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Night crawled by and the museum settled contentedly into the heavy shadows that its own irregular, forbidding bulk created.
In the small bedroom he shared with Josh, Neil Chapman’s fears were cast aside with the old clothes he had brought from the past and the eleven-year-old boy was steeped in a mercifully dreamless slumber. Beside him, his brother snored softly, while in the room beyond, their father was stretched upon the couch – a half drunk cup of tea teetering upon the padded arm.
Outside the museum, in the grim murk of the sinking, clouded moon, a black shape – darker than the deepest shadow, moved silently through the deserted alleyway, disturbing the nocturnal calm.
Into Well Lane the solitary figure stole, traversing the empty, gloom-filled street before he turned, causing the ample folds of his great black cloak to trail and drag across the pavement.
Swathed and hidden beneath the dank, midnight robe, his face lost under a heavy cowl, the stranger raised his unseen eyes to stare up at the blank windows of the spire-crowned building before him.
From the hood’s profound shade there came a weary and laboured breath as a cloud of grey vapour rose into the winter night.
‘The hour is at hand,’ a faint, mellifluous whisper drifted up with the curling steam. ‘The time of The Cessation is come, for I have returned.’
The voice fell silent as the figure raised its arms and the long sleeves fell back, revealing two pale and wizened hands. In the freezing air the arthritic fingers drew a curious sign and, from the hood, there began a low, restrained chanting.
‘Harken to me!’ droned the murmuring voice. ‘My faithful, devoted ones – know who speaks. Your Master has arisen from His cold, cursed sleep. Awaken and be restored to Him. This is my command – I charge you by your ancient names – Thought and Memory. Listen... listen... listen and yield.’
Steadily, the whisper grew louder, increasing with every word and imbuing each one with a relentless yet compelling power.
‘Let dead flesh pulse,’ the figure hissed, the voice snarling beneath the strain of the charm it uttered. ‘Let eye be bright and cunning rekindle – to obey my bidding once more.’
Up into the shivering ether the strident spell soared, propelled ever higher by the indomitable will of the robed figure below, until the governing words penetrated the windows of The Wyrd Museum and were heard in the desolation of The Separate Collection.
Amongst the jumble of splintered display cabinets and fallen plinths, over the shards of shattered glass and buckled frames, the mighty sonorous chant flowed. Summoning and rousing, invoking and commanding, until there, in the broken darkness – something stirred.
Responding to the supreme authority of that forceful enchantment, a muffled noise began to rustle amid the debris. At first it was a weak, laboured sound – a halting, twitching scrape, like the fitful tearing of old parchment. But, as the minutes crept by, the movements became stronger – nourished by those mysterious, intoning words.
Suddenly, a repulsive, rasping croak disturbed the chill atmosphere and a horrible cawing voice grunted into existence.
In the shadows which lay deep beneath a toppled case, half buried in a gruesome heap of shrunken heads, a black, wasted shape writhed and wriggled with new life.
Brittle, fractured bones fused together whilst mummified, papery sinew renewed itself and hot blood began pumping through branching veins. Within the sunken depths of two rotted sockets a dim light glimmered, as the grey, wafer-thin flesh around them blinked suddenly and a pair of black, bead-like eyes bulged into place.
In the street outside, the cloaked figure was trembling – struggling beneath the almighty strain of maintaining the powerful conjuration. From the unseen lips those commanding words became ever more forceful and desperate – spitting and barking out the summons to call his loyal servants back from death.
Answering the anguished grappling voice, the movements in The Separate Collection grew ever more frantic and wild as the room became filled with shrill, skirling cries accompanied by a feverish, scrabbling clamour.
In the shadows, the shrunken heads were flung aside and sent spinning over the rubble as a winged shape dragged and heaved its way from the darkness.
Emitting a parched croak, the creature yanked and tore itself free, staggering out from under the fallen display case to perch unsteadily upon the splintered wreckage.
In silence it crouched there, enwreathed by the sustaining forces of the incantation as, within its small skull, the crumbled mind was rebuilt and the eyes began to shine with cruelty and cunning.
Bitter was the gleam which danced there – a cold, rancorous hatred and loathing for all of the objects in the room, and its talons dug deep into the length of wood it balanced upon. Soon the rebirth would be complete.
Suddenly, outside the museum, there came a strangled wail and the cloaked figure collapsed upon the pavement. He had not been ready, the effort of invoking and sustaining those mighty forces had drained him and he lay there for some minutes, gasping with exhaustion – the breath rattling from his spent lungs.
Immediately, the link with the creature in The Separate Collection was broken and, giving a startled squawk, it tumbled backwards.
But its lord’s skill and strength had been just enough. The infernal charm was complete and the shape floundered upon its back only for an instant before righting itself. Then, with a flurry of old discarded feathers, it hopped back on to its perch and spread its replenished wings.
Yet no beauteous phoenix was this. The bird which cast its malevolent gaze about the shadows was a stark portrait of misshapen ugliness. Coal black was the vicious beak which speared out from a sleek, flat head, and powerful were its tensed, hunched shoulders. As a feathered gargoyle it appeared and from the restored gullet there came a chillingly hostile call.
Stretching and shaking its pinions, the raven moved from side to side, basking in the vigour of its rejuvenated body, scratching the splintered furniture with its claws and cackling wickedly to itself. The Master had returned to claim it back into His service and the bird was eager to demonstrate its unswerving obedience and fealty.
Fanning out the ebony primary feathers of its wings, the bird flapped them experimentally and rose into the air, cawing with an almost playful joy. It was as if the uncounted years of death and mouldering corruption had only been a dark, deceiving dream, for the bird was as agile and as supple as it had ever been.
Yet the euphoric cries were swiftly curtailed and the creature dropped like a stone as a new, terrible thought flooded that reconstructed brain and its heart became filled with an all-consuming despair.
Leaping across the wreckage, the raven darted from shadow to shadow, hunting and searching, its cracked voice calling morosely. Through the litter of exhibits the bird searched, tearing aside the obstacles in its path as its alarm and dread mounted, until finally it found what it had been seeking.
There, with its head twisted to one side, its shrivelled face covered in shattered pieces of glass, was the moth-eaten body of a second raven.
The reanimated bird stared sorrowfully down at the crumpled corpse and the sharp, guileful gleam faded in its eyes as it tenderly nuzzled its beak against the poorly preserved body.
Mournfully, its yearning, grief-stricken voice called, trying to rouse the stiff, lifeless form – but it was no use. The second raven remained as dead as stone and no amount of plaintive cawing could awaken it.
Engulfed by an overwhelming sense of loss, the bird drew back, shuffling woefully away from the inert dried cadaver, its ugly face dejected and downcast.
Abruptly the raven checked its staggering steps – it was no longer alone. Another presence was nearby, the atmosphere within the room had changed and curious eyes were regarding it intently.
Jerking its head upwards, the bird glowered at the doorway and its beak opened to give vent to an outraged, venomous hiss when it saw a young human child.
Her face was a picture of fascination and not at all astonished or afraid at the emergence of the revivified creature.
Immediately, the raven’s sorrow changed to resentment and it swaggered forward threateningly, pulling its head into its shoulders and spitting with fury.
The girl, however, merely stared back and made a condescending truckling sound as she patted her hands together, beckoning and urging the bird to come closer.
Incensed, the raven gave a loud, piercing shriek and leapt into the air, screeching with rage.
Up it flew until the tips of its wings brushed against the ceiling and with a defiant, shrieking scream it plunged back down.
Edie Dorkins watched in mild amusement as the bird dived straight for her like an arrow from a bow. But the pleasure quickly vanished from her upturned face when she saw the outstretched talons that were already to pluck out her eyes and slash through her skin.
At the last moment, just as the winged shadow fell across her cheek, the girl whisked about and fled from the room.
Yet the raven was not so easily evaded. A murderous lust burned within its invigorated heart, consumed by the need to avenge the death of its companion and break the fast of death by slaking its thirst with her sweet blood.
Into The Egyptian Suite it pursued her, dive-bombing the hapless child, harrying her fleeing form – instilling terror into those tender young limbs.
Through one room after another Edie ran. But wherever she scurried, the raven was always there, beating its wings in her face, pecking her fingers or clawing at the long, blonde hair which had slipped from under the pixie-hood.
Breathlessly, Edie burst on to the landing and began tearing up the stairs, calling for the Websters, but the evil bird had tired of the game and lunged for her.
Into the soft flesh of her stockinged legs it drove the sharp talons. The girl yowled in pain, smacking the creature from her with the back of her hand.
Down the steps the raven cartwheeled, only to rise once more, shrieking with malice as it plummeted down – the powerful beak poised to rip and tear.
Edie squealed and threw up her arms as she leapt up the stairs, but the bird crashed between them and viciously seized hold of her exposed neck.
The girl yelled, but at that moment the raven let out a deafening screech. It thrashed its wings, demented with agony. One of its claws was caught in the stitches of the pixie-hood and the flecks of silver tinsel began to shine, becoming a mesh of harsh, blinding light which blazed and flared in the darkness of the stairway.
Furiously, the creature wrenched and tugged at its foot, for the wool burned and blistered, and a vile, stench-filled smoke crackled up where it scorched the scaly, ensnarled claw.
Edie whirled around, trying to grab the raven and pull it loose, but the bird bit her palm and its lashing feathers whipped the sides of her face. The pain was searing but, however much it battled, the creature could not break free of those stitches for the Fates themselves had woven them.
In a last, despairing attempt, the raven screamed at the top of its shrill voice, closed the beak about its own flesh and snapped it shut.
There was a rending and crunching of bone as the bird twisted and wrenched itself clear, then warm blood spurted on to Edie’s neck.
With crimson drops dribbling from its wound and staining its beak, the bird recoiled, fluttering shakily in the air as it regarded the girl with suspicion and fear. Yet even though it despised her, the creature did not attack again and circled overhead, seething with impotent wrath before flying back into the exhibitions, crowing with rage.
Standing alone upon the stairs, as the glare from her pixie-hood dwindled and perished, Edie pulled the severed talon from the stitches and pouted glumly. Her fey, shifting mind suddenly decided she had enjoyed the raven’s deadly company and wanted to play some more.
An impish grin melted over her grubby face as she decided to follow the bird and chase it from room to room, just as it had done to her. But, even as she began to jump down the steps, there came the faint sound of shattering glass and she knew that the bird had escaped.
From one of the windows in The Separate Collection the raven exploded, canoning out into the cold dregs of night, where it pounded its wings and shot upwards.
Up past the eaves it ascended, soaring over the spires and turrets, letting the chill air-currents stream through its quills as the fragments of broken glass went tinkling down upon the ground far below.
‘Thought,’ a frail, fatigued voice invaded its mind. ‘To me... to me.’
The raven cawed in answer and immediately began to spiral back down. Over the small, bleak yard it flew, fluttering over the empty street – its gleaming eyes fixed upon the hooded figure now standing once more.
‘Come, my old friend,’ the stranger uttered, wearily leaning against the wall as he raised a trembling hand in salutation. ‘Too many ages have passed since you flew before me in battle. It gladdens my heart, my most faithful attendant and counsellor.’
Wincing from the pain of its mutilated and bleeding claw, the raven alighted upon a cloaked shoulder and bobbed its head to greet its ancient Master.
‘Now do I begin to feel whole again,’ the figure sighed. ‘How am I to wreak my revenge without the company and valued assistance of my noble, trusted beloveds?’
The bird croaked softly and brushed its feathery body against the shrouded head.
‘I ought to remonstrate with you for not fleeing that accursed place sooner,’ the voice chided gently. ‘You were rash to assail that child of lesser men, for she has the protection of the royal house. The Spinners of the Wood have favoured her.’
The raven guiltily hung its head but its Lord was chuckling softly.
‘That lesson you have already learned I see. Look at your foot. Is this how you repay the gift of life? To risk it at the first instant, to let spite and hate overcome your wisdom? Such an impulsive deed I might expect from your brother but not of you, Thought. In the past you always considered the consequences of your actions... But where is your brother? Why has he not joined us?’
The unseen eyes within the hood stared up at the broken window of The Separate Collection. ‘I cannot sense him, not now – nor before. Tell me, where is he?’
The raven called Thought rocked miserably to and fro, averting its Master’s questioning glance.
‘Answer me!’ the cloaked figure commanded sternly. ‘The trivial art of speech was my first gift to you both. Have the wasting, dust dry years robbed you of that, or do you merely wish to displease me?’
Blinking its beady eyes, the creature slowly shook its head before opening its black beak. Then, in a hideous, croaking parody of a human voice it spoke.
‘Allfather,’ the raven uttered in a cracked, dirge-like tone. ‘Alas for mine brother, I doth fear the words of Memory shalt forever be stilled. The days of his service unto thee art ended indeed. His dead bones lie yonder still, unable to hear thy summons. The weight of years did ravage him sorely, more so than their corroding action did unto mine own putrid flesh.’
Its Master lifted a wizened hand and caressed the bird tenderly. ‘It is to be expected,’ he murmured sorrowfully. ‘The ages have plundered my strength and my greatness wanes.’
‘Never!’ the raven squawked. ‘Thy cunning and craft endure beyond aught else!’
‘Lift your eyes my slave and look about you. This is not the land you knew. You have been embraced by death many thousands of years. Since you and Memory penetrated the encircling mists at the vanguard of our forces, the world has changed beyond recall.’
‘In truth,’ the bird muttered. ‘Is it indeed so long? Then the battle was lost and the Three victorious.’
‘Can you remember nothing of those final moments?’
Thought closed its eyes. ‘The span of darkness is wide since that time,’ it began haltingly. ‘But hold, I can see the field of combat which lay betwixt us and the woods wherein our enemy did lurk. The day is bright with sword play and the air rings with the music of steel as I ride the wind and view the glorious contest raging below.’
‘What else do you see?’
‘Mine eyes are filled with the glad sight of our conquering forces, the Twelve are with us and no one can withstand their fury. But wait, Memory my brother, he hath hastened toward the wood before the appointed time. I call yet he cannot hear. I fear for him and charge after, yet already he hath gained the trees. To the very edge of that forest I storm, ’til the mist rises and it is too late. I see but briefly the daughters of the royal house of Askar standing beneath the great root and then there is darkness.’
The raven became silent and ruffled its feathers to warm itself.
‘Locked in their custody you have been for all this time,’ the cloaked figure concluded. ‘Yes, the battle was lost and even the Twelve were routed. I, too, was defeated, but the war was not over and still it continues, for I have arisen. Though I am weak and ailing, so too are they. The enchanted wood is no more, the stags are departed and the well is dry.’
Thought cocked its head to one side as its Master continued.
‘There is a chance, but we must be careful. Although the mists no longer shroud the attendants of Nirinel, they have amassed a great store of artefacts within that shrine of theirs. It is the combined power of those treasures which now protects them. If we are to succeed we must draw the loom maidens out, shake the web and when the spiders fall, smite them.’
Upon his robed shoulder, Thought began to hop from side to side. ‘Verily!’ it cried shrilly. ‘Strike the treacherous scourges down and show unto them no mercy. Dearly will they pay for the doom of mine brother. I shalt feast on their eyes and make a nest of their hair. Tell to me how this delicious prospect may be achieved, my Lord – I ache for their downfall.’
‘Many treasures they have acquired over the sprawling centuries,’ the hooded one answered gravely, ‘yet the greatest prize lies without their walls. A marvel so rare and possessed of such surpassing power that it could bring about their ultimate ruin.’
Crowing delightedly, the raven jumped into the air. ‘How is it the witches of the well have been so blind and blundered so?’
‘Oh, they are aware of its existence,’ came the assured reply. ‘Urdr knows, she recognises this thing for what it is and fears it as do I.’
‘Thou art afraid of this treasure?’ Thought cawed in astonishment. ‘How so, my Master?’
‘Much has transpired since you passed into oblivion,’ the figure said darkly. ‘The prize I seek is hidden and cannot be won save by one who has drunk of the sacred water. I must endeavour to compel one of the three sisters to deliver it to me – and in this you are to play an important role. Many leagues from here, where this mighty thing is bestowed, the trap is already set and into it I have poured my failing enchantments.’
The raven landed back upon the shoulder and stared into the darkness beneath the hood.
‘Yes,’ the unseen lips answered. ‘I have laboured long to call them back, my most terrifying and deadliest of servants. Daily their numbers increase and soon they will be Twelve again.’
Cawing softly to itself, Thought shook its wings and glared up at the sky.
‘Once more the old armies shalt ride – inspiring dread and despair into the stoutest of hearts.’
‘And you will lead them,’ the figure instructed. ‘The Twelve are wild creatures of instinct and destruction. They have need of commanding but I must remain here to gather what little strength I can for the final days. I had hoped to despatch both you and your brother to order their movements, yet you shall not go alone. Someone shall go with you.’
‘Who Master?’
The figure took a last, despising look at the museum before turning to shamble back along Well Lane.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘There is a great deal to be done and the time is short. There is one nearby who will aid us, although he does not yet know it and will have to be deceived into our service, I believe he will suit the purpose very well. His good must be subverted, we must erode his will and entice him to do our bidding. When the treasure is found it is he who must wield it. Soon the webs of destiny will be destroyed forever and the shrine of Nirinel a smoking ruin.’
With the raven cackling wickedly upon his shoulder, the cloaked stranger shuffled across the street and melted silently into the dim grey shadows of the nearby, derelict houses.
A leaden sky and drenching drizzle heralded the dawn and the thick, slate-coloured clouds that reached across London ensured that the dismal weather was there for the rest of the morning.
It was an uninspiring start to the first day of term after the Christmas break and by the time they splashed to school, the pupils of the local comprehensive were a damp and straggly rabble.
Built just after the war, the buildings were a dreary collection of concrete boxes which, by nine o’clock, were awash with dirty footprints and dripping coats.
For Neil Chapman it was as if he had awakened from a long sleep. That morning was the first time he felt truly free of Miss Ursula Webster’s influence since he and his father and brother had moved into The Wyrd Museum over a week ago. It was a peculiar sensation, that forbidding building, and the manipulating controllers of destiny it contained had fuelled his thoughts from the very first day. Now the real, normal world seemed pale and unimportant by comparison.
The boy shook his head, startled at his own thoughts. Now that everything was as it should be he was finding life a bit dull. At breakfast that morning, Josh had been his usual annoying self and made no mention of what had happened, almost as if he had forgotten the entire episode – either that or he had been made to forget. Then, when Neil tried to explain it to his father, he could see that Brian didn’t believe a word.
Regretfully, Neil realised that it was no use pining for excitement. For him the adventures were over, he had completed his task for the Websters and would now have to get used to living a mundane life again.
Looking around him, he tried to take an interest in his new surroundings, but wasn’t impressed. His old school in Ealing had been much more modern and better equipped, with its own swimming pool and three playing fields, whereas this one had to make do with an all-weather pitch and very little else as far as he could tell.
As for the pupils, they appeared to be a rough looking, slovenly crowd and the uniform which his father had been assured was essential hardly seemed to be adhered to by the majority of them.
Laughing and calling out names, they boisterously jostled their way around the building, scuffling outside classrooms and jeering at each other as they boasted about what they had been given for Christmas.
Waiting at reception, Neil watched them barge by, but hardly anyone bothered to look at the new boy and if they did it was only to snigger and nudge their friends.
‘Chapel did you say?’ came a nasal, unenthusiastic voice. ‘Can’t seem to find you anywhere.’
The boy turned and looked across the desk at the school secretary, a large, middle-aged woman with bleached hair, wearing a turquoise blouse that was one size too small for her ample figure.
‘Chapman,’ he said with mild annoyance, exaggerating his lip movements in case the chunky earrings she wore had made her hard of hearing.
The woman dabbed at the computer with her podgy fingers and without looking up at him said, ‘You’re in Mr Battersby’s form. Room 11a, down the corridor on the right.’