The Fatal Strand (Wyrd Museum) (Paperback)

The Wyrd Museum is located in a dark and dingy alley-way in London's East End, and cared for by the strange Webster sisters. But something has come to disturb the slumbering shadows and watchful walls of the forbidding museum and Miss Ursula Webster prepares to fight to the death with the strange new threat. Neil Chapman, caught in the unforgiving Web of Fate, is drawn into the battle, but is there really anyway he can stop the tide of time and Doom?

A cracking good read, bone-chilling in the extreme and edge-of-your-chair exciting to the bitter end, The Fatal Strand is the kind of book that older readers who enjoy being frightened out of their wits for pleasure will clamour to read. Certainly not one for the fainthearted, but a darn good read from Robin Jarvis whose remarkable imagination coupled with his extraordinary storytelling talent will make him a favourite with anyone who loves a good fright. (Ages 11 and over). --Susan Harrison --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Excerpted from The Fatal Strand (Tales from the Wyrd Museum) by Robin Jarvis. Copyright © 2002. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The chill night airs which encircled Glastonbury Tor sliced through the barren trees, crowding its lower slopes and gusting with icy vigour up the narrow track that climbed the shoulders of that steep, ancient hill. The desperate conflict between the hideous forces of Woden and the small group from The Wyrd Museum was over. Upon the Tor a horrible battle had been fought and now, for those few who remained, this was a horrible, grief-filled time.

Standing there in the cold, his school uniform providing meagre protection against the biting breeze, Neil Chapman’s flesh trembled but the boy made no other movement.

Upon his shoulder the feathers of a mangy looking raven stirred as the bird considered his young master with its single beady eye.

‘Gelid doth the blood flow thick and laggard,’ Quoth cawed faintly.

‘Cold as a frog art thou, yet the icy breath of the Northern wind is blameless in this.’ Lifting his head, the raven gazed upon the dreadful scene which lay before them and clicked his tongue sorrowfully.

There, lying across the muddy path, was the body of Miss Veronica Webster. By the old woman’s side an eight-year-old girl knelt in the crimson pool which had formed around her, weeping hopelessly. In that macabre mire lay a rusted spearhead which was steeped in blood.

Quoth sniffed and wiped his beak upon one wing. It was a terrible moment and although he racked his decayed brain he could find no words of comfort to offer. Beyond the sobbing figure of Edie Dorkins, several small fires burned upon the hillside and the raven stared at them thoughtfully. There the last of the enemy’s servants, the Valkyrja, were burning. The small crow dolls which had taken possession of twelve local women were utterly consumed in the greedy flames and their reviled existence in this world was finally banished forever.

It had been a terrifying contest and Quoth pulled his head into his shoulders as he counted the cost of this unhappy victory. His brother, Thought, and many others had been lost in the horrendous violence. Aidan, the mysterious gypsy who had brought Neil to Glastonbury, now lay dead upon Wearyall Hill which reared into the darkness across the valley.

Almost drowned out by the dejected cries of Edie Dorkins, the raven could hear faint whimpers from the few lucky survivors and he shook his feathers in readiness to seek them out. But, before he could unfurl his wings, a wail of sirens joined the common grief and the night began to strobe with harsh blue lights.

Turning, Quoth peered down the track. Through the screening trees he saw many vehicles gathering in Wellhouse Lane, and heard the voices of men raised in wonder and dread, amidst the confused blare of alarm and engine.

‘Squire Neil,’ the bird croaked into the boy’s ear, ‘the reckoning hath come. We art besieged and guards toil up the mountain’s side to seize us.’

Slowly, Neil Chapman wrenched his eyes away from the desolate sight of Edie and Miss Veronica and moved like one roused from a fathomless sleep, gradually surfacing back into the grim, waking world. At first he was only vaguely conscious of the frantic sweeps the torch beams made as they blazed through twigs and branches, dazzling in the muddy puddles and searing the shadowy night. Then one of the lights shone directly in his face and he threw up his hands to ward off the blinding glare.

Suddenly, he was aware of everything: the angry, bewildered yells and the urgent progress of the figures hastening up the track.

‘There’s a kid up here!’ someone bawled.

‘This is the police,’ another barked with authority.

‘Stay right where you are.’

Captured in the accusing glare of a dozen dazzling torches, Neil squinted and automatically raised his hands whilst Quoth gave a frightened squawk and buried his beak in his wing. --This text refers to the Paperback edition.

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