Tales From The Wyrd Museum 1: The Woven Path (9 page)

‘Now,’ Ted bawled as the gateway quivered and lurched unsteadily, ‘before it's too late!’

Without wasting another second, Neil snatched up the bear and charged straight for the shuddering, glowing circle.

The fiery ring shrank even as they raced towards it, then it shivered and throbbed, careering wildly from side to side, smashing into one thing after another.

‘Hold it steady!’ Ted shouted to the ravaged and blasted ceiling. We ain't through yet.’

With a dying spurt of energy, the vortex yawned before them. A searing streak of lightning shot out and caught Neil full in the chest—flinging him into the air. The wreckage of The Separate Collection whirled around as the powerful forces spun him and Ted round as though they were both toys.

Then he felt the terrible might of the gateway dragging and clutching at him, drawing him ever closer to the shimmering brink. With a clap of thunder, the flaming coils gaped wide and suddenly he was inside—rushing relentlessly down the twisting helix, shooting deep into the absolute blackness. Both Neil and Ted vanished from the Wyrd Museum.

For several moments the gateway continued to whirl, but its strength was spent and the flames were extinguished. The hellish storm that had ripped the room to pieces was ebbing and soon only the fragmented debris would be left.

A shower of white sparks spat from the shrinking vortex as the torment drained away. But before the portal disappeared, the air convulsed and a finger of energy escaped into the room. Over the broken cabinets and cases it licked and danced, ricocheting off the bitter shards of glass that reflected its dazzling, purple light a thousand times over. Then, even as the gateway turned in upon itself, the snaking bolt seized one solitary object and sent it racing down into the closing gulf.

A resounding crash roared within the room and the Wyrd Museum was rocked to its foundations, then all was dark and the soft, pervading moonlight streamed in through the windows once more.

Rivers of burning light burst into the heavens as the distant report of anti-aircraft guns hammered through the sky. Into the dark awning of the night, the powerful beams of the searchlights performed an endless dance, tirelessly scanning for the reviled enemy.

Another raid was afflicting London. German bombs sang out of invisible clouds and the pulse of their destruction rifled ominously over the stricken city. For an instant the sky was as bright as day, then all was plunged into the gathering dark, awaiting the next punishing strike. Fires were burning now, scorning the blackout and blazing a perfect target for the German aircraft. Rooftops were aflame and huge palls of smoke drifted up through the searchlights, like the rising souls of the destroyed buildings below.

It was late February in the year nineteen hundred and forty-three. Almost two years had passed since the horrific bombardments of the Blitz, but recently the Luftwaffe had returned and tonight's visit was one of the most brutal and tenacious. Already there had been many dreadful casualties and throughout the capital, in every shelter, the silent, huddled people wept and waited, praying for the welcome sound of the All Clear.

As the skies flared and the fires rampaged, a small child hared frantically through the chaos, scrambling over the mountains of rubble and panting desperately.

Below, clambering up the fallen timbers and piles of shattered brick, the figures of three men, dressed in black uniforms and wearing tin hats, gave chase.

Fearfully, the child looked down and saw that the fattest of them was drawing dangerously near. With her heart thumping furiously, the child picked up a stone to fling at the hated figure.

‘Blimey!’ he cried, as the missile bounced off his helmet. ‘She's lobbing things at us!’

‘Don't let her escape!’ another of them called. 'We've got to get her this time!’

The third man uttered a dismal howl and he slithered down the slope as a fist-sized slab of cement smacked the side of his neck.

‘She's gone and got Joe!’ the fat one complained, wheezing from his exertions. ‘What with her an’ Jerry, I just don't kno- watch out, Pete!’

The second man leaned to one side as another stone whistled from above. ‘S'all right, Arnold,’ he shouted to his comrade, ‘she missed.’

Fat Arnold glowered up at the child he had come to loathe and ploughed his chubby hands into the rubble to drag himself further up the great mound. ‘I’ll learn the bleedin’ perisher!’ he puffed, straining in his braces. The little beggar'll feel the back o’ my ‘and—I'll ‘ave her guts fer gar—’

Too late, he saw the girl stoop and take aim. Before his plump body could swerve aside, a hail of grit and stones hit him full in his flabby face. With his short arms flailing about his round bulk, Arnold Porter bounced and bumped back down, squealing all the way like a piglet.

Only Peter Stokes remained. Ignoring the wails of his fellow wardens, he darted on, scaling the steep slope and keeping his head well down as the stones drummed on his tin hat.

‘Edie!’ he shouted in as friendly a voice as he could manage given the circumstances. 'There's nothing to be scared of, love, it's only me—Mr Stokes. I won't hurt you.’

At the summit of the shattered ruins, the girl cast about her wildly. This one was tricky, it needed more than stones to ward him off. Desperately, she looked for an escape route. Behind her, the rubble pile dropped almost vertically and she knew she could not jump it without breaking her legs.

The man was closing on her now, another moment and she would be completely cornered.

There's a good girl,’ Mr Stokes told her, ‘you stay just where you are. Don't move.’

She waited until he had almost reached the top, then nipped nimbly to the right and scurried straight past him.

'Oh no you don't, young lady!’ he cried, reaching out and catching hold of her coat. ‘Gotcha!’

Peter Stokes yanked the struggling girl closer and grabbed her tightly by the wrists.

The child threw back her head and twisted it madly in all directions as she vainly pulled on her captor's grasp.

‘Stop that,’ he said sternly, ‘stop that! Well, well, a fine time we've had runnin’ after you these past weeks. What got into you, girl? We was only tryin’ to dig you out.’

The child glared up at him, her dirty face screwed into a mask of hatred. She opened her mouth as if to scream but her tongue was silent and the harsh words failed to emerge.

‘Poor little urchin,’ Mr Stokes tutted, ‘must've been frighted half to death in that house o’ yours. What you need is summat hot inside you. Come on, we'll get back to the post.’

Taking one of his hands from her, he waved to the two men below. ‘I got her!’ he shouted. ‘She's safe ‘n’—HELL'S BELLS!’

Seizing her advantage, the child had sunk her teeth deep into the hand that held her. Immediately he let go and she bolted swiftly down the slope.

Peter Stokes sucked his bleeding hand and thrust it under his arm. ‘She got away!’ he howled to the others. ‘Catch hold of her!’

But it was no use. Fat Arnold had had enough and although he was nearest as she scooted down, he let Joe Harmon follow her.

‘Nah!’ Joe cursed, moments later. ‘She scarper further into bomb site, never find her there—not in blackout. In any cases, you know what they sayin’ ‘bout that place.’

‘No.’

‘Folk reckon it haunted—pretty rum things been seen in there—the kids won't play there no more either.’

‘Pah!’ Arnold Porter coughed in disgust and began shaking the dirt from his coat whilst they waited for Peter to rejoin them.

‘Bit me,’ Peter explained as he stumbled down, ‘Lor’, thought we really ‘ad her this time.’

Fat Arnold gave a snort that made his jowels shake like jelly. Wasted a good hour on her,’ he grunted, ‘Well I won't be doin’ it again. There's many folk only too glad of our assistance. She can piddle off wherever she likes.’

‘You don't mean that,’ Peter told him.

'That I does. She's bonkers—did you see what she had round her neck? Madder than old Phyllis Wharburton who kept all them cats an’ made pies with the kittens.’

‘But she's only a bit of a kid, eight-year-old, same as your Doris.’

‘My Doris ain't no loony,’ Arnold said flatly.

‘I’ve done enough chargin’ round after headcases. Bad for my health all this gallopin’, I ain't no bleedin’ racehorse you know.’

‘More like the elephant,’ muttered Joe Harmon.

‘I ‘eard that,’ Arnold rumbled.

Winding his scarf about his chin, Peter peered into the flaring darkness and sighed sadly. Well,’ he said, ‘she's gone now, there's more important business we can attend to this night.’

Abruptly, the expansive bombsite flickered as a stick of bombs fell close by. Briefly, all three men glimpsed the—silhouette of a small girl outlined against the flashing explosions.

‘Sixteen days she's been loose now,’ Fat Arnold murmured. ‘How the ‘eck ‘as she managed to stay alive? What can she be eatin’ fer Gawd's sake? That luck o’ hers can't last. Sweet Lord, look after the poor mite. Next time, Peter, count me in—I'll help catch her.’

Suddenly, the ground shifted beneath their feet as a house two streets away took a direct hit and all thoughts of the girl were instantly forgotten as the three air-raid wardens raced off towards the already burning building.

With the planes droning overhead, it seemed as if the world was on fire. The sky was now a wrathful red and death poured from the heavens in an almost constant stream. The night was alive with pieces of red-hot shrapnel that whizzed and whistled on to the bombsite, glimmering like fiery hornets through the smoke-fogged air.

In this strange, unearthly landscape, Edie Dork-ins spread her arms out wide and danced round and round, staring up at the marvellous firework display above. She was a peculiar looking child; her face was pinched and pale from lack of food for she had not eaten properly for many days, having to scrounge and forage what she could like a wild animal. Beneath the accumulated grime, her features were sharp and oddly angular. The silvery-blue eyes were almond-shaped and her nose was pointed and upturned, sticking out from her narrow face like a sprouting root from a thin potato. A woollen pixie hood covered her tangled, blonde hair and this, coupled with a pair of skinny legs in dark brown, hole-ridden stockings, made her resemble some untame, woodland sprite lost in the city.

Round her neck, on a length of string, she wore an incendiary bomb that had failed to detonate and, as she capered round, reaching for the glowing heavens, the lethal talisman swung madly.

With a serene smile on her face, the deranged girl danced over the rubble, tripping spryly through the debris and gurgling happily. This was her kingdom and she was its unassailable queen. Nothing happened in her ruined realm without her knowledge. She knew every inch of its barren devastation and loved it all.

Presently, the smile faded as a weird, yet familiar spectacle illuminated the caved-in roofs and teetering chimney stacks nearby.

Behind the crippled remains of a high wall the night was lit by streaks of purple lightning and, as she watched, a cloud of dust was hurled into the air as a ferocious gale blustered into existence.

A delighted grin appeared on the girl's dirty face and she scurried towards the wall with the greatest speed and urgency. Edie's almond eyes were gleaming with excitement as she quickly scaled the juddering brickwork, not caring that the scabs had been scraped from her knees.

Hauling her scrawny self up to the top, she craned her neck to peer quizzically into the dark and debris-filled alleyway below, catching her breath as a furious gale blasted into her face.

Down in the dim alley, swirling just above the ground, a circle of fire was crackling and ripping the air to shreds, forming a twisting tunnel of night. Livid jags of lightning spat out of its heart and, from her vantage point, Edie beamed in wonderment as the flaring bursts of purple light played over her features.

In the centre of the whirling ring a tiny figure was glimmering in the remote distance, growing larger with each passing second.

The delight melted from the girl's face as she glared down at the strange form travelling within the fiery gateway. It was the shape of a boy wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown and grasping something tightly to his chest.

Now she could hear his terrified yells echoing from the spinning entrance. How he howled and wailed, kicking his legs wildly and tumbling head over heels through the furthest reaches of the dark, coiling helix.

Then he was free. With a frightened shriek, Neil Chapman was thrown clear of the tunnel and rolled helplessly over the uneven ground, yelping as he struck each and every stone.

Dismay and disappointment clouded Edie's grubby features; she had hoped the wondrous spectacle was going to give her another great treasure, but she could not help smiling at the unfortunate boy when he finally came to rest against a splintered sideboard. He looked so comical, sprawled amongst the rubble in his nightclothes, and at last she could make out the object in his hands. It was a teddy bear. Secretively, she lowered herself behind the wall with just the tip of her upturned nose resting on the topmost brick as she continued to watch the strange newcomer.

Neil uttered a painful moan—he was covered in scratches and ached all over. A little distance away the gateway was still boiling but the flames were diminishing and, as the boy lifted a reluctant eyelid, he saw the vortex implode into the tortured ether with a tremendous flash of dazzling sparks.

Neil felt sick—his stomach was still lurching and turning over. He felt as though he had been through a spin-dryer and his head was pounding. Groaning, he attempted to rise and winced at the sharp, stinging pains that prickled all over his body. His dressing gown was torn and long rents gaped in his pyjama bottoms through which he could see nasty cuts and bruises.

‘Ow. . .’ he grumbled, not knowing which wound to attend to first. ‘Aahh!’

In his hands, Ted jiggled and pulled himself free. ‘Bumpy ride, eh kid? Ya didn't have to hold so tight—ya rearranged ma stuffin’.

Quickly, he scampered on to Neil's shoulders then hopped on to the broken sideboard where he gazed about them as if trying to get his bearings.

‘I feel awful,’ Neil murmured, ‘What happened, where are we?’

‘Goddammit!’ Ted hissed to himself. This ain't good, not one iota. Mighta guessed this'd happen.’

Neil's jangled thoughts were gradually beginning to reshape and, with a shiver, all his anger and fear returned as he remembered.

‘Josh!’ he blurted. Where is he?’

Jumping to his feet, the boy seized hold of the toy bear and shook him roughly. ‘What have you done with him?’ he demanded. ‘What's happening?’

Ted's voice burbled strangely as he tried to explain, whilst Neil continued to jolt him. 'W-wee ... we ain't in ... in y-your... time no m-more. Hey! Cut that ou-out! If I'd e-eaaten any lunch I'd be l-looosing it r-riight now!’

‘Don't talk rubbish!’ the boy spat. ‘What do you mean, my time?’

‘This is 1943, kid,’ Ted told him, glad that the shaking had ceased, ‘I said we had to go a long ways back—well here we are.’