Tales From The Wyrd Museum 3: The Fatal Strand

by Robin Jarvis

  'Where you off to?' Edie called as the old woman sidled past one of the glass cases. 'Lemme come!'

  But Miss Ursula was not venturing far. Threading her way through the flickering lights she halted by a gilded pedestal and raised her eyes to the figure it supported.

  Upon that plinth, where golden ferns curled and scrolled, the shapely female foot that had stood there for thousands of years, carved from ivory and broken off at the ankle—was now part of a much larger whole.

  Two dainty feet now pointed their gleaming toes upon the crest of that pillar and the slender ankles were connected to graceful calves which disappeared into the skilfully sculpted folds of an alabaster Ionic shift. Over lovingly modelled thighs and hips the exquisite, cunningly crafted chiton was draped—rising to a narrowing waist and belted beneath the bosom by a simple carved cord.

  Where the low neck of the classical garment joined the budding ivory once more, the hinted musculature spoke of a seductive suppleness, and lithe arms that tapered from elegant shoulders were held open in a welcoming embrace.

  Captivated by the loveliness of the regenerated figure, Neil moved forward to see the face of that beautiful statue. But the head was cloaked in shadow and he could only wonder what fair features the sculptor had bestowed upon his creation.

  'Too many ages of the world have wheeled by,' Miss Ursula began as she looked up into that concealed countenance. 'Too many years have seeped into oblivion since the day Pumiyathon first fashioned you, little knowing the scourge he had made to inspire terror in the streets of Paphos. Unto me your broken form was delivered, lest Ashtoroth return and command you once more. But now the term of your incarceration is over. The debt has been paid, yet still I, Urdr, will not release you till one further penance is undertaken.'

  A hissing breath caused the alabaster breast to rise gently and the ivory fingers twitched with life.

  Holding up the weapons, Miss Ursula respectfully bowed her head then named her request.

  'Be then the new protector of this place. For this night only, I appoint you commander of my stone legion. In this desperate hour, guard we who sit in this room from the hazards without and let none break in upon us.'

  Ivory hands reached out to take the sword and shield from her grasp, and the blade cleaved through the gloom as the statue signalled its assent.

  'Then lead the others,' the eldest of the Fates ordered, taking a brisk step back. 'Suffer no opposition and cut down the enemy who approaches. Let it be done!'

  Clutching the bronze shield to its chest, the statue stirred. The lapping candlelight glimmered through the translucent alabaster of its shift as the feet moved and it stepped down from the pedestal.

  Into the glowing radiance the sculpture's head finally emerged and, around the small fire, Neil and his father cried out in fear. Josh buried his face in Brian's coat and Austen Pickering swore under his breath.

  Cawing in fright, Quoth hopped from his master's shoulder and went scurrying across the floor to dive into a medieval helmet, the grilled visor clanging shut behind him.

  At once the ivory hands clenched the broadsword all the more tightly and the blade sliced the air in a death-dealing arc.

  'Be silent,' Miss Ursula warned them quickly. 'Remain calm—you have nothing to fear.'

  Inside the steel helmet, the raven timorously pressed his eye to one of the visor's slits and quailed at the spectacle which loomed beyond the nearby cabinets.

  Where the enchanting head should have been, but made from the same smooth ivory, there was only a grinning human skull.

  From his bolt-hole, Quoth stared up at that twisted ugliness and shook himself uneasily.

  The contrast to that perfect, shapely figure was monstrous and horrific. Wearing a crown of carved laurel leaves, the skull twisted aside to glare at the people seated about the fire, its hollow sockets seeming to bore right into them.

  Neil shrivelled inside as those deep spaces fixed upon him and the jaw snapped wide to issue a threatening, serpent-like hiss.

  Her mouth falling open in fascinated imitation, Edie adored the wondrous creation and longed to run over to it. But Miss Ursula was already pointing the statue towards the entrance where the other shadowy sculptures were waiting, and the figure strode from the lights which danced about its lustrous form, shimmering off into the darkness.

  Through The Separate Collection it stalked, brandishing the sword before it. At the doorway of The Egyptian Suite the statue halted, whilst the rest of the stone infantry closed in behind.

  Long blades gleamed dully in the gloom as marble fists upraised their weapons and, at a commanding hiss, the silent crowd went lumbering through the entrance and out into the museum.

  'So march our principal defences,' Miss Ursula remarked, listening to the heavy footfalls rumble through the dark. 'The deciding battle is about to commence.'

  Edie Dorkins rushed to her side and stabbed her dagger into the empty air. 'I want to go fight!' she exclaimed. 'Lemme go with 'em.'

  'No, Edith dear,' Miss Ursula admonished kindly. 'I will have more need of you here. Let us return to the fireside.'

  Reluctant, the girl lingered by the cabinets. 'Can't I just go an' see?' she implored.

  'Obey me in this,' Miss Ursula cautioned. 'If any should set foot beyond this room, it will be the end of them. Outside this collection Jack Timms now rules the building. We must stay here and weather the coming storm.'

  As she said those words, the pounding of Tick-Tock's Tormentor, which had been beating along the connecting corridor, suddenly ceased and everyone looked up sharply.

  'He is aware of them,' Miss Ursula uttered. 'The contest begins.'

  A loud, braying shout erupted from the passage and the sound of that repellent, familiar voice caused Neil and Edie to glance nervously at one another.

  Still shut inside the helmet, Quoth also heard the malignant curses of that evil man. Unable to open the visor, the bird lifted the steel headgear on his back and waddled over to his master's side, his scrawny legs poking from underneath.

  Behind the panelled walls, the malicious warder of the Wyrd Infirmary gave a defiant yell, but his cries were overwhelmed by a tremendous clamour that came charging from The Dissolution Gallery as the alabaster statue led her army to battle.

  Resounding crashes boomed and blasted through the museum as the marble soldiers burst into the corridor, their unstoppable might smashing through all obstacles. The night was slashed with a furious clanging as steel clashed against steel and, to Neil's relief, he heard Jack Timms' bawling voice retreat towards the landing.

  'They're forcing him back,' he murmured.

  'He doesn't stand an earthly against armed statues,' Mr Pickering joined in. 'What person would?'

  'One who has the power of Woden burning within him,' Miss Ursula remarked grimly. 'Do not celebrate our victory just yet.'

  'Are we having a party, Ursula?' Miss Celandine piped up unexpectedly. 'How adorable!' No one answered her.

  The echoing tumult was fainter now.

  'They're on the stairs,' Edie breathed in bloodthirsty excitement. 'Hark at them swords a-bashin' and a-duellin'. Wish I could see the look on that fat dog's face when they stick it on 'im. Chop his ugly head off, that's what I says!'

  The bitter conflict continued to rage below and Neil chewed his lip uneasily. 'It's taking too long,' he said, speaking his fears aloud. 'They should have won by now'

  Miss Ursula agreed, clenching her fists till her knuckles shone white as the bone beneath. 'It is indeed,' she whispered.

  ***

  His pitted face distorted with murderous fury, Jack Timms roared with the full force of his rattling lungs as he confronted the stone sortie that assailed him. Stumbling backwards down the stairs, his beaten top hat knocked from his head, the burly man glowered at the alarming, sculpted figures that pursued him, swiping their swords through the surrounding shadows.

  Beneath the thundering weight of those marble feet, the wooden steps splintered and cr
acked, whilst the banisters buckled as impervious limbs crashed against them. At the forefront of the company, Pumiyathon's statue came savaging, her jaw bone clacking and snapping atop that lovely neck.

  Tick-Tock Jack staggered away from her. In his left hand he held his cane firmly, but his right fist gripped a Roman sword snatched from the wall, and with its blade he clumsily fended off the lunging thrusts of the statue as best he could.

  Stabbing wildly, he chipped a sliver of ivory from one of the sculpture's beautiful arms. Then the bronze shield swung around to knock his fat body aside. Down the steps he was driven, his great black coat flapping madly about his corpulent bulk, and after him the sculptures came stomping.

  'You blowsy headstones!' he shouted. 'Pink old Tick-Tock if you think you can. He ain't afrighted o' the likes o' your churchyard mugs.'

  Dodging awkwardly, Jack Timms dropped his Roman gladius and tumbled into the main hall. Defenceless without it, the vile braggart blundered backwards, but still he was not afraid and a vain guffaw spilled from his thick lips.

  The architecture of the entrance hall was a confusion of centuries. Patches of wattled walls flickered beneath the panelling and the large window on the stairs was a tortured mongrel of conflicting periods.

  'Now we'll see,' he laughed. 'Takes more'n you to do fer Tick-Tock!'

  Before the words had left his mouth, there came a belching 'plop', swiftly followed by another. From the ground around him, bubbling up through the parquet tiles, muddy water started to squelch and squeeze. Out of the cracks a brackish ooze frothed and the interlocking segments of wood that formed the floor bulged and quivered—lifted upon an undulating, marshy bog.

  Leaving the stairs, the statues trampled unerringly towards Woden's agent, but the burden of their pounding advance was too great for the wood-crusted swamp that the hallway had become. Into soft, sucking mud the sculptures sank, dragged down until the filthy fen reached their waists, and Jack Timms sniggered to see the mighty limbs toil and flounder.

  Yet not all were helpless in that turgid marsh. A defiant hiss issued from the commander's grinning jaws and the empty hollows of her eye sockets stared with a hideous intent at the warder. Though the thick quagmire clung to the finely crafted folds of her shift, the living sculpture waded forward, the broadsword poised and ready.

  Faltering momentarily in his boastful laughter, his ratty eyes trained upon that alabaster figure already stepping from the unnatural swamp, Tick-Tock Jack edged towards The Roman Gallery. The exhibits had vanished and in their place stood row upon row of desks. Darting his sly gaze to the large blackboard at the end of the room, the warder's black confidence was restored and he gloated with unholy mirth. 'You'll not gut me,' he slobbered foully.

  ***

  Up in The Separate Collection, they could no longer hear what was happening downstairs. The clashing of steel had ceased, so too had the rumour of crunching footfalls; only Jack Timms' hellish laughter came to them, and they waited fearfully.

  'Never have I felt so powerless!' Miss Ursula snapped in frustration.

  From the darkness which smothered the nearby wall, there came a gasping cough and everyone turned quickly.

  'Who's there?' Mr Pickering demanded.

  Inside the helmet, Quoth warbled worriedly as the dry, wheezing cough sounded again.

  'Gogus?' Edie called doubtfully. 'That you?'

  'Gorgeous Gogus!' Miss Celandine crooned. 'It likes its ears tickled, you know—it does, it does.'

  With furrows creasing her brow, Miss Ursula took up an oil lamp and strode into the shadows, the gentle flame lighting the interiors of the cabinets she swept past. 'Where are you?' she demanded, peering into the crowded recesses. 'Speak!'

  To her right, the small voice spluttered a third time and the old woman's eyes flashed exultantly when she dispelled the masking gloom.

  'Not the Paedagogus,' she addressed the others. 'Yet perhaps something even more serviceable.'

  Turning up the flame which burned in the lamp's fluted glass, Miss Ursula smiled widely. Over tiny, shrivelled faces the generous light now played and, watching from behind, Edie saw that she was looking at a row of shrunken heads.

  Suspended upon plaited cords, the seven macabre exhibits looked like so many apples at a Hallowe'en party. They were each the size of a cricket ball, but long hanks of thick dark hair hung from die constricted scalps. Fine stitches sealed the sunken eyelids and wizened mouths, and an assortment of primitive yet beautiful jewellery dangled from the ears.

  All were male. Two of them had long, wiry beards, while another was covered in tribal tattoos which coiled over the wrinkled skin in an intricate and magical design. A serene but solemn expression was set into every one of those toy-like faces. They looked as if their straw-stuffed heads were filled with contented dreaming, but Miss Ursula scanned her keen gaze across them with irritation.

  'Which of you is it?' she inquired, scratching at the glass with her fingernail. 'Speak up.'

  There, the fourth in from the left of those ghoulish objects was swaying slightly upon his thread and the old woman brought the lamp as close to him as the intervening glass permitted. Saturated by the warm radiance, every detail of that diminutive face was set in stark relief, and the spirals of his tattoos obligingly displayed their still-fresh colours.

  In the middle of that gruesome exhibit, a perfect miniature nose suddenly twitched and wriggled as though suppressing a sneeze. Then the stitches which bound the lips together strained and grew taut as the mouth began to squirm. From one corner, where the sewing had slackened, the head gave another cough and a fine rain of dust was expelled out into the case.

  'There is little time,' Miss Ursula declared. 'Can you hear me?'

  Within that small face the eyebrows trembled and, behind the concave cheeks, a motion like the chewing of a particularly sticky toffee began. The untidy seam that held the mouth shut started to unravel and, when the stitches had been loosened sufficiently, the shrunken head spoke.

  A thin, rasping voice sounded within the glass case as the ghastly object acknowledged Miss Ursula's presence and greeted her in a language that neither Neil nor anyone else recognised or understood.

  Yet it was plain that the old woman comprehended every word, even though the voice was further impaired by the fact that there was no tongue behind those parchment-like lips, and the speech leaked out in a pinched and breathless whine.

  'No, my friend,' she responded. 'The hour of your deliverance is not upon us. My apologies for awakening you prematurely. It was necessary, I'm afraid. Will you aid us? We are encompassed by the forces of the Gallows God and I must know what is befalling outside this room. Use those skills you were favoured with, set your thought a-hunting and relate all that it spies to me.'

  The crinkled face bobbed upon the string as the head attempted to nod and the nasal voice dwindled to a concentrated whisper.

  'What's it doing?' Mr Pickering asked, joining Neil and Quoth to stare in astonishment at the outlandish discourse.

  Miss Ursula glanced at them in distraction, her face divulging a chain of emotions as the head of the long dead shaman sent his mind flying through the museum, revealing to her all that he saw.

  'They are down in the hall,' she recounted to the others. 'He sees devastation and destruction all around. The floor has regressed to an evil age when a stinking quagmire crept through the land to consume the forest in which Nirinel was hidden.'

  A volley of harsh words spattered abruptly from the withered lips and Miss Ursula clicked her tongue in dismay. 'Into this marsh many of the statues have already fallen and cannot free themselves; the more they struggle the deeper they are dredged. Yet five of their number have accomplished it and even now are striding through what should be The Roman Gallery. Aha—Jack Timms is in there and they are hurling the furniture out of their path to reach him... but—he is laughing...'

  Without warning, the head let out a compressed scream and Miss Ursula recoiled, visibly shaken.


  'What?' Neil cried. 'What's happened?'

  The old woman looked across at Edie, then swallowed and turned towards The Egyptian Suite. 'Jack Timms is mustering a force to protect himself from them,' she whimpered.

  'What kind of force?' Mr Pickering murmured.

  Miss Ursula made no answer—she did not have to.

  In that same instant The Wyrd Museum rang with the shrieks and screams of young children.

  'Ursula!' Miss Celandine wailed unhappily. 'The infants—someone is hurting them!'

  The children's panic-filled screams were horrendous to hear and Austen Pickering slammed his fist upon one of the cabinets. 'Explain that!' he demanded angrily, snatching up his torch and almost running from the room.

  'The orphans,' Miss Ursula said quickly, with a disgusted, fearful tremor in her voice. 'That man has summoned their schoolroom back; he is going to use the children as a shield. If the statues are to get to him, they must first cut down the infants.'

  Mr Pickering shook his head. 'Then he's got away,' he murmured.

  'No!' Miss Ursula cried, when the shrunken head gasped and rattled further grisly intelligence. 'The sculptures were commanded to let nothing stand in their path. They are advancing. The children are herded between them and the warder—the swords are raised—'

  'Stop it!' the ghost hunter yelled. 'Call them back—at once!'

  Anguished and appalled at the abhorrent screams echoing through the building, the eldest of the Fates readily conceded. Thrusting the oil lamp into Edie's small hands, she darted to the doorway to throw up her arms.

  'Enough!' she shouted into the thickly swirling dark. 'Let not one drop of innocent blood be shed. Put down your weapons and be as stone once more—I, Urdr, command it!'

  The children's screams climbed to a harrowing crescendo and then—there was nothing.

  From The Egyptian Suite a frightened whimpering came floating on the freezing air. By the fire, Neil's young brother stifled his cries and the voices of the Wyrd Orphanage were cast back into the chaos of the building's past.