Tales From The Wyrd Museum 1: The Woven Path (3 page)

With flurries of dust flying about him and in the midst of this clanging destruction, stood Josh, a scared expression on his face.

‘I didn't mean it!’ he gasped. ‘I only wanted to have a look and play...’

His voice died in his throat as he beheld the stony face of Miss Webster. The old lady was awful to look upon. Medusa-like, she glared for several moments at the four-year-old then advanced menacingly towards him, picking her way through the debris of scattered pauldrons, cuisses and rerebraces that now littered the floor.

‘I will not have this!’ she seethed. ‘For only a moment have you been here but already you have caused grievous harm. What right have you to despoil the armaments of the glorious dead? Have you performed deeds equal to he that fought in those forgotten wars? Would you reward such valour by this wanton destruction? How dare you raise your hand to this memorial of one whose renown is greater than your baseborn house ever shall be?’

Terrified of this stern apparition, Josh skipped over the upturned breastplate and ran wailing to his father.

‘I'm... I'm awfully sorry,’ Mr Chapman stuttered, ‘I'm sure he didn't mean that to happen.’

‘Then he ought not to have touched it!’ Miss Webster roared back in a shrill, shrieking voice that made the man blink in astonishment and shrink away from her.

‘If I catch him meddling with anything else,’ she began threateningly, ‘then it will be the worse for him. All I have to do is withdraw my protection from you all. You would not like that—I swear!’

Struggling out of the cardboard box, Neil placed himself between the old lady and his brother.

‘Leave him alone!’ he yelled. ‘He's only four. That thing wasn't supported properly, it's a good job for you Josh isn't hurt.’

A peculiar glint flickered in Miss Webster's eyes as she regarded Neil, then a mocking smile curled over her face as she stepped back towards the door, the hem of her beaded dress brushing softly over the dismembered armour.

‘We shall say no more about it,’ she stated simply. ‘It was perhaps an honest mistake, I am unused to company—I have been confined in the museum for too long, perhaps. I only hope that the noise did not awaken my poor sisters. I would not wish them to be disturbed. Now follow me, if you please.’

Neil glanced at his father who shrugged and took hold of Josh's hand. Suddenly, the four-year-old let out a cry of surprise and alarm.

‘Dad! Up there!’

Both Mr Chapman and Neil looked up to where Josh was pointing.

Peering down at them from the landing, with their chins propped upon the bannisters and grinning like a pair of naughty children, were the faces of two elderly women.

‘Veronica!’ Miss Webster called out. ‘Celandine! You know you were not to come down. Go back upstairs at once!’

Childlike dismay spread over the faces of the other women and they both groaned in protest. ‘Oh Ursula!’ they complained in unison. ‘Don't be beastly. Let us come down and meet the strangers, we're so excited, we've even managed to dress ourselves—wasn't that clever of us?’

Before their sister had a chance to refuse them, Miss Celandine and Miss Veronica came pattering down the stairway like two great flapping geese.

‘How darling!’ Miss Celandine squealed when she saw Josh. ‘See, Veronica—what a bonny baby boy! Is he the one?’

The two old ladies reached out to tweak Josh's cheeks and though he growled and tried to fend them off it was no use.

Neil stared at them in bewilderment. These two old bags were even odder than the first.

Miss Veronica's hair was dyed an unnatural coal black and hung down her back in a wild tangle like the ungroomed tail of a horse. The colour contrasted starkly with her pale complexion, accentuated by the way she had applied quantities of white powder to her face that crumbled when she grinned and fell in fine, dusty trails upon her clothes. It was as if she was a small girl playing with her mother's make-up; for a pair of finely-arched eyebrows had been painted high upon her forehead, so that she looked perpetually startled and astonished, and a vivid stripe of vermilion lipstick obliterated her twittering mouth, so that it resembled a viciously-bleeding wound.

Her sister, however, was as unlike her as it was possible to be. Miss Celandine's face was tanned and crabbed like an overripe apple. Her small eyes were as dark and glittering as the beads on Miss Ursula's gown and below her upturned, bulbous nose she possessed a wide mouth which always seemed open, displaying her protruding and goofy teeth. Miss Celandine's hair was just as long as her sister's but it was the colour of dirty straw, shot through with wisps of grey and twisted into two prodigious plaits that hung on either side of her head.

Both women were dressed eccentrically. Miss Veronica wore a loose-fitting garment of billowing silk which had once been white but was now grey and peppered with small spots of black mould. Dancing slippers of creamy satin embroidered with gold thread were on her feet and in her hand she carried a pearl-handled walking stick, for her left leg was rather stiff and she limped when she walked. Stooping over Josh, enveloped in the voluminous folds of her frayed silk gown, she looked like some frail and geriatric Diana—too old and decrepit to go hunting under any phase of the moon.

Velvet of an intense ruby red was the main theme of Miss Celandine's attire. Her bare, liver-spotted shoulders were draped with a tasseled shawl and she had squeezed herself into a tight-fitting evening dress of the same material. But the pile of the velvet was worn and the vibrant colour had faded to a muddy orange in places, so that it looked as if she had been splashed with bleach.

‘Oh, we're so delighted!’ they cooed in jubilation. ‘How exquisite, what fun we shall have.’

Miss Ursula eyed her sisters with impatience and clapped her hands for their attention as they fussed over Josh.

Veronica! Celandine!’ she commanded. ‘Stop that at once! The child does not like it.’

Miss Veronica's hand fluttered to her garish mouth and disclosed that she had painted her nails a deep shade of violet. ‘But it's been so long,’ she trilled into her palm. We've been so terribly anxious these past weeks.’

‘Yes, we have,’ chimed in Miss Celandine. ‘So don't be cross, Ursula, and tell us what we must and mustn't do. You're just as eager as we are, admit it.’

‘I assure you, I am nothing of the kind,’ her sister corrected.

‘Pooh!’ Miss Celandine argued as she adjusted the shawl which had slipped from her shoulders to reveal an expanse of sagging and blue-veined flesh. ‘I know more of what you think before you do, most of the time. You can't fool me and never could.’

'That will do,’ Miss Ursula scolded and both her sisters drew their breaths as if she had slapped them. Turning to Mr Chapman, the old lady made some brief introductions.

‘This is Mr Chapman. He is to be our new caretaker. I was just about to show him his apartment.’

Miss Veronica buried her face in her hands. ‘Splendid!’ she prattled, peeping coyly between her fingers at the unfamiliar, gangly man with the greasy hair. ‘And will he truly take care of us, like the beautiful white stags used to, so long ago?’

‘Not us,’ Miss Ursula replied with a weary shake of the head as if she had laboured through this conversation many times before, ‘he is employed to look after our museum.’

‘Oh,’ Miss Veronica murmured, unsuccessfully trying to suppress a pang of regret in her voice, ‘the museum, of course. I had forgotten about the museum. Have the mists abated and the valiant guards perished? Do we still have all the collections? Is that where we are now?’

It was Miss Celandine who answered. ‘Of course it is, darling,’ she laughed. ‘You remember Ursula's little design don't you?’

Miss Veronica's troubled look of confusion cleared almost immediately. ‘Why indeed!’ she giggled. Then this is the man who is to be caretaker?’

‘Just so,’ confirmed Miss Celandine before she turned her attention to Mr Chapman. We are overjoyed that you are here,’ she greeted him. ‘I hope you will be most comfortable.’ With that, she held out her hand evidently expecting it to be kissed but the man was so bemused and flustered that he merely shook it.

Snatching her hand back, the old woman let out a high-pitched cry, as though she had been scalded, but the noise quickly turned into a giggle and she focused her black, sparkling eyes upon Neil and his brother.

‘Such delicious children,’ she murmured. They really are quite enchanting—aren't they, Veronica?’

‘Mouthwatering.’

‘I know we shall have fun together,’ Miss Celandine promised, bringing her nutty brown face close to Neil's. ‘You will be surprised.’

Neil coughed, partly from nerves but mostly because of the pungent whiff of mothballs that wafted from the red dress.

These three old women were completely cracked. Why had his father accepted this job? Of all the incredibly stupid, inept disasters he had ever committed, this had to cap the lot. Who, in their right mind, would willingly agree to be cooped up in a museum that reeked of mildew with three crazy pensioners who ought to be locked away in padded cells?

‘Celandine,’ Miss Ursula called, ‘why don't you take Veronica upstairs? You both look tired.’

Miss Celandine nodded readily. ‘Yes,’ she assented, ‘excitement is so very draining. Do you think we might see the children again another day?’

Miss Veronica let out a shrill cackle. ‘When the hurry-hurry's done!’ she gibbered.

‘But that may be too late!’ complained Miss Celandine. ‘Please, please, do let us see them again—we would relish their company so much before we have to—’

‘Be silent!’ Miss Ursula commanded.

Her sister's wrinkled face seemed to cave in on itself as she sucked in her bottom lip and screwed up her eyes. ‘I never said it,’ she sheepishly whimpered through the top row of her large, gravestone like teeth. ‘I wouldn't give it away, you know I wouldn't!’

‘Get you both upstairs,’ warned Miss Ursula.

Abashed, Miss Celandine and Miss Veronica ambled back to the stairs with downcast faces. Then, with one trembling and withered hand poised upon the bannister, Miss Celandine glanced anxiously back at their formidable sister.

‘Ursula,’ she uttered in a meek and plaintive voice, ‘does this mean that you won't permit me to begin knitting? You did promise—it's been an age or more since I last. . .’

‘Of course you can begin,’ came the calm reply. ‘Now begone.’

Miss Celandine's shrivelled face brightened immediately and she turned to the raven-haired and chalk-faced woman at her side. ‘Then you must cast on for me, my pet,’ she squeaked. ‘Let us begin at once. Quickly, we must be swift.’

‘I wanted to remain with the children!’ moaned Miss Veronica.

“Well you can't. You heard Ursula.’

‘But I don't want to measure the wool and cast on for you. It's been too long, I mightn't remember how.’

‘Of course you will.’

‘But there are so many things I do forget, so many faces I cannot recall and the museum crowds in so, it confuses me on purpose!’

‘You're being a silly.’

‘I am not!’

‘Are too!’

And so, squabbling, they made their way back up the staircase until they were out of sight but their voices continued to drift down for many minutes.

Alone with the Chapmans, Miss Ursula Webster allowed a wan smile to steal over her gaunt features. ‘Alas for my poor sisters,’ she sighed. They have so few excitements, your arrival is a great occasion. I would repeat, however, that they are not strong and tire easily. Kindly bear that in mind.’

With that, she gave both Josh and Neil a steady, chastising stare, then briskly opened the door. ‘Follow me,’ she instructed.

Neil nudged his father in the back. ‘Are you serious about this?’ he asked in disbelief. ‘Dad, these nutters could be dangerous. What we're doing is crazy.’

Mr Chapman let out an exasperated snort. ‘Do you really think I'd put you and Josh at risk? Give me some credit, Neil, they're just harmless old ladies.’

‘Well, they give me the creeps,’ the boy answered, “specially the head witch over there.’

‘Don't lag behind,’ his father said, turning to follow Miss Ursula, ‘come and see where we'll be living from now on.’

Beyond the hallway was a large, rectangular room. Great glass display cabinets crowded much of the space but here and there a marble statue peeped above, around or below them. The walls were painted a dusky blue and on them were hung many drab oil paintings depicting various unrecognisable landscapes and even more unrecognisable people.

Neil's footsteps rang on the wooden floor as he trod cautiously inside and glanced around the unfamiliar surroundings, conscious the whole time of the old woman's remarks concerning the heart and spirit of the museum and feeling terribly small within it.

‘Do hurry along,’ she barked, spinning on her heel and striding resolutely to the far side of the room towards a second doorway.

‘What's that?’ Josh asked, pointing to the tall display cases.

‘Boring stuff,’ Neil told him, ‘dull, dusty history. Old papers, old books, old rubbish.’

‘Oh.’

Through this room the elegant, elderly woman led them and next they found themselves traipsing through a smaller area jam-packed with fossils and countless mineralogical samples; from fragments of bubbled lava to a myriad of different coloured quartz. Running around the walls was a frieze showing a prehistoric landscape in which dinosaurs chewed lush vegetation and savagely attacked one another. Josh especially liked this room and would have lingered to gape at the exciting pictures but Neil said that he would get himself lost and hauled him smartly away.

Into one room after another Miss Ursula marched, sometimes turning right, then left or straight ahead, until Mr Chapman lost all sense of direction and began to feel that he would never find his way out again.

Finally, they came upon a dimly-lit passageway and were shown to a door covered in peeling green paint.

This suite of rooms is to be yours,’ the old lady told them, turning a key in the lock and ushering the Chapmans inside. ‘It hasn't been lived in for some years now but I'm certain you will find it to your liking.’