by Robin Jarvis
Inside the coach, Dot shrank against Patrick, screwing up her face. The others, stricken into silence and inaction, could only watch as their friend was hauled upward, his legs kicking and flailing past the windows until they disappeared above and the glass was spattered with a crimson rain.
‘Owen...’ Rhonda mouthed. ‘Dear God, no... Owen! OWEN!’
Yet her grief was shortlived; for, in that terrible instant, the roof splintered and through the perforated metal, a dozen of the vicious, iron-hard talons came stabbing, curving in to grip and grasp.
Luke snatched up a stick, ramming it upwards at the nearest claw, savagely beating it with all his fear-fuelled strength.
Immediately Rhonda and Patrick joined him, using anything they could find as weapons—pans, brooms, bottles.
‘They'll not come in!’ Luke raged.
But the talons of the unseen enemy were strong and the creatures above ignored their fervent attempts, speaking to each other in harsh, repellent squawks.
Trembling all over, Rhonda threw down the broom handle she had taken for a weapon and slowly shook her head.
‘You're wasting your time,’ she murmured flatly.
Luke turned on her. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded. ‘Help us—we have to keep them out!’
The woman held up her hand for them to stop. ‘They don't want to get in,’ she. stated in a parched whisper. ‘If they did, they'd have done it by now.’
‘What then?’ Dot asked, cringing against the bunk. ‘You saw what happened to Owen.’
Suddenly the coach buckled and a creaking groan rifled along its rusting bodywork.
Rhonda rushed to the window and stared outside as the vehicle rattled and strained. ‘No, please,’ she uttered.
‘What now?’ Patrick asked.
She did not need to answer, for as soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew.
With a dreadful teetering roll and a sickening pitch to the front which sent them reeling once more, the coach was lifted off the ground and the stunned travellers saw the trees beyond the windows fall away.
Above them, mingled with the strident clamour of the ghastly voices, they could hear the steady beat of great wings, whilst below the ground dropped sharply.
Up from the grassy verge Eden's Bus was plucked, up into the cold wintry air, rising steeply with each downward sweep of powerful primary feathers. To the tops of the trees the unwieldy vehicle was lifted, until it soared above the roof of the bare, leafless wood and beyond.
Higher the dark, winged shapes hoisted it, their grotesque forms obliterating the stars, whilst the heavens rang with their awful screeching.
‘This isn't happening, right?’ Dot mewled, staring down at the shrinking landscape beneath them. ‘It's just utterly impossible.’
The wood appeared tiny now, like a clump of withered flowers in a garden border, and the meandering network of roads seemed like the shimmering trails left by slugs.
Rhonda glanced across the night, to where a curiously shaped hill reared in the far distance, and the woman smiled in spite of her fear to think it would be one of the last sights she would ever see.
Then it happened.
Above them the shrill cacophony of shrieks and squawks changed into a vile skirling laughter that was filled with scorn and hatred.
The flight had come to an end.
The curved talons were withdrawn from the roof and the coach toppled downward, turning over in the rushing air as it plunged and plummeted through the night.
*
For a moment, the Somerset wood knew peace. High above, the stridulous laughter had grown silent and the black winged shapes veered across the sky, not bothering to view the evil they had done.
Then, with a thunderous crash, the coach came ripping through the tree tops and with a deafening roar it pounded into the ground.
A dull boom rent the night as the petrol tank exploded and, before long, most of the wood was ablaze.
Chapter 13 - Memory Forgotten
Before either his brother or father were awake, Neil Chapman stole out of the caretaker's apartment and crept through the various galleries and collections towards the main entrance hail and the staircase.
The Wyrd Museum was silent as a tomb and the sound of his footsteps chimed off the polished floors as he roamed through the ancient building. The doom laden words of the self-proclaimed ghost hunter he had met the previous evening had troubled him all night.
Climbing the first step, the boy noticed that a section of the panelled wall was missing and, in the dank space beyond, he could see a flight of stone stairs descending into darkness.
Neil wavered, wondering whether to go exploring, but he guessed that Miss Ursula Webster was bound to be down there and she would not appreciate his inquisitiveness.
Tapping the bannister with his fingers, he resolved to complete what he had set out to do that morning and hurried to the first floor.
Into the room which had once housed The Separate Collection he went and began looking inside the chests and boxes.
Presently, he found what he searched for—the contents of the cabinet which had held Ted for over fifty years, and a sad smile passed over Neil's face as he removed each item and studied them carefully.
There was a stirrup pump and bucket, a handbell, a shovel, yellowing leaflets and ration books, a gasmask and a pile of old comics and film magazines.
‘Wherever you are Ted... or Angelo,’ the boy murmured, ‘I hope you found peace.’
Taking a deep breath, he shoved his hands in his pockets then kicked a broken piece of wood across the floor and decided to return downstairs. Another day of school beckoned and he was already dressed in his uniform.
Yet as he ambled back towards The Egyptian Suite, a movement caught his eye and he spun on his heel excitedly.
‘Ted?’ he cried. ‘Is that you? How did you get back?’
Running over to a large tea-chest he looked inside, then straightened his back in astonishment.
Quivering and jerking, as though tugged by an invisible thread, the damaged stuffed raven which Miss Veronica had wept over was struggling upon its back—feebly waving one wing and kicking its legs in the air.
Neil stared at the thing in wonderment. The bird had regenerated itself, yet the creature was still impaired—only one eye had reformed while the other remained a sunken knot of withered skin. Upon its flat head the feathers had not yet grown and so it continued to look moth-eaten and bald, and the right wing hung limp and broken at its side.
Opening the black, feather-fringed beak, the raven let out a plaintive cheep, then shook its head. The lower part of its jaw gave a faint click and locked open so that it was stuck in a painful looking yet silent howl.
Writhing uncomfortably, it squirmed and clawed at its mouth, bashing its head against the side of the tea-chest until the beak snapped shut once more and the one eye fluttered closed in blissful relief.
Finally the bird became aware of the boy peering in at it and vainly attempted to right itself, like an upturned beetle.
‘Don't worry,’ Neil said gently. ‘I won't hurt you. But if I help you to stand, you'd better not bite me.’
Slowly he slid his hand beneath the feathers and lifted the raven so that the scaly feet were standing upon the edge of the chest.
The creature shook itself and, with its single eye, leered gratefully up at him.
Unfortunately, its balance was still rather shaky and, emitting a squawk of surprise, it promptly tipped over and fell headlong on to the floor at Neil's feet.
Clucking and quacking in alarm, it wriggled helplessly on its back, once more gazing up at the boy in despair.
Neil came to its rescue a second time.
Swaying unsteadily, the raven eyed its surroundings quizzically, but when the bird tried to take a step forward it tottered and staggered whilst flapping its one good wing in perplexed agitation, unable to coordinate its movements.
‘You look drunk,’ Neil chuckled.
The raven stumbled back, squashing its tail feathers against the chest and tripping over a fragment of timber. Then, fixing Neil with its ogling eye and looking so comical and impish that the boy laughed, the creature opened its beak and spoke.
'Fie!’ it cried in a gurgly piping voice. ‘As merrie as a malted mouse this knave doth be... nay, as a boiled owl!’
Neil stared at the bird in delight, but he was already too familiar with the strange goings on within The Wyrd Museum to be surprised at a talking raven. ‘He that eateth the king's goose doth void feathers a hundred years after,’ the creature rambled, lurching and teetering precariously. ‘I doth thank heaven thy father wert borne afore ye—most generous of esquires. How goeth the day?’
The boy crouched down and brought his face close to the ranting, incoherent bird. ‘I'm fine,’ he said. ‘But are you all right? My name's Neil. Can you remember yours? You don't seem very sure of anything.’
‘A malmsey dowsing of the noddle-tree, oh courteous gallant,’ the raven replied, shaking its head and hitting it with its wing. ‘The even that brimmeth over doth make for a cloudy morn. No recollection have I of whom or whence—nor know aught save the briny tang in mine gullet and the hammers in mine pate.’
Bobbing its head up and down, the bird cast its monocular glance about the room and gave several chirps of interest.
‘Skewer me for a mallemuck! ‘Tis a most uncommon dungeon—no danksome cave nor maggoty oubliette. Behold there is light, the chariot of the day is risen and peepeth through yonder window! Its glory is never worse for all it shineth on a dunghill. Day and night, sun and moon, air and light—all must have, yet none may buy.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Neil said. ‘This isn't a prison, it's a museum.’
The raven doddered forward trying to comprehend the boy's words. ‘How sayest thou?’ it burbled.
‘Museum,’ Neil repeated. ‘A place full of old things—collections of this and that.’
‘A treasure house?’ the bird declared. ‘A prince's hoard? What hoddy-doddy raving is it thou speaketh? To place a rogue in such a midst—he that stealeth an egg may steal the oxen. The thief is surely sorry he is to be hanged yet not that he is a thief.’
Neil raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you saying that's what you are?’ he asked.
‘Dost the wolf perceive itself as such?’ the creature answered, sorrowfully hanging its bald head and drooping its shoulders. ‘Dost the new day remember the old? In mine brains there is naught to glean, neither repute nor miscreance. The gems of this wretch's mind are robbed and squandered, the casket of the skull is bereft and full of lack. No ember can tutor me in name or descent, yet I am sensible of a darkness behind me, though I know it not, nor from whence it stems. Alack and alas for I.’
The boy smiled reassuringly. ‘Well, you don't seem like a villain to me,’ he said. ‘But I'll have to call you something.’
‘Wilt thou not appoint unto me a name of thine own choosing?’ the raven begged, waddling up to Neil's face, dragging its broken wing across the floor behind it. ‘Squire Neil, fill this hollow pan with a surfeit of tidings and reason, let me gorge upon new wonders and truths. Yea, though ‘tis said “gluttony killeth more than the sword”—let me perish with more learning than I do now possess and with wit enough to answer unto a fair sounding title.’
Feeling sorry for the poor creature, Neil considered his plea for a little while then grinned. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I'll call you.... Quoth.’
The raven cocked its head to one side and muttered the word under its breath before ruffling its scant, frayed feathers and bowing low until its beak tapped upon the floorboards.
‘Verily and amen to that,’ he cried gladly. ‘Henceforth the tale of Quoth shalt begin, aught that he wast can moulder and remain forgot ever more.’
Suddenly a distant scream came echoing through the galleries and the raven ducked under Neil's arm in fright.
‘Zounds!’ he squeaked, his quills standing on their ends. ‘Beat the alarum! Wind the battle horn! ‘Tis murder! Fiends! Ogres! Foes!’
Neil scrambled to his feet. ‘That was one of the Websters!’ he exclaimed. ‘What's happened?’
‘Hold!’ Quoth pleaded as the boy hurried to the doorway. ‘Forsake not this callow wretch. If the banshee is abroad I doth not wish to yield up mine green soul for its harvest.’
‘Well, keep up,’ the boy instructed, hastening into The Egyptian Suite and the rooms beyond.
With his claws clattering over the polished wooden floor, the raven trotted after him, marvelling at each new group of exhibits and clicking his beak admiringly.
*
Down the stairs Miss Ursula Webster came, her gaunt face a portrait of anguish and despair. Gone was the imperious, aristocratic air. Transcending her immortal flesh, she looked at that moment like a frail, frightened old woman who had abandoned all hope and who felt the long ages of her life pressing down upon her.
Clutching at the bannister she descended, taking each step as though every slight movement was a torment to her brittle, aged bones.
Floating down from above, the sound of Miss Celandine's weeping filled the upper storey, but Miss Ursula was too stricken to mourn and mechanically continued on her way.
Only when she reached the first landing did she notice her surroundings, for a figure moved by the doorway and she turned woodenly. There was the oldest Chapman boy but her stony face displayed no recognition and he came forward uncertainly.
‘Miss Ursula?’ Neil ventured, taken aback by her frozen appearance. ‘Is everything all right?’
The usually bright, shrewd eyes stared hollowly at him and the beads in her white hair trembled as she slowly shook her head.
‘They are gone,’ came her whispered, leaden reply.
‘Who?’
‘Veronica and Edith. Whilst I kept the vigil below, they left the sanctuary of the museum. Celandine and I have searched everywhere but to no avail. Can you imagine how long it has been since Veronica left the safety of this building? In this modern age she is defenceless.’
Neil didn't know what to say, but even as he tried to think of something, the sound of the raven's swaggering gait pattered up behind him and Miss Ursula lowered her grim gaze to see him approach.
‘So!’ she snapped, her drained expression abruptly changing as her fury exploded. ‘You, too, have returned!’
Quoth blinked at her in fearful astonishment. ‘Avaunt!’ he wailed. ‘Squire Neil, the turnkey hath caught us. Take flight whilst ye may, she doth have the look of the basilisk! Devil take the hindmost!’
Before the frightened bird could scuttle backwards, Miss Ursula seized him by his good wing and snatched him from the ground.
Dangling from her hand, his feet waggling forlornly, Quoth jabbered and trilled in panic. ‘Death when it cometh shalt have no denial! Farewell mine good days, they shalt soon be gone!’
‘Stop it!’ Neil fumed as Miss Ursula shook the poor raven and glared at him fiercely. ‘You're hurting him!’
The old woman gripped the bird even tighter, hauling him up to stare into his woeful face.
‘The disappearance of Edith and Veronica is your Master's work!’ she declared. ‘The power of the Fates cannot be contested, you know that too well and so does He.’
‘Mercy!’ Quoth yammered, twirling helplessly in her unforgiving grasp. ‘This tender lamb knows naught!’
‘Do not lie to me, Memory!’ she raged, closing the fingers of her other hand about the bird's neck. 'I know your deceits all too well! Shall I wring your falsehoods from you?’
‘Leave him alone!’ Neil cried, rushing forward to drag her hands away. ‘Can't you see he's telling the truth? He doesn't know anything about it.’
Miss Ursula snarled at the boy, then hesitated and examined the raven more closely. Catching her breath, she looked at the damaged wing, the bare patches of skin where the feathers had moulted and at the shrivelled eye socket.
‘Can it be so?’
she muttered. ‘Are you indeed blameless in this?’
‘Course he is,’ Neil told her. ‘I've only just found him in one of those boxes back there.’
The old woman handled the raven more gently and her piercing gaze penetrated deep into his one good eye.
‘Yes,’ she eventually murmured, ‘the damage was too great for Him to repair. No, it was the tears of Fate which recalled you, Memory. This is a most curious chance, it had better not prove ill.’
Turning to Neil, she handed the bird over to him and Quoth pressed his beak into the jacket of the boy's uniform, hiding his face from that formidable old harridan.
‘I see that a bond has already grown between the two of you,’ Miss Ursula observed. ‘Are you certain he recalls nothing of his former life?’
‘As far as I know,’ Neil answered, soothingly stroking the raven's limp wing. ‘He doesn't even know his own name. What did you call him... Memory?’
Miss Ursula eyed the straggle-feathered bird warily. ‘Strange that is precisely what he should lose,’ she said. ‘But does forgetfulness alone absolve him from the crimes of his erstwhile existence? Listen to the wisdom of Destiny, maggot child, you hold in your embrace a viper. He might not be dangerous now, but beware him. If his mind ever recalls his true identity and nature, then he will undoubtedly turn against you. Only one master does that creature serve.’
‘Quoth wouldn't hurt me,’ Neil objected.
The raven chirped in agreement. ‘He is mine friend who succoureth me!’ he chattered, shying away from the woman's suspicious glance.
A knowing smile appeared upon Miss Ursula's stern features. ‘How very intriguing,’ she said. ‘Memory was always peppering his conversation with ridiculous proverbs and sayings. Remember maggot child—I warned you. Not all the chambers of this creature's mind are closed. Do not put your faith in him—the essence of his real disposition is betrayal and malice.’
‘I'll choose whoever I like to be my friend,’ the boy told her crossly. ‘You can't order me around any more. I've already done what you wanted. It's up to that Dorkins girl now.’