“Hey, aren’t these Dead House Steps?” said Ian, pulling out his camera. “I’ve been trying to find them so I could take photos! That’s what they were called in the eighteen hundreds because drowned sailors were carried up from the harbor to the Old Town mortuary under cover of night.”
“Dead House Steps, that’s them,” said Pippin. “Look for the stone building with a round door: that’s the mortuary.”
Zoé scribbled Dead House Steps into her journal, then clattered after Pippin and Ian down steps worn smooth from the wind and salt air, gray mist clinging to her arms and legs like cobwebs. Silently they wound their way past the old mortuary with its bright green circular door, until at last Pippin stopped beside an ivy-choked wall.
“This is it,” she said, pointing to the other side. “Bron’s allotment.”
Standing on tiptoes, all three peered over the top of the wall into a wind-wracked vegetable garden. Zoé could see rows of bright flowers and rangy bean stalks leaning in the wind, and stunted Welsh oaks crouched low on the ground. Amid the elderflowers stood an upright figure, stark against the sea, holding a small brass telescope to one eye.
“Bron lives on Cob Lane but she spends her free time gardening here by the harbor,” whispered Pippin. “That’s a spyglass she’s looking through.”
“The Tenby Museum has a whole collection of spyglasses,” Ian whispered back. “I’ll show you next time we go there.”
“Pirates used spyglasses to keep a lookout for treasure galleons,” said Zoé, who prided herself on knowing all the pirate jargon.
“C’mon, then.” Pippin scrabbled up and over the wall, shouting, “Bron, Bron!” as the two others followed close behind.
Bronwyn Gilwern was muscular and tough, with a wide-eyed, fierce expression, like a female pirate, and it struck Zoé that Bron was a seeress, pirate and computer hacker all rolled into one. An unbeatable combination. Bron’s short spiky hair was pink, with streaks of purple, and her eyes were purple, too.
Zoé made mental notes of all the things that were piratelike about Bron so she could record them later: silk blouse with fringed sleeves, multicolored embroidered vest, gold nose ring. Her red leather skirt seemed to fall into another category, though Zoé wasn’t sure what.
“These here are my chums, Zoé and Ian,” announced Pippin.
The young woman held out a hand cluttered with silver rings and shook hands first with Zoé, then with Ian. “Bron,” she said simply. Up close she smelled faintly of licorice.
“Comes here every summer, Bron does, to work at the Captain’s Quill,” said Pippin.
“We’ve been in your uncle’s shop lots of times,” said Zoé, awed and slightly afraid.
“I bought a book from you once,” added Ian. “A history of Tenby filled with old black-and-white photographs. Real stunners, they were.”
Bron said nothing. Her metallic earrings, threaded with brass nails, twirled in the wind. Now Zoé knew why Granddad had called her a silent seeress. At the base of Bron’s throat was a tattoo in the shape of an elaborate Celtic symbol. It looked magical. Someday I’ll get a tattoo like that one, thought Zoé.
“Happened accidental, the way we met,” said Pippin. “Zoé and I, we crashed head-on in the street, just as I was coming out of the Captain’s Quill. My books and papers were dripping wet, and when I got to school—late as usual—old Bascomb had seventy fits.”
Bron lifted her pointy eyebrows. “Nothing in this life is accidental, Philippa.”
Pippin grinned. “I knew you’d say that.”
Zoé opened her mouth to say it was actually Pippin who’d crashed into her, knocking her flat on her back and getting her sparkly notebook all wet. Then again, maybe it was better to keep quiet. It’s not a good idea to start things off on a down note, that was what her mom always said.
“We’ve something important to ask you,” said Pippin, and Bron’s eyebrows shot up again.
Zoé watched Bron listening intently as Pippin talked about the glass puzzle, not seeming the least astonished to hear that the drowned island of Wythernsea had resurfaced in a different world and that the people there had extra eyes on their foreheads. Bron sat completely stone-faced and unruffled while Pippin explained the fate of the Astercôtes, describing how monstrous winged creatures were escaping into Tenby through a leaky portal.
“We need your help, is why we’re here,” concluded Pippin. “This is a war and we’re fighting the Scravens.”
That last bit, fighting the Scravens, was Zoé’s cue. She reached into her pocket and waved the ornate key they’d wrested from Stokes.
“The key to the Tombs, given to us by Mr. Stokes,” said Pippin in a dramatic voice. “And the Tombs are secret, hidden somewheres beneath Tenby Museum—in the tunnels is what I’m saying—and I’ll wager the Tombs are marked on your map.”
“We have to go down to the tunnels, no matter how dangerous,” said Zoé. “The problem is, they’ve closed all the entrances and we can’t get inside.”
“There’s something terribly important we need to find, but we can’t do it alone,” Ian chimed in. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be asking.”
“An old, old stone,” said Pippin, “down in the Tombs beneath the museum.”
Bronwyn Gilwern turned to face the sea, her violet eyes fixed on Caldey Island. For several moments she was quiet.
“There’ve been signs of late,” she said at last. “Signs, shadows, omens … I’ve heard just now of a second ship caught on the rocks off Caldey. Then there are the Ogham runes alluding to a dark being who will appear out of nowhere and threaten Tenby. ‘Beware the Measurer of Sight who comes in darkness, moving unseen through Tenby, stirring up chaos and fear.’ ”
Gazing at the rows of stalks tipping in the wind, arching golden against the sky, Zoé felt an icy chill creep into her heart.
“So the runes are a prediction, yeah?” said Ian. “But who wrote them?”
“Aye, a prediction,” said Bron. “See, there lived long ago beings far wiser than ourselves—the Enchanters—who saw far into the future and inscribed the lost enchantments on the tunnel walls. The most ancient runes come from them.”
“Is that what you are, an Enchanter?” Zoé blurted out, her face turning red. Maybe that hadn’t been the right thing to say.
“The Enchanters were here but a short time: they exist no more. I’m a seeress,” said Bron. “We’re all seers and seeresses in my family. Runs in the blood.” Before Zoé could ask more, Bron went on: “I suppose Pippin’s told you about the map and how I came by it. If we go, there are risks. They’ve hired security guards to keep folks out.”
All three children nodded gravely.
“We’re not afraid of the tunnels,” said Zoé, setting her jaw in what she hoped was a brave expression.
“Nor the guards,” said Ian, sounding defiant.
“We’ll face whatever’s down there,” added Pippin.
Running her fingers through her stiff hair, Bron frowned. “The way I see it, they’ve no right closing the tunnels. Heaps of folk need to go down there—geologists, historians and harrowers, archaeologists and rune interpreters like myself—and now they’re stopping us all from going.”
“What’s a harrower?” asked Zoé.
“Questing heroes, departing kings. Kids like you, off on important missions.”
Zoé’s eyes lit up. We’re on a quest, she thought, we’re harrowers! The word had an adventurous ring; it was even better than time rovers.
“So that’s why I’m saying yes, I’ll take you down to the Tombs. Just don’t let it be known I’ve a map of the tunnels,” said Bron. “Meet you tomorrow morning: five o’clock at the Gaslight building on Tor Lane. It’s quietest then.”
All three of them began to cheer and shout, giggling wildly and jumping up and down, pounding each other on the back and chanting, “To the tunnels, to the tunnels!”
Then Bron Gilwern raised her pirate’s spyglass to the sky and gave the loudest and deepest bel
ly laugh that Zoé had ever heard.
“He’s late again,” said Zoé, sitting at a table outside the King’s Ransom Café with Ian and Pippin, waiting for Dr. Marriott. They’d come straight here from seeing Bron, arriving in high spirits just as the bells of St. Mary’s Tower began chiming four.
Inside, the café was overflowing, so Iris Tintern had set up tables on the front sidewalk. “Long as no rain threatens,” she muttered, too busy arranging chairs to notice Zoé and Ian among her customers. “Nothing to worry about, see.”
“So … is this Bron Gilwern truly a bona fide seeress?” asked Ian.
Zoé had no idea what bona fide meant and she could tell Pippin didn’t know, either. But as usual, Pippin bluffed her way through, saying, “Why else d’you think Stokes gave us the key to the Tombs? He’s deathly afraid of her powers.”
While Ian and Pippin talked on, Zoé took out her journal and pretended to write. Then, making sure no one was watching, she held the puzzle-glass to one eye and looked through the café window—the perfect way to spy on people, she realized, because no one seemed to notice her sitting outside.
Suddenly her heart jumped into her throat: all the people wearing blue-tinted glasses had eyes on their foreheads rimmed with green fire, exactly like Iris’s!
“Put the glass away,” hissed Pippin, squeezing Zoé’s arm. “Quick!”
“They’re watching you,” said Ian. He tilted his head and spoke without moving his lips—one of his favorite spy techniques. “Over there.”
Zoé dropped the glass into her pocket, acting casual. Across the street four kids were leaning against the wall of the hardware store, all of them wearing blue-tinted glasses. With a jolt she recognized Fritha Pooke, Catherine and Trevor Beedle and Philip Fox. Her insides shriveled.
“I think they’re spying on us,” whispered Ian, still not moving his lips. “That’s why we haven’t seen them around this summer. They’ve gone over to the Scraven side.”
“Act normal,” whispered Pippin. “Hiya!” she yelled, waving at them, but none of the kids waved back.
“Listen, you guys,” whispered Zoé, “I have to tell you something! Those people inside the café—”
“Hello, hello,” boomed a voice as George Marriott came bouncing along the sidewalk, a worn leather briefcase under his arm. “Sorry I’m late. Up half the night, I was.” He eased into a chair and set down his briefcase, flipping the latches intently. “I suddenly awoke, remembering that in my attic was a book written and self-published by the Society of Astercôte. Haven’t opened it since Uncle Wyndham’s death.”
He reached into the briefcase, pulling out a copy of Doctor Doom and the Starchild. “For you,” he said with a boyish grin, handing the book to Pippin, who smiled delightedly back.
“Now, first of all, what’s happening with the runestone?” asked the professor. “Have you found it?”
“Not yet, but we know where it is,” said Ian. “Down in the Tombs, beneath Tenby Museum.”
“We had to threaten old Stokes at the museum to give us the key,” added Pippin. “Bron Gilwern’s taking us down first thing tomorrow.”
“Good, good,” said Dr. Marriott, extracting a thin volume with a red leather cover from the case. “Priceless, this is. The only book of its kind in existence.” He stared down at it with a reverent expression. Imprinted on a worn cover in ornate script were the words The Book of Astercôte. Below the title, Zoé could see a Welsh dragon stamped into the leather.
“The book contains ancient secrets, most of which were known only to the Astercôtes.” Fascinated, Zoé watched Dr. Marriott’s pudgy fingers riffle through the pages. “Here you have the history of the glass puzzle: its creation by glassblowers in Wythernsea and its presentation to the Astercôtes. It also explains in detail how the Astercôtes transformed the puzzle into a gateway to Wythernsea.” He flipped to another page. “This chapter speaks of the Afflicted: ‘Those who have succumbed to Scravens.’ A fate worse than death, apparently.”
“Sounds dreadful,” said Pippin. “Like some kind of disease.”
“I suppose it is, in a way,” said Dr. Marriott. “You see, the Astercôtes realized Scravens could enter our world through flawed portals and infiltrate entire towns, scavenging energy from humans.”
Infiltrate! There was that word again, the same one Miss Glyndower had used. Zoé made a mental note to record it in her journal.
“There’s something else.” Dr. Marriott stared down at the book, his mouth set in a taut line. “The Astercôtes believed Scravens had the ability to inhabit humans.”
“Scravens can become human?” said Zoé in a strangled voice.
Looking skeptical, Ian said, “Hmm, sounds like a farfetched theory. I thought these Astercôte guys were scientists.”
“Indeed they were.” What Dr. Marriott said next echoed the words of Gwyn Griffiths from Wythernsea. “They describe the process here: the Scraven enfolds a human within its wings, and there is a crossing-over of psyches as the two merge. The person is unaware of what has happened and appears to go about his or her life as normal. Physically the Afflicted still look and act like people, but in reality they’ve undergone a radical transformation: their true inner selves have been totally submerged—and the Scraven is now in control. And this isn’t the first time. Attempts by Scravens to take over humans have been recorded in at least three other worlds.”
Zoé swallowed hard, exchanging frightened looks with Ian and Pippin. This can’t be happening, she thought, struck by a sense of impending disaster. Yet suddenly she knew, beyond any doubt, that they were all in danger—terrible danger.
“So while we sit nattering away, them creatures are taking over our friends and families in Tenby?” said Pippin, gripping the edge of the table. “We’ve got to stop them!”
“Special today: bangers and mash!” shouted Iris Tintern. “For dessert we have lemon-and-orange-peel-flavored Mister Whippy–style ice cream.”
Zoé jumped: it seemed as if the café owner had materialized out of nowhere, brandishing her pencil over their heads.
“Four hot cocoas, please,” said Dr. Marriott.
Zoé watched him furtively slide the book under his briefcase, away from Iris’s prying eyes. She had a sinking feeling about the café owner. Unlike the film Invasion of the Body Snatchers, it wasn’t the pod people who’d gotten to her, it was the Scravens. She was almost certain Iris had joined the ranks of the Afflicted.
“Hey, listen, everybody—there’s something I have to tell you. It’s really important!” she said in a loud whisper, feeling feverish and light-headed. “I looked into the café through the puzzle piece, and all the people with tinted glasses have shallows! You know, eyes on their foreheads!”
The color drained from Dr. Marriott’s face.
“Proper spooky that is,” said Pippin.
“Miss Glyndower said the Scravens want to take over Tenby so they won’t age as fast,” Zoé told them. “And they want their lost powers back so they can connect with other worlds: evil worlds!”
“But why tinted glasses?” said Pippin. “Odd.”
“The lenses are bluish, aren’t they?” said Ian. “What if they’re made of the same glass as the puzzle? Wythernsea glass has mystical properties, right?”
“Hmm, very astute of you, Ian.” Dr. Marriott tugged one end of his mustache. “It’s possible the Afflicted are wearing spectacles in order to identify one another. That would explain why they’re congregating here in Iris’s café. Wythernsea glass reveals their shallows, allowing them to identify who is a true Scraven. No second-guessing, see.”
“And the tinted glasses cut out the glare of the sun,” added Ian, “protecting their eyes while they adjust to the light.”
Zoé was sure that Ian and Dr. Marriott had gotten it exactly right. “Is there anything else in the book we should know about?” Ian asked Dr. Marriott.
“Well, yes, actually.” Zoé watched him slide the book back out from under his briefcase, flipp
ing through the pages to a chapter entitled “The Thirteenth Piece.” “When the Astercôtes turned the puzzle into a gateway, they left out one piece. The Thirteenth Piece is the key to sealing the puzzle, and once it is sealed the Scravens cannot enter our world.”
“Seal the puzzle?” said Zoé, feeling a twinge of panic. “You mean it wouldn’t be a gateway to Wythernsea anymore?”
“It would not,” replied Dr. Marriott, shaking his head. “You see, flawed gateways are extremely dangerous. To begin with, you risk more Scravens escaping into our world. And if their leader—The First—ever got hold of the puzzle, a most unpleasant scenario would ensue. It would be, in short, the end of Tenby.”
Her heart fell. That meant she’d never see Miss Glyndower or Gwyn or Tegan again.
“So where’s the Thirteenth Piece?” asked Ian.
“This is where it gets tricky. One particular member of the Society of Astercôte, Edward Yates, was the designated Keeper of the Thirteenth Piece. After he disappeared in Wythernsea, Edward was declared dead, and in his will he bequeathed the Thirteenth Piece to his grandson Gwydion.”
“Super,” said Ian. “So … does Gwydion Yates live in Tenby?”
“Not exactly. Gwydion’s a monk on Caldey Island.” Dr. Marriott’s moth-wing brows bunched up over his eyes. “Uncle Wyndham tried contacting him, of course, but Gwydion was unreachable: as a monk he’d taken a vow of silence and refused all visitors. That was why Wyndham asked me to destroy the puzzle: sealing it wasn’t an option.”
To Zoé’s surprise, he suddenly smiled. “Enough of this morose talk,” he said, closing The Book of Astercôte. “I didn’t have time to read the chapter on the runestone, but according to this book it is the ultimate weapon against creatures of evil. So take heart. Because if anything will defeat the Scravens, it is the Runestone of Arianrhod. Finding the stone is what must first be done.”
The sun was just coming up, washing the sky in shades of yellow, pearl and silver, when Zoé and Ian crept out of their grandfather’s cottage. As arranged, they met Pippin outside the apothecary on Cresswell Street. Walking through a light mist, the three talked nonstop about their meeting with Dr. Marriott and The Book of Astercôte.
The Glass Puzzle Page 12