Tales From The Wyrd Museum 3: The Fatal Strand

by Robin Jarvis

  Stepping aside, the spurs on his boots jangling with the brisk movement, Woden turned to where an immense wooden framework reared above the clearing.

  'You know that when dusk falls, our own loom shall be strung,' he uttered grimly. 'The crimson weft will be made.'

  Amused at his brother's concerns, Memory hissed with cruel mirth. 'In truth this is no place for old women!' he mocked. 'To the slop houses with thee, Thought. Go aid them in their pot washing—or perchance the picking of daisies is more to thine palate?'

  Flinging himself into the air, Memory shot towards the great structure of his master's incomplete loom, and his high, rejoicing laughter could be heard all across the vast camp. 'Who couldst withstand the Gallows God?' he boasted, returning to the sable- covered shoulder. This night the Twelve shalt fly at the vanguard of our army; against them there is no defence, no salvation.'

  Woden smiled indulgently and tickled his faithful advisor under his beak. 'Be not over harsh with your brother,' he said. 'It is his lot to consider all chances.'

  Bowing stiffly, Thought said, 'To do otherwise wouldst be to serve thee false.'

  ‘I know it. Yet in this you worry over much. Already I have summoned the dread spirits of the Valkyrja, and when their unclean shadows sully the gloaming sky, then shall we take up our arms and ride.'

  Puffing out his chest, Memory let loose a horrible, vaunting laugh. 'At the forepart of their number shalt I be!' he bragged. 'Much doth I crave to witness the ruin of Urdr and her reviled sisters. What right have they to spin the Cloth of Doom? To the Captain of Askar, the living God, that high office ought have gone. To see the Valkyrja claw and rend most bloodily doth my heart yearn. Let the crimson weft be spun with the entrails of the Nornir and may it flow free with their gore.'

  'So shalt it be,' Thought concluded, contemplating the fierce flames of the bonfire before them. 'This night The Cessation is come.'

  Woden stroked his forked beard and, with a tinge of regret in his voice, added, 'No other road is left to us now. The new age of freedom must dawn with the morrow. The burdening yoke of Fate must be lifted and peace everlasting will stretch over the lands.'

  'I wilt cavort and jape in the Loom Maidens' gizzards,' Memory swore excitedly. 'Their bloods shalt I guzzle like unto wine.'

  His master drew a hand over his dark eyes. 'Would that it was not so,' he murmured. 'There was one amongst those three to whom my heart did turn. A victory this battle will prove, but no triumph.'

  Thought shot his brother a reproachful glance, then said to their lord, "Tis time; the flames of war hath been fed and thy warriors await thy commands.'

  ‘I know it,' Woden said. Drawing his sword from its jewelled scabbard, he pointed it at the bonfire. A blinding blend of sunlight and flame shone over the gleaming steel until it looked as if the blade of righteousness burned in his hand and all men who stood about the clearing cried out in wonder.

  'Hear me now!' he called to the surrounding knights. 'Go amongst your men and spur them to great deeds. I will be with them and they must know no fear. Though the terror of the Twelve be above, they must not shrink nor cower. The reign of the ruling Fates has ended and, by our valour this night, all our futures we will forge anew'

  Memory listened to his master's inspiring words and, with a wicked expression on his sharp, ugly face, rocked to and fro upon the sable perch, delighting in the rousing oration. His sharp, piercing eyes could see the hope and hunger for victory enliven the faces of the encircling knights, and he dreamed of the glorious moment when the loathsome sisters, who lurked in the enchanted wood, would be defeated.

  With equal rapture, Thought harkened to Woden's intoxicating speech, but his attention was focused on the speaker rather than the assembled host. His darting eyes looked long and penetratingly at this more-than-man, who had reared himself and his brother from their flightless infancy and bestowed upon them the gift of language.

  Towards this one campaign his master had directed all his efforts and squandered much of his power. To summon the Valkyrja from the darkness and enslave them to his bidding had cost him dear, and the raven could not help but ponder on what might happen should this desperate contest fail. What then for the Allfather?

  Whatever the consequence, he and Memory would be there in the aftermath, to give their counsel and their unfaltering devotion. The Twelve obeyed Woden through black wizardry, but the two ravens were enslaved to him by love alone.

  With a resounding cheer from the surrounding nobles, the Captain finished his address and they brandished their swords in salute before leaving to obey his will.

  'Now, my friends,' Woden began, turning to each of his advisors. 'In these, the remaining hours, do what is needed. Though I have faith in their loyalty, my knights might not be able to kindle the hearts of their troops to the same degree that I do in them.'

  Memory nodded wisely. 'A little wind feedeth the flames,' he declared. 'Too much puts it out.'

  'Just so,' his master said. 'Be then my eyes and ears about the camp. Fly amongst the foot soldiers and common men and be certain that they are steady in their resolve. No man must shrink from the conflict ahead. Where there is revolt, quell it. Where there is doubt, turn it. Where courage is wanting, inflame with hero's words. Go now, my beloveds, and return ere the sun sets and the first shrieks of the Valkyrja, split the sky.'

  From his shoulders the ravens flew, and the sun gleamed over their wings as they climbed high over the camp to look down upon its sprawling vastness. To the eastern rim of the curving landscape an immeasurable forest reached into the horizon and, as one, they turned their glance to that trackless and suffocating realm.

  There, in the unbounded, unexplored wildness, the last surviving root of the World Tree reared from the earth. Beneath its titanic, arching shape the enemies of Woden made their abode and measured the threads of every living thing. But tonight it would change. The Twelve would seek out the Nornir and Woden could ascend to his rightful place as Lord of the World.

  'Brother!' Thought screeched in the lofty airs. 'At the first trumpet of war we shalt meet on the plain and fly together into battle!'

  Memory tossed his head and squawked shrilly. 'Together, brother mine,' he promised, 'we shall put an end to the Witches of the Wood.'

  'Till the horn sounds, then!' Thought cried.

  Gliding upon the wind, the ravens hovered for a moment, letting the tips of their wings touch. The lights in their eyes spoke more to one another than all their shrewd, artful words ever could. Then down they flew, one taking the southern tip of the encampment whilst the other raced to the north.

  Throughout the rest of the afternoon, Memory flitted amongst the tents and the men preparing for war. With his vainglorious words he encouraged them and, with the compelling force of his will, instilled his own lust for mastery and conquest in their hearts. The raven's spirit blazed with an infectious excitement.

  Never had he been so deliriously happy; this would be the crowning day of them all and, henceforth, every song would sing of the Nornir's ruin and intrepid deeds done in his master's name.

  From company to company he darted, the power of his skilful speech fuelling the murderous cravings and stressing the holy nature of their task. Even the horses he spoke to, croaking in their ear, instructing them to race bold and true into the dark and pathless wood.

  Into every mind he sowed his malevolent seed of hate and vengeance. By the time he had finished, the central bonfire had fallen in upon itself and the troops were massed upon the field outside the earthen ramparts of the camp, facing the dark, forbidding wood.

  Never had such an army been assembled. Their spears were like an opposing forest of thorn and their shields reflected the fiery sunset like a huge, shimmering lake. Looming high over the tall gleaming helms, the siege towers were hitched to horses and the primed catapults strained at their taut, creaking ropes.

  A column of mounted knights, four rows deep and two leagues long, was at the forefront of the host. Before the
m, sitting upon a coal-black stallion, his fair hair blowing in the breeze, was Woden. Every face was turned toward the sword he held high over his head. Over its mirrored surface the evening sun sank in a sea of boiling blood, and a deathly calm descended as each man waited. Only the snorting and stamping of the horses disturbed the eerie quiet, whilst the multitude listened for the ones who would bring about their victory.

  Then, high above the twilight world there blasted a chilling screech and the horses reared, rolling their eyes in terror. A fearful murmur rifled through the troops as they turned their heads and there, up in the darkening heavens, they beheld twelve abhorrent, winged shapes.

  'Now is the moment come!' Woden yelled brandishing his sword. 'The Valkyries are here!'

  Over the deserted encampment Memory raced. In the distance he could see the twelve horrors racketing rapidly through the sky and he cursed himself for lingering too long in search of carrion. Already his brother was circling above their master, looking for him, and soon the heralds would sound their trumpets and the charge would commence.

  Beating his wings furiously, the raven tore over the central clearing then wheeled about and stared down curiously. The bonfire had disappeared and in its place a tent now stood. Yet, unlike the others, this was dark green in colour and from its open entrance a thread of white mist was curling.

  'What devilment is this?' he squawked. 'No artful threat nor black chance must harry this high moment of renown.'

  Raging with curiosity and wrath, he dived down—spinning about the tent until finally alighting upon the ground before the entrance. Narrowing his leery eyes, Memory glared into the dark interior from which the pale smoke flowed.

  'Who dares hazard the plots of mine master?' he demanded. 'What witchery brings thee hence?'

  No answer came from the tent and the raven hopped a little closer. 'No disruption to this grand hour shalt I brook,' he announced. 'Show thyself. I, Memory, command it!'

  Over the clearing, massive wings came gusting, and scale-ribbed talons came reaching from the enfolding night to wrench the framework of the unfinished loom from the ground.

  'So goeth Shrieker and Biter!' the raven cried. 'Hither I shalt be detained no more. What manner of craven cur lurketh within this weirdsome hut?' Impatient to join his brother at their lord's side, Memory barged furiously into the entrance, and the mist wrapped itself around him.

  Sitting in the middle of the tent, wreathed around with vapour, a hooded figure sat, the deep shadows beneath its cowl making it impossible to see the features within.

  'Declare thyself, recreant knave!' Memory demanded. 'Or atop the traitor's scaffold thy hidden head shalt be spiked.'

  Only a silken laugh issued from the hood and this enraged the raven even more. From outside the tent there came a tremendous tumult of trumpets and Memory whisked about.

  'The charge begins!' he shrieked. ‘I durst not tarry. When the feasting and revels are over this night, I vow to return and make a settlement of this. Look to thine neck!'

  Unfurling his wings, the bird prepared to fly out of the tent, but the hooded figure raised a withered hand and, in a voice like cream, called, 'Hold, my friend.'

  At once Memory fell back into the curdling fog and stared at the stranger intently. Outside, the clearing faded into the growing dark and the uproar of the storming army dwindled into silence.

  'You did not miss the battle, dearest of counsellors,' the figure told him. 'You were there before all others and you were the first to fall. Do you not know me?'

  Confused and afraid, Memory edged through the smoke. 'Master?' he called.

  The Woden of the later years nodded and reached out to caress his cherished pet.

  'Explain unto me, oh Lord!' the raven begged. 'Unravel this riddle!'

  The faint laughter sounded again. 'It is but a dream, my love,' the Gallows God murmured. 'The remembrance of this day has been my gift to you as you lay sleeping. It is an insight into all that you were, so you may recall the fealty and trust we shared. I do not believe that you have forgotten that which you once held so dear.'

  'But I hath not!' Memory protested. 'Where is mine brother—he will tell thee!'

  The bony fingers stroked the bird beneath the beak. When he next spoke, his tone was grave. 'Alas, yes,' Woden muttered. 'Your future self has spurned me. This will be the second time I ask you to rejoin with me. Now that you know the import of my ambition, to depose the ruling Fates, will you not aid me in their destruction? Much do I ache for your company once more.'

  'And most willing shalt it be given!' the raven crowed, flinging himself upon his master's mercy. 'To thee only doth my allegiance lie.'

  'You speak as the fledgling I once reared,' Woden said sadly. 'But when this dream is done and you awake, then must you choose. Will it be Quoth of the garbled brain, or my lieutenant?'

  Reaching up with his wings, Memory answered in a firm and resolute voice that sent the smoke scattering before him. 'To the one who fed me, to the one who taught me, to the one who inspired me—I shalt be loyal. To this life he wert reared. Memory will be reborn, and when he sits at the shoulder of the Allfather then the daughters of Askar shall fall! This is my judgement, so mote it be!'

  'Then return to your waking,' Woden told him. 'And decide well, for this time if you reject my offer the forfeit must be paid. You will not go unpunished—what I once gave to you freely I shall most certainly snatch away'

  Lifting into the air, Memory threw back his sleek head and cackled with murderous laughter. 'Fear not, my Master!' he hooted. 'The choice is ready made! Ever thy creature shalt I be.'

  'Go then,' the cloaked figure instructed. 'Prove to me your unbounded love—awaken!'

  In the darkness of The Fossil Room, a black shape stirred within the nest of socks and a feathery head reared over the edge of the suitcase. Shaking himself, the raven gazed groggily about him, recalling all that had happened during the vivid, conjured dream.

  And in that rousing instant, his heart was determined.

  Brushing his wings over his scalp, the bird discovered it to be bald once more, and his left eye was again shrivelled and blind in the socket. But Quoth did not care. This was the life he had resolved upon. To be the faithful companion of Squire Neil was all he desired to be, and that prospect filled him with rejoicing.

  As Memory did before him, Quoth cast back his comical head and hooted with mirth. Then he sighed deeply, wondering what their new life together away from the museum would be like. Yet, when he voiced his thoughts, only a harsh, croaking caw blared from his beak.

  Alarmed and distraught, the raven squawked and crowed again. But it was no use—he could not form the words. Collapsing into a dismal heap, he bleated sorrowfully and hung his head as he finally understood.

  With large tears streaming down his face and trickling into his scraggy plumage, Quoth knew then that this was his penance. To punish him for rejection a second time, Woden had taken away the raven's gift of speech.

  Sobbing wretchedly, his voice a cacophony of ugly, braying cries, Quoth wept well into the night.

  Chapter 17 - Within the Girdling Mist

  The candles in The Tiring Salon had all burned themselves out. With his copy of Billy Bunter lying open on the table, his head drooped over his chest, Austen Pickering was fast asleep. The miniature spools of the cassette in the tape recorder revolved idly, nearly winding to the end of their allotted length.

  Through the spacious expanse of that long gallery a darkened figure moved, and only the headless mannequins were witness to its shambling presence. Icy vapour steamed from chill lips, and wheezing sighs turned the already wintry air even colder. Over the bare floorboards, where once the Webster sisters had danced, heavy footsteps dragged, shuffling close to where the ghost hunter sat slumbering peacefully.

  A bleak shadow fell over Mr Pickering's face and his flesh crawled in the supreme cold as the slow, stumbling figure crept nearer to stand over him. The old man's spectacles, askew on his nose, miste
d over when the intruder's reflection appeared in the lenses.

  From pallid blue lips a hollow moan issued, and Austen Pickering grumbled in his sleep. 'No such thing as ectoplasm,' he burbled through chattering teeth. 'All muslin and mummery.'

  With a loud click, the tape machine came to the end of the cassette and snapped itself off. Suddenly, the ghost hunter jolted awake and he shivered, huffing on to his freezing hands.

  Reaching for the torch, he flashed it around the room, but his glasses were frosted over and he spent a couple of minutes breathing hard upon them before he could see.

  On edge, he swept the bright beam about the gallery, the playful attitudes of the mannequins alarming in the swiftly moving spotlight. But The Tiring Salon was now empty.

  Shining the torch on his watch the old man scribbled down the time. 'Twenty-to-five,' he said aloud. 'Hell's bells, it's cold.'

  Bringing the light to bear on the thermometer, Mr Pickering gave an exclamation of surprise. 'Minus four!' he breathed. 'Time for another coffee, I reckon.'

  Unscrewing the lid of the thermos, the old man absently rewound the tape machine several minutes and replayed what had been recorded. The hiss of an empty room blasted out into the gallery but, when he was sipping his coffee and warming his hands on the plastic cup, Mr Pickering heard those laboured, trawling footsteps as they first came into the room.

  Looking up from his steaming beverage, he shone the torch over to where the noises on the tape suggested the mysterious interloper had entered. Holding his breath, he listened as the machine continued. Closer the painful-sounding, hobbling footfalls had come and, in spite of the cold, a speckling perspiration glistened over the old man's forehead.

  The recorded sounds came over to where he was sitting, and he flashed the torch about the room once more, just to double-check he was alone. Then, over the speaker he heard a deathly murmur, and the steps dragged away towards the nearby door.