The Raven’s Knot

‘Spirits of cold and darkness,’ Miss Ursula breathed. ‘Drawn from the freezing waters when the world was formed, who clad themselves in chill flesh as giants terrible to behold. In a desolate, forsaken country where none of the World Tree’s roots had delved, they dwelt. A great gulf and chasm which stretched down to the very marrow of the earth, separated their unhallowed realm from the main continent and over the never-ending darkness they reigned absolutely.’

Miss Ursula paused to gaze up at the huge, decaying root and clicked her tongue with irritation.

‘You and I can only suspect the extent of their fury when the first light burst forth to herald Yggdrasill’s unfurling,’ she said. ‘They had considered themselves to be lords of an echoing darkness and now their dominion was threatened by this unlooked for challenge.’

‘What did they do?’

‘Sought for ways to destroy it,’ Miss Ursula told her. ‘For it was prophesied that as long as there was sap within the smallest leaf of the World Tree, their previous lordship and tyranny would be denied them. So began the building of the ice bridge to span the great chasm. Malice and loathing seethed in their frozen hearts but the people of Askar were unaware of the peril which awaited them...’

‘Oh, Ursula!’ cried another voice suddenly and, with a jolt, Edie turned to see Miss Celandine and Miss Veronica standing by the gate.

Their gaze fixed upon the withered root, the two sisters shambled inside. Then, leaving Miss Veronica to lean upon her stick, Miss Celandine skipped forward – clapping her hands in delight and cooing dreamily.

‘It’s been so long since you let us come down here!’ she declared reproachfully. ‘You are a meanie, Ursula – you know how I adored Nirinel so. Why look how shrivelled it has become. We must anoint it with the water like we used to and make it hale again.’

Anxiously, she trotted over to where Edie and her sister were sitting, then checked herself sharply and gazed at the circular dais in consternation.

‘But, the well!’ she gabbled in a flustered whine. ‘Such neglect. Ursula – what has happened? Why is nothing the same? First the loom was broken and now this!’

Clambering up beside them, she feverishly dragged the dead moss away and Edie saw that the stone platform was embellished with a sumptuously moulded frieze overlaid in tarnished silver and small blue gems. But even as she admired the decoration, Miss Celandine’s knobbly hands pulled away a great swathe of mouldering growth and there in the centre of the dais she uncovered a wide and precipitously deep hole.

Over the brink Miss Celandine popped her head, casting handfuls of the dead lichen down into the darkness – waiting and listening for the resulting splashes. But no sound rose into the cavern and a look of comprehension slowly settled over the woman’s wrinkled face.

‘I... I had forgotten,’ she whispered in a small, crestfallen voice. ‘The waters are gone, aren’t they, Ursula? The well is dry, it is, isn’t it?’

Her sister nodded. ‘The sacred spring dried up many, many years ago,’ she said wearily, as if repeating this information was an hourly ritual. ‘And every last drop of the blessed water was drained fifty years ago in order to vanquish Belial.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Miss Celandine sighed in regret. ‘So we can never heal Nirinel’s wounds. It makes me woefully sad to see it shrunken and spoiled. Oh, how lovely it was when we first arrived, how very, very lovely. Veronica, do you recall? Veronica?’

She whirled about to look at the sister she had left by the gate, then gave a little yelp when she saw the expression on Miss Veronica’s face.

Resting heavily upon her cane, Miss Veronica was staring up at the tremendous root with a ferocious intensity that was alarming to witness. It had been an age since she had last been permitted to venture down here and now the sight of it was stirring up the muddied corners of her vague, rambling mind.

‘I see four white stags ahead of us,’ she uttered huskily, wiping a trembling hand over her brow and smearing the beauty cream which covered it.

‘I don’t want to follow them,’ she wept, edging backwards. ‘Let me return, I must... I... there is something I have to do!’

Lurching against the carved wall, Miss Veronica lifted her cane and waved wildly about her head as if trying to ward something away.

‘Urdr!’ she shrieked, staring at Miss Ursula with mounting panic. ‘Do not force me to go with you. I must go back – I am needed!’

‘Veronica!’ Miss Celandine called, hurrying back to her stricken sister. ‘You have nothing to fear. That time has ended. We are safe – you are safe.’

Her sister’s eyes grew round with terror and she threw her arms before her face. ‘Safe!’ she wailed hysterically. ‘We are old, ancient and haggard, accursed and afflicted from that very hour. Won’t someone save me? The mist is rising. I beseech you – before it is too late. Please, I beg you my sister. Release me! Release me...’

Her cries melted into sobs as she buried her anguished face into Miss Celandine’s outstretched arms.

‘Hush,’ her sister comforted. ‘Come back, Veronica, it’s over now – it is, it is.’ But as she soothed the crumpled, whimpering figure she shot a scornful glance at Miss Ursula.

Still seated upon the edge of the well, Edie Dorkins watched the elderly woman at her side and was astonished to see the extent to which her sister’s outburst had distressed her.

Sitting stiff and as still as one of the stone images which swarmed over the walls, Miss Ursula’s small, piercing eyes glistened with tears and Edie could sense her inner struggle as she battled to control her emotions.

Then, mastering herself at last, Miss Ursula rose and, clenching her fists until they turned a horrible, bleached white, said, ‘Celandine, take Veronica back to the museum. This is no place for her, the... the musty atmosphere is injurious to her. You know that neither of you are allowed down here, I shall lock the doorway behind me next time.’

It appeared to Edie that Miss Celandine was on the verge of retaliating with some choice words of her own, but she must have thought better of it for she turned and helped the weeping Miss Veronica to hobble out through the gateway.

‘It was her,’ Miss Veronica’s blubbering voice sniffed and warbled. ‘She made me do it. I didn’t want to come... I didn’t want any of this.’

Rigid and wintry, Miss Ursula watched them depart.

‘An unhappy family have you joined, Edith,’ she said keeping her voice level, hoping she betrayed nothing of the turmoil which boiled beneath her stern exterior. ‘My two poor sisters are wasting away in mind as well as body. Their lives and mine are bound closely to that of Nirinel – as it fades so, too, do we.’

Edie eyed her shrewdly. ‘And mine?’ she demanded.

‘The young will not perish as swiftly as the aged,’ came the unhelpful reply. ‘I do not foresee what is to come for the loom is damaged and the web was never completed, but I believe you shall be our salvation – in one way or another.’

The child looked down at her feet. Then she asked, ‘What happened to the ice giants? Did they kill the World Tree?’

‘The lords of the ice and dark?’ Miss Ursula paused. ‘The rest of that tale must wait. You have learned much this night, but now I am obliged to go and make certain that Veronica is settled. Let us return to the museum, I too find this environment disturbing. I have recounted all I care to for the time being and you must be patient.’

Edie jumped from the dais and took hold of Miss Ursula’s proffered hand, but the woman’s palm was cold and clammy. The girl knew that Miss Veronica’s words had shaken her more than she dared to admit and she could not help but wonder why.

Far above the subterranean caverns within The Wyrd Museum, all was at peace. Only fine, floating dust moved through the collections, the same invisible clouds of powdery neglect that had flowed from room to room since the day the smaller, original building was founded.

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.