The Fatal Strand

‘What is it, Ursula?’ she cooed with a fearful voice. ‘Who is it?’

Pressing close to her sister, she tried to venture on to the topmost step to peer out, but Miss Ursula barred the way and propelled her back into the museum.

‘Stay in there,’ she rapped severely. ‘Veronica is returned to us.’

Rumbling into the alley came an unmarked ambulance with dark, tinted windows. Lumbering as close to the entrance as possible, the vehicle braked in front of the bollards which barricaded one end of the alleyway and the doors opened slowly.

Clambering from the passenger seat, Neil alighted upon the cobbles – with Quoth in his usual place upon the boy’s shoulder.

It had been a dismal journey in which few words had been exchanged. Neil had given Chief Inspector Hargreaves a sketchy account of all that had happened on Glastonbury Tor, but soon lapsed into weary silence, snatching occasional moments of much-needed sleep. The eyes he turned to The Wyrd Museum were ringed with grey and he ached for his bed. There was, however, one more duty to be done before then and he gazed at the man who was already closing the driver’s door.

Chief Inspector Hargreaves stood solemnly before that ugly building to which he and the other remaining descendants of Askar made their annual pilgrimage. For as long as he could remember he had come to this place, to lay an offering of flowers about the drinking fountain in the yard. It was a demonstration of fealty to those who lived within, yet never once had he or any of the others caught so much as a glimpse of the three undying Fates.

In all his imaginings he had not dreamed that he would ever meet the Handmaidens of the Loom. Now here he was, burdened with this most dreadful of errands – delivering the corpse of the youngest to her sisters, and his soul quailed inside him.

In sombre silence, he stared across to where Miss Ursula waited upon the steps and bowed reverently. The woman’s thin lips twitched with agitation, but she inclined her head in acknowledgement and gestured for the man to complete the grim task he had undertaken.

Turning on his heel, Hargreaves led Neil to the rear of the ambulance and pulled open the large double doors. Presently they emerged, bearing between them the stretcher upon which lay the body of Miss Veronica Webster.

Throughout the journey, Edie Dorkins had clung to the dead woman’s hand and now, as she walked alongside this melancholy procession, she held it still.

A blanket had been wrapped about the girl’s shoulders during the long drive from Somerset but it fell to the ground as she traipsed alongside the stretcher. Distractedly, she wiped her nose upon the sleeve of her coat.

Seeing the frail body of her sister, looking so shrivelled and old, Miss Ursula drew herself up to her full height and bit the inside of her cheek. She must not allow herself to weaken now. There must be no betrayal.

‘Take her within,’ she uttered thickly, standing back to allow them entry. ‘Place her over there, upon the floor.’

With bulging eyes, Miss Celandine watched as the litter carrying her younger sister passed under the archway and she yelped shrilly at the awful sight.

Miss Ursula knew it was pointless trying to stop her and so, with Miss Celandine’s ghastly squeals echoing about the hallway, she patiently waited until the stretcher had been gently placed where she had directed.

‘My family is in your debt,’ she informed the Chief Inspector. ‘I thank you for returning our sister to us.’

Hargreaves could only stare at his feet, suddenly speechless at this meeting.

‘You have risked everything to bring her here,’ Miss Ursula continued. ‘Your career, possibly even your freedom. If there was anything in my power to give you, it would be yours. The children of Askar are loyal indeed.’

The Chief Inspector shook his head and found his voice at last. ‘It is enough to have served,’ he muttered.

‘Then leave us now,’ she told him. ‘But do not stray far. In the dark days to come, Urdr may have need of you again.’

Hargreaves returned to the entrance and, with her taffeta gown rustling like dry grass as it swept across the floor, Miss Ursula Webster brushed him outside, closing the door in his face.

Upon the steps the Chief Inspector drew his breath and shook his head. The death of Miss Veronica had altered everything. His thoughts in turmoil, he hurried from the alleyway with a hideous dread gnawing at his spirit.

Something terrible was about to befall the world and, as he climbed back into the ambulance, he determined to summon as many of the descendants of Askar as possible.

‘The children of they who were there at the beginning,’ he told himself darkly, ‘should be here to witness the end.’

CHAPTER 2 VIGIL FOR THE DEATHLESS DEAD

‘You!’ Miss Ursula snapped at Neil. ‘Remove that accursed bird of ill omen from my sight, before I wring his wretched neck.’

Tickling Quoth reassuringly under the chin, Neil returned the old woman’s imperious glare, yet did not answer. Normally he would have shouted right back at her, but that morning he made allowances for her grief – and besides, he was too tired.

‘Come on,’ he told the raven. ‘We’ll grab something to eat, then I honestly think I could sleep for the rest of the day.’ With the scraggy-looking bird casting a fretful glance over his shoulder, they made their way through the many rooms and galleries, towards the caretaker’s apartment.

When they reached a dreary passageway, ending at a door covered in peeling green paint, Neil hesitated and turned to his faithful companion.

‘Listen,’ he began. ‘My dad can be a bit funny sometimes.’

Quoth gave a hearty cluck and hopped up and down with excitement. ‘Thou art the son of a jester!’ he chirruped. ‘That is well, for this sorry chick is melancholy as a gallows cat. ’Tis most surely a great truth that the memory of joy doth make misery thrice times awful. Haste, haste, Squire Neil, let us to this worthy fool – I wouldst be made merrie!’

‘I don’t mean it that way,’ Neil groaned. ‘My dad can be a bit strange, that’s all.’

The raven nodded sagely. ‘Ah!’ he croaked. ‘Thy father is mad.’

‘Very likely,’ Neil couldn’t help smiling. ‘So don’t make it any worse. Try and keep quiet. He doesn’t like stuff he can’t understand and there’s enough gone on in here to last him a lifetime.’

Trying to make as little sound as possible, Neil opened the door and crept inside the apartment.

To his surprise he found that his father was already awake. Half-submerged in the padded blue nylon of his sleeping bag, Brian Chapman was sitting up on the shabby settee, his face turned towards the window.

He did not seem to hear his son enter and Neil eyed him quizzically. ‘Dad?’ he ventured.

The man continued to stare fixedly out of the window.

‘Dad,’ Neil repeated, ‘I’m back.’

Quoth craned forward to peer at the boy’s father more closely.

‘’Tis most certain an affliction of the moon,’ he cawed. ‘Never hath this poor knave espied such a muggins.’

At that moment, Brian Chapman gave a violent shiver and he whipped around – startled.

Taken aback by the sudden movement, the raven squawked in surprise and flapped his wings to steady himself.

‘What’s that?’ Neil’s father cried, scowling at the bird in revulsion. ‘Take it out of here, Neil. It’s vermin! Full of germs. You’ll catch all sorts!’

‘Don’t worry,’ Neil said hurriedly, seeing that Quoth was already clearing his throat to let loose a fitting retort. ‘He’s very clean and doesn’t bite.’

‘You can’t keep him.’

‘I don’t have to – he’s my friend.’

Brian pinched the bridge of his nose, a sure sign that he was growing impatient.

‘I hate this place,’ he grumbled, extricating himself from the sleeping bag whilst snatching his spectacles from the nearby shelf. ‘Always something peculiar happening. Never stops. Couldn’t sleep a wink last night. An absolute madhouse! One of those barmy women was screeching her head off till God knows when.’

‘One of them’s died,’ Neil said simply.

But his father wasn’t listening. He glared at the raven and shook his head resolutely.

‘Disgusting!’ he declared. ‘It’s bald and mangy. What’s happened to its other eye? Might have fowl pest or worse – you’ve got to get it out of here. I don’t want it anywhere near your brother.’

Unable to remain silent any longer, Quoth finally defended himself against these unwarranted insults. ‘Woe to thee – most ill-favoured malapert!’ he quacked. ‘Verily dost thou show how abject be the poverty of thine wits! No ornament nor flower may this morsel be, yet mine eye findeth no delectation in thine own straggled visage! Thou hast the semblance of a wormy turnip which yea, even the famined wild hog wouldst snub.’

Brian gaped at the bird, but anger swiftly overcame his astonishment. Lurching forward, he grasped hold of the raven and Quoth bleated in fright as he tried to escape. Neil’s father, however, held him firmly and marched to the door – holding the wildly flapping bird at arm’s length.

‘It’s come from upstairs hasn’t it?’ the man shouted. ‘For God’s sake, Neil – isn’t it bad enough having to live in this asylum without you fetching the freaks down here?’

‘Let him go!’ Neil protested, trying to grab his father’s outstretched arm.

But it was no use. Quoth was flung out of the apartment and ejected into the corridor.

For a brief instant, the raven found himself tumbling helplessly through the air. Then he crashed into an oil painting, slid down the canvas and fell to the floor with a loud squawk of dismay.

Sprawled upon the cold wooden boards, he glared at the now firmly closed door, looking like a tangled clump of half-chewed feathers which an idle cat might have abandoned. He puffed out his chest indignantly.

‘Toad-frighter and donkey-wit!’ he mumbled to the expanse of peeling green paint. ‘Clodpole and besom steward!’

Picking himself up, the bird shook his tail and inspected his wings before waddling closer to the door where he waited for it to open again.

‘Master Neil?’ the raven cawed expectantly. ‘Master Neil?’

Within the caretaker’s apartment, Neil Chapman struggled to barge past his father, but Brian pushed him backwards.

‘If he can’t stay, then I won’t either!’ the boy fumed.

‘Go to your room!’

‘You haven’t even asked where I’ve been or what happened!’

‘I’m not interested!’ came the cruel reply. ‘I’m sick to death of having to live in this nut-hutch with that old bag upstairs bossing me around all day. Well, it won’t be for much longer.’

Neil stared at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Time we left,’ Brian said with uncharacteristic resolve. ‘I’ll find another job.’

‘You can’t do that!’ his son cried. ‘Not now!’

Running a hand through his lank hair, the man grunted with exasperation. ‘Blood and sand!’

Neil turned away from him and stomped towards the bedroom he shared with his younger brother, Josh. ‘You never stick with anything,’ he muttered resentfully.

Barging into the room, the boy threw himself on to the bed and miserably wondered what he would do if his father tried to make him leave The Wyrd Museum.

‘I can’t go now,’ he told himself. ‘This place hasn’t finished with me yet I’m sure – and what about poor old Quoth?’

But his wretched reflections would have to wait, for all his energies were utterly spent and the softness of the bed proved to be too potent a force to resist. In a moment, his eyes were closed and he felt himself drifting off to sleep.

In the living room, Brian slumped back into the armchair and gazed fixedly up at the ceiling, insensible to the dejected chirrups sounding from the corridor outside.

‘Not long now,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Then I’ll be free.’

In the main hallway, still clasping Miss Veronica’s hand, Edie Dorkins knelt upon the hard floor, arranging the dead woman’s dyed black hair about her shoulders, whilst brushing the mud flecks from her shrivelled face. Miss Celandine was still yowling, but she had buried her head into her spade-like hands and so the shrillness was muffled and less unbearable than before.

At her side, Miss Ursula’s countenance was fixed and immovable as any stone. Upon Miss Veronica’s breast, Edie had placed the old woman’s cane, and at her side was the plastic bag containing the rusted spearhead.

‘It is well that you brought it here,’ Miss Ursula observed, her flinty aspect vanishing when she saw the gouts of blood which smeared the vicious-looking weapon.

Visibly wincing, she cleared her throat. ‘In all creation there are few artefacts which can do us injury. This, the Roman blade which pierced the side of He who perished upon the Cross, is one of the most lethal. I ought to have accepted it within the confines of the museum long ago, when first it was offered unto my keeping. Veronica is the price I have paid for that folly and most bitterly do I accept it now.’

Clasping her hands in front of her, Miss Ursula bowed her head and the jet beads which hung in loops about her ears gave an agitated rattle.

‘We gonna bury ’er?’ Edie asked. ‘I’m good at digging ’oles.’

Miss Ursula straightened. ‘No need,’ she said. ‘Celandine and I shall take her down to the cavern. In the Chamber of Nirinel, beneath the surviving root of Yggdrasill, Veronica will sit out the remaining span of the world. That hallowed place shall be her tomb and no corruption will touch her. Now come.’

Striding to a section of panelled wall, the woman held up her hand and gave the wood three sharp raps.

With a clicking whir, the wall shuddered and slid aside, revealing a low stone archway and a steep, winding staircase beyond.

‘Edith, dear,’ Miss Ursula began, ‘take up Veronica’s cane and the oil lamp if you will, and bring the spearhead also.’

Inhaling great, gulping breaths, Edie hurried to obey. The stale air which flooded out of the darkness into the hallway was perfumed with a hauntingly sweet decay. Holding the lamp in one hand and the ivory-handled cane under her arm, she took up the bag which contained the hideous weapon and carried it warily. When she accidently touched the metal, the power within it prickled and hurt her, even through the polythene.

‘Celandine,’ Miss Ursula said tersely. ‘You must aid me in this.’

The woman in the grubby nightgown peeped out at her elder sister through a chink between her fingers. Then she blew her nose upon its large collar and shuffled reluctantly closer to the stretcher.

‘I want to be nearest her pretty little head,’ Miss Celandine muttered. ‘I shan’t be able to talk to her if you make me carry the feet.’

Miss Ursula indulged her. ‘Very well,’ she sighed. ‘Grip the handles soundly, I don’t want you to let go.’

‘Oh Ursula!’ her sister objected. ‘I wouldn’t – you know that, you do, you do!’

She pulled a face as if she were about to cry once more, but Ursula was already lifting and so Miss Celandine quickly forgot the offending remark and assisted her in hoisting their dead sister off the ground.

‘Why, the dear darling’s no weight at all!’ she exclaimed.

‘Come,’ Miss Ursula said. ‘We must bear her down the great stair.’

With Edie Dorkins treading solemnly at their heels, the despondent trio were quickly swallowed by the intense and stagnant dark as they began their descent, deep beneath the museum’s foundations.

Down into the severe blackness which filled the underground stairway and mocked the pitiful flame of the oil lamp, they slowly made their way. The plummeting path was perilous and progress was painfully slow. Inch by inch they bore Veronica’s body, avoiding the slippery patches where dripping water and the tread of countless ages had worn the steps treacherously smooth. Beneath lengths of mouldering pipework they ducked, until Edie suddenly called out and pressed her ear to the crumbling stone wall.

‘There’s summink behind it!’ she cried. ‘Listen – it’s gettin’ closer.’

Miss Ursula tilted her head to one side and tutted with irritation. ‘Remember what I told you, Edith dear,’ she began, ‘how near this secret stair brushes against the advances of Mankind? A meagre few inches beyond this very wall runs one of their subterranean railways. Brace yourselves, both of you – the engine approaches.’

All three could now hear the faint roaring noise which vibrated through the shaft, causing a tremor to ripple through the steps beneath their feet. Swiftly the sound soared, mounting to a trumpeting clamour that blared up the stairway. Edie fell back from the wall, expecting it to explode at any moment before the unstoppable force of the train which was surely about to cannon its way through.

The steps were shuddering violently now and the body of Miss Veronica swayed unsteadily upon the stretcher as her sisters endeavoured to remain standing. The din was deafening, a screaming rumble which reverberated through Edie’s chest, and she opened her mouth to yell amidst this clangorous thunder.

Then it was over. Beyond the narrow barrier of stone, the Underground train had passed and all that remained was a juddering echo, which flew up the spiralling stairs and vanished in the winding gloom above.

Catching her breath, Edie lifted the oil lamp to peer around her. The surrounding masonry was crazed and fractured and, from the still quivering cracks, fine rivers of dust were pouring.

‘One day our sanctuary shall be unearthed and all our secrets laid bare – but not yet,’ Miss Ursula assured her. ‘Come, Celandine, there is still some distance to travel before we can lay our sister to rest.’

In the wake of the train’s tumult, the ensuing silence was horribly oppressive. It made the pool of darkness, which constantly receded before them, seem resentful and full of invisible, unfriendly eyes.

The overwhelming hush made Edie uneasy; she did not like silence. She had only recently been plucked from the time of the Blitz, with its constant din of exploding bombs and the crackle of the anti-aircraft guns. Not since the time when she had been imprisoned under the ruins of her home, with the bodies of her mortal family around her, had she known such deathly quiet. She started to make small noises to fend off this unwelcome absence of sound.

At first she hummed tunelessly then, true to her feral nature, she tried a gentle, droning growl. After a short while, Edie was amused to find that her echoes sounded as though some little animal really was in there with them. Once she was almost certain that a snuffling bark had not stemmed from her at all, and she flourished the lamp behind her to check that nothing was hiding in the shadows. But before she could prove her suspicions, the descent was over. The staircase came to an abrupt halt and the space opened up around them, changing the nature of the echoes completely.

‘Edith,’ Miss Ursula instructed, ‘you must proceed in front and light the way. Nirinel is at hand.’

Through a network of caverns the girl led the Websters, until at last they came to a large metal gateway which swung open before them.

Immediately, the golden radiance of many flaming torches flared up to greet their straining sight. Edie ran forward to gaze up at the magnificent spectacle of the last surviving root of the World Tree – astounded afresh by its titanic majesty.

Up into the lofty, vaulted shadows the massive shape stretched, where no leaping lights could reach. The child’s eyes traced an imagined arch down to where the momentous root plunged back into the flame glow and thrust through the chamber’s far wall. It was a monumental vision of permanence, the oldest of all living things, the most wondrous of secrets hidden in the forgotten deeps of the earth – Nirinel.

From history’s cradle the Webster sisters had tended it, guarding their sacred charge against the relentless corruption of the marching years. It was only fitting that Miss Veronica would remain beneath its enchanted bulk for the rest of eternity.

‘Careful,’ Miss Ursula scolded Miss Celandine as they approached a large circular dais built in the centre of the cavern. ‘Lay her down gently.’

The ancient wellhead, from which divine waters were once drawn to anoint the ravages of age afflicting the great root, was now choked with moss and a hay-like growth of dead weeds. Upon their dry, cushioning layers the stretcher was placed and Edie put the ebony cane in Miss Veronica’s lifeless hands.

‘And the blade,’ Miss Ursula directed. ‘It should be beside her.’

The girl obeyed, carefully removing the deadly weapon from the bag. Then she caressed the dead woman’s cheek with her fingertips and whispered, ‘You can rest now.’

Regarding the child keenly, a curious light glittered in Miss Ursula’s eyes and she returned her attention to her dead sister.

‘Are you in truth at peace?’ she asked, intently scanning the lined face. ‘Is your soul finally free? You were never content, Veronica. In our youth I denied you your happiness and to this unending existence you were irrevocably fettered.’

Edie kissed the dead woman’s forehead then gave Miss Ursula a conciliatory smile. ‘At the end,’ she told her, ‘Veronica said as how she were sorry and didn’t blame you for what happened.’

On hearing this, the eldest of the Fates squeezed her eyes shut. Then, when she had mastered herself, she took the oil lamp from Edie and leaned forward – holding it over that cold, expressionless face, as if the answer to what troubled her could be found amongst the countless wrinkles which mapped its aged contours.

How different those familiar features now appeared. Without the inner spark to kindle that mottled flesh and fire it into life, it was like viewing some poorly executed sculpture of her sister. No trace of the character that had once burned within her could be glimpsed or guessed at. The absolute stillness was hideous to see and the pallid skin reflected the lamplight in a cadaverous ghastliness.

Still searching that beloved face, Miss Ursula muttered in a voice which at times cracked with despair.

‘Of this world there is little I do not understand,’ she said huskily. ‘But to this plane alone, and of those who are bound unto it, does my wisdom extend. Beyond the frontiers of life, Urdr has no knowledge. Outside the immutable confines of this strangling reality, is there an end to care and suffering? Can there indeed be a paradise? Is that where you are now, my dearest little Verdandi? Is all your hurt now healed?’

Listening to this, Miss Celandine snivelled into her handkerchief once more. It frightened her to hear Ursula so uncertain and questioning.

‘Is Veronica with Mother now, do you think?’ she spluttered.

Her elder sister lowered the lamp and let out a long breath. ‘I do not know,’ she replied with a bitter edge in her voice. ‘And I doubt whether I shall ever discover the answer. For how may the immortals ever know the truth of that – the most hidden secret of all?’

The woman lapsed into silence as she continued to survey the wizened corpse lying upon the dried weeds.

‘How small she seems, and how ignominious her journey to this place. Verdandi, princess of the Royal House, and yet she was carted here as though she were of no more import than a sack of coal.’

Spreading her hands wide, Miss Ursula lifted her eyes to the towering vastness of Nirinel as she contemplated the pomp and dignity that her late sister truly deserved.

‘In the forgotten past, the funeral of this daughter of Askar would have been effected with the highest ceremony. A legion of horns and trumpets would have sounded the heavens, and banners of sable flown from the city walls to mourn her passing. What solemn elegies the poets would have composed, what glorious outrage to inspire the balladeers’ songs.

‘In every window a candle would burn in memory of her. Across the land, monuments would rise and the brightest star in the firmament would be named anew.’