LITMIR.BIZ

      ‘Blood and sand!’ Brian Chapman grunted as he thrust the saw blade through the soft rind of a slender branch.

      Perched upon the high step-ladder, the caretaker of The Wyrd Museum could not believe what he was doing. Already the floor of The Separate Collection was covered in fallen twigs and leaves, and there were still two more walls to be pruned, but he was having serious difficulty in coming to terms with it all.

      Upon the ground, playing amidst the fallen foliage, Neil’s brother Josh crawled into a den of dry, crackling leaves and made noises like fierce animals in the jungle.

      He loved his new home and didn’t miss the old house in Ealing at all. Of course, he still yearned for his mother and asked about her, but today there had been so much to do that he hadn’t thought of her once.

      Before he had attempted to tackle the panels, Brian Chapman had boarded up the shattered windows, cleared away the broken cabinets and carefully sorted the scattered exhibits into various boxes. Josh had enjoyed that part of the morning, for he had played with shrunken heads and the skeletons of frogs, and gleefully kicked an enormous leathery globe about the room like a football, until his father caught him and put the object out of his reach.

      Now the four-year-old crouched in his leafy cave listening to the rhythmic bite of the saw.

      Suddenly, the sound of urgent footsteps entered the room and the boy cautiously peeked through the roof of his den to see who it was.

      Into The Separate Collection came Miss Ursula Webster and Josh regarded her with displeasure. That camel-faced old woman had been unkind to him when he first arrived at the museum and he didn’t want her to find him now.

      Returning below the leaves he lay upon the floorboards and waited for her to go away again.

      Overhead the sawing ceased as Brian looked down, but the elderly woman didn’t even glance up at him. She hastened to the far end of the room, where he had stowed the exhibits and began to hunt through every box.

      ‘Miss Webster?’ Brian began hesitantly. ‘Are you looking for something?’

      Ignoring him, she continued to rummage and search.

      ‘Where are they?’ she hissed under her breath. ‘They must be here! They must!’

      Into a chest crammed with fragments of broken sculpture, the old woman probed, her tapering fingers trawling through chipped marble limbs and noseless plaster busts.

      ‘He cannot have returned so soon,’ she attempted to reassure herself. ‘We are not ready, the child is not prepared! Have I endured these endless years only to be confounded at the last? Why did I not act sooner?’

      Pouncing upon another box, she feverishly spilled its contents over the floor and rooted through them like a wild, scavenging animal.

      From his high vantage point, Brian stared down at her foraging form and decided that it might be best if he kept out of the way. Miss Ursula was obviously upset and her tongue was sharper than the teeth of his saw. He scratched his head uncertainly.

      ‘Where are you?’ her growling voice shouted into the boxes, until suddenly she stiffened and threw back her head to give a great, glad shout as, from a large chest, she pulled a black, scraggy bundle.

      Overcome with relief, Miss Ursula triumphantly brandished the object above her head for an instant, then inspected it closely.

      Here was the stuffed remains of the second raven and her shrewd, sparkling eyes examined every aspect of the poorly preserved bird.

      It was a sorry looking specimen, so badly damaged it was almost comical. Many feathers had fallen from the dried, flaking skin and upon the top of its head the creature was completely bald. Both eyes were shrivelled, sunken sockets and the lower part of the beak was hanging loosely upon a shred of papery flesh, so that when Miss Ursula turned the creature over in her hands it wagged up and down, making the bird appear to laugh silently.

      Lifting the tattered effigy to her ear, the old woman shook it gently until, within the fragile skull, she could hear something rattling. A thankful smile spread across Miss Ursula’s thin face.

      ‘There now, Memory,’ she whispered, giving the black beak a scornful tap. ‘You certainly won’t be going anywhere. How gratifying to find you still dead and inert. In life you were a vicious, spiteful imp – a vindictive little spy enslaved to a deceitful master.’

      Holding the raven away from her, she squinted at it through half-closed lashes. ‘I find you much more pleasing embalmed and shrivelled like this,’ she remarked with a definite nod.

      ‘Since the blood ceased to pulse in your veins, you and your brother have become useful to me. Now you are a pair of pickled gauges, my two fine barometers, sitting out the ages – waiting to tell me when...’

      The old woman’s voice failed and she glanced uncertainly into the chest once more.

      ‘And yet,’ she muttered, ‘where is your brother? Where is Thought?’

      Clasping the stuffed bird to her breast, she whirled about and stared up at Brian Chapman. ‘Where is it?’ she demanded forcefully. ‘What happened to the other raven?’