his fingers. ‘I didn't catch any of that, either!' he rebuked himself. 'Come on, Austen, what are you thinking of?'

  Disturbed by what the old man had told him, Neil tramped down the stairs in silence. On his shoulder, Quoth sought for ways to lighten his master's sombre mood, but nothing he could say had any effect and he sighed wistfully, looking forward to the time when the museum would be only a memory. Away from this place there would be no more visits from Woden, no difficult choices to make.

  It was only when they reached the main hallway that Neil was shaken from his thoughts. Stumbling from the stairs, he looked up at the empty wall where the watercolours used to hang and cried out in fear.

  Startled, Quoth gazed up at the blank space but could not decipher the clumsy, scrawling letters that he saw written over the panelling.

  'It's insane,' the boy breathed fearfully. 'Who's doing this?' Dragging his eyes from the fresh graffiti, he glanced around nervously, then pelted through the corridor towards the caretaker's apartment.

  A still calm reclaimed the entrance hall and even when a tall, elegant figure came gliding down the stairs, the uncanny peace was not disturbed.

  With her hand upon the banister, Miss Ursula Webster looked up at the childish scribbling and a curious, distracted expression modelled her fine features. Surveying the broken picture frames that littered the hall, an idiotic giggle suddenly sprang from her lips and, clapping her hands, she roughly dragged her fingers through her hair, snapping the fastenings of the jet beads which twined about her curls. In a cascading deluge, the glittering stones rattled and spilled down the staircase.

  A foolish smile spread over her finely-boned face as she watched their clattering progress. Then her arched brows twitched and the childish grin was banished from her mouth. Clasping her hands together, Miss Ursula pressed them to her chin and her slender frame shook uncontrollably, racked with dreading despair.

  'Is it with me already?' she implored the shadows, her eyes wet and glistening. 'Is the thief come to burgle my sanity? Give me one more day—that's all I need. One more day—I beg you.'

  Standing there, her silhouette trembling, the eldest of the Fates shed resentful tears and The Wyrd Museum eased itself into another long night.

  Chapter 16 - Memory Recalled

  True to his word, Brian Chapman had packed all of Neil's belongings into boxes by the time his frightened son returned. The boy readily agreed to their leaving, but only if the raven could accompany them. The discussion was abandoned, however, the moment the caretaker noticed the wound on Neil's side.

  Naturally, his son did not want to tell him how it had happened, but Brian was so insistent that in the end he was compelled to. To Neil's amazement his father believed him. When the shallow gash was cleaned and bandaged, Brian urged the boy to get a decent night's rest, promising that they would decide about Quoth in the morning.

  Having elected to remain outside the apartment this night, thereby avoiding any midnight expulsion, Quoth made himself comfortable in The Fossil Room. Constructing a nest from Austen Pickering's socks, he sat within one of the ghost hunter's suitcases and fluffed out his feathers. Woden could hunt for the raven outside the building all night and he would not find him. The second visitation would not occur and no forfeit would be paid.

  Now, his bald head lolling to the side and making faint piping sighs, Quoth drew his wings a little closer about him and dozed fitfully. Into the exquisite, welcoming embrace of sleep the raven eventually tumbled, sinking far into that voluptuous balm of oblivion where his malformed mind drifted over a sluggish sea.

  Snug within his woollen nest, the concerns and fears of the day lifted from his face and tootling snores gruntled from his beak.

  With creeping stealth, a delicious warmth infiltrated The Fossil Room, encroaching purposefully over the cabinets, until at last it inched over the slumbering Quoth. The bird mumbled with languorous contentment as he became immersed in luscious summer heat.

  Basking luxuriantly, he buried his head a little deeper into his wing, for sunlight was beating down upon him and excited voices were mingled with the neighing of horses. Brighter the day blazed and Quoth stirred with reluctance. Yawning and stretching his wings, the raven lazily clicked his tongue then, with a great effort of will, forced his eye open.

  The fierce intensity of the noonday sun seared his sight and the unexpected shock of it caused him to dive back into his wings once more. Then, when the impossibility of the situation dawned on him, Quoth made a peculiar gobbling cry and parted his feathers to peep out.

  Gone were the cupboards and counters of The Fossil Room—in fact the entire building had disappeared. A beautiful cerulean sky stretched all the way to the wooded horizon and, before him, Quoth beheld a verdant meadow, foaming and frothing with golden buttercups and intense scarlet poppies. Yet this luxuriant Eden, where the seeding grasses swayed in the refreshing, perfumed breeze, was disturbed by a strident clapping.

  Turning his head, the raven gave a honk of astonishment. 'Yea,' he murmured hoarsely, 'beauty is soonest blasted.'

  As far as his eye could see, utterly filling the field behind him, were row upon row of high, round tents. A
bove each one a dark green banner fluttered, and it was this flapping clamour that had so assailed his hearing.

  Doubting his senses, Quoth blinked and shook his head, but the incredible scene was still there when he looked again. It was the encampment of an immense army and he was sitting just within the defensive ditch and ramparts that had been dug around it.

  Rising upon his scrawny legs, Quoth discovered that the sock nest and suitcase had also vanished and he had been sleeping inside an empty saddlebag. Stumbling from the capacious, leather bunk, he gaped at the spectacle before him.

  All about these canvas shelters, tall spears, glaives and cruel-looking halberds porcupined from the ground, and herds of horses stamped their hooves whilst esquires and grooms attended them. Every tent was dyed a uniform dark red but, above each entrance, the badge of the lord or knight within was clearly visible upon a wide standard. Into the distance the assembled host stretched and a forgotten memory kindled in the raven's addled brain.

  "Tis said that much abides behind what the fool thinketh,' he muttered. 'Yet what of thee, Quoth? What gold grains doth glint in the dry bed of thy parched reason? Assuredly this site is known unto thee. Verily, hither thou hast sported awhiles.'

  Ransacking his wits, the raven endeavoured to remember. Surely he had been here before? This was a place he recognised. But, try as he might, he could not recollect either its name or his reason for being here. Aggravated with himself and impatient to learn more, he strutted cautiously through the grass, passing between the outlying defences, fascinated by everything he encountered.

  The preparations for a great battle were certainly under way, for carefully tended weapons were everywhere he looked. Quivers were stuffed with green-feathered arrows, crossbows strung, shields and armour brightly polished and coats of burnished mail gleamed in the dazzling sun. On all sides voices shouted as foot soldiers were drilled and made ready. From somewhere in the camp the clanging chime of a smithy rang out, tolling like the bell of war, and amongst the din came the noise of the grinding wheel where long knives were being sharpened. Astonished, Quoth marvelled at how familiar and comforting he found the music of those sounds.

  Pressing on, the countless horses he espied were already geared in blood-coloured pageantry and, over the tops of the cone-shaped awnings, behind the streaming pennons, reared the forbidding engines of war.

  Siege towers, with their high scaffolds stark and black against the pure heavens, were coupled with the lofty arms of enormous catapults which cast long, sinister shadows over the crowded field. Seeing those mighty structures, Quoth cooed in delight and almost took to the air to soar and swoop about their beloved shapes.

  Abruptly, the raven upbraided himself, questioning where these emotions were stemming from. Yet he could not interrogate and examine his thoughts for long, for at that moment a shadow approached and he scuttled quickly beneath a wagon loaded with supplies.

  A stranger dressed in peasant attire strode by, and without realising he was doing it, Quoth's face adopted a scornful sneer. 'Base-born churl!' he spat as the serf strode by.

  As soon as the derisive words were out of his beak, Quoth clamped it shut and staggered further into the wagon's shade, flabbergasted by his disdainful outburst. Fortunately, the man had not heard him, but Quoth's face clouded over.

  'What sorceries conspire in thy moribund faculties?' he berated himself. 'No vain lordling art thou.'

  When he was certain the coast was clear, the raven scampered out of hiding and proceeded with the utmost care, winding his way through the encampment.

  Ducking under guide ropes and hiding in overturned buckets, he made painful progress, but the wish to see more of this camp had become a consuming desire within him. With every prudent step, images and memories long discarded were dredged from the slurried sump of his mind and soon he began to predict what lay ahead: what standard he could expect to see waving above the tent around the next corner, and how many horses belonged to which knight.

  Intrigued by this singular foreknowledge, Quoth realised that his path was not an aimless wandering, that there was a purpose and direction to his waddling gait. By some instinct foreign to him, he was heading for somewhere in particular, and the deeper he stole into the army's base, the closer he drew towards the place where a pall of oily smoke rose into the sky.

  'Yet whither this mooncalf is bound, he knoweth not,' he told himself.

  Into the very heart of the encampment he now advanced, where the tents were larger than any he had yet encountered and the armour richly embellished with precious metal set with shining gems.

  As he skirted round each one, the names of their noble occupiers popped unbidden into his mind, and an indistinct fear began to gnaw at him.

  'What gawk's errand be this?' he gabbled faintly. "Tis said the fool's heart lieth in his tongue. Yea, in thy case, thine feet also.' Engrossed in the confusion of his thoughts, the raven neglected to look where he was going and, before he could stop himself, blundered over a large, steel-clad foot.

  With a squawk of dismay, Quoth toppled head over tail. When he glanced upwards, he was horrified to see a fierce-looking, red-bearded knight glaring down at him. The imposing, powerfully-built man was in the middle of being dressed for battle. His young esquire was fastening his armour about him, and he too stared down at the floundering bird, who quacked and bleated ridiculously as he wriggled to right himself.

  At once the knight's countenance grew stern. His gauntleted hand waved to his attendant who hurriedly passed him his glittering sword. Grasping the weapon tightly, the man raised it and, feeling the shadow fall upon him, Quoth ploughed his beak into the soil and covered his head with his wings, expecting to be sliced in two.

  'My Lord,' a gravel voice proclaimed. 'What is thy bidding?'

  More astonished to find that he was still alive, Quoth lifted his head and spat out the clump of earth he had inadvertently gouged from the ground.

  'Command me, Lord Memory,' the voice spoke again. 'What counsel would you give a loyal subject?'

  Rolling backwards, the raven suddenly realised that the knight was addressing him and, to his bewilderment, discovered that the intimidating, half-armoured man was now kneeling in subjugation before his prostrate and absurd self.

  'My sword is always in your service,' the knight vowed. 'Tell me, will our forces win the day? 'Tis rumoured that the ravens who die not have the gift of foresight. Speak unto me—will I fight valiantly and with honour?'

  Quoth picked himself up and struggled for something to say. But the words never came for, in that one blinding moment, he understood and remembered all. Without a second thought for the knight's concerns, the raven leaped away from him and charged around the tent until his sparkling eye saw that which he had come to find.

  There, in the centre of the vast encampment, was the wide clearing he knew would be there and, standing before a great bonfire, casting herbs into its heart, was a tall, sable-cloaked man wearing a silver helm over his long, flaxen hair.

  'Mine Captain!' the bird cried in exultation. 'Mine most honoured Master! To thee, mine Lord, to thee!'

  Into the air the raven raced, sweeping high above the crowded tents and rippling banners until the clearing appeared as a wide circle below him. Then, with a crowing yell of jubilation, he plummeted down in a whirling spiral.

  Through his feathers the hot, funnelling air rushed and, as he dived swiftly down—blasting through the climbing column of black smoke which coiled up from the burning wood—a dramatic change transfigured the scraggy-looking bird. All that was Quoth, and all that he would later become, was cast away.

  Over his bald scalp, sleek black plumage appeared. The ragged primaries of his wings became elegant and lustrous once more and, in the shrivelled socket of his dead eye, there now glittered a bright and cunning intelligence.

  Below him on the ground, the young figure of Woden, with a second raven perched upon his cloaked shoulder, raised his eyes to the dark, invigorated speck that came
zooming from the rising reek of the flames and smiled in greeting.

  'Hail, Memory!' he called as the raven wheeled about above him, to alight expertly upon his vacant shoulder. 'We did wonder what had become of you, your brother and I.'

  The other raven gave an acknowledging croak. 'Great wast thy carousing this ender night, brother mine,' he chided. 'Doubtless some ditch didst thou find for thy roosting?'

  Regarding him with his restored vision, Memory emitted a scornful cackle. "Tis better to be envied than pitied, oh Thought, most ardent and solemn sibling. What drear revels didst thy stale humour nullify?'

  'Thou wouldst make a mock of this day of high import!' his brother rasped accusingly. 'Afore the cockcrow I didst rise and here art thou, come belated and dilatory, past the hour of shortest shadow.'

  Memory snorted. 'Best late ripe and bear, than early bloom and blast,' he cawed.

  'Peace, my friends,' their master intervened. ‘I will not hear your grudges this day. Come, Thought, forgive your brother—last night there was cause for the feasting. There are still some hours till dusk and then to a bitter contest do we ride. Resent not the pleasures of our loyal forces; for many they will prove their last.'

  Thought hunched his wings and bowed his flat head before Woden's rugged face. 'Allfather,' he spoke in a less harsh tone, 'forgive thy lieutenant. He is beset with doubt and portent this day.'

  'Is it possible you harbour misgivings as to the outcome of the battle?' his master asked. 'Every omen is with us.'

  The raven shifted uneasily. 'And yet,' he began, 'who hath measured the strength of the witches in yonder wood? 'Tis many years since the daughters of Askar didst ride from the fray when their mother fell before the ogres of the first frost. What forces are theirs to wield now?'

  'Only the descendants of those who would not heed my summons,' Woden told him. 'The ragtaggle company of those still loyal to the Royal House. Have faith in my wisdom, Thought. Did I not hang upon Yggdrasill? Did I not attain Godhead? Against me the Nornir will fall and the end of their tyranny will come to pass. Man will be free to choose his own destiny once again and no more will we be compelled to dance to Urdr's tune. Her Loom will be thrown down and the webs of Fate burned in the fires.'