Tales From The Wyrd Museum 1: The Woven Path Page 4

  THE REMAINS OF THE FIRST IMAGE FASHIONED BY PUMIYATHON, WHICH ASHTOROTH DID ENTER AND WHICH CAUSED MUCH TERROR TO THE PEOPLE OF PAPHOS.

  'Weird,’ he mumbled; yet as he cast his gaze around the oak panelled room, Neil discovered many more peculiar artefacts.

  Within the nearest cabinet and suspended on plaited threads like a ghastly display of ghoulish bobbing apples, was a row of shrunken, human heads. The boy studied these macabre items closely and shuddered with delight at the shrivelled features. Yet beneath each of them was a lengthy description of who the person was, how he had died and the names of those who had ritually murdered him.

  Neil's fascination ebbed as he started to read the detailed text—and he began to feel slightly sick. A shrunken head was just a shrunken head, an object so alien to him that he never connected it with a real living person. Yet when he learned the names of those tribesmen—how they had lived and the names of each member of their family—he turned away, ashamed of his previous mawkish interest.

  Instinctively, he walked towards the windows, for the daylight was beginning to dim and he couldn't bear to be lost in the shadows that were welling up in the corners of the room.

  Passing another display case, he paused and frowned when he peered within.

  The exhibit was a large, irregular globe of ancient and crackling leather; it resembled an old-fashioned football, only three times the size.

  THE EYE OF BALOR THE FOMORIAN, SLAIN BY LUGH IN THE BATTLE OF MOYTURA THE NORTHERN. MAY THE SALVE REMAIN LOST AND LONG MAY THE EYE BE AT SLEEP.

  ‘What a load of old rubbish,’ he said to himself.

  The next cabinet was much smaller and contained a golden necklace, its unwieldy locket claiming to hold the heel bone of Achilles.

  'This is getting loonier,’ Neil breathed, moving on to a neat array of frog skeletons, lovingly laid out upon a cushion of emerald velvet and with silver bells tied about their legs.

  'There's a set of cutlery on show over there as well—what on Earth for? It isn't made of gold or silver, just ordinary. I suppose it'll claim that Alfred the Great ate those burnt cakes with them,’ he thought.

  On his way to examine this mediocre addition, the boy noticed a tall cabinet set slightly apart from the others, its three glass sides draped with a black cloth.

  Curious, he forgot about the cutlery and ambled over to this new find. Carefully, he parted the material and peered inside.

  Upon a bed of straw was a small wooden casket and the sight of it both repelled and enthralled him.

  It was black with age and intricately carved with esoteric, Eastern-looking letters, twining round the sides. The curved lid was sealed tight with lumps of brown wax, but sprawled across the top was the image of a hideous creature, with a large head in which two narrow eyes glittered, inset with tiny red stones. Sharp slivers of bone created needle-like teeth in the widely-grinning mouth and rising from the low forehead was a pair of silver-pointed horns.

  Neil grimaced and pulled more of the curtain aside as he searched for the caption that accompanied this new horror.

  FINAL RESTING PLACE OF BELIAL—ARCHDUKE OF DEMONS.

  'Is that all?’ he thought, disappointed. ‘Isn't there anything else?’

  Apparently there was not and he let the black drapes fall back into place, feeling cheated.

  From outside the building there came suddenly a fervent clanking and he raced over to the window to discover the cause.

  Below him, Neil could see the cheerless courtyard he and Josh had played in but was surprised to discover that the boarded gateway had been thrust open and a procession of people were trailing inside.

  ‘What's going on?’ he murmured. ‘I wonder if Dad knows about this?’

  His first thought had been that the museum was being burgled, but there were too many for that to be the case—criminals didn't march about in great gangs like this—besides, everyone was walking so slowly.

  They were certainly an odd-looking gathering. It was almost as if a double-decker bus had pulled up outside and was pouring out its passengers into the courtyard. Nobody appeared to belong with anyone else and Neil couldn't understand how or why they had assembled together in the first place, much less what they were doing down there.

  They were from all walks of life; business men in pinstripe suits, a window cleaner, two ordinary housewives, and there was even a traffic warden and an air stewardess. Yet the one aspect that each of these disparate individuals shared was that they were all bearing flowers.

  ‘Looks like a funeral,’ he thought, ‘or like when someone dies in an awful accident and they put floral tributes on the spot where it happened.’

  Intrigued, he watched as the last of them trailed inside, all but one solitary figure who remained in the street beyond, wrapped in a fawn mackintosh, staring at the unusual company through the thick lenses of his spectacles. There was something furtive, even sinister, about this grizzle-haired man, but before Neil could spend any time guessing who he was, his attention was distracted elsewhere.

  Below him, one member of the crowd was pushing to the front and Neil smiled in amusement at the outlandish costume this character was wearing.

  He was a short, gypsy-looking man, dressed in an old-fashioned and very worn frock coat. Patched at the elbow and round the pockets with squares of ill-matching cloth and studded with hundreds of badges, it was far too big for him and the tails almost dragged on the ground. In one hand he carried a battered top hat and in the other a bouquet of white carnations. The unusual man strode up to the drinking fountain where he reverently laid the flowers across the chipped china bowl.

  From the crowd, two solemn-faced men came bearing a large picture of a tree formed entirely from petals. This they laid by the pipe which fed the fountain, then knelt humbly before it, resting their chins on their clenched hands as if praying. A moment later, they were on their feet again and melted back into the crowd.

  In single file, the rest of the silent assembly stepped forward to lay down their tributes and, when the area below the fountain was a mass of colour, the gypsy stood before them and raised his hat in the air.

  ‘See, oh mighty Urdr!’ he yelled. 'There are still those who remember! We do not forget! We do not forget!’

  As one, the entire group lifted their heads and repeated his words over and over until the yard rang with their chanting.

  ‘Keepers of the well!’ the gypsy cried. 'That sacred and most hallowed of springs; fount of every destiny, where once Nirinel, the final root of Yggdrasill, the mighty world-tree was nourished, from whose branches were forged the loom of thy omnipotence, that which yoked both men and gods—accept this our tribute and be appeased. Reveal to us, the last descendants of Askar—the ancient ash land—your will and purpose. Is not the time that was set down in the young long ago, now upon us?’

  Gazing reverently up at the windows, he seemed, to Neil, to be searching for a sign, for some acknowledgement of his words. Around him the crowd grew silent as the chanting died on their lips and they all waited.

  Peering down at them, the boy thought the motley group appeared rather nervous and their anxiety mounted until he could almost feel their tension filling the courtyard.

  Then it was over; with a shake of his head, the gypsy averted his eyes.

  ‘Again there is no word,’ spoke one of the women. ‘Always we are ignored.’

  The gypsy looked at her sharply. ‘The time will come,’ he told her with absolute certainty. The day that we and our ancestors have long awaited, fast approaches.’

  ‘You've been saying that for the past seven years, Aidan,’ she said, ‘and not once have we, nor those who preceded us, seen anything.’

  'Then will you not be making the pilgrimage next year?’ he asked coldly. ‘Would you abandon them as have so many others? You know that they are our only hope, the only hope of everyone.’

  The woman looked shamefully at the ground and sniffed. ‘I will be here,’ she answered. ‘Always have my family
served the blessed weavers, I would not desert them now.’

  ‘Come then!’ the gypsy cried to everyone. ‘Let us be gone. Our part is done.’ With a final bow to the museum, he called, ‘As ever, we are ready and shall await the time when your resting is over. Till that glad day—may the waters guard and keep you.’

  At this, the crowd murmured their agreement. The gypsy placed the top hat on his head, led the way through the gates and each of them drifted back to their separate, everyday lives until the street beyond was empty—except for the grizzle-haired man in the mackintosh who stared at the museum for several minutes before turning and disappearing from sight.

  ‘Maybe everyone around here is cracked,’ Neil whispered to himself. ‘Either that, or they're related to the weirdy sisters.’

  ‘Yes, they are delightful!’ cried a voice directly behind him. ‘But no relation, I'm afraid.’

  With a yelp, the boy jumped and whirled round.

  ‘Oh my dear, did I startle you?’

  Chapter 4 A Voice In The Dark

  There stood Miss Celandine Webster. Arrayed once again in ruby velvet, with her faded golden plaits hanging on either side of her walnut-like face, the old lady was almost overcome with joy.

  ‘Did I creep ever so silently, like a teeny beetle?’ she asked Neil, hissing through her goofy teeth. ‘Did you not hear my feet tapping over the floor?’

  ‘No,’ Neil answered, disconcerted to observe that the barmy woman was not wearing any shoes and that her pale lilac stockings were full of holes. ‘I didn't hear a thing. Who were those people?’

  ‘I am so glad!’ she confided, ignoring the question. ‘I'm not supposed to be down here, you see. Ursula doesn't let me, she says I mustn't, but I can't help it.’

  Lowering her voice and padding a little closer to Neil, she roamed her bright black eyes around the room to see if anyone was listening, then added in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘I like to dance through the galleries. I simply cannot stop myself. It's so stuffy upstairs, you see, and Ursula bullies us most dreadfully.’

  Running her fingers over a case containing jars of pickled snakes, she stretched out like a sun-baked cat and dreamily laid her head upon the glass.

  ‘I adore this place,’ she confessed. ‘I know every corner, every surface, every dark chink. Much more than Ursula. She thinks that just because she's the eldest she knows best—but that isn't always true, is it? I know lots of things, lots of secret things, that she doesn't. Sometimes I come down here at night—I do, really I do and she isn't any the wiser. Never caught me yet and I've been doing it for ever so long now.’

  She giggled wildly, then straightened and began to slowly dust the case with the end of one plait, her glittering eyes fixed intently upon Neil.

  The boy began to feel uncomfortable and wanted to get away from this alarming old crone—there was no knowing what was ticking away in her jumbled-up mind.

  'They look different in the dark,’ she said abruptly.

  'They?’ Neil repeated. ‘Who does?’

  Miss Celandine spread her arms wide and danced round in a tight circle. ‘Everything does. My friends—I have friends in the night. They speak to me, Ursula would be very cross if she knew—she would, I know she would. She doesn't want me to have any friends, she never has. Poor Veronica and me have never been able to have any callers, not a one.’

  A self-pitying sob choked her speech and she stared morosely down at her big, dirty toe which was poking through her stocking.

  'There hasn't been a gentleman here for ever so long,’ she warbled. ‘No kind nobleman or gentle knight, no hero to climb the wall or slay the dragon. Not since the tapestry was ended, not since Ursula broke the loom and our labours were over.’

  Neil looked at her dubiously. Miss Celandine didn't seem very well, she had begun to sway and was constantly turning her head from side to side. ‘Are... are you all right?’ he asked. ‘Shall I fetch someone?’

  The old lady put a hand to her wrinkled temple. 'That was it,’ she uttered in a fretful moan, ‘that was the end, I was supposed to be the mother, wasn't I? Red for the mother, white for the maiden and black for the crone. That’s how it was supposed to be, and yet we all remained maidens, not just Veronica. The child I was supposed to bear, she who could assume the terrible burden and cast off our threads, was never born, so we too are doomed—just like the rest. But if Ursula had never used the loom then the root would have been destroyed and the end of light and life would have come all those years ago.

  ‘Now look at us, such is the price we have paid, the tapestry was never completed you see, and now I'm afraid it's too late. We have withered alongside the root. Ursula's waited too long—she has, she has. What if the child refuses to come to us? What if Ursula is mistaken and she isn't the One?’

  Neil began to edge towards the door. She had pulled a face that suggested she was about to cry and he had had quite enough of her. ‘I'll just go and see...’ he began but Miss Celandine gave a dismissive cry, then ran past him and squashed her nose flat against the window.

  ‘Did you see it?’ she demanded excitedly. ‘Did you see them?’

  The boy halted by the door. 'The people with the flowers?’ he ventured, trying to fathom where her derailed train of thought had leaped to now.

  ‘Yes!’ she cried, whipping round and holding out her hand for him to join her.

  Neil remained where he was.

  “Wasn't it grand?’ Miss Celandine gurgled, chewing the now dusty end of her plaited hair. ‘I knew they'd be here. Ursula said they wouldn't, she said they'd have forgotten but I knew they would. I told her so, I did, I did.’

  “Why did they do it?’ Neil asked, doubting if he'd be able to get a sensible answer from her. Why put all those flowers down there? What does it mean?’

  With her nose pressed firmly against the glass the old lady peered down at the mass of flowers in the yard below. ‘Because they remember,’ she said simply. ‘Ursula always says they won't be here and I always say they will, she thinks I don't know anything but I know enough to get away from her when I want to. You've seen me, you know I can.’

  “What does your other sister say about those people?’

  ‘Veronica?’ she cooed, tilting her head to one side. “Veronica says nothing, Veronica never even looks out of the window to watch them. She'd rather eat jam and pancakes—she adores jam and pancakes, I say they're too sweet but she won't listen—oh no, and Ursula lets her eat far too many. If I want anything I have to stamp and cry before she'll allow it, and even then...’

  A soft chuckle shook her velvet-covered shoulders as she tenderly stroked the windowsill. ‘But I watch them,’ she admitted. ‘I do and I know Ursula does when she thinks we're not looking. I've seen her smile, I have, I have. Do you know who those goodly folk are?’

  The direct question startled Neil. ‘No,’ he replied, hesitating for an instant, ‘but I should like to.’

  Miss Celandine left the window and hugged herself smugly. ‘Then I shan't tell you,’ she teased, ‘except to say that they were all... well-wishers, yes, that's it, ha ha! But this isn't why you are here, no, it isn't—not that.

  ‘First things first, you know. Another little task lies in wait for you, a most vital one. A long time has Ursula spent hatching and planning, oh yes, and now she's ready. Oh, but without me you couldn't do it and we would all be lost. Celandine is to be important again, like she was when the rhyme of the ash was first sung and the lords of ice and dark had been dispelled, when the first terrible strand was measured and spun and the four white stags still roamed about the pool. A new path is to be woven, the first web since the days of the encircling mists, and you shall be a part of it—enmeshed within the unyielding threads of-’

  ‘Celandine!’

  The old lady gave a horrified shriek and threw up her arms in fright.

  Neil turned his head and saw that Miss Ursula had entered through another doorway at the far side of the room and was striding sternly towards the
m.

  ‘She can't find me!’ Miss Celandine wailed, brushing past the boy and fleeing through the Egyptian Suite. ‘She never finds me—I'm upstairs with Veronica, I am, I am. I never told him about it, did I? I never breathed a word. I wouldn't do anything like that—oh no.’

  As the old lady's woeful voice trailed off into the distance beyond the next room, her sister approached Neil with an expression of severe reproof upon her gaunt face.

  ‘What did she say to you?’ Miss Ursula demanded. 'Why did you not hold her?’

  ‘She didn't say anything!’ Neil protested. ‘Nothing that made any sense anyway and I'm not catching hold of anybody!’

  The reproach faded on Miss Ursula's face and she managed a feeble smile. ‘Poor Celandine,’ she said almost compassionately, ‘she thinks I don't know that she flits about down here like some kind of ghost. By now she will be back upstairs cowering in her bed, trying to pretend that she has not been out of it all afternoon, and by nightfall that is what she will believe. I suppose it does no harm but I still worry. She is not strong.’

  ‘She nipped off pretty quick,’ Neil commented.

  The woman pursed her lips and smoothed the creases that had formed in the black taffeta of her gown. ‘So, Child,’ she began briskly, ‘I see you have found The Separate Collection. Does it interest you? It is the pride of the museum. In the old days children were not allowed to enter here and few adults could stomach it.’

  ‘Why? It's a bit odd but there's nothing too awful in here.’

  ‘Ah, it was larger then and the exhibits were more impressive, they were... fresher.’

  Neil didn't understand what that meant but then he had come to expect that with the Webster sisters.

  ‘How old is this place?’ he suddenly found himself asking. ‘How long have you been here?’

  Miss Ursula allowed her gaze to fall upon the courtyard before answering. ‘The museum is very ancient,’ she drawled, ‘there has always been a building here of one kind or another over the years but it has not always been a museum, you understand. No, this has known a legion of uses. My family has owned it for quite some time now and my sisters and I are very proud of it. Although architects despise the place because of its imperfections, they are the reasons for our unshifting devotion. It has been added to, you see. The building has changed with the ages, growing another room here, adding a window there, until it is as you see it now. I doubt if it will change much more, but we shall see—perhaps that will be after my time. Who knows?’