Robin Jarvis - The Fatal Strand

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Bethnal Green : London 1.30 am Bethnal Green : London 1.30 am Shrill screams, raging with grief, echoed throughout The Wyrd Museum. From the rambling attics, where frightened pigeons shuffled uneasily upon their perches, the hideous shrieking blistered. Down, into the shadow-filled rooms it poured, an incessant flood of anguish, streaming from chamber to chamber – until finally it seeped beneath the foundations and babbled through the subterranean caverns. Miss Veronica Webster – she who was Verdandi, youngest of the immortal Fates – was dead. She who had once measured out the lives of men, who had sat at the ensnaring Loom upon which every strand of existence was woven; she who wielded the ultimate tyranny of Doom and Destiny was no more. A darkness more profound than the pressing night smothered the museum and the incessant lament endured. Outside, one of the bronze figures which flanked the main entrance lay shattered upon the ground and the shadows within The Wyrd Museum deepened, swelling the rooms with a solid suffocation of light. To one neglected niche of the ancient building, the chilling dirge eventually penetrated, ripping through the previously inviolate night. Wretched and racked with pain the dismal chorus tolled, filling every invisible corner with the agony of loss. Then it happened. In that choking gloom appeared a soft pulse of light and a new sound was born. Softly at first, a gentle creaking began, like floorboards easing and groaning after a long day underfoot. Gradually, the noise grew louder. Creaks became snaps and the troubled dark rang with the frenzy of splintering wood. Suddenly, another noise joined the increasing clamour. A panting, rattling breath which rasped and heaved when the rupturing of timber escalated to its height. Then a yelping, pig-like squeal spiked through the black gloom. With one last, straining effort, the unseen creature was free. A hiss of exultation steamed from its wide mouth and it dropped to the floor. Clawed feet clattered upon the ground as the small imp landed. For a moment it paused, a pair of large eyes blinking in the eternal dark, its tail switching from side to side. Then, with a gargling gasp upon its lips, the creature leapt forward – gnashing out a constant cacophony of barks and grunts. Through the ebon shadows it scurried, and in that jumble of guttural chattering, repeated a single word over and over again. ‘Gogus … Gogus … Gogus …’

CHAPTER 1: THE HOMECOMING

CHAPTER 2: VIGIL FOR THE DEATHLESS DEAD

CHAPTER 3: AN UNHOLY ABOMINATION

CHAPTER 4: AN EARLY SUMMONING

CHAPTER 5: AWAITING THE CATALYST

CHAPTER 6: TWEAKING THE CORK

CHAPTER 7: MARY-ANNE BRINDLE

CHAPTER 8: AWAKENING

CHAPTER 9: TICK-TOCK JACK

CHAPTER 10: WHITE AND BLACK PIECES

CHAPTER 11: TREADING DESERTED PATHWAYS

CHAPTER 12: IN THE WELL LANE WORKHOUSE

CHAPTER 13: THE HORSE’S BRANSLE

CHAPTER 14: THE MENAGERIE OF MR CHARLES JAMRACH

CHAPTER 15: PSYCHOMETRY

CHAPTER 16: MEMORY RECALLED

CHAPTER 17: WITHIN THE GIRDLING MIST

CHAPTER 18: DESECRATION

CHAPTER 19: BESIEGED BY DEATH

CHAPTER 20: THE FIRST WAVE

CHAPTER 21: MORTAL DREADS

CHAPTER 22: THE JOURNEY TO THE STAIR

CHAPTER 23: THE GLISTERING GRAINS OF TRUTH

CHAPTER 24: THREE TIMES MORE EXTREME

CHAPTER 25: REUNION AND CONFRONTATION

CHAPTER 26: AN ETERNAL EMPIRE OF COLD AND NIGHT

In the Chamber of Nirinel

Acknowledgment

Tales from the Wyrd Museum Trilogy

Copyright

About the Publisher

Bethnal Green : London 1.30 am

Shrill screams, raging with grief, echoed throughout The Wyrd Museum. From the rambling attics, where frightened pigeons shuffled uneasily upon their perches, the hideous shrieking blistered. Down, into the shadow-filled rooms it poured, an incessant flood of anguish, streaming from chamber to chamber – until finally it seeped beneath the foundations and babbled through the subterranean caverns.

Miss Veronica Webster – she who was Verdandi, youngest of the immortal Fates – was dead. She who had once measured out the lives of men, who had sat at the ensnaring Loom upon which every strand of existence was woven; she who wielded the ultimate tyranny of Doom and Destiny was no more.

A darkness more profound than the pressing night smothered the museum and the incessant lament endured.

Outside, one of the bronze figures which flanked the main entrance lay shattered upon the ground and the shadows within The Wyrd Museum deepened, swelling the rooms with a solid suffocation of light.

To one neglected niche of the ancient building, the chilling dirge eventually penetrated, ripping through the previously inviolate night. Wretched and racked with pain the dismal chorus tolled, filling every invisible corner with the agony of loss.

Then it happened.

In that choking gloom appeared a soft pulse of light and a new sound was born. Softly at first, a gentle creaking began, like floorboards easing and groaning after a long day underfoot. Gradually, the noise grew louder. Creaks became snaps and the troubled dark rang with the frenzy of splintering wood.

Suddenly, another noise joined the increasing clamour. A panting, rattling breath which rasped and heaved when the rupturing of timber escalated to its height. Then a yelping, pig-like squeal spiked through the black gloom.

With one last, straining effort, the unseen creature was free. A hiss of exultation steamed from its wide mouth and it dropped to the floor.

Clawed feet clattered upon the ground as the small imp landed. For a moment it paused, a pair of large eyes blinking in the eternal dark, its tail switching from side to side. Then, with a gargling gasp upon its lips, the creature leapt forward – gnashing out a constant cacophony of barks and grunts. Through the ebon shadows it scurried, and in that jumble of guttural chattering, repeated a single word over and over again.

‘Gogus … Gogus … Gogus …’

The chill night airs which encircled Glastonbury Tor sliced through the barren trees, crowding its lower slopes and gusting with icy vigour up the narrow track that climbed the shoulders of that steep, ancient hill. The desperate conflict between the hideous forces of Woden and the small group from The Wyrd Museum was over. Upon the Tor a horrible battle had been fought and now, for those few who remained, this was a horrible, grief-filled time.

Standing there in the cold, his school uniform providing meagre protection against the biting breeze, Neil Chapman’s flesh trembled – but the boy made no other movement.

Upon his shoulder the feathers of a mangy looking raven stirred as the bird considered his young master with its single beady eye.

‘Gelid doth the blood flow thick and laggard,’ Quoth cawed faintly. ‘Cold as a frog art thou, yet the icy breath of the Northern wind is blameless in this.’

Lifting his head, the raven gazed upon the dreadful scene which lay before them and clicked his tongue sorrowfully.

There, lying across the muddy path, was the body of Miss Veronica Webster. By the old woman’s side an eight-year-old girl knelt in the crimson pool which had formed around her, weeping hopelessly. In that macabre mire lay a rusted spearhead which was steeped in blood.