Tales From The Wyrd Museum 3: The Fatal Strand

by Robin Jarvis

  Swearing, Jack Timms tore the wooden imp from his face and fled into the gloom, becoming one with the dark. Only dust-swirling shadows remained.

  At once, the animated animals that had escaped the stag's decimating blows had the unnatural life ripped out of them. Up on the cabinets, the baboons petrified and toppled where they stood, pitching to the ground where they split apart. The birds ceased beating their wings, and their stuffed bodies went thumping on to the floor of their cases in a snowfall of rainbow feathers.

  In the passage, the hyenas gave one last shrill whoop and collapsed, their legs snapping beneath them.

  Sawdust and stuffing lay heaped in every corner and, on top of the walrus cabinet, in a moraine of deteriorated flesh, there came a movement.

  A dismembered paw gave a jerk. Then, abruptly, the mound erupted and pieces of spider monkey scattered everywhere as a black shape burst forth, clacking and squawking.

  "Tis said a drowning man doth clutch at straws!' a balking voice cried. 'Not perish in the same!'

  Half-submerged in papery flesh and hairy decay, Quoth sat up and blinked the dust from his eye. 'Squire Neil!' he wailed suddenly, extricating himself from the tangled armatures that still clung to him. 'Art thou harmed?'

  Lying on the ground, Neil Chapman stared up the corridor and, alighting with a flurry of dust upon his shoulder, Quoth did the same.

  There in the gloom, its creamy coat shimmering under the mesh of light which gleamed from the resplendent silver antlers, the giant stag took three steps back and lowered its head. The amber fires of its eyes were orbs of molten gold now and Edie's face glowed in their radiance as the splendid beast sank to its knees before her.

  A gentle lowing vibrated in the passageway as the stag closed its eyes and bowed in reverence.

  ‘I don't believe it,' Neil whispered.

  Smiling, Edie Dorkins reached out and stroked the dignified creature's muzzle. Then Gogus came scampering to her side. Chattering happily, the wooden imp tugged the girl's coat then waddled around to pat the stag's shoulders.

  'Gogus...' it gibbered encouragingly. 'Gogus... Gogus.'

  The girl looked at the carving, trying to understand what it was saying to her.

  'Gogus...' it yapped again, motioning with its hooked claws and waving its stunted arms.

  Edie giggled. 'You want me to climb up?' she asked in joyous surprise.

  The imp nodded vigorously and, from the stag's nostrils, a hot blast of snorting agreement gusted about the girl's ankles.

  Flicking her hair behind her ears, Edie ducked beneath the glittering antlers and reached up to the powerful neck. Scuttling behind, Gogus grasped the girl around the waist and boosted her up over the firm, muscular shoulders. Falling back, Gogus gave a gruff bark and the stag rose gracefully from its venerating bow.

  Catching her breath, Edie leaned forward as that proud head reared up, and wrapped her arms about the wide neck in a devoted embrace. Pressing her face into the mass of soft, lustrous fur, she sighed dreamily and inhaled the great animal's rich, musky scent.

  Then the tribal shields and spears clattered from the walls as the noble head turned and the stag wheeled about. With a shake of its splendid antlers, the beautiful creature began to walk majestically down the corridor, with Edie riding high upon its back and Gogus trotting cheerfully behind. Over the crumbled effigies the stag stepped, its hooves crunching into the lifeless corpses.

  'Squire Neil,' Quoth urged, 'arise before the apparition prances over thee.'

  Flinching from the pain in his side, the boy obeyed and pressed close to the shattered cabinets to get out of the stag's way. The amber eyes roved briefly over the dishevelled pair as the stately beast marched by and, when Neil gazed into those golden fires, the despairing horror he had experienced was diminished and a blissful peace settled over his soul.

  'Where... where are you going?' he stammered to Edie.

  But, enthroned on her august steed, the girl merely held her head higher, too grand at that moment to make any answer as they paraded towards the doorway.

  Ambling behind, Gogus grunted contentedly to itself. A shred of dandelion-coloured cloth was caught in its teeth and the imp picked at it with its claws. Through the sawdust and stuffing the carving cantered, kicking up smothering clouds and thrashing them with its tail. When it drew level with Neil, Gogus sniffed and approached him warily, its snout sampling the smell of the boy's shoes.

  A disagreeable bark snapped from the imp's wide mouth and, turning up its nose dismissively, it scurried off again. Down the corridor Gogus bounded, pausing only when it reached the hyenas' carcasses. Leaping over them, it performed a victorious jig, then hopped from their broken backs to a drift of mouldering tiger dust.

  With a yammering yell, the wooden creature plunged its tail in, foraging until it fished out Edie's pixie hood. Flourishing the green hat behind it like the banner of a conquering army, Gogus jumped into the air—then bolted off after the stag and Edie.

  Forgotten in the corridor, Neil and Quoth were left speechless and staring behind.

  Through the door to the landing the mythic beast strode and the wooden carving scooted out after. Deliriously happy, Edie Dorkins knew she could never describe her elation as she sat upon that momentous guardian of Nirinel. Through the gleaming fence of its antlers, she saw the first floor landing of The Wyrd Museum open up around them and the dim dark fled before their luminous grandeur.

  Down the stairs her majestic mount strode and gradually, with every proud step, a change came over the building.

  The striping shadows that streaked across the rising treads deepened when the stag passed. Then, from the surface of the worn carpet, the black bars peeled away and rose steadily into the air. Tall and straight the dark pillars grew, thrusting high into the obscured ceiling until they became the trunks of great trees.

  Beneath the stag's hooves the steps quivered from sight and the carpet disappeared into a steeply sloping hillside. The panelled walls of The Wyrd Museum shrank into the surrounding night whilst, overhead, a dense forest canopy rustled and creaked in the breeze.

  Gabbling in excitement, Gogus sprinted forward, bouncing over the snaking tree roots, frantically beckoning the stag and Edie on.

  Pricking through the wooded awning, shafts of cold, clear moonlight speckled the plunging path with pale, pearlescent patches. Down into that variegated province the stag bore Edie, and the child was dappled with a field of soft, silver lights. Like glimmering phantoms they descended still further into the enchantment, until Gogus held up one of its claws. Then, with its arms by its sides, the wooden creature bowed so low that its carved mane brushed against the ground.

  'Gogus...' came a profound, declaring grunt. 'Gogus... Gogus.' Flicking its tail behind it once more, the imp jumped up and capered forward.

  The mighty trees grew thickly around them now and no moonlight penetrated the strangling growth above. Engulfed in the dark, Edie saw ahead of them a wall of blank, grey mist threading through the forest. Shifting and rippling behind and between the night-clad trees, the solid-seeming vapour formed a chill fence that stretched wide around the fringes of the wood.

  Pushing past the low, obstructing branches, the imposing stag forged onward. Haring in front, Gogus hesitated on the brink of that screening fog and twisted its head to make certain the others were following. Then, yapping loudly, the carving dashed into the smoke and its squat figure vanished from sight.

  Biting her lower lip uneasily, Edie Dorkins stared at the mist before her. It was not a natural fog; it clung stickily to the snarled twigs and Gogus' barks were already lost in its clammy depths.

  Yet it was too late to turn back now and, as the stag marched forward, the girl took a deep, apprehensive breath. Into the mist their shapes melted and the vapour closed silently behind them.

  Chapter 15 - Psychometry

  Still standing amongst the debris that littered the passageway, Neil waited until the sound of the stag's hooves faded before he rela
xed and gazed around him.

  'Jack Timms is getting stronger,' he said. 'First of all I could only hear him; now look what he can do.'

  Quoth clicked his tongue. 'The arts of mine former master doth course through his spectral flesh,' he croaked miserably.

  'But he isn't a ghost,' Neil corrected. 'The register said that he disappeared one night and no one knew what happened to him. Well, we know now—Tick-Tock Jack came here, to this time.'

  The raven whined morosely. 'To all times,' he uttered. 'The Gallows God hath lost none of his ancient guile. Unto his dark service he didst call this crumpet-faced felon. What better scourge to harry the Spinners of the Wood than he, who knoweth this edifice well—was it not a home unto him? Thus doth the Allfather own a foothold in this murksome lair and with it shalt turn the abode of the Loom Maidens against them.'

  'But how can he?'

  'This unglad lodging is an untame beast with many heads,' Quoth answered darkly. 'The Nornir doth not rule it absolute.'

  Trudging through the mucid rubble, the boy stepped over the shattered baboons and stared at the rusted spearhead that had fallen from the warder's grasp.

  'How could Miss Webster be so careless as to leave this out for Jack Timms like that?'

  'The Loom harpies feareth yonder blade,' Quoth cawed gently. 'The very touch pains them. Yet unless their eyes are constant upon it, there is naught to halt the bloated one from thieving and putting it to mine master's infernal usage.'

  'Your master?'

  The bird shook itself and in a fluster amended what he had said. 'A thousand pardons, Squire Neil,' he clucked profusely. 'This mud-brained dolt knows not the blather that doth dribble from his tongue. A slip of speech, no more. Thou art my dearest Lord and there shalt ne'er be another.'

  'All right,' Neil said. ‘I believe you. But what are we going to do with this?' Bending down to pick up the spear, the boy winced and clutched at his ribs.

  'Thou art injured!' Quoth cried, fluttering down to peer at Neil's torn uniform.

  Tentatively, Neil brushed the moths and dirt from his clothes then gingerly pulled the ripped material apart. A vivid red gash ran the length of his side and he dabbed it delicately.

  'It's not deep,' he said, inspecting the ugly wound. 'Looks worse than it is. At least it'll match the one the Valkyrie gave me.'

  'Valiant and fearless art thou,' Quoth praised him. 'A true warrior knight—how favoured is this worthless esquire to be blessed with such a master.'

  'Pack it in,' Neil told him as he took the spear in his hands and ran his fingers over it thoughtfully. 'We daren't let Tick-Tock Jack get his paws on this again,' he said firmly.

  Gazing about the deserted passage, the raven narrowed his eye. 'Nay,' he rasped. 'He who serveth the Captain of Askar shalt make no return this night.'

  'You sure?'

  'In the very core of mine quills I doth know it to be the truth,' Quoth replied earnestly. 'The argent deer didst put flight to the varlet and ever shall it return to confound and throw down his dastard plots.'

  'Well,' Neil began. 'Just in case, I think I know the best place for this.' Calling for Quoth to fly to his shoulder, the boy strode through the corridor and headed for the landing.

  Lingering behind, the raven glowered at the shadows. 'Speak not thy seducing lures at me,' he whispered to the dark.

  'Hurry up!' Neil called to him. Flicking his tail feathers contemptuously, Quoth took to the air and flew swiftly after his young master.

  In The Tiring Salon, working by the light of the candles, Austen Pickering sat at the small table busily writing in his notebook all that he had witnessed so far that evening.

  'But would the society believe me?' he wondered aloud, absently chewing the end of his pen. 'Why didn't I think to use the camera? Austen, old lad, you're slipping. Keep it in your pocket at all times from now on.'

  Returning to his notes, he looked up when the door was pushed open and the caretaker's son came bursting inside.

  'Spectacular manifestation!' the ghost hunter cried, before Neil could utter a word. ‘I don't know how to explain it in psychical terms, I really don't, but I wouldn't have missed it for the world. A completely perfect glimpse of the past—an entire room shunted back four hundred odd years. What do you think of that?'

  'Very glad for you,' Neil said with no enthusiasm. 'We've seen a few things ourselves.' At his shoulder Quoth cawed in doleful agreement and Mr Pickering regarded them keenly.

  'What's happened?' he asked. 'You're both covered in muck and your jacket's ripped to bits. Been in a fight, lad?'

  'It's nothing, really. Had an argument with a tiger, that's all.'

  The old man looked at him blankly but Neil shrugged the remark away. 'This is what I wanted to show you,' he said placing the rusted spear upon the table.

  Adjusting his spectacles, Austen Pickering peered down at the battered and buckled blade. 'Interesting,' he muttered. 'Is this one of the exhibits?'

  'I suppose it is now.'

  'Let's have a closer inspection then.' Leaning across the table, the ghost hunter picked up the spearhead. But a violent shudder jarred the old man's body the instant his fingers came in contact with the flaking metal, and he threw it down again as though it had burned him.

  'The blade!' Quoth squawked in alarm. 'It stingeth with hornet's venom!'

  'You all right?' Neil cried.

  Mr Pickering jumped from his seat and paced around the table, waving his fingers in the air as if trying to shake the pain out of them. 'Caught me out again,' he eventually blustered, with a dry chortle. 'I'll never get used to the tricks of this place.'

  'How come it hurt you? I didn't feel a thing when I touched it.'

  The old man sniffed and studied the spear a moment longer before responding. 'Not hurt exactly,' he tried to explain. 'More a type of psychic shock. Took me by surprise, that's all. It won't happen again. Too receptive, that's my trouble. I'm ready for it now.'

  Returning to his stool, Mr Pickering took several deep breaths then closed his eyes and reached out his right hand. Keeping his palm a few inches above the corroded weapon he slowly passed up and down its length, murmuring quietly to himself.

  'What are you doing?' Neil whispered.

  'I'm going to try an experiment in psychometry,' the ghost hunter answered without opening his eyes. 'Seeing what I can discover about an object merely by touching it.'

  'But you're not touching it.'

  Austen Pickering cleared his throat and opened one eye in irritation. 'I was just about to,' he stated tersely. Neil grinned apologetically and stood back as the old man resumed the experiment.

  'Come on,' Mr Pickering breathed. 'Tell old Austen.'

  Fanning his fingers, he gently laid them upon the spear and the high dome of his forehead creased in concentration. Then, very gradually, his head nodded on to his chest.

  'The lumpen oaf hath fallen into a doze,' Quoth clucked.

  'No,' Neil murmured, ‘I think he's gone into a trance.'

  Suddenly, the old man drew a sharp breath. 'There is power in this,' he exclaimed, his eyes still firmly shut. 'Great power. It's no ordinary weapon, goes back a long way, it does. For many, many years it was hidden in the dark. I can feel aged hands clasped about it, and a covering of gold and gemstones... Wait, there is change and disturbance. I see a high green hill and huge black wings.'

  Abruptly, Austen Pickering let out a ghastly shriek.

  'Valkyrie!' he screeched in a cracked voice that was not his own. 'Listen to their blaring voices. Something's going to happen. Oh, Edith—I'm afraid.'

  'That was Veronica!' Neil whispered incredulously.

  The old man gave a terrified yell and arched his back as though struck from behind. 'Edith!' Miss Veronica Webster's anguished voice echoed from his lips. 'The spear has done its work.'

  A long silence ensued as the ghost hunter sat on the small seat, his head wrenched back and his mouth stretched horribly wide.

  'Methinks the fellow hath ex
pired,' Quoth hissed in Neil's ear.

  The boy fidgeted, wondering what he ought to do. Then Mr Pickering stirred and began again. 'Deep into the darkened years and over the rolling seas,' he uttered in a hoarse murmur. 'Back to where the sun burns hot and parches the wilderness. So long, so far, to when it was forged... Ah, there, the time when it was one amongst thousands. I sense an army—no, a legion of soldiers. Wait, there is lamenting all around, the sun has died. I feel violence—pain!'

  The old man convulsed. With his free hand he gripped his side, then threw his head back with such jolting force that his glasses were catapulted from his face.

  'Why have you forsaken me?' he screamed.

  Hearing those words, Neil swallowed nervously and on his shoulder Quoth clacked his beak in surprise.

  Whimpering and spent, Austen Pickering slumped forward on to the table. The old man's stubby fingers fell away from the tapering blade and his arm swung heavily down to his side. Then he was still, his head resting upon the table and all colour drained from his face.

  'Mr Pickering?' Neil ventured. 'Mr Pickering—are you all right?'

  Quoth tutted sorrowfully. 'Like unto a coffin nail,' he said.

  Dreading what he might discover, Neil worriedly stepped over to the table and gave the ghost hunter a cautious nudge. 'Mr Pickering?'

  To Neil's overwhelming relief the old man groaned and his eyelids opened slowly. Lifting his head from the table he pressed his hand to his face and waited until his laboured breaths subsided before uttering a word.

  'I never expected that, either,' he finally said, his speech thick and heavy. 'So strong—almost finished me.'

  Flapping from his perch, Quoth flew to where the spectacles had fallen on the floor and plucked them up in his talons.

  'Thank you,' the ghost hunter mumbled when the raven dropped them by his elbow. 'Dear me, what a trauma.' Taking the handkerchief from his pocket, Austen Pickering vigorously wiped the sweating hand that had touched the spearhead, as if attempting to clean it, then returned the glasses to his nose.