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

by Robin Jarvis

  The girl complied, her dirty hands looking tiny next to Miss Celandine's clumsy spades and as black as coal compared to Miss Ursula's pale, violet-veined skin.

  Miss Veronica drew a deep breath and lifted her face to the ceiling.

  ‘Let the measure find the one we seek and take us to him,’ she whispered.

  For several protracted minutes no one moved and Edie began to wonder if the sisters had fallen asleep. But gradually she became aware that the shadows were increasing and the sound of the rain pattering upon the window was fading.

  Absolute silence swamped the room and, from beneath the curtain, meagre chinks of drab light no longer crept over the threadbare carpet.

  Edie held her breath, for the only noise she could hear was that of her own breathing and still the darkness deepened.

  Then, very softly, Miss Ursula began to chant. ‘Aidan,’ she said. ‘Aidan, Aidan, Aidan.’

  Edie gasped, for the tips of her fingers were tingling and, when she stared down at the walking cane, the girl almost cried out in amazement. The black rod was glimmering. Within the polished wood, from the tip of the handle down to the silver banded stub, a faint green radiance was coursing through the grain.

  Swiftly the light welled up, shining into the four intent faces, and Edie marvelled.

  Directly opposite her, Miss Veronica's blanched skin looked even more ghastly than usual and her grubby white robe reflected the glare so brightly that it was painful to look on.

  Miss Celandine was so excited that her goofy teeth were biting her lower lip to keep herself from squealing in delight. Her bright eyes bulged beneath her wrinkled brows, whilst the magical light continued to shimmer and spill outward—spreading its vivid splendour like an ever-widening viridescent pool.

  Over the furniture the powerful, pulsing brilliance flooded, pushing the hollow shadows further and further back.

  ‘Aidan...’ Miss Ursula repeated, her gaunt features solemn and creased with concentration. ‘Aidan... Aidan.’

  At the quivering brink of the dazzling circle, the deep darkness swirled, pressing close to the apartment's confining walls as the light steadily increased in might.

  Steeped in the flaring heart of the lustrous, glistening beams, Edie shifted her gaze from the Websters and finally let out a desperate yet incredulous breath.

  The glare had moved right up to the walls, passing straight through them and beyond. They were no longer within the room and she almost pulled her hands from the walking cane in astonishment.

  Above her the ceiling had melted away, and the obscuring shadows churned wildly as they parted to reveal an open sky that was already growing dark with the approaching evening.

  The first of the early stars pricked out of the stretching heavens and Edie shook her head with disbelief as she lowered her eyes and saw a hilly landscape unfurl all around them.

  To her complete delight, she realised that she and the Websters were no longer within The Wyrd Museum.

  Chapter 8 - Aidan

  At the edge of a Somerset wood, three miles from Glastonbury, two vehicles were parked upon the grassy verge.

  The largest, a rusted, barely roadworthy coach, was over twenty years old. Most of its seats had been removed and replaced with mattresses, blankets, clothes, pots, pans, large water containers and those trinkets its owners could not bear to be parted from.

  In its former life, taking day trippers on seaside excursions, the coach had worn a sober cream and purple livery, but now its paintwork was a riotous, clashing multitude of garish flowers, rainbows and mandalas.

  Directly behind this emblazoned vision, a pale blue van was drab by comparison, but in the waning half light, as the wintry sun dipped behind the rim of the trees, even the coach's brash, declaiming colours appeared dim and grey.

  Around a small campfire a group of travellers discussed the days events, as they did every evening. To them, the area around Glastonbury was their spiritual home and they never journeyed far from its mystical influence. Unlike many of the other wayfarers and modern-day pilgrims who haunted the small town, those who travelled in Eden's Bus never marred the countryside with litter or provoked trouble with the locals.

  Upon the scattered rugs the five nomads laughed and chatted in light, happy voices whilst, nuzzling into their laps and lazing before the welcome flames, their two dogs—a honey-coloured labrador and a Jack Russell—lolled and panted.

  Usually three men and two women sat about the fire, but that night a fourth man had joined them and his unexpected arrival was the cause of glad celebration. In the company of their honoured guest there could be no sorrow or care.

  A mysterious figure who never stopped in one place for any length of time, flitting about the country like a jackdaw, their friend and mentor was known to them simply as ‘Aidan’. If he had ever possessed a surname, no one had heard it and his origins were equally enigmatic. He never mentioned his family and he was careful never to put down any permanent roots that might bind him to any particular place or person.

  Dressed in a baggy frock-coat of chocolate-coloured velvet, much patched about the pockets and elbows, he was a small, swarthy man who looked more like the traditional image of a gypsy than any of those around him.

  A ragged, scarlet neckerchief was tied loosely about his throat whilst, tilted far back upon his head, sat a battered top hat. Beneath its silken brim his long, dark hair trailed down past his shoulders. A dignified, finely sculpted nose jutted from his face, overshadowing his wide smiling mouth, and under his dark, bushy brows two grass-green eyes gleamed with both cunning and wisdom.

  To the oppressed and despairing, this strange little man with the persuasive voice and kindly face was a champion of their cause and everyone who spent any amount of time in his society respected and admired him.

  ‘So where have you been since we saw you last?’ queried one of the women, filling six mugs with homemade elderflower wine. ‘The grapevine's been very quiet concerning you since midsummer gone.’

  At her side Luke, her husband, passed the brimming vessels around and nodded in agreement. ‘But then it always is,’ he conceded.

  Aidan considered them both whilst he gratefully received the wine then, nursing the mug in both hands, waited it under his nostrils to savour the bouquet.

  ‘What I always say,’ he uttered at last, with a great, dramatic exhale, ‘is that no one brews a better elderflower than you, Rhonda.’

  The woman bowed in playful acknowledgement but she would not let him wriggle out of it that easily.

  ‘And there's no one like you for avoiding a question with flattery and playing the fool,’ she added.

  Aidan and the others laughed and the dogs pricked up their ears.

  The gypsy-looking man doffed his top hat at Rhonda. ‘I stand, or rather sit, corrected and chastised. Caught in the act of evasion, I must try and be cleverer about it from now on. I do hope I haven't lost the art altogether. I must practise my bamboozling, an hour a day at least. Tell me, about the wine, do you think the secret is in gathering the flowers at precisely the right moment? Or is the answer in the fermentation?’

  Luke raised his cup and took a sip, ‘Give it up, Rhon,’ he advised. ‘Aidan's business is just that. You can't squeeze him for news, no one ever can.’

  ‘I'm sorry,’ she sighed. ‘It's only because we miss him when he's away—don't we, Dot?’

  Her face partly hidden by a mug, the other girl gurgled a definite affirmation and Rhonda grinned.

  Aidan placed his own drink in the space between his crossed legs and curled the whiskers of his side burns around his fingers. ‘To answer you Rhonda, my little alewife,’ he began lightly. ‘I have been hither and yon as usual and tomorrow I shall be elsewhere, but for tonight I am here and that is good fortune enough for me.’

  ‘That doesn't stop us worrying about you,’ she remarked.

  ‘Worry about Aidan!’ cried a large, curly haired man upon whose lap the labrador rested its head. ‘You might as well
fret about the sun not rising or wonder when the rain will fall.’

  ‘My, my,’ Aidan spluttered in embarrassment. ‘What a testimonial, Patrick—and quite unmerited I might add. Any more of that and I shall have to find a bigger hat.’

  ‘What about a story then?’ asked the one who had not yet spoken. ‘Go on, Aidan, how about a tale—no a tune! That's it, give us a tune—we could all do with a pick-me-up.’

  ‘If you wish it, Owen,’ Aidan assented, nodding graciously as he reached into one of his bulging, capacious pockets. ‘Only an ill-bred, discourteous fellow with an adamantine heart could decline such a plea.’

  From the frock-coat he brought out a beautiful silver flute which, in the firelight appeared to be made of molten gold. Holding it delicately in his small, nimble hands he raised the instrument to his lips.

  ‘Play something lively like,’ Owen asked. ‘One of your own melodies. They're always the best, cheer me up they do.’

  With the flute still poised at his mouth, Aidan regarded the man and saw the strain revealed upon his face, then slowly he gazed around at each of the other travellers. Resting the flute across his knees he said, ‘I think the music can wait a mite longer.’

  His friends glanced nervously at him, but no one could meet Aidan's penetrating glance.

  ‘Which of you will tell me what is going on?’ he demanded in a gentle, yet impatient voice.

  Rhonda fidgeted and shrugged, feeling foolish. ‘It's nothing really,’ she began. ‘You'll think we're being so silly. Oh, Owen, did you have to go and give it away like that? Cheer you up indeed!’

  ‘But it isn't nothing, Rhonda!’ Owen answered forcefully. ‘You know it isn't.’

  The woman put her wine down and groaned. ‘Isn't it? I just don't know any more. Oh, Aidan, I'm sorry, we didn't want to bother you with our problems. It... it just seems so ridiculous. It's paranoia on our part that's all.’

  ‘Paranoia?’ Aidan's bright eyes narrowed and his swarthy face lost all trace of merriment. ‘But then,’ he deliberated, ‘I'd be pretty paranoid too if I'd spent the past few weeks around here.’

  The others looked up sharply.

  ‘Then you know already?’ Owen cried. ‘You see Rhonda, it is serious.’

  Aidan removed his top hat and set it upon the ground. ‘Only fragments and snatches of gossip,’ he replied, ‘that's all. But it was enough to set me worrying. Now tell me all you can.’

  ‘Difficult to know where to start,’ Rhonda's husband put in.

  ‘A little while before that car wreck,’ Owen said, ‘that's when it was.’

  The girl called Dot shuddered and held on to Patrick. ‘Utterly horrible that was,’ she murmured. ‘They never did find that young couple—utterly, utterly weird.’

  Aidan leaned forward, ‘I heard about that. The car was ripped open was it not? What else do you know?’

  ‘Just bits and pieces really,’ Rhonda admitted. ‘Nothing concrete—nothing we can explain. It's just—well it isn't the same around here any more.’

  ‘We've even been thinking of leaving,’ Luke confessed shamefully. ‘Moving on completely—after all this time. Dunno what we'll do or where we'll go, never thought I could live anywhere else.’

  ‘The whole atmosphere's different now,’ Dot insisted. ‘Utterly changed. I've never known the locals to be so rude and antagonistic—it's really, really unbearable.’

  Luke shook his head, ‘People always lash out when they're scared and outsiders are usually the first to feel it. Plus there's this weird sickness going around. I don't want Rhon to catch it.’

  ‘Nor Dot,’ agreed Patrick.

  Meditatively tapping his fingertips together, Aidan listened to their fears and his forehead furrowed so markedly that it seemed as if he had only a single eyebrow.

  ‘This curious malady,’ he began. ‘Are you saying it affects only the womenfolk?’

  Rhonda nodded, hugging herself in spite of the crackling fire and the thick woollen jumper she was wearing. ‘About ten of them last I heard,’ she said. ‘Too exhausted to do anything but stay in bed all day. Don't think the doctors know what it is. Dulcie Pettigrew came down with it first. When she does manage to haul herself out of bed she looks awful. What if it's in the drinking water?’

  ‘Then it's a very selective and discriminating little microbe,’ Aidan drawled sceptically. ‘But there's something else isn't there? I can see by Owen's face that there is.’

  Owen scratched the Jack Russell's ear before he answered. ‘The others think I'm barmy,’ he said. ‘But for the past few nights I've been aware of—well, I don't know how you'd describe it... evil, I suppose, though that sounds plain crazy.’

  ‘Evil is many things,’ Aidan commented softly and with an earnestness that was both startling and uncomfortable. ‘But it is never “crazy”. It always knows precisely what it is doing. Go on.’

  ‘Well, the dogs've noticed it, too. Cower under the bus they do. I've heard ‘em whinin’, I have—poor little blighters. There's summat right nasty out there in the dark. Summat I'd like to get a good distance away from.’

  Rhonda and the others looked at their guest in silence whilst the outlandish little man contemplated all they had said. Eventually he cleared his throat and, to their surprise, smacked his lips as he lifted the flute once more.

  ‘Well?’ Owen said, just as the man was about to play. ‘What do you think of it all? Are we plain bonkers or what? I thought you understood.’

  With the flute resting upon his bottom lip, Aidan gave him a solemn smile. ‘Oh, but I do, Owen, I do.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’

  ‘Oh,’ came the matter of fact reply, ‘I should get out of here as fast as you possibly can. The environs of Glastonbury have become a most dangerous and deadly place. Take my advice, pack up and go first thing in the morning—earlier if possible.’

  With that, he took a practised breath and from the flute there came a most beautiful, uplifting music that soared above the campfire and drifted high into the now star-crowded night.

  The travellers looked at each other in consternation, disturbed by their old friend's words. But as the delicious, meandering refrain played over them, the melody entered their hearts and minds, instilling peace and banishing their anxiety.

  Closing his gleaming eyes, his face a comforting picture of serenity, Aidan played on—quelling the qualms of these frightened people. Enchanted, they gazed into the flames, their thoughts conjuring up visions of a verdant land dappled by the emerald shade of a great and stately tree.

  Abruptly both the Jack Russell and the labrador jerked their heads away and, whimpering in fright with their tails fixed firmly between their legs, they bolted for the shelter of the coach.

  Completely absorbed in the music, Aidan continued, until a moment later when Owen let out a fearful shout.

  Aidan opened his eyes and stared at the man questioningly, but Owen was not looking at him, he was staring in disbelief at his friends—his mouth gaping wide.

  Curious, Aidan turned to them and the flute fell from his hands.

  Sitting before him, taking the places of Rhonda, Luke, Dot and Patrick, yet still arrayed in the travellers’ clothes, were three old women and a young girl.

  Immediately, the small man leapt to his feet and bowed low, the tails of his frock-coat flapping wildly behind him. He knew at once the identities of these three elderly ladies and although he had yearned for this moment throughout his entire life, he had never dared to hope it would come to pass.

  With the greatest of reverence he eyed them, but was too overcome to utter a sound except for a feeble, choking splutter.

  ‘Aidan!’ Owen cried, shattering the wondrous, worshipful moment. ‘What's happening? Who are they? Where are the others?’

  ‘Calm yourself,’ Aidan managed to say, mastering his tongue at last.

  ‘But they've... they've snatched their bodies! For pity's sake!’

  ‘Keep quiet, man! Show some respect.’
/>   Incongruously dressed in Rhonda's chunky sweater and jeans, Miss Ursula Webster paid Owen no heed but stared long and hard at the strange little man still bowing beyond the flames.

  ‘Oh, Ursula!’ Miss Celandine grumbled at her side as she flapped her hands within the long sleeves of Patrick's overcoat. ‘Why do Veronica and I always end up with the horrible clothes? Look at Edith, that charming dress is far too big for her but those pretty necklaces are so darling!’

  Aidan's sparkling eyes roved from sister to sister. Miss Veronica was wearing Luke's denim shirt and patterned waistcoat but in her gnarled hands she still carried the walking cane.

  She did not return his interested glance. Instead she looked about them, the high-pencilled eyebrows which always made her appear startled, trembling as somewhere deep down she thought she recognised the pleasing contours of this buttery land.

  Sitting alongside her, retaining her green pixie-hood but swamped by Dot's orange kaftan, Edie Dorkins chuckled at the sight of Aidan's awestruck face. Then twisted around in the voluminous garment—delighting in everything she saw.

  ‘You, you are most welcome here,’ Aidan stuttered, returning his gaze to Miss Ursula. ‘This is the highest possible honour—I cannot...’

  ‘Enough!’ the old woman said tersely. 'It is gratifying that you know who we are. Yes, there is much of Askar in you.’

  ‘How... how could I not recognise you?’ he gasped. ‘All my life I've waited...’

  Miss Ursula waved him into silence.

  ‘Listen closely to me, Aidan,’ she rapped sternly. ‘There is a task I wish you to perform.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘First, you must come to the museum without delay. There you will learn all you shall need to know concerning the high office which dire necessity compels me to command you to undertake.’

  ‘I... I will leave at once.’

  ‘You had better. Now we must be gone and return your friend's companions to him, before he catches any more flies in his gawking mouth.’

  Hearing this, Miss Celandine began to protest,

  ‘Oh, but we've only just arrived!’ she mewled.