The Glass Puzzle

by Christine Brodien-Jones

  Zoé saw a puzzled look cross the boy’s face.

  “No idea what you’re talking about, mate,” said Gwyn.

  “A timeless watery underworld,” murmured Zoé, throwing Ian a crooked smile. Maybe time didn’t exist here after all. How freaky would that be?

  Gwyn guided them onto a narrow path lined with swaying beeches and tall poplar trees, up a great stone stairway covered in barnacles and seaweed, each footstep crackling the shells beneath them.

  “Mind your step,” said Gwyn. “These old weeds are right slipp’ry.”

  Zoé kept glancing at his webbed fingers (she hoped he didn’t notice her staring), wondering if he had webs between his toes as well. She couldn’t tell because his feet were too muddy.

  The stairs led to an impossibly tall structure wreathed in mist, with towers projecting at odd angles and balconies curved like the prows of ships: a strange, fantastical building with a gleaming archway and a great main door of polished wood. Zoé gazed up at the turrets and domes, the copper roofs with different-sized chimneys and goddess weathervanes, and rows of arched windows glimmering with blue light. There was no drawbridge or moat—she was a little disappointed about that—then again, this was a retreat, not a castle.

  “There be our entrance,” said Gwyn as they passed beneath an archway.

  “Know what we’re walking under?” Ian said to Zoé. “A whale’s jawbone! See how it’s bleached by the sun, and look at all the rows of teeth.”

  She stared at the teeth, yellow and sharp, protruding from the curved bone, imagining herself being swallowed by a whale.

  Gwyn pointed to a sign over the front door. “Cracking brilliant, ain’t it? Painted by Miss Glyndower herself.”

  Zoé read the slanting gold-and-black letters: WYTHERNSEA RETREAT FOR THE RESCUED, THE LOST & THE SHIPWRECKED, and, in smaller script: NO ONE SHALL BE TURNED AWAY FROM THIS DOOR, AS PER ORDER OF E. MORWENNA GLYNDOWER.

  The three marched up to the door, through which light shone dimly, and Zoé’s heart thrummed faster, seeing the life-sized image of Arianrhod carved into the dark wood. The goddess held her shield in a warrior pose, waves rippling beneath her feet.

  Reaching up with a froglike hand, Gwyn lifted the worn silver knocker shaped like a crab and let it drop. At the bottom of the door, a square of wood flapped open and Zoé saw two round eyes peer out through a grille.

  “That you, Gwyn?” said a high, reedy voice.

  “Course it’s me. Now open up.”

  From the other side came the sounds of multiple locks clicking undone. Gwyn rushed forward as the door swung wide, revealing a girl in a cream-colored dress with a scalloped eyelet hem. She wasn’t much more than six or seven, Zoé guessed, with thick braids tumbling down her back and webs glistening between her fingers and toes.

  Seeing Zoé and Ian, the girl jumped back with a little gasp.

  “Travelers,” said Gwyn. “I’ve brung travelers.”

  “Never!” whispered the girl, looking frightened and excited all at the same time.

  “Quick, Tegan, fetch Miss Glyndower,” said Gwyn. “Tell her we’ve visitors.” Zoé watched the girl spin around and race down the hall, braids flying.

  They entered a hallway where light fell through narrow windows, illuminating patterns of shells on the walls. Here, too, the smell of the sea was strong and fresh, and Zoé had the same sense of floating underwater. The ceiling was made of glass mosaics: ships sailing across waves, fish leaping, sea-birds whirling. There were no square corners anywhere—the edges of the windows and doors were curved—making the Retreat seem welcoming, and more mysterious, too.

  At the end of the hallway, through the luminous light, a regal figure stepped forward, garments billowing, reminiscent of the image on the door.

  “That be her!” whispered Gwyn. “Our Miss Glyndower!”

  The woman striding toward them was surreally tall, taller even than Granddad, with golden eyes and hair streaming in a flaxen cloud. She struck Zoé as a cross between a goddess and a pirate queen, with a hint of lioness thrown in. Whispers echoed down the hallway as a gaggle of children appeared, all dressed in summery colors, among them Tegan.

  “Welcome to our Retreat. I daresay this is entirely unexpected,” said Miss Glyndower in a formidable tone. Zoé found herself shrinking a bit under the woman’s penetrating gaze. “I thought never to see travelers again in Wythernsea.”

  Behind Miss Glyndower the children murmured to one another, blinking up at Zoé and Ian with curious expressions.

  “Haven’t been travelers for donkey’s years,” said Gwyn.

  “Long before your time, Gwyn Griffiths,” said Miss Glyndower, and Zoé saw the boy flinch at her stern voice.

  “I am Miss E. Morwenna Glyndower, overseer of this Retreat,” she continued. “Caretaker of lost children, guardian of the Messengers, keeper of all who wash up upon our shores. A distant ancestor of mine was Owain, the last native Welshman to hold the title Prince of Wales.”

  “I’m Zoé Badger,” said Zoé, impressed that this woman was descended from royalty. She thought Miss Glyndower beautiful in a grave, unsettling way, and terribly elegant.

  “My name’s Ian Blackwood,” said Ian, surprising Zoé by bowing with an elegant flourish.

  “We’re from America,” said Zoé, wondering how much Miss Glyndower knew about other worlds. “But we spend summers with our grandfather in Tenby, Wales.”

  “They’s cousins,” Gwyn added. “I followed them from the wall.” He puffed out his chest. “Then I brung ’em here.”

  “Nicely done, Gwyn Griffiths,” said Miss Glyndower, and Zoé saw the boy’s chest expand a bit more.

  More children spilled out through doorways and down staircases, giggling and tumbling onto the floor, one or two waving shyly, all with webs between their fingers and toes.

  “Who are the Messengers?” asked Ian.

  “You’re lookin’ at one right ’ere,” said Gwyn.

  “The Messengers are these children,” explained Miss Glyndower. “Their task is to deliver letters and communiqués throughout Wythernsea. They know every nook and cranny of this island—save for the Harshlands, of course.”

  “I see. Sort of like the postmen in Tenby,” said Ian. “Makes sense, I guess, since you probably don’t have computers or cell phones.”

  Miss Glyndower glared down at him. “Whatever are you talking about, young man?”

  “Nothing,” he muttered, staring at his feet.

  “Our grandfather told us all about this retreat,” said Zoé, trying to contain her excitement. “He says Wythernsea was famous for rescuing people from the sea, including our great-great-great- … well, I’m not sure how many greats—”

  “Our ancestor, who was alive before Wythernsea went under the waves,” said Ian. “Ezekiel Blackwood.”

  “Captain Ezekiel Blackwood,” Zoé went on, hoping to impress Miss Glyndower. “His ship hit the rocks and they saved him, and when he left Wythernsea they gave him a goddess weathervane to take home. She’s really beautiful and her eyes are made of blue glass.”

  Miss Glyndower gave a knowing nod. “Wythernsea glass: handblown glass from this island, renowned for its rich blue color and mystical properties.”

  Mystical properties? thought Zoé, the words reeling inside her head. Did that mean the weathervane was magic?

  “Wythernsea glass is famous in our world, too; you can find it in all the museums,” said Ian. “Er, if you don’t mind, I have a question about the goddess weathervanes on your town wall, because their copper’s oxidized and they’ve all turned green. Have they been damaged? None of them were turning on the battlements.”

  “They looked ready to fall off,” added Zoé, watching Miss Glyndower’s expression grow even more fearsome.

  “The weathervanes were sabotaged. We’ve tried to repair them, but they are quickly deteriorating.” Her voice shook with fury. “Thus the mechanized claws were erected and the glass shards put in place. Until now the goddess weath
ervanes have guarded Wythernsea, deflecting any evil that threatens us, especially our enemies in the Harshlands.”

  “The Harshlands? That’s the forest?” asked Ian.

  “The forest, yes, although the Harshlands is no fairy-tale woodlands. Rather it is a bleak, forsaken, no-man’s-land of twisted trees and bottomless swamps.”

  Zoé felt a shiver go through her. What if they’d landed on that side of the wall, where the monsters lived? Not a pleasant thought.

  A boy with light red hair brittle as icicles appeared with a tray, handing out apricots, plums and goblets of water.

  “Fresh water drawn from our well,” said Miss Glyndower.

  Zoé couldn’t help staring at Miss Glyndower’s intense golden eyes, her long fingers strung with webs, and the voluminous mane of hair that seemed woven from strands of light. As with everything else in Wythernsea, thought Zoé, she didn’t appear to be quite real—at least, what used to seem real.

  “We’ve all webbed hands and feet: vestiges of drowned Wythernsea,” said Miss Glyndower, and Zoé blushed, realizing she’d been caught staring. “Over time we humans have had to adapt to this damp, misty world.”

  “We’s all got webs,” said Gwyn. “You’s the ones who’s diff’rent.”

  “I know,” said Zoé, smiling sheepishly, and he grinned back at her.

  “If you will follow me,” said Miss Glyndower.

  The younger children laughed and cheered as they formed an uneven line, trailing Miss Glyndower down the hall like ducklings, then up a spiraling stairway.

  “She’s taking us to the grand balcony,” Gwyn whispered.

  Zoé walked out onto a terrace of gleaming stone entwined with plants; it had a carved balustrade and silk awnings that fluttered in the wind like the sails of a ship. Standing on her toes for a better view, she looked down over the sloping rooftops of Wythernsea. Some of the smaller kids edged next to her, touching the hem of her T-shirt and staring with inquisitive eyes, making her feel like a celebrity.

  “The young ones have heard tales of travelers, but never have they seen one,” said Miss Glyndower. Hair drifted around her face in glassy filaments, and Zoé thought again how she resembled a lioness. “Sadly, the last travelers who came to Wythernsea fell prey to Scravens.”

  “You mean … the Astercôtes?” said Ian, glancing at Zoé. A look of understanding flashed between them.

  “Then there really are monsters in the forest?” asked Zoé, struck by an icy numbness. “You call them Scravens?” It was an ugly-sounding word. But monsters weren’t real, she told herself, everybody knew that; they were just … made up. Weren’t they?

  “Monsters, Scravens, call them what you will,” replied Miss Glyndower, waving a dismissive hand. “Their history is devastating. You see, Scravens were once human—Wythernfolk, like us.”

  Zoé gasped. The creatures they saw fly out of the puzzle had been human?

  “Scientifically speaking,” said Ian, “I’d say that’s impossible.”

  “In your world, perhaps,” said Miss Glyndower. “As you know, centuries ago Wythernsea was lost beneath the waves. What happened next was beyond imagining: our island was transported to this far-flung sphere, placed within a confluence of light and mist. To everyone’s astonishment, many Wythernfolk acquired healing powers, and we shared our knowledge with travelers from your world and other worlds.”

  So what Dr. Marriott told us is true, thought Zoé. There must be all kinds of different worlds out there, with their own secret gateways, and travelers going back and forth between them!

  “One group of Wythernfolk was violently opposed to sharing our knowledge of the medicinal arts with outsiders. So they formed a secret society and made a pact amongst themselves,” Miss Glyndower continued, her voice growing melancholic. “When travelers to Wythernsea began to mysteriously disappear, it was discovered that this secret group had done away with them.”

  Zoé swallowed hard. She was pretty sure that done away with meant killed.

  “Under the high laws they were banished to the Harshlands, living as exiles in the swamps, growing gills and wings, transforming from light-filled beings into creatures of darkness, attacking any travelers who passed this way.” Miss Glyndower paused, staring into the distance. “However, do not mistake Scravens for beasts: they are highly intelligent and extraordinarily devious.”

  I had a feeling the Scravens were smart, thought Zoé. That explains how they figured out a way to go through the puzzle.

  Miss Glyndower rubbed her finger against her forehead, and Zoé gaped in wonder as an eye of smoky quartz appeared. “All Wythernfolk have shallows—what you call third eyes—and through them we take nourishment from the light. Our shallows connect us to spiritual beings in other realms. But the Scravens’ shallows have lost this connection, instead drawing energy from the dark. They seek not enlightenment but evil.”

  “We saw them!” Zoé burst out. “We saw Scravens in our grandfather’s attic and they had these horrible whirling eyes!”

  “We have this glass puzzle, see,” explained Ian. “It belonged to the Astercôtes, but now our granddad owns it, and when Zoé and I put it together these Scravens came flying out.”

  “The puzzle’s a gateway to Wythernsea,” said Zoé as Miss Glyndower’s expression grew stormier. “But Dr. Marriott says it’s flawed and he warned us not to put it together, but that was after we already had! And we didn’t know anything about the Scravens! I think they’re in the tunnels. There are heaps of tunnels in Tenby,” she added, using Pippin’s expression, “and I really think that’s where they’re hiding.”

  “But why do Scravens want to come into our world?” asked Ian.

  Miss Glyndower reflected. “You may not know this, but time is not a constant here. In Wythernsea, time passes slowly in the light and we Wythernfolk hardly age at all, whereas the Scravens age quickly, since time passes extremely fast in the darkness of the Harshlands.”

  Zoé glanced at Ian, certain that Miss Glyndower was probably far, far older than they’d first imagined.

  Leaning forward, Miss Glyndower went on, “In Tenby, the Scravens will be able to slow down their aging process and extend their longevity. By exposing their third eyes to the light, they’ll regain the powers they’ve lost—including the ability to connect with other realms—not spiritual realms, but ones that are corrupt and malevolent.” She gave an anguished sigh. “Tenby will be for them a new beginning, the chance to spread evil into another world.”

  Zoé gripped the balustrade as a cold wave of fear broke over her. The Scravens were planning to live in Tenby? She and Ian had to go back—pronto, as her mom would say—because Granddad was in danger. So were Pippin and Dr. Marriott, and everyone else who lived in Tenby. The whole town was at risk of being invaded by Scravens.

  “But Scravens like the dark,” she argued. “There’s too much sunlight in Tenby, they’ll hate it there.”

  “They fear the light, it is true,” replied Miss Glyndower, “but I suspect they’ll gradually infiltrate your world. Remember, they are sly—and extremely clever.”

  Ian blanched. “You mean they’ll worm their way into Tenby?”

  Miss Glyndower nodded and Zoé felt her throat go hollow as she remembered the creatures from the puzzle—and Iris and Catherine, too.

  “Why don’t the Scravens infiltrate the town of Wythernsea instead?” she asked.

  “They’ve no desire to live here. This place and its people symbolize a catastrophic chapter in their history,” Miss Glyndower explained. “The Scravens seek revenge for being exiled to the Harshlands: they want only to destroy Wythernsea and everything in it—leaving nothing behind.”

  Zoé sucked in her breath, thinking how devastated she’d be if Wythernsea was torn apart by Scravens.

  “Do you think our granddad’s safe?” she asked, feeling more anxious by the moment. “Will the goddess weathervane protect him?”

  “So long as the weathervane is on the roof of your grandfather�
��s house, Scravens cannot enter.”

  That was a relief to hear—sort of. Still, Zoé was terrified. After all, Granddad loved going for walks by the sea and stopping by the Saracen’s Head Pub for cider and vinegar crisps. The weathervane wouldn’t protect him then.

  Miss Glyndower held them with her severe gaze. “When you return to Tenby, you must track down the leader of the Scravens—otherwise known as The First—because he or she was the initial Scraven to escape into your world. The First is the mastermind behind the invasion and is extremely powerful. We need to identify who it is to plan our counterattack.”

  Zoé felt panic rising within her. Track down the Scravens’ head honcho? How are we supposed to do that? And what could she and Ian actually do? They couldn’t go looking in the tunnels because the entrances were closed, and, aside from Pippin and Dr. Marriott, who would believe that Scravens existed? She had a hard time believing it herself.

  As if reading her mind, Miss Glyndower said, “I understand that what I’m asking of you may seem an impossibility. It is undoubtedly a dangerous venture. But you should think hard if you feel you cannot do this. Scravens are invading your world, and so the burden falls onto you.”

  Too upset to speak, Zoé stood fighting back tears, while all around her the web-fingered, web-toed children played, oblivious to their conversation, singing songs and wrestling and hanging over the edge of the balcony.

  Miss Glyndower reached into the folds of her gown, extracting two glass-topped bottles. They looked like small perfume bottles, the kind Zoé’s mom kept on her dresser, only these were filled with a silver liquid.

  “Vials of mist from Wythernsea, extremely rare and extremely potent. There are but a few left in existence.” She handed them each a bottle. “The mist will hold off an attacking Scraven.”

  Zoé cringed at the phrase attacking Scraven. Not exactly warm and fuzzy words.

  “Uncork the stopper and mist will flow out,” said Miss Glyndower. “Choose your moment wisely: once a vial is broken, you must use it all.”