Tales From The Wyrd Museum 3: The Fatal Strand

by Robin Jarvis

  Miss Ursula's pale eyelids drooped closed as she fought to control her anger, fiercely pressing her thin lips together before attempting to speak again.

  'What sweetness can there be in my sister's death?' she eventually continued in as level a voice as she could maintain. 'Wallow well in this, the vilest of deeds. If it is still your avowed intent to destroy the remaining daughters of Askar, then you will never succeed. Against the powers which are mine to command you can only fail. The fortress of my museum has, in its keeping, defences beyond either your strength or comprehension. Neither you nor your agents shall ever set foot over this threshold.

  'Do you mark my warning? If you desire this war, then so be it, the challenge is accepted. But know this—to the death shall the campaign be waged. The Mistresses of Doom and Destiny will conquer even you in the end.'

  No answer came to Miss Ursula as she stood, dignified and grave upon the step. Before she had time to wonder if her adversary had heard her words, she became aware of a forlorn snivelling behind her and she turned archly.

  Into the main hall, a bundle of dirty washing seemed to be making its clumsy, faltering way down the wide staircase. It paused next to a rusted suit of armour; the pale light which flickered from a small oil lamp lapped over the ragged form for a moment, before the hobbling gait continued.

  Swaddled in a grubby nightgown that was fringed with filthy lace, Miss Celandine Webster stumbled on. She who was once Skuld of the Royal House of Askar was now an old woman. Her face, which normally resembled an over-ripe apple, was wrung into a wizened prune and in her large hands she clutched a mildew-speckled handkerchief.

  'Oh Ursula!' she blubbered. 'Don't leave me all on my own. I can't bear it—I can't!'

  The figure in the entrance regarded her coldly, her face betraying none of the emotions which churned within her.

  'Control yourself,' she instructed. 'Histrionics won't bring her back.'

  Miss Celandine staggered forward, her grimy feet slapping over the polished parquet floor of the hallway. 'Make it better!' she beseeched. 'Bring Veronica back to us. How can she be killed? We don't die—we can't! I won't believe it—I won't, I won't!'

  The eldest of the Websters recoiled from this infantile display and returned her attention to the alleyway outside, completely ignoring Miss Celandine's heart-rending pleas.

  'Oh help me, Ursula!' she wept, dragging the handkerchief over her face and twisting it into her wrinkled eyes. 'I'm frightened. What's happening to us? Why did Veronica run away? My heart hurts me so. Please hold me. Make me feel safe.'

  But Miss Ursula had no comfort to spare for her sister. Like a house of cards demolished in the draught, Miss Celandine crumpled to the floor. There she stayed, weeping and sobbing until her voice cracked and the spring of her tears ran dry.

  For an hour they held their positions, one rigid and silent, the other a quivering heap of choking despair, and neither of them could give solace to the other.

  Eventually, the sound of an approaching engine roused Miss Celandine from her pit of grief. Raising her head from the crook of her elbow where she had sniffed and whimpered away the dawn, she saw her sister move on to the middle step as the sound grew closer. Throwing her two plaits of corn-coloured hair over her shoulders, she rose and crept forward—her dry bones crackling in complaint.

  'What is it, Ursula?' she cooed with a fearful voice. 'Who is it?'

  Pressing close to her sister, she tried to venture on to the topmost step to peer out, but Miss Ursula barred the way and propelled her back into the museum.

  'Stay in there,' she rapped severely. 'Veronica is returned to us.'

  Rumbling into the alley came an unmarked ambulance with dark, tinted windows. Lumbering as close to the entrance as possible, the vehicle braked in front of the bollards which barricaded one end of the alleyway and the doors opened slowly.

  Clambering from the passenger seat, Neil alighted upon the cobbles—with Quoth in his usual place upon the boy's shoulder.

  It had been a dismal journey in which few words had been exchanged. Neil had given Chief Inspector Hargreaves a sketchy account of all that had happened on Glastonbury Tor, but soon lapsed into weary silence, snatching occasional moments of much-needed sleep. The eyes he turned to The Wyrd Museum were ringed with grey and he ached for his bed. There was, however, one more duty to be done before then and he gazed at the man who was already closing the driver's door.

  Chief Inspector Hargreaves stood solemnly before that ugly building to which he and the other remaining descendants of Askar made their annual pilgrimage. For as long as he could remember he had come to this place, to lay an offering of flowers about the drinking fountain in the yard. It was a demonstration of fealty to those who lived within, yet never once had he or any of the others caught so much as a glimpse of the three undying Fates.

  In all his imaginings he had not dreamed that he would ever meet the Handmaidens of the Loom. Now here he was, burdened with this most dreadful of errands—delivering the corpse of the youngest to her sisters, and his soul quailed inside him.

  In sombre silence, he stared across to where Miss Ursula waited upon the steps and bowed reverently. The woman's thin lips twitched with agitation, but she inclined her head in acknowledgement and gestured for the man to complete the grim task he had undertaken.

  Turning on his heel, Hargreaves led Neil to the rear of the ambulance and pulled open the large double doors. Presently they emerged, bearing between them the stretcher upon which lay the body of Miss Veronica Webster.

  Throughout the journey, Edie Dorkins had clung to the dead woman's hand and now, as she walked alongside this melancholy procession, she held it still.

  A blanket had been wrapped about the girl's shoulders during the long drive from Somerset but it fell to the ground as she traipsed alongside the stretcher. Distractedly, she wiped her nose upon the sleeve of her coat.

  Seeing the frail body of her sister, looking so shrivelled and old, Miss Ursula drew herself up to her full height and bit the inside of her cheek. She must not allow herself to weaken now. There must be no betrayal.

  'Take her within,' she uttered thickly, standing back to allow them entry. 'Place her over there, upon the floor.'

  With bulging eyes, Miss Celandine watched as the litter carrying her younger sister passed under the archway and she yelped shrilly at the awful sight.

  Miss Ursula knew it was pointless trying to stop her and so, with Miss Celandine's ghastly squeals echoing about the hallway, she patiently waited until the stretcher had been gently placed where she had directed.

  'My family is in your debt,' she informed the Chief Inspector. 'I thank you for returning our sister to us.'

  Hargreaves could only stare at his feet, suddenly speechless at this meeting.

  'You have risked everything to bring her here,' Miss Ursula continued. 'Your career, possibly even your freedom. If there was anything in my power to give you, it would be yours. The children of Askar are loyal indeed.'

  The Chief Inspector shook his head and found his voice at last. 'It is enough to have served,' he muttered.

  'Then leave us now,' she told him. 'But do not stray far. In the dark days to come, Urdr may have need of you again.'

  Hargreaves returned to the entrance and, with her taffeta gown rustling like dry grass as it swept across the floor, Miss Ursula Webster brushed him outside, closing the door in his face.

  Upon the steps the Chief Inspector drew his breath and shook his head. The death of Miss Veronica had altered everything. His thoughts in turmoil, he hurried from the alleyway with a hideous dread gnawing at his spirit.

  Something terrible was about to befall the world and, as he climbed back into the ambulance, he determined to summon as many of the descendants of Askar as possible.

  'The children of they who were there at the beginning,' he told himself darkly, 'should be here to witness the end.'

  Chapter 2 - Vigil for the Deathless Dead

  'You!' Miss Ur
sula snapped at Neil. 'Remove that accursed bird of ill omen from my sight, before I wring his wretched neck.'

  Tickling Quoth reassuringly under the chin, Neil returned the old woman's imperious glare, yet did not answer. Normally he would have shouted right back at her, but that morning he made allowances for her grief—and besides, he was too tired.

  'Come on,' he told the raven. 'We'll grab something to eat, then I honestly think I could sleep for the rest of the day.' With the scraggy-looking bird casting a fretful glance over his shoulder, they made their way through the many rooms and galleries, towards the caretaker's apartment.

  When they reached a dreary passageway, ending at a door covered in peeling green paint, Neil hesitated and turned to his faithful companion.

  'Listen,' he began. 'My dad can be a bit funny sometimes.'

  Quoth gave a hearty cluck and hopped up and down with excitement. 'Thou art the son of a jester!' he chirruped. 'That is well, for this sorry chick is melancholy as a gallows cat. 'Tis most surely a great truth that the memory of joy doth make misery thrice times awful. Haste, haste, Squire Neil, let us to this worthy fool—I wouldst be made merrie!'

  'I don't mean it that way,' Neil groaned. 'My dad can be a bit strange, that's all.'

  The raven nodded sagely. 'Ah!' he croaked. 'Thy father is mad.'

  'Very likely,' Neil couldn't help smiling. 'So don't make it any worse. Try and keep quiet. He doesn't like stuff he can't understand and there's enough gone on in here to last him a lifetime.'

  Trying to make as little sound as possible, Neil opened the door and crept inside the apartment.

  To his surprise he found that his father was already awake. Half-submerged in the padded blue nylon of his sleeping bag, Brian Chapman was sitting up on the shabby settee, his face turned towards the window.

  He did not seem to hear his son enter and Neil eyed him quizzically. 'Dad?' he ventured.

  The man continued to stare fixedly out of the window.

  'Dad,' Neil repeated, 'I'm back.'

  Quoth craned forward to peer at the boy's father more closely.

  "Tis most certain an affliction of the moon,' he cawed. 'Never hath this poor knave espied such a muggins.'

  At that moment, Brian Chapman gave a violent shiver and he whipped around—startled.

  Taken aback by the sudden movement, the raven squawked in surprise and flapped his wings to steady himself.

  'What's that?' Neil's father cried, scowling at the bird in revulsion. 'Take it out of here, Neil. It's vermin! Full of germs. You'll catch all sorts!'

  'Don't worry,' Neil said hurriedly, seeing that Quoth was already clearing his throat to let loose a fitting retort. 'He's very clean and doesn't bite.'

  'You can't keep him.'

  'I don't have to—he's my friend.'

  Brian pinched the bridge of his nose, a sure sign that he was growing impatient.

  'I hate this place,' he grumbled, extricating himself from the sleeping bag whilst snatching his spectacles from the nearby shelf. 'Always something peculiar happening. Never stops. Couldn't sleep a wink last night. An absolute madhouse! One of those barmy women was screeching her head off till God knows when.'

  'One of them's died,' Neil said simply.

  But his father wasn't listening. He glared at the raven and shook his head resolutely.

  'Disgusting!' he declared. 'It's bald and mangy. What's happened to its other eye? Might have fowl pest or worse—you've got to get it out of here. I don't want it anywhere near your brother.'

  Unable to remain silent any longer, Quoth finally defended himself against these unwarranted insults. 'Woe to thee—most ill-favoured malapert!' he quacked. 'Verily dost thou show how abject be the poverty of thine wits! No ornament nor flower may this morsel be, yet mine eye findeth no delectation in thine own straggled visage! Thou hast the semblance of a wormy turnip which yea, even the famined wild hog wouldst snub.'

  Brian gaped at the bird, but anger swiftly overcame his astonishment. Lurching forward, he grasped hold of the raven and Quoth bleated in fright as he tried to escape. Neil's father, however, held him firmly and marched to the door—holding the wildly flapping bird at arm's length.

  'It's come from upstairs hasn't it?' the man shouted. 'For God's sake, Neil—isn't it bad enough having to live in this asylum without you fetching the freaks down here?'

  'Let him go!' Neil protested, trying to grab his father's outstretched arm.

  But it was no use. Quoth was flung out of the apartment and ejected into the corridor.

  For a brief instant, the raven found himself tumbling helplessly through the air. Then he crashed into an oil painting, slid down the canvas and fell to the floor with a loud squawk of dismay.

  Sprawled upon the cold wooden boards, he glared at the now firmly closed door, looking like a tangled clump of half-chewed feathers which an idle cat might have abandoned. He puffed out his chest indignantly.

  'Toad-frighter and donkey-wit!' he mumbled to the expanse of peeling green paint. 'Clodpole and besom steward!'

  Picking himself up, the bird shook his tail and inspected his wings before waddling closer to the door where he waited for it to open again.

  'Master Neil?' the raven cawed expectantly. 'Master Neil?'

  Within the caretaker's apartment, Neil Chapman struggled to barge past his father, but Brian pushed him backwards.

  'If he can't stay, then I won't either!' the boy fumed.

  'Go to your room!'

  'You haven't even asked where I've been or what happened!'

  'I'm not interested!' came the cruel reply. 'I'm sick to death of having to live in this nut-hutch with that old bag upstairs bossing me around all day. Well, it won't be for much longer.'

  Neil stared at him. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

  'Time we left,' Brian said with uncharacteristic resolve. 'I'll find another job.'

  'You can't do that!' his son cried. 'Not now!'

  Running a hand through his lank hair, the man grunted with exasperation. 'Blood and sand!'

  Neil turned away from him and stomped towards the bedroom he shared with his younger brother, Josh. 'You never stick with anything,' he muttered resentfully.

  Barging into the room, the boy threw himself on to the bed and miserably wondered what he would do if his father tried to make him leave The Wyrd Museum.

  ‘I can't go now,' he told himself. 'This place hasn't finished with me yet I'm sure—and what about poor old Quoth?'

  But his wretched reflections would have to wait, for all his energies were utterly spent and the softness of the bed proved to be too potent a force to resist. In a moment, his eyes were closed and he felt himself drifting off to sleep.

  In the living room, Brian slumped back into the armchair and gazed fixedly up at the ceiling, insensible to the dejected chirrups sounding from the corridor outside.

  'Not long now,' he whispered to himself. 'Then I'll be free.'

  ***

  In the main hallway, still clasping Miss Veronica's hand, Edie Dorkins knelt upon the hard floor, arranging the dead woman's dyed black hair about her shoulders, whilst brushing the mud flecks from her shrivelled face. Miss Celandine was still yowling, but she had buried her head into her spade-like hands and so the shrillness was muffled and less unbearable than before.

  At her side, Miss Ursula's countenance was fixed and immovable as any stone. Upon Miss Veronica's breast, Edie had placed the old woman's cane, and at her side was the plastic bag containing the rusted spearhead.

  'It is well that you brought it here,' Miss Ursula observed, her flinty aspect vanishing when she saw the gouts of blood which smeared the vicious-looking weapon.

  Visibly wincing, she cleared her throat. 'In all creation there are few artefacts which can do us injury. This, the Roman blade which pierced the side of He who perished upon the Cross, is one of the most lethal. I ought to have accepted it within the confines of the museum long ago, when first it was offered unto my keeping. Veronica is the price
I have paid for that folly and most bitterly do I accept it now.'

  Clasping her hands in front of her, Miss Ursula bowed her head and the jet beads which hung in loops about her ears gave an agitated rattle.

  'We gonna bury 'er?' Edie asked. 'I'm good at digging 'oles.'

  Miss Ursula straightened. 'No need,' she said. 'Celandine and I shall take her down to the cavern. In the Chamber of Nirinel, beneath the surviving root of Yggdrasill, Veronica will sit out the remaining span of the world. That hallowed place shall be her tomb and no corruption will touch her. Now come.'

  Striding to a section of panelled wall, the woman held up her hand and gave the wood three sharp raps.

  With a clicking whir, the wall shuddered and slid aside, revealing a low stone archway and a steep, winding staircase beyond.

  'Edith, dear,' Miss Ursula began, 'take up Veronica's cane and the oil lamp if you will, and bring the spearhead also.'

  Inhaling great, gulping breaths, Edie hurried to obey. The stale air which flooded out of the darkness into the hallway was perfumed with a hauntingly sweet decay. Holding the lamp in one hand and the ivory-handled cane under her arm, she took up the bag which contained the hideous weapon and carried it warily. When she accidentally touched the metal, the power within it prickled and hurt her, even through the polythene.

  'Celandine,' Miss Ursula said tersely. 'You must aid me in this.'

  The woman in the grubby nightgown peeped out at her elder sister through a chink between her fingers. Then she blew her nose upon its large collar and shuffled reluctantly closer to the stretcher.

  'I want to be nearest her pretty little head,' Miss Celandine muttered. ‘I shan't be able to talk to her if you make me carry the feet.'

  Miss Ursula indulged her. 'Very well,' she sighed. 'Grip the handles soundly, I don't want you to let go.'