The Raven’s Knot

Casting a final, fearful glance at the confused figure in the armchair, the eldest of the Websters whirled about and hurried quickly from the room.

Miss Celandine scowled at Edie. ‘You mustn’t upset us so,’ she chided. ‘Fancy mentioning the ravens, and in front of Veronica too. See how agitated you’ve made her. Veronica, speak to me, Veronica.’

Edie wanted to run after Miss Ursula, but even as she hastened to the entrance her quick, capricious mind had already decided against it.

If she was caught spying there was no telling what might happen. Of the three Webster sisters, Miss Ursula was the most formidable and Edie knew she had to be wary in her presence. The other two seemed much easier to handle – perhaps she could learn what she needed from them.

Sitting beside the armchair, the girl looked at Miss Celandine’s ripe wrinkly, walnut-like features framed by her straw coloured plaits, and Miss Veronica’s haggard, overly made-up face.

‘Why is Ursula so scared?’ she asked.

Neither of the Websters replied. Miss Veronica seemed to have drifted off into her own world again and Miss Celandine was nibbling her lip as if wondering what to do.

‘There’s some things even you can’t be told,’ Miss Celandine eventually blurted. ‘I thought you were here to look after us but that hasn’t happened at all – quite the opposite. It is, it is! Well, I shan’t say anything to you unless Ursula tells me to – and Veronica won’t either.’

But her words did not deter Edie. Apparently unconcerned, she lifted the plate of pancakes and sniffed them experimentally.

‘Put them down!’ Miss Celandine squealed. ‘They’re not yours, they’re not, they’re not!’

Impudently Edie arched her eyebrows and proceeded to stuff two of the pancakes into her mouth, much to Miss Celandine’s outrage.

‘Wicked!’ she clucked, beating her fists upon her knees. ‘You stop that! At once, at once – ooh, you naughty child. You are, you are!’

Edie ignored her and looked instead at Veronica who was also staring at her in shocked disbelief as yet another pancake disappeared inside the young girl’s mouth.

Suddenly the woman in the armchair could bear it no longer. Yowling like a singed cat, she grabbed the plate from Edie and rammed its scrumptious jam-daubed dainties into her own crabbed lips.

Several minutes passed as Miss Veronica chewed and devoured her most favourite food. Then when the last morsel was swallowed, she frowned at Edie and poked her with a bony finger.

‘There were two ravens,’ she said, her eyes glazing over as she struggled to recall the fleeting memories. ‘Two of them, and they belonged to someone... someone very special. What were their names? Why don’t I know? I’m sure it’s important.’

Leaning back in the chair, the elderly woman sighed heavily and shook her head.

‘You are shameless,’ Miss Celandine berated Edie. ‘Poor Veronica mustn’t remember, you mustn’t make her.’

The girl eyed her mutinously. Perhaps if she asked about something else she could catch her off guard. ‘Tell me what happened to the land of Askar,’ she piped up unexpectedly.

At the mention of that name Miss Celandine brightened, but she glanced suspiciously at the doorway in case Miss Ursula was lurking there. ‘Come,’ she whispered, ‘over here – we’ll sit by the fireplace.’

Together they rose, and Miss Celandine settled herself in one of the chairs by the hearth and raked a poker through the cold, dead ashes as if stoking a heap of flaming cinders.

Edie waited until she had finished before she said, ‘Ursula started tellin’ me yesterday about the ice giants. Did they build the bridge and kill the World Tree?’

Miss Celandine brushed the ash and coal dust from her fingers and gazed mournfully at the charred, scattered cinders.

‘Oh, yes,’ she murmured. ‘The chasm that separated the green lands from the icy wastes was spanned. Oh, but it was so heavenly in those days. Askar was at its most beautiful and Yggdrasill at the height of its power and majesty. It really was glorious – oh, it was, it was.

‘Everyone looked so handsome and attractive then, the gentlemen were tall and dashing. Oh what dances we had, what a delicious time.’

Miss Celandine’s voice trailed off as she slipped into a delightful reverie and Edie had to nudge her to continue.

‘What about the giants?’ she urged.

Miss Celandine’s goofy grin disappeared. ‘I don’t want to talk about them,’ she snapped. ‘Mayn’t I only remember the nice bits?’

‘No.’

‘You’re as beastly as Ursula,’ the elderly woman bleated. ‘Very well.

‘When those terrible ice lords first stepped upon the shores of the fertile lands, they saw in the distance the wondrous light of the World Tree and knew in their black hearts that they could never hope to attack it. Spanning the chasm had weakened them dreadfully. So, at the edge of the green realm they quarrelled about what to do, until their leader – the tallest and proudest of them, who wore a crown of icicles upon his big head, was so disgusted at their cowardice that he stormed off on his own.

‘Over the pretty hillsides he rampaged, drawing ever closer to the emerald shadows of Yggdrasill and when at last he reached the lowest and most outlying of boughs, he leapt up and swung his great axe.’

Miss Celandine drew her breath and covered her mouth as she let the tragedy of those words imprint themselves upon the intrigued child.

‘Hacked it clear through that monster did!’ she uttered sadly. ‘The world shuddered, as did we all, and after that the sun never seemed to shine quite as brightly again. A horrendous shiver travelled through the great ash, from its topmost leaves to the bottommost root and suddenly we were all afraid.’

‘Is that when the tree died?’ Edie asked breathlessly.

Miss Celandine ran her fingers through the stained and ragged lace that fringed her velvet gown before answering. ‘No,’ she said simply. ‘Only the bough was hewn, the ogre could do no more damage, for the massive branch toppled right down on top of him and broke his frozen head to bits. Served him right it did, but that was no comfort to us. The World Tree was injured and we did not know how to heal it.

‘Oh, the poor thing. Three days it took for the people of the city to ride about the trunk to where the sap seeped from that hideous gash. I couldn’t look, it was Ursula and our mother who went with a company of guards. Veronica was away at the time, but she returned as soon as she could. She was often away in those days, exploring the outlying regions, blessing the wild forests and standing upon distant hills. I wanted to go with her sometimes but she always said no. Sometimes she could be so mean and tiresome, I do hope she isn’t lapsing back into old habits.’

‘Then how did Yggdrasill die?’ Edie pressed, before the elderly woman had a chance to be distracted.

‘It was the others!’ she cried, astonished at the girl’s ignorance. ‘I thought everyone knew that! It was the other giants. They saw what happened to their leader and knew that weapons more cunning than axes would have to be used to be rid of it. They drew silly, weak people and unwary creatures into their service until eventually they discovered the whereabouts of two of the World Tree’s roots.

‘Oh, it was terrible, into them they fed the bitterest poisons, fouling the waters of the wells and springs which nourished them with their dirt and filthy charms. How we cried when a second shudder quaked the earth and Yggdrasill sickened. We thought that the end had come, but a ray of hope still glimmered, for no one – not even the enemy’s watchful spies, knew where the third and final root could be found and so the tree survived.’

Resting her chin in her hands, Edie closed her eyes and recalled the impressive sight of the withered Nirinel in the subterranean chamber far below the museum.

‘But they did in the end,’ she muttered glumly.

Miss Celandine stroked her head. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘The end hasn’t happened yet, at least I don’t think it has. Ursula would have told me, I’m certain. The ice lords haven’t returned have they? The sun still shines doesn’t it?’

Turning to the window, she stared at the dismal day outside and sharply drew her breath. ‘Has the last day closed? Are they stirring in the frozen wastes? We must get Ursula. The darkness is coming – the cold and dark are here!’

‘No, Celandine,’ Edie assured her. ‘It’s only raining. Tell me what happened next, after the two roots were poisoned.’

The elderly woman squinted once more at the window and shifted in the chair.

‘Great expanses of the World Tree started to rot,’ she murmured sadly. ‘In those decaying wounds, all the sicknesses and plagues were spawned. There was no death in Askar in the early days, but soon the bleak northern winds began to carry disease and the spores of pestilence. Many fell ill and perished, and so the glory of Askar began to dwindle and wane.’

‘That’s sad,’ Edie mumbled as Miss Celandine sniffled into the lace of her collar.

‘It was, and is,’ the old woman agreed, blowing her nose upon the sleeve of her dress.

‘But the Frost Giants were not wholly successful,’ she added. ‘They had not killed Yggdrasill completely, for the third root was still sustaining it and whilst they continued to hunt and search for its whereabouts, something wonderful happened.’

Running her fingers over the child’s pixie-hood, she beamed to herself and tilted her head to one side.

‘When the first bough was hacked from the ash,’ she said, ‘no one knew what to do with it. Obviously we couldn’t just leave it there for the ogres to make their nasty weapons out of. The wood was that of the World Tree and no one could imagine what powers it might possess. Then our mother had a vision in which she saw what had to be done.’

‘Did the people of Askar listen to her?’ Edie asked doubtfully.

Miss Celandine stared at the child in surprise. ‘Of course they did!’ she declared. ‘She was their Queen! Hasn’t Ursula told you?’

Edie grinned and gazed at the old woman as if viewing her for the first time. ‘Then you’re a princess!’ she laughed.

‘I was,’ Miss Celandine answered mournfully, ‘a long, long time ago when my name was different. I don’t know what I am now. I forget so much of the in-between years, after the great early days. Sometimes I wonder how we came here and all I want to do is get away from Ursula and go dancing down through the galleries. Veronica feels the same, but her legs are bad. If it weren’t for her pancakes I don’t know how she’d...’

‘Celandine!’ Edie said firmly, assuming a tone not unlike that of Miss Ursula at her most severe. ‘What did they do with the fallen branch? What did the vision tell your mother to make out of it?’

‘Why the loom of course!’ the elderly woman grandly declared. ‘The loom of destiny, where we weaved the fortunes of mankind and the webs of doom. Veronica would measure the threads, I would spin them and Ursula would cut them. That’s what we did for many, many years – ordering the affairs of everyone and everything – the whole world was caught in our tapestry, no one escaped us. No one at all, even we were trapped.’

Thrilled to the marrow, Edie marvelled at Miss Celandine’s words and her skin prickled with excitement. ‘Doooom,’ she echoed. ‘Loooom of Doooom.’

‘Of course,’ Miss Celandine added, ‘at first nobody dared to string it and so the very first day it was completed, the loom was left in the courtyard until the night came.’

‘What happened then?’

Miss Celandine turned and pointed to a small painting half hidden in the shadow of a bookshelf.

Edie peered at it. Within the dusty frame there was a woodland scene enshrouded by dense curling mist and, from the swirling vapours, reared the dim outlines of four great stags.

‘At the dead of night,’ Miss Celandine said, ‘Ursula looked out of her window and saw those milk white creatures come boldly into the court and carry the loom away upon their silver antlers. Of course, she raised the alarm at once, but it was as if they had vanished, no one could find any trace of them.’

‘But you did, didn’t you?’

Miss Celandine however was growing restive and she looked across the room to Miss Veronica who was peeping over the back of the armchair with a curious, intense look graven upon her face.

‘I won’t say any more!’ Miss Celandine announced, putting one of her plaits into her mouth and chewing it stubbornly. ‘I’ve said too, too much!’

‘Please!’ Edie cried. ‘What happened next?’

Miss Celandine clenched her teeth and refused to utter another word, then she folded her arms upon her chest and dug her heels into the frayed carpet.

‘It was Ursula’s fault,’ Miss Veronica’s voice piped up. ‘It was she who walked under the leaves, she who learned too much, more than was good for her – or any of us.’

Miss Celandine spat the hair from her mouth and tutted disagreeably. ‘Veronica, stop it! Oh, Edith, you are a wicked child – look you’ve made our sister go and remember. It’s better if she doesn’t, Ursula always say so. How could you be so hateful?’

But Edie wasn’t listening to her any longer. Drawing near to the armchair, she brought her face close to the heavily painted eyes which peered over the back and smiled persuasively.

‘It was years later,’ Miss Veronica continued, ‘on a night of calm. Ursula was roaming under that part of the tree which was still untouched by poison when, in the rustling of the leaves, she heard a whispering voice.’

‘Stop her someone!’ Miss Celandine squeaked, hopping from her place by the hearth and clapping her hands over her ears. ‘I had nothing to do with it, I swear. I didn’t make her remember, I didn’t, I didn’t. It was that disobedient girl. Why, I wasn’t even here – I was downstairs. I’m not here now – I’m down there, that’s what. I’ll tell her that too if she asks.’

Miss Veronica watched her spring about the cramped room, and gazed dumbly at the folds of faded velvet which thrashed madly about her sister’s wizened form, making a sound like great flapping wings. With a start, the old woman gripped her walking cane.

‘The ravens!’ she cried abruptly. ‘Thought – Thought and Memory! That’s what they were called!’

Miss Celandine stumbled to a standstill and shuddered, before letting out a shrill squeal as she pointed at Edie in fear.

‘You’ve done it now!’ she scolded. ‘Oh, you’ve done it now!’

Along the curiously named Coursing Batch, that stretch of main road which cuts across the lower slopes of Glastonbury Tor, a plump figure with a mass of curling, carrot-coloured hair, strained at the pedals of her bicycle.

Lauren Humphries scrunched up her face as yet another heavy lorry thundered by, and wobbled unsteadily in the buffeting draught of its passing.

‘Thank you!’ she growled through gritted teeth, her cheeks spattered with dirty water thrown up from the wet road. The lorry roared away and the girl gently squeezed her brakes, stopping beside the narrow pavement to wipe herself clean.

Although she was now seventeen, she had lost none of the chubbiness that had made her childhood so miserable. There were just so many unkind names for idiots to choose from when shouting abuse, it was like a sport that anybody could play. Lauren had grown used to it, from an early age she had taught herself to ignore the cruel taunting, but that did not make it hurt any less. No matter how hard she tried, sometimes the insults hit their mark and stung her.

Mopping a handkerchief about her freckle-covered features, she glowered at the receding, rumbling lorry, her hazel eyes lost amid the fleshy expanse of her round, pink face.

It was a treacherous road – so much for escaping the traffic and pollution of the city, this was almost as bad.

Pulling away from the kerb, she set off once more. Past the gates of the large boarding houses whose rooftops screened off the view of the Tor, to where Coursing Batch seamlessly became the Edgerly Road.

Here, only the hedgerow separated her from the great green bulk of the strangely shaped hill which rose high upon her left.

Glastonbury Tor, with the solitary tower dedicated to Saint Michael spiking up from its summit, was a singular, stately sight.

A holy place, venerated down the ages by countless pilgrims seeking for truth and enlightenment, it rose from the Somerset levels like an enchanted, enduring symbol of faith. Deep were the foundations of Glastonbury’s magical appeal and like a magnet it attracted things esoteric and occult from all over the globe. Obscure sects of enigmatic religions founded temples there, people sought healing from its ever-flowing springs and legends both Christian and pagan abounded.

Nowhere else was quite like this small town, it was a special, haunting place and the powerful vision of the Tor presided over all.

Lauren hated it.

She had only lived there for four months but already she loathed the district and, as she cycled homeward, did not take her eyes from the road to even glance at the Tor’s majestic, imposing outline.

Hoping that her father would be back before she arrived home, she sailed by the high banks of the reservoir and saw in the distance ahead a group of five boys larking about at the roadside.

Still dressed in their uniforms, they had obviously just left school and Lauren pitied them. There was little for young people to do in small towns such as this. It was fine for the tourists who came to see the ruined abbey, investigate the legends, climb the Tor and explore the beautiful countryside, but to grow up in such a place had to be difficult. Holiday makers and seekers of wisdom could leave when they wanted to, but for a child born into a bleak rural landscape that was impossible.

Yet as Lauren cycled closer to the group, a furrow creased her brow and any sympathy she had felt vanished as her small eyes stared at them suspiciously.

Their voices were jeering with laughter and that was a sound the girl knew only too well.

‘Barmy Tommy!’ they cried. ‘Barmy Tommy!’

Only then did Lauren see that in the centre of the gang was a pitiful looking old man and, with anger bubbling up inside her, she began to pedal furiously.

Surrounded by the group of twelve-year-olds, the man known locally as Tommy, laughed good naturedly, nodding like a donkey at everything the boys shouted in his ears.

‘Do us yer teapot, Tommy! What do dogs do, Tommy?’

The white haired old man crooked one arm in compliance and waggled from side to side, pouring imaginary tea from the pretend spout of his hand as he yapped like a terrier.

‘That’s right, Tommy!’ the boys goaded, pushing him roughly. ‘What else do dogs do? Cock your leg – go on!’

Like a performing monkey he obeyed them, acting out stupid and humiliating tricks for their callous delight.

‘Give us yet hat, Tommy,’ one of them called, reaching across and grabbing the battered cloth cap from his head.

‘Pyeeuuurrgh!’ the boy cried, mangling it in his hands. ‘It stinks – you dirty old beggar! When was the last time you had a bath?’

The old man grinned, revealing an almost toothless set of gums. ‘Was a Tuesday,’ he declared.

‘What year?’ the gang shouted back.

‘Tommy doesn’t know,’ came the mild reply. ‘Can he have his hat back now?’

‘You’ll have to catch it first!’ they taunted, throwing the cap from one to another.

‘Please,’ Tommy asked politely. ‘It’s getting dark. You lads should get yourselves home. Give Tommy his hat, he’s got to get going an’ all.’

In front of his ruddy face they dangled it, only to snatch the cap away as soon as his large, red knuckled hands rose to claim it.

The old man staggered to and fro as they threw the cap over his head and back again, yet not once did he lose his temper or cry out in despair.

‘Hey!’ Lauren’s angry voice interrupted the cruel game. ‘Stop it! Leave him alone.’

Propping her bicycle against the hedge, she pushed her way into the middle of the group and pulled the thoughtless boys away.

‘Let go!’ they yelled as she yanked them aside until only one was left, the cap still in his hands.

Graham Carter, the oldest of the bullies, glared at the girl and a horrible leer twisted his face that was already pocked with the first flush of acne.

‘What do you want, fatty?’ he asked with a snigger.

Incensed, Lauren dashed forward and knocked him into the hedge but, as he fell, Graham threw back his arm and let the cap go sailing into the road.

‘Get off, you fat cow!’ he bawled when she pushed him even further into the thorns. ‘Get your sweaty, lardy hands off me!’

‘Least I haven’t got a face with craters in it like the moon!’

‘Better than being as big as the moon!’

Lauren stared at him as he squirmed in the hedge, then stepped back – ashamed that she had allowed herself be drawn into a slanging match. ‘Just clear off,’ she said gruffly.

Graham tried to pull himself from the thorns, but two of his accomplices had to help him to his feet.

‘You wait, blubber mountain!’ he warned, inspecting his blazer for holes. ‘We’ll be waiting for you next time.’

Lauren shook her head. ‘Oh, drop dead,’ she told them.

Grudgingly, the boys walked off singing out a string of insults.

‘Tubby or not tubby – fat is the question.’

The girl ignored them and looked around to see if the old man was all right. At once all thoughts of the stupid boys were flung from her mind as she saw Tommy go doddering into the centre of the road to retrieve his cap – wandering right into the path of a speeding juggernaut.

‘Watch out!’ she screamed.

Stooping, the old man glanced up as the driver of the lorry gave three warning blasts upon the horn. There was no way he could stop in time and all Tommy could do was blink in timid surprise.

With a hideous squeal, the tyres skidded over the tarmac as the brakes were stomped upon, but still the vehicle came. Then, at the last moment, Tommy snatched up the cap and leapt nimbly aside. The lorry ploughed past, finally lurching to a halt yards beyond where the old man had been standing.

‘You stupid old git!’ the driver bellowed, sticking his head out of the window. ‘You nearly got yourself killed!’

Tommy placed the hat upon his head and chuckled as if the man had said something funny, and proceeded to do a little dance upon the grass verge.

The driver drew a hand over his forehead and directed his anger at Lauren instead.

‘Why don’t you keep a closer eye on your granddad? Kids like you got no idea.’

The girl opened her mouth to object but the driver was already revving his engine.

‘Useless fat lump,’ she heard him mutter just before the lorry roared off.

Leaving a cloud of choking blue exhaust fumes in its wake, the lorry lumbered away. Lauren pulled a face after it hoping the driver was looking in his mirror.

‘That’s not very lady like,’ a gentle voice said.

The girl gazed at Tommy and shrugged. ‘It wasn’t meant to be,’ she answered. ‘But how are you? You all right? Did those lads frighten you?’

The old man stared at her bewildered. ‘Frighten?’ he murmured. ‘Why should Tommy’s pals frighten him? We was only playing a game, they wouldn’t want to scare old Tommy.’

Lauren groaned and walked back to her bicycle.

‘You were a bit rough with them,’ he added. ‘That’s no way for a pretty young girl to behave now, is it? You’ll never get a boyfriend acting like that you know.’

Exasperated, she turned to stare at him. Tommy was a peculiar looking character. His face was a florid map of broken veins. Fine silver stubble bristled along his chin and, although he had never been seen without a smile, there was an element of sadness about his wrinkle-webbed eyes.

He was a sorry, tramp-like sight. Under his shabby, second-hand overcoat, over a collarless shirt, he wore a hand-knitted, purple jumper that had been darned umpteen times, and a long piece of grubby string served as a belt to hold up his baggy, colourless trousers.