Tales From The Wyrd Museum 3: The Fatal Strand

by Robin Jarvis

  'Get off!' she yelled. 'I've got to find her!'

  Quoth ducked and darted away from her flaying hands, but the delay had been enough, for his master had caught up with them.

  'Stop right there!' Neil panted, grabbing hold of the girl's coat.

  Edie growled at him. 'Let go!' she raged. 'I know she's down this way—I can feel it!'

  A twittering giggle suddenly sailed from the darkness in front, and the girl pointed the torch at the twisting corner ahead of them.

  'Hear that?' she cried. 'That were Celandine right enough—she's just round there!'

  'Give me the torch,' Neil said firmly, taking it from her and moving forward in the direction of that childlike voice.

  'Run,' Edie told him, sprinting away like a rabbit from its hole.

  'Wait!' the boy called. 'Edie, not so fast—don't you see? The hallway was never this long before. We should be at the landing by now. Edie!'

  Cursing her under his breath, Neil dashed down the passage and, together, they turned the corner. Through the long expanse of darkness which lay beyond, the intense ray of the torch pierced and stabbed and there, at the far end of this unfamiliar corridor, they saw her.

  'Celandine!' Edie shouted.

  The powerful flashlight shone over the faded ruby velvet of her gown. Around and around Miss Celandine Webster whirled, the ample folds of her mildewed dress wrapping and furling about her as she waltzed dreamily down the passage.

  Yet Miss Celandine was not dancing alone.

  Her partner was a tall, burly man dressed in Regency finery. A frock coat of bottle green, adorned with rows of gleaming brass buttons, covered his broad back. Tucked into a pair of highly polished, calf-length boots were white pantaloons, and wedged upon his head he wore a black, bicorne hat.

  Holding her firmly about the waist, they waltzed further down the stretching corridor and Miss Celandine laughed giddily. Quoth gave a feeble caw and Edie spluttered as Neil trained the flashlight upon the man's scarred and pock-marked face.

  'Tick-Tock,' he uttered.

  'Let her go!' Edie bawled, brandishing her dagger and springing after them, her hair flying wildly. 'Celandine, get away from him!'

  With a snarling cackle, Jack Timms' rodent eyes swivelled cruelly about, glaring and gloating at the children who were rushing towards them.

  'Jack told you it were too late!' he gargled. 'You done lost her now—lost her fer good!' And with that he laughed horribly, throwing the whole of his awful strength into the dance.

  Around and around Miss Celandine was spun; faster and faster Jack Timms flung her. Tighter he wrapped his arm about her waist, crushing her against the barrel of his fat self. In his iron grasp her hands were smothered and the waltz became a berserking reel.

  'Too boisterous, Sir!' the old woman protested, trying to resist and pull away. ‘I cannot keep up. Slow down—please!'

  But the warder laughed in her face and the demented dance degenerated into a violent tussle.

  'Unhand me!' Miss Celandine cried, stumbling over the fleeting ground, her long braids flicking out around her, whisking and smacking the walls. Into the gloom of the ever-receding corridor she went wheeling, her feet no longer touching the floor as Jack Timms lifted her in his vice-like arms.

  Running after them, Neil and Edie saw a melting change alter the foul man's fine garments. The frock coat darkened and grew in volume to become his regular black greatcoat, and the bicorne hat acquired a battered brim in which the crown swelled and rumpled. Dressed now in his usual warder's clothes, he twisted Miss Celandine's arm behind her back and she squealed in fear.

  About her faded red dress the shadows shimmered. Then the colour bled away until only the crisp white linen of a starched nightgown remained.

  'No!' Neil howled, suddenly feeling sick and lurching to a standstill. 'Quoth!' he called in distress. 'Go back—find Ursula, bring her here as fast you can. Quick! I... I think I know what he's doing!'

  Not wasting an instant the raven cawed and, with a mighty sweep of his wings, shot back up the passageway, disappearing into the shrouding distance.

  Miss Celandine shrieked as all semblance of the dance was abandoned. Tick-Tock Jack seized her roughly by the waist and throat, dragging the old woman towards one of the waiting doors. Ominously, it creaked open at his guffawing approach.

  A sickly radiance abruptly flared in the corridor as gas lamps glimmered into being upon the walls, and Neil's skin prickled as his suspicion mounted. Through the door Jack Timms trawled the struggling Miss Celandine, who scrabbled at the wall and kicked out with her naked feet.

  'Ursula!' she yowled, her eyes an unpleasant, rolling white. 'Save me—oh Ursula! Help me—Edith!'

  Into the room the woman was hauled and the door slammed back in its frame just as Edie came dashing up to it. Frenetically, the girl wrenched the handle, but the door wouldn't budge and behind it she could hear Miss Celandine's piteous screeches growing ever fainter.

  'Open up!' Edie demanded, throwing her small body against it, hammering the panels with her fists and the pommel of the dagger. 'Celandine! Celandine!'

  ***

  Rocketing through the corridor, Quoth thrashed his wings faster than he had ever done before, crying at the top of his raucous voice. Around him the swirling shadows shifted as the passageway switched in and out of the past. Dim gaslight flickered briefly, only to be blasted by a buzzing electric glare, and then the darkness sprang back to reclaim its ghastly realm.

  With his one eye straining to see the dim, winding way ahead, the raven hooted and honked for Miss Ursula, but there was no sign of her. Swooping recklessly about the sharp corners, Quoth's fear and distress soared. The museum was playing its old tricks and deceits on him. Already the corridor was twisting far more than it had on the outward journey and, upon either side, doorways appeared where there surely had never been any before.

  The raven started to panic—he had failed his young master. The museum would not let him find Miss Ursula and he wondered if he should race back to Neil's side.

  Circling in retreat he plunged backwards, but immediately skidded in mid-air, and stared hopelessly about him with horrible realisation. He was completely lost.

  Cheeping forlornly, Quoth flipped over in the mouldering atmosphere, wondering what to do. All was silent and still, and he was alone in the threatening dark.

  Feeling small and horrendously vulnerable, the bird jabbered to himself. He was on the verge of despairing tears when he remembered that his master was in danger, and that awful knowledge rekindled his spirits.

  No longer afraid for his own scraggy skin, Quoth resumed his urgent errand. Let the museum perform its treacherous chicanery, he thought. Let it torment him with false lures and lead him around in circles. He would never give in whilst his young master was in peril.

  Swiftly, the raven tore into the swallowing gloom, banking and pitching to clear the black barring obstacles which leaned out from the walls and into his path. Through unknown doorways he rushed, surging blindly into empty rooms, only to emerge where other unfamiliar entrances yawned open.

  But Quoth was dogged and determined. He did not permit the bewildering labyrinth to confound him—he knew that he had to keep going. Like a feathered dart he bolted through the dust-swirling galleries which tried to snare him with their mazing exits. But, in that forbidding pitch, the raven's eye shone bold and resolute within his grim face.

  Diving through another foreign doorway, Quoth unexpectedly found himself back in the passageway and, in the distance, he could see a faint, glimmering light. Hope blazed like a beacon in his breast, for there—cupping the flame of his cigarette lighter in his hand and searching the darkness—was Austen Pickering.

  Squawking gratefully, Quoth beat his wings all the faster and the ghost hunter looked up sharply at the sound of his frantic, clamouring voice.

  'Quoth?' he called, as the raven hurtled down the corridor. 'Is that you?' Swiftly, the anguished bird flew to the old man's wrist and
gibbered wildly.

  'Hold on, old son!' Mr Pickering exclaimed. 'Calm down.'

  The raven gulped down beakfuls of air as his bald head darted from side to side, seeking for Miss Ursula.

  'Have Neil and the girl found Celandine?' the ghost hunter asked. 'Is that what you're trying to say?'

  Quoth nodded beseechingly and stared up into the old man's face. The reflection of the lighter's flame played brightly over the thick lenses of Mr Pickering's spectacles, and the raven felt oddly disconcerted at not being able to see the man's eyes.

  'A good thing you found me, then,' Mr Pickering said with an unaccountable calmness in his voice. 'But it's Ursula I 'spect you'll be wanting. She's just around that corner.'

  A halo of flickering light swept over the wall behind and Quoth spread his wings again. There was something about the old man that disturbed and unsettled him and, in agitation, he hopped from his wrist to fetch Miss Ursula.

  'Oh no,' the ghost hunter said mildly, 'you can't leave—not yet.' And, to the raven's astonishment, Mr Pickering grabbed hold of his legs, plucking him roughly from the air.

  Struggling furiously against this unexpected attack, Quoth shrieked in alarm. But the old man continued to cling to him and an unpleasant smile parted his craggy face.

  'Mr Pickering?' Miss Ursula's angst-ridden voice called in the near distance. 'Is that the boy's raven? Mr Pickering where are you?'

  Screeching, Quoth pecked at the hand which gripped him, but the stubby fingers would not let go and suddenly the darkness snapped about them both as the lighter was extinguished.

  'We'll just stop that racket now, shall we?' Mr

  Pickering muttered, and Quoth felt the other hand come reaching for his face.

  Unable to free himself, the raven was suddenly silenced when his beak was seized and clamped firmly shut. 'Can't have you warning anyone now, can I?' the ghost hunter hissed. 'Not after all the trouble I've gone to.'

  'Mr Pickering!' Miss Ursula cried again. 'Where are you? What has occurred?'

  The old man glanced at the bobbing light behind. Any moment now she would come round that corner and find them. Squeezing his fingers even tighter about Quoth's beak, Austen Pickering ducked into the nearest doorway and pressed himself against the wall.

  Floundering in his grasp, Quoth made as much struggling, flapping commotion as possible, until the old man pulled him so close that the bird was almost smothered and could no longer move his wings.

  In the corridor outside, the light welled up as Miss Ursula Webster turned into the passage, calling to the oppressive dark.

  'Why do you not answer when I call?' her distraught voice rang out. 'Where has the man gone?'

  Helpless, Quoth could only watch as the space beyond the open doorway glimmered brightly and the oil lamp held by Miss Ursula appeared. Pressed against Mr Pickering's chest, the raven could hear his heart thumping rapidly as the old man held his breath when the eldest of the Fates cast a cursory glance into the room, before hastening off down the corridor. Swiftly, the radiance dwindled; that part of The Wyrd Museum was swamped by the inky night once more and Miss

  Ursula's desperate cries faded into the remote background.

  Without releasing him, Austen Pickering loosened his grip on the raven and lifted the bird to stare into his goggling face. 'Did you really think I'd let you squeak your scabby head off and give the game away?' the old man chortled. 'Oh no, my little friend. What a shame that you lost the power of speech. You might have been able to save the day—even at this, the bitter end.'

  Quoth wriggled in his grasp, snorting through his stifled nostrils. His eye glittered with the inflamed anger that raged inside him. How dare this madman hold him captive whilst his young master was facing untold hazards?

  'I've waited far too long for my designs to be ruined by anyone.' A chilling edge had crept into the old man's voice. 'Especially not you. This is a moment to savour and I shall, most gladly'

  The raven ceased his squirming resistance as the truth finally trumpeted inside his decayed mind. All his innocent, harmless dreams came clattering in ruins around him as he looked up into that shadowy face.

  'Very soon it will be over,' the ghost hunter murmured. 'The Cessation will be complete.'

  Gazing at those dark, bespectacled eyes, Quoth whimpered in Mr Pickering's fists as he penetrated that unassuming persona and knew his hour had come.

  The old man chuckled softly, his voice dropping to a seditious whisper as he said, 'Did you think I would forget our last appointment, my dear, beloved Memory? I told you we would meet three times. This is your last and final chance.'

  Here then, wearing the crusty disguise he had created to inveigle his way into The Wyrd Museum, was the raven's former master—Woden.

  'Even now, at the very brink of the Nornir's destruction, it is not too late to reconsider,' the compelling voice told him. 'Though that fat oaf Timms is serving me well thus far, I still have need of your fond companionship, Memory.'

  Quoth's apoplectic terror was beyond anything he had ever experienced before. His entire frame trembled violently. He wanted to scream, but even if he had been able to open his beak, he doubted if he could find his cringing voice.

  'The choice is yours,' Woden hissed. 'Return and serve me loyally, or remain this ignoble, absurd apology of a creature. Only know that if you spurn me this time, you will pay the ultimate price for your insolence and ingratitude. Which is it to be? Make your final answer.'

  The raven shuddered. A great tear streamed down his face and his soul cowered inside him. How could he reject Neil and go back to being that cruel monster of his malignant youth? The prospect horrified and repelled him. Yet, if he did not become Memory and fly at Woden's side once more, then he would most certainly perish.

  What alternative did he have? Staring at the fraudulent face of Austen Pickering through his watering eye, the raven knew that there was no denying the Captain of Askar.

  Swallowing a bitter breath, Quoth went limp and he hung his head despondently.

  'The decision is made?' Woden demanded.

  The raven gave one mournful nod, defeated and crushed.

  An insidious laugh rippled from his captor's mouth. 'You have selected with your old wisdom, my friend,' Woden congratulated. 'Come, Memory, let us watch the ultimate humiliation of the Witches of die Wood together.'

  Quoth felt the tenacious fingers unfasten from around his beak and his hunched shoulders sagged with dejection. 'Do not grieve,' Woden ordered him. 'In a moment you will scorn this worthless existence.'

  Into the corridor the Gallows God carried the raven. Then, snatching this one chance he had been praying for, Quoth threw back his head and valiantly let loose a piercing, clarion scream.

  Throughout The Wyrd Museum that shrill warning echoed as Quoth screeched for his life and hoped that, somewhere, Neil could hear him. Into that last, sacrificing shriek he propelled all that he would never again say to his beloved young master.

  Then his discordant, dolorous cry was silenced.

  'Faithless crow!' Woden snapped, catching hold of the raven by the throat and twisting his hands savagely. 'I'll waste no more time on you!'

  And in that throttling darkness, Quoth's earnest little life was ended.

  ***

  In the glimmering, gaslit passageway, Neil Chapman threw himself against the door. But, before his shoulder slammed into the panels, the barrier swung treacherously inwards and the boy went sprawling into the room beyond.

  Edie Dorkins leaped after him. Miss Celandine's pitiful screams were several rooms away and, not waiting for the boy to pick himself up from the floor, she scampered off, waving her dagger.

  Scrambling to his feet, Neil looked quickly about him. The room was crowded with empty hospital beds. A pungent reek of chemicals and damp bed linen soured the air of that ghastly place, and the acrid stench burned into his nostrils.

  A pang of recognition pulled at the corners of Neil's mind—he had been here before. This wa
s how the Wyrd Infirmary had looked long after it had closed its doors, having lain empty and neglected for many years. During the time of the Second World War the boy had wandered through these deserted wards, and now he knew exactly where Miss Celandine Webster had been taken.

  Racing in Edie's wake, he plunged through ward after ward whilst the old woman's fevered shrieks grew steadily closer. Finally, he caught up with the girl outside a windowless, boxed-in room and, although Miss Celandine's weeping cries were very close now, they both hesitated before entering.

  The Egyptian Suite,' Neil murmured.

  'Will be,' Edie corrected him.

  ‘I know what's through there.'

  The girl gripped her dagger in readiness. 'An' so will I!' she answered gravely.

  Into that dim place the children pressed. Two meagre gas flames made a soft popping noise about their mantles and Neil stole a glance at the barbaric dentist's chair which dominated that room, before hurrying out into what would one day become The Separate Collection.

  There was the horrendous surgical chamber he remembered from his previous exploration, and Edie spluttered in distress when she entered. A raised platform of tiered wooden benches clustered around three of the walls, forming a rudimentary amphitheatre. A number of well-dressed people were seated there, their idle chatter dying when the children burst in.

  Yet neither Edie nor Neil paid them any attention for, in the middle of the sunken stage, Jack Timms and two other warders were dragging Miss Celandine across the sawdust-strewn floor to where a long table, fitted with sinister-looking, buckled straps, was waiting.

  'Stop it!' Edie squealed, barging forward, dagger in hand. 'Let her go! Celandine—Celandine!'

  'Edith!' the old woman squealed in despairing confusion. 'Help me!'

  Lunging at Tick-Tock Jack, Neil cannoned into him and the odious man reeled aside, only to flash out with his mighty arms and crack the boy against the side of his head. Even as Neil crumpled to the floor, Edie pounced and stabbed at the warder with the dagger. But the burly man tore about and the striking blow ripped harmlessly through his coat.