Tales From The Wyrd Museum 2: The Raven's Knot (18 page)

‘Don't be silly.’

‘A good job I never attended school then,’ Aidan tutted, ‘or I'd be as uninformed as you.’

‘That can't be true.’

‘What? That I was never sat down and educated? There's more to learning than chalk and blackboards.’

‘No, the guff about Jesus—you don't seriously believe it!’

The man looked at Neil and the boy was astonished to see that his swarthy face was completely serious. ‘A fine rule in life,’ he said with an edge of impatience in his voice and a faint glimmer of emerald kindling in his eyes, ‘and one that you would do well to learn, is to not contradict one who knows better than yourself. Closed minds learn nothing Neil Chapman—remember that and you might one day be happy with what is around you.’

‘I'm sorry,’ Neil found himself saying. ‘You just didn't strike me as being particularly religious. Not the happy clappy God Squad sort anyway. I didn't mean to offend you.’

Aidan stared at him a moment longer, then started the van once more. ‘I wasn't talking of religion,’ he said. ‘Merely relating that around two thousand years ago a boy, probably about the same age as yourself, visited this land with his great uncle who was a wealthy merchant. Tin was an important trading commodity, you know, and the Cornish mines are not that far down the coast—not compared to the great distance between here and the Holy Land.

‘It would have been quite natural for Joseph of Arimathea to set out upon one of these trips—you don't get rich by stopping at home, and why shouldn't he let his nephew come along to see something of the world? A much happier voyage that first one with the young Christ, I imagine, than the one which finally brought Joseph here some time later.’

‘What happened on that one?’ Neil asked.

Aidan's dark brows twitched as he answered. ‘It was Joseph who took Jesus’ body down from the Cross,’ he said, ‘and his was the tomb that Christ was supposed to lie in afterwards. A most courageous man that merchant must have been. Associating so openly with such a trouble-making kinsman would have cost him dear. Eventually he left his homeland and camp back to Britain, but he did not come empty handed. That's why Chalice Hill is so called. Somewhere around here The Grail resides—Joseph brought it with him.’

‘The cup used at the Last Supper?’ Neil breathed, unable to conceal the scepticism in his voice.

Aidan shrugged and looked at the outlying houses which they were now passing. ‘Well, maybe not a cup as such,’ he said. ‘Standing at the foot of the Cross he was supposed to have collected the blood and the sweat of Christ in two vessels. Cruets they're called, and they've got nothing to do with salt and pepper before you go asking.’

‘I wasn't going to.’

‘Well, anyway, The Grail myth leads us straight into the tales of King Arthur, which are also linked with Glastonbury and I haven't even mentioned the Holy Thorn yet—I told you the air is thick with legends around here.’

‘Like unto bees which doth swarm about the honey pot,’ Quoth put in.

‘Well said,’ Aidan chuckled.

*

Turning off the Wells Road, the van made its way down a long, sloping high street in which the windows of the ordinary, everyday newsagents and grocers were interspersed with more intriguing displays of crystals, strange ceramic figurines, colourful esoteric posters and vegetarian menus.

‘Might as well take the scenic route through the town as we shan't be staying long,’ Aidan remarked. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for Verdandi and the young girl, although I'm certain they'll be making straight for the Tor when they arrive—if they aren't here already.’

As the van passed by the entrance to a courtyard which basked in the title
The Glastonbury Experience
Aidan twisted around to see if there was anyone he recognised in there. But it was too cold to sit outside its cafe that day and only a handful of young people with studs in their noses and a short-haired terrier tethered by a piece of string were gathered in front of the New Age shops.

Steering the vehicle left into Magdalene Street, the man sucked his teeth and pointed behind the buildings.

‘The town grew up around the ruins of the sixth century abbey over there,’ he told Neil. ‘Very important it was in its day—quite a dandy little metropolis, until Henry the Eighth had his way.

‘The first Christian church to be constructed above ground was built here, you know, and it was here that the monks dug up Arthur and Guinevere—if you believe in them that is.’

When they came to a gap between the buildings, Neil could see the impressive remains of the ancient abbey rising out of a wide expanse of meticulously tended lawn. Even in this advanced state of decay the splendour of the weathered, honey-hued stones was beautiful to see. A crumbling, moss-crowned husk of its former glory, it stood with silent composure—the empty Romanesque windows and arches politely permitting visitors to view and tread its august, roofless interior.

‘Don't you believe in King Arthur then?’ the boy asked, turning aside from the decorous ruins.

Aidan wrinkled his hooked nose. ‘Not the fairytale version,’ he said. ‘But behind everything there is a kernel of truth. Those romances are a collection and corruption of much earlier tales. One of my favourite parts though was always the bit where the dying Arthur is taken from the mortal shores by three royal maidens.’

‘The Websters again?’

‘You can't get away from the Spinners of the Wood, lad.’ Aidan chortled. ‘Their influence extends everywhere. Avalon is where tradition says Arthur was brought, and lies sleeping—until England needs him again.’

‘But you just said he was dug up.’

‘Oh, that was the Abbot's twelfth century version of a tourist attraction,’ Aidan scoffed. ‘Like putting a big sign in a shop window saying “sale now on”—it was just a con to bring in the pilgriming punters. No, if there is someone who sleeps under this blessed soil, I'm pretty certain it won't be any Celtic chieftain.’

Crouched upon the boy's shoulder, Quoth had grown unusually quiet. He no longer quested the breach in the window with his beak, and when the draught did blow upon him and stir his scruffy feathers, he cringed and buried his face beneath his wing. His delicate senses had detected something terrible out there and his little heart began to patter in his breast.

Veering left again the van headed up Bere Lane. They had skirted around the centre of the town and now the Tor reared up before them once more.

‘We'll park in front of the Chalice Well Gardens,’ Aidan said. ‘It's not far from there.’

‘Chalice Well,’ Neil murmured. ‘This is all so bizarre.’

‘Two springs does this town boast. The red spring and the white—perhaps that's where the story of Joseph's cruets come from. Do you know that even in the worst droughts they have never failed.’

‘When Miss Ursula spoke of a magical device that Woden wanted Veronica to find for him,’ Neil said slowly, ‘do you think she meant this Grail, Chalice—whatever it is?’

Aidan shook his head. ‘No,’ he said with absolute certainty. ‘What possible use could that be to them? If it is hidden hereabouts I doubt if it possesses any power the Nornir might desire—their sovereignty over mankind reaches further back than any religion. I can't see how The Grail could help them ward off Verdandi's Captain, can you?’

Turning into Chilkwell Street, they pulled into a gravel covered area before a high stone wall and, with a wry smile, Aidan said, ‘This is where the fun begins—welcome to Avalon.’

*

Opening the door, Aidan stepped from the van and waited whilst Neil clambered out of the passenger seat, but the raven refused to come with him and hopped stubbornly on to the handbrake.

‘Come on,’ Neil urged, ‘we're here now.’

Quoth nervously bobbed his head up and down and shied away from the open door.

‘Nay,’ he cried with a dread-laden squawk, ‘a miasma of blood doth taint the sweet air. Canst thou not perceive the violent deeds committed in these environs, Master Neil? Mine innards are as weak as blue milk, I doth bewail and afright to feel such vileness around us. This morn ‘twas gore and gizzard which did feed the dew dripped sod. The reek of death, most cruel and heinous, fair choketh this unhappy chicklet. Let us begone afore this evil o'ershadows our path.’

Neil looked at the bird in surprise. Quoth was genuinely frightened and he reached in to comfort him.

‘I can't smell anything,’ he said. ‘Come on, its probably just your scrambled brains playing tricks. I'd have thought you'd appreciate being let out of the van after all these hours.’

Quoth goggled up at him and shook his head, but Neil was anxious to find Miss Veronica and Edie, and wouldn't stand for any more nonsense.

Placing his hand at the raven's feet he told Quoth to climb on to his fingers and so, fearfully, the bird obeyed.

Neil brought him out of the van and Quoth waddled up the boy's arm to perch upon his shoulder again whilst peering warily about them.

‘What's the matter with your little companion?’ Aidan asked, seeing the bird's agitation.

Neil closed the passenger door. ‘Thinks there's something wrong about this place,’ he replied.

‘Although it might have more to do with having to leave the warmth.’

Placing the crumpled top hat upon his head, Aidan eyed the bird curiously.

‘Gall and wormwood art more toothsome to me than the fetor of this odoriferous stinkpot,’ Quoth cawed, glaring at the swarthy-faced man with an obdurate frown and a firm clack of his beak.

Aidan scratched his chin and gazed around them. ‘I think perhaps your pet might not be as addled as we would both like to believe,’ he informed Neil. ‘Let's waste no more time—to the Tor.’

Crunching over the gravel, they walked back to the road, but before they could proceed any further, there came the sound of running footsteps behind them.

‘Aidan!’ a voice cried. ‘Aidan, thank heavens it's you.’

The gypsy and Neil turned to see, hurrying from the entrance to the Chalice Well Gardens, a middle-aged man with a pot belly, dressed in dark blue overalls and carrying a hoe.

‘Did you hear?’ the man called. ‘Isn't it awful?’

Aidan's dark brows lifted high into his forehead as the man came puffing up to them.

‘George?’ he muttered. ‘What..?’

‘It was on the radio this morning,’ the man gasped, leaning upon the hoe and clutching his tummy to stop it wobbling. ‘Then Nancy rang—everyone's been popping in to talk about it. There's precious little peace in the garden today I can tell you. How did it happen? Do you know? The report was very vague. I still can't believe it.’

Aidan put his hand upon the man's shoulder and stared questioningly into his mournful eyes.

‘George!’ he said forcefully. ‘Calm down. I've been away and only got back this minute. What are you babbling about?’

The man drew a sharp breath and sucked his bottom lip forlornly.

‘Then you don't know,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, I wish I didn't have to be the one to tell you.’

‘Tell me what, George?’ Aidan insisted, becoming stem.

‘Tales of blood!’ Quoth suddenly interjected and the man in the ill-fitting overall gawped at the bird in astonishment. ‘Grisly doings, I'll be bound. Murder! Treason! Fe, fi, fo, fum!’

‘George!’ Aidan commanded.

The man turned his attention from the raven and in a solemn, dejected voice said, ‘It's Rhonda and the others...’

Aidan stiffened, ‘What about them?’

‘Last night, their bus... it said on the radio it blew up... Oh, God, it's so dreadful.’

Neil glanced at Aidan's face, the swarthy features had frozen. He said no words, but Neil could tell by the fierce emerald blaze which burned in his eyes that the boiling emotion threatened to overwhelm him.

‘They used to love coming to the gardens,’ George said feebly. ‘Dot and Patrick were only here yesterday filling their bottles with water from the spring. Liked it better than the white one they did, said they could feel it doing them good...’

The green fires dancing in Aidan's eyes daunted the man into silence and he sorrowfully hung his head.

‘Accursed be the pasture that feasts on blood,’ Quoth chimed in, ‘and bitterer still the slaughter grown harvest of offal fed fruit.’

Aidan turned slowly and stared at the bird with a glance seething with such reproach that Quoth gave a plaintive quack and shielded his face with his wings.

‘I must go to them,’ the gypsy said. ‘I have to know what happened.’

Tearing back across the gravel he yanked open the van door and threw his hat inside.

‘Wait!’ Neil shouted. ‘You can't go—what about Veronica and Edie?’

Aidan's features twisted as the turmoil raged within him until, finally, he said, ‘I won't be long. This is all part of it—don't you see Neil? I have a horrible feeling I know what's happened to my friends. I have to find out for sure.’

‘But what about me?’

‘We can't both go. You'll have to remain behind. Go up the Tor. If Verdandi and the girl are there, bring them down here and wait until I return. An hour at the most, that's all I'll be. I promise.’

Neil ran forward, but his guide was already climbing into the van.

‘Why can't you tell me what's going on?’ the boy protested. ‘Aidan—what if something happens? Aidan, listen to me! Wait a minute!’

With a roar the engine started and the van reversed back into the road.

‘I won't be long!’ Aidan yelled through the closed windows. ‘Don't worry lad, don't worry!’

Neil ran after him. ‘I can't believe you're doing this!’ he bawled angrily. But the driver never heard him, for the tyres screeched over the tarmac and the van sped off, leaving Neil standing in the middle of the road—alone and confused.

Watching the exhaust fumes disappear around a bend, the boy worriedly turned to the raven upon his shoulder. They were stranded in an unfamiliar place, with no one to help or advise them, and it seemed that Quoth's foreboding portent had been confirmed. Something malevolent was at work here and Neil felt a twinge of fear grip his stomach.

‘That's it then,’ he muttered. ‘We've been dumped. What do we do now?’

Quoth squinted up at the clear, pale blue sky and, adopting an ominous, warning tone said, ‘Little under four hours doth remain of Phoebus’ rays. If thou dost fail in the task set before thee, then beware the darkness when it falleth. This night we shalt all be steeped in a mere of blood.’