The Raven’s Knot. Robin Jarvis
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as if the uncounted years of death and mouldering corruption had only been a dark, deceiving dream, for the bird was as agile and as supple as it had ever been.
Yet the euphoric cries were swiftly curtailed and the creature dropped like a stone as a new, terrible thought flooded that reconstructed brain and its heart became filled with an all-consuming despair.
Leaping across the wreckage, the raven darted from shadow to shadow, hunting and searching, its cracked voice calling morosely. Through the litter of exhibits the bird searched, tearing aside the obstacles in its path as its alarm and dread mounted, until finally it found what it had been seeking.
There, with its head twisted to one side, its shrivelled face covered in shattered pieces of glass, was the moth-eaten body of a second raven.
The reanimated bird stared sorrowfully down at the crumpled corpse and the sharp, guileful gleam faded in its eyes as it tenderly nuzzled its beak against the poorly preserved body.
Mournfully, its yearning, grief-stricken voice called, trying to rouse the stiff, lifeless form – but it was no use. The second raven remained as dead as stone and no amount of plaintive cawing could awaken it.
Engulfed by an overwhelming sense of loss, the bird drew back, shuffling woefully away from the inert dried cadaver, its ugly face dejected and downcast.
Abruptly the raven checked its staggering steps – it was no longer alone. Another presence was nearby, the atmosphere within the room had changed and curious eyes were regarding it intently.
Jerking its head upwards, the bird glowered at the doorway and its beak opened to give vent to an outraged, venomous hiss when it saw a young human child.
Her face was a picture of fascination and not at all astonished or afraid at the emergence of the revivified creature.
Immediately, the raven’s sorrow changed to resentment and it swaggered forward threateningly, pulling its head into its shoulders and spitting with fury.
The girl, however, merely stared back and made a condescending truckling sound as she patted her hands together, beckoning and urging the bird to come closer.
Incensed, the raven gave a loud, piercing shriek and leapt into the air, screeching with rage.
Up it flew until the tips of its wings brushed against the ceiling and with a defiant, shrieking scream it plunged back down.
Edie Dorkins watched in mild amusement as the bird dived straight for her like an arrow from a bow. But the pleasure quickly vanished from her upturned face when she saw the outstretched talons that were already to pluck out her eyes and slash through her skin.
At the last moment, just as the winged shadow fell across her cheek, the girl whisked about and fled from the room.
Yet the raven was not so easily evaded. A murderous lust burned within its invigorated heart, consumed by the need to avenge the death of its companion and break the fast of death by slaking its thirst with her sweet blood.
Into The Egyptian Suite it pursued her, dive-bombing the hapless child, harrying her fleeing form – instilling terror into those tender young limbs.
Through one room after another Edie ran. But wherever she scurried, the raven was always there, beating its wings in her face, pecking her fingers or clawing at the long, blonde hair which had slipped from under the pixie-hood.
Breathlessly, Edie burst on to the landing and began tearing up the stairs, calling for the Websters, but the evil bird had tired of the game and lunged for her.
Into the soft flesh of her stockinged legs it drove the sharp talons. The girl yowled in pain, smacking the creature from her with the back of her hand.
Down the steps the raven cartwheeled, only to rise once more, shrieking with malice as it plummeted down – the powerful beak poised to rip and tear.
Edie squealed and threw up her arms as she leapt up the stairs, but the bird crashed between them and viciously seized hold of her exposed neck.
The girl yelled, but at that moment the raven let out a deafening screech. It thrashed its wings, demented with agony. One of its claws was caught in the stitches of the pixie-hood and the flecks of silver tinsel began to shine, becoming a mesh of harsh, blinding light which blazed and flared in the darkness of the stairway.
Furiously, the creature wrenched and tugged at its foot, for the wool burned and blistered, and a vile, stench-filled smoke crackled up where it scorched the scaly, ensnarled claw.
Edie whirled around, trying to grab the raven and pull it loose, but the bird bit her palm and its lashing feathers whipped the sides of her face. The pain was searing but, however much it battled, the creature could not break free of those stitches for the Fates themselves had woven them.
In a last, despairing attempt, the raven screamed at the top of its shrill voice, closed the beak about its own flesh and snapped it shut.
There was a rending and crunching of bone as the bird twisted and wrenched itself clear, then warm blood spurted on to Edie’s neck.
With crimson drops dribbling from its wound and staining its beak, the bird recoiled, fluttering shakily in the air as it regarded the girl with suspicion and fear. Yet even though it despised her, the creature did not attack again and circled overhead, seething with impotent wrath before flying back into the exhibitions, crowing with rage.
Standing alone upon the stairs, as the glare from her pixie-hood dwindled and perished, Edie pulled the severed talon from the stitches and pouted glumly. Her fey, shifting mind suddenly decided she had enjoyed the raven’s deadly company and wanted to play some more.
An impish grin melted over her grubby face as she decided to follow the bird and chase it from room to room, just as it had done to her. But, even as she began to jump down the steps, there came the faint sound of shattering glass and she knew that the bird had escaped.
From one of the windows in The Separate Collection the raven exploded, canoning out into the cold dregs of night, where it pounded its wings and shot upwards.
Up past the eaves it ascended, soaring over the spires and turrets, letting the chill air-currents stream through its quills as the fragments of broken glass went tinkling down upon the ground far below.
‘Thought,’ a frail, fatigued voice invaded its mind. ‘To me... to me.’
The raven cawed in answer and immediately began to spiral back down. Over the small, bleak yard it flew, fluttering over the empty street – its gleaming eyes fixed upon the hooded figure now standing once more.
‘Come, my old friend,’ the stranger uttered, wearily leaning against the wall as he raised a trembling hand in salutation. ‘Too many ages have passed since you flew before me in battle. It gladdens my heart, my most faithful attendant and counsellor.’
Wincing from the pain of its mutilated and bleeding claw, the raven alighted upon a cloaked shoulder and bobbed its head to greet its ancient Master.
‘Now do I begin to feel whole again,’ the figure sighed. ‘How am I to wreak my revenge without the company and valued assistance of my noble, trusted beloveds?’
The bird croaked softly and brushed its feathery body against the shrouded head.
‘I ought to remonstrate with you for not fleeing that accursed place sooner,’ the voice chided gently. ‘You were rash to assail that child of lesser men, for she has the protection of the royal house. The Spinners of the Wood have favoured her.’
The raven guiltily hung its head but its Lord was chuckling softly.
‘That lesson you have already learned I see. Look at your foot. Is this how you repay the gift of life? To risk it at the first instant, to let spite and hate overcome your wisdom? Such an impulsive deed I might expect from your brother but not of you, Thought. In the past you always considered the consequences of your actions... But where is your brother? Why has he not joined us?’
The unseen eyes within the hood stared