The Glass Puzzle

by Christine Brodien-Jones

  “Poor us, you mean,” said Pippin. “Without that Thirteenth Piece, we’re in a right fix.”

  “You don’t think someone murdered him for the puzzle piece, do you?” said Ian.

  “That’s a bit over the top,” said Zoé, though the thought had crossed her mind as well. Pulling more weeds away from the stone, she noticed a figure carved into the bottom of the gravestone; using her fingernails, she began scraping off the lichen.

  “Is that a bird?” asked Pippin.

  “Bound to be a dove,” said Ian. “See, it’s directly under the word Peace. Doves are recurring motifs.”

  The lichen fell away, and on closer inspection, Zoé saw that the engraving was a small elegant Welsh dragon.

  “Smashing,” said Pippin. “It sort of sparkles, doesn’t it? Hey, I’ve just remembered something. Yates means ‘gatekeeper’ in Welsh! Gwydion Yates: Gwydion Gatekeeper.”

  “Very appropriate,” said Ian, aiming his camera at the dragon. “It all fits.”

  The dragon seemed to exude a faint light the more Zoé scraped away. Too bad she didn’t have Granddad’s magnifying glass.

  “Can I take a look?” asked Ian, crouching down to inspect the carving. “Something’s embedded in the dragon’s wing, a decoration of some sort.”

  “Yeah, but monks don’t go for fancy decorations,” said Zoé. “They like things plain and simple.” She bent closer, running her fingers over the dragon, entranced by the glimmering light of its wing. A thought struck her. “What if Gwydion Yates had a premonition?”

  “You mean a vision?” said Ian. “I think those are restricted to saints.”

  “No, what I mean is, what if he knew somebody would come looking for the Thirteenth Piece—and what if he wanted them to find it?”

  “You’re sounding like Bron now,” said Pippin, elbowing past Zoé for a closer inspection. “What’s that, eh? Looks like a piece of blue glass!”

  “What are we waiting for?” said Zoé, her excitement mounting. “We need something sharp to get it out.”

  “You’re going to desecrate a gravestone?” cried Ian. “I don’t believe this! First we go to the abbey with a nun’s forged signature, and now we’re robbing the grave of a dead monk!”

  “It’s okay, Ian, Father Gwydion would totally understand,” said Zoé. “We didn’t ask to get involved in this, but we’re in it now. He inherited the Thirteenth Piece, and he meant for us to find it.”

  Using a sharp-edged stone, Pippin began chipping away around the glass. “Miss Glyndower said we had to be clever. It’s all about outwitting the Scravens.”

  To her surprise, Ian didn’t argue. He just stood there, looking thoughtful.

  “It sure seems like magic, doesn’t it?” said Zoé, captivated by the blue light. It’s probably really old magic, she thought dreamily, as old as the stones and the sea.

  “Stop yer daydreamin’ and get on with it,” said Pippin.

  “Go ahead, Zoé, take it!” said Ian excitedly. “Take the Thirteenth Piece!”

  Across the water, through the mists of Caldey Island, Zoé could just make out the pastel-colored buildings of Tenby in the distance, lined up along the waterfront. And if she looked closely at Castle Hill, she could even see the black maw of Dragon’s Mouth cut into its steep cliff. Strange to be seeing Tenby from so far away, she thought.

  After removing the Thirteenth Piece from Father Gwydion’s gravestone, they decided it would be too dangerous to return through the tunnel. Zoé was sure that Scravens were following them or else poised in the tunnels, waiting to attack. So now they were sitting on the wooden jetty waiting for the Sea Kestrel because Arthur Angel, they were sure, wouldn’t refuse them a ride this time.

  At last the mail boat arrived, steering through choppy waves to the far end of the jetty, where two monks stood waiting. Zoé, clenching the Thirteenth Piece inside her fist, watched them unloading boxes off the boat, piling them into a wheelbarrow. Despite Father Bertrand’s warning, the monks were not wearing glasses of any kind and seemed harmless enough. The Thirteenth Piece continued to glow in her hand, so she knew there was no danger of them being Scravens.

  Even so, Zoé felt a deep unease. Caldey was a solitary island cut off from the rest of Wales: if the Scravens invaded, no one would ever know!

  As the monks wheeled the barrow away, the three kids raced across the jetty shouting, “Hey, Mr. Angel!” Zoé saw Arthur Angel’s jaw drop in surprise as they crowded around him, telling him how they’d walked through a tunnel under the sea to get to the island.

  He stood looking down at them with a puzzled expression. “I can’t get over it—you lot walked to Caldey? Through a tunnel?”

  “We wouldn’t lie to you,” said Pippin.

  “The tunnel starts under the Smugglers’ Haunt in Tenby,” Ian explained, “and ends up under St. David’s Church here on Caldey.”

  “It took forever,” said Zoé. “The tunnel’s real zigzaggy.” Plus there are Scravens down there, she added silently.

  “It’s one of them smuggler tunnels,” said Pippin. “Don’t you know about them?”

  “When I was a boy, there was talk of a tunnel going out to Caldey, built by pirates and the like,” said Arthur Angel. “But the secret tunnel to Caldey was more a folktale than anything else. I’m bowled over that it’s actually there and you kids walked all that way.”

  “It’s real,” said Zoé. “But I wouldn’t recommend that anyone go down there. It’s kind of dangerous,” she added quickly. Arthur Angel gave her a funny look, but fortunately he didn’t ask for details.

  “Mr. Angel,” said Ian, “could we catch a ride with you to Tenby?”

  “I’m not supposed to be ferrying passengers, but—” For a moment the mail boat captain gazed out at the whitecapped waves. Then, with an air of decision, he said, “Well, be quick and get in if you’re coming. I’m heading back now.”

  The boat ride to Tenby Harbor was rough, with heavy swells and screaming winds. The Sea Kestrel rocked from side to side as Zoé clung to the gunwale next to Ian and made a supreme effort not to be seasick even though her stomach was lurching. All the while she kept an eye out for the rooftops and turrets of sunken Wythernsea, straining her ears to hear bells clanging, but everything was gray and silent, wreathed in a ghostly mist. It seemed so odd that Wythernsea could be on the other side of the puzzle, yet at the same time it existed right here as ruins beneath the waves.

  Then she saw the outline of another small boat and felt the hairs on her neck go up. Standing at the prow was a tall figure, coat flapping like dark wings; whoever it was seemed far too large for such a small vessel. With him she could see a smaller figure who did the rowing. But all too soon they were swallowed by fog, and she wasn’t sure exactly what she’d seen, or if she had seen anything at all.

  At last the Sea Kestrel chugged into the harbor, seagulls wheeling overhead. Zoé noticed that Ian and Pippin were a bit green, too, by the time they finally reached the town landing and Mr. Angel helped them out of the boat. This must be how sailors and fishermen feel when they return home from the sea, she thought, relieved to finally set foot on land.

  Once they had all disembarked (Mr. Angel’s official-sounding word), everyone helped secure the boat to the pier, with Ian tying some fancy knots in the ropes. Zoé tilted to one side as she walked down the pier, her legs feeling as if they were made of jelly.

  “Takes a few times before you get yer sea legs,” said Mr. Angel.

  “A real treat, this was,” said Pippin, and Zoé noticed she was walking funny, too. “My first time ever on a boat.”

  Pippin had never been on a boat before? Zoé could hardly believe it. That kid sure had missed out on a lot of things in her life.

  “I’m off for a bit of dinner now. Take care, you lot. Looks like there’s a storm brewing,” said Mr. Angel, shaking hands all around. “Next time you go to Caldey Island by tunnel, be sure to let me know. I might just come along with you.”

  Back in Tenby,
Zoé sensed that things were quickly going downhill there, too. The town was mired in fog and it had started raining cats and dogs, as her grandfather would say. Granddad had spent the day sitting by the fire, a blanket around his shoulders, drinking tea and listening to Radio 4 on the BBC. He’d heard mostly news stories about tourists canceling reservations at Tenby hotels and the inexplicable accidents in the fog off Caldey Island, including the disappearance of a tour boat, its captain, crew and passengers.

  “There are strange goings-on in Tenby of late,” he wheezed as Zoé handed him a mug of hot milk with honey. “I’d like to know what in Saint Bedlam’s kitchen is going on here. Thank you, Magpie, and good night to you both. I’m off to bed.”

  Later that night, after Granddad was asleep, Zoé and Ian met on the stair landing, wearing patchwork capes fashioned from old quilts (Zoé’s idea), and tiptoed silently downstairs. Zoé carried a flashlight and an extra cape for Pippin; the Thirteenth Piece was tucked inside her back pocket, and they both carried vials of mist. With the headlamp attached to his head, Ian looked like a giant insect.

  Their mission tonight was simple: now that they had the Thirteenth Piece, they’d determine whether Iris Tintern was The First, the mastermind behind the Scravens. Their plan was to sneak inside the King’s Ransom Café using a key borrowed from Bron and scour the place for clues.

  A sea wind brushed Zoé’s face as they slipped out the back door of the cottage, ducking through the tall grass. They crouched close to the garden wall, just in case Granddad woke up and looked out the window. The rain was just drizzling now, cold wet drops sliding beneath her cape and down her spine, causing her to break out in goose bumps.

  They clambered on top of the stone wall, walking along it in the dark. Granddad’s old wall always made Zoé feel timeless, as if she’d belonged to this place for centuries. Glancing back, she pictured the cottage floating like a night ship under a square-rigged sail, gallant and sturdy. She imagined it soaring higher, up to the starless moonless sky, taking her dozing grandfather, the goddess weathervane and the glass puzzle to safety.

  The two cousins jumped off the wall, cloaks flapping. As they hurried down a sloping lane, Zoé could hear waves crashing against the rocks, the ocean an immense black emptiness, stretching as far as she could see. At the end of the lane, she glimpsed a skinny figure standing beneath a streetlamp, by the old wall. Pippin!

  “You brought the key, right?” Ian whispered, and Zoé thought she saw Pippin nod. In the murky light their faces were ghostly. It was so dark. Zoé handed Pippin the cape, fastening it around her neck.

  Bron claimed the key would open anything with a lock, except maybe a bank vault or the door to a crypt. Zoé remembered one summer Ian turned up in Tenby with a skeleton key that he’d bought online. For days Zoé had pestered him to borrow it (she wanted to unlock the door to Maisie’s Sweet Shop after hours), but Ian had ended up losing the key on the Viper roller coaster at Barry Island, so that was the end of that.

  “I haven’t a torch, sorry,” said Pippin. (Torch, Zoé knew, was the British word for “flashlight.”) “I thought about taking one from Dai’s toolbox, but if he found out he’d hit the roof. No problem, my night vision’s excellent.”

  Poor Pippin, thought Zoé as the three set off.

  “Bron says we should search every corner of the café but stay away from Iris’s flat,” Pippin told them. “Too risky.”

  “It would be really scary if she woke up and came running after us,” said Zoé with a shiver. “But what if we don’t find any clues in the café?”

  “Miss Glyndower said we need to be in the vicinity of The First, remember?” said Ian. “If there are no clues, we’ll stand at the bottom of the stairs to her flat with the Thirteenth Piece. It’ll tell us what we need to know.”

  I hope he’s right, thought Zoé as the narrow streets closed in around them. She noticed that the windows of all the houses were dark, and it gave her a hollow feeling.

  “Hmm, maybe this wasn’t such a great idea,” muttered Ian. “What if an alarm goes off and we get caught? The cops could charge us with breaking and entering! I’m too young to go to jail.”

  “They don’t send kids to prison in Wales,” said Zoé. “Right, Pippin?”

  “You’d better believe they do,” answered Pippin. “I’ve a cousin in jail over Swansea way and he’s not yet sixteen.”

  “No one’s going to catch us. We’re like ghosts in the night,” said Zoé. “Think of us as superheroes—our capes make us invisible—and Bron said we’re harrowers, remember? Anyway, too late, we’ve passed the point of no return.” Point of no return. A razor-edged phrase.

  Empty of people and steeped in darkness, St. Julian’s Street struck her as oddly transformed, its stone shops huddled together like props in a 1950s British movie, the kind her mom liked to watch. They crept down an alley, the wind at their backs. There was hardly time to think. Zoé beamed a flashlight along the row of shops, confused by the rain and fog, the absolute quiet. In the shadows of the alley, the rear doors of the shops all looked the same, grooved and weather-beaten, adding to her confusion. Some doors had graffiti scrawled on them, probably the work of bored teenagers on a Saturday night.

  Hardly daring to breathe, Zoé paused before a door and held up her flashlight. CALEB O. TINTERN, APOTHECARY appeared at the top in faded scrolled letters.

  “This is it!” she whispered. “Caleb Tintern must be one of Iris’s quirky ancestors.”

  “Maybe Iris is the last in a long line of Tinterns, going back to the pirate days,” mused Ian. “Obviously it was a pharmacy at one time.”

  With a dramatic flourish, Pippin waved the key. “I feel like Sherlock Holmes,” she said with a nervous giggle.

  “Nothing shabby about that key,” observed Ian.

  “It looks like a key a mad prince would carry through the crypt of his castle,” said Zoé. “I wrote a story like that once.”

  But Pippin wasn’t listening: she was intent on opening the door. “If we’re caught,” she said, twisting the key in the lock, “we’ll say we’re looking for my cat and she got locked inside the café by accident. Okay?”

  “I didn’t know you had a cat,” said Zoé.

  “Doesn’t matter if I do or don’t.” Pippin turned the key the other way, but it still didn’t work. “When you’re dealing with the authorities, you just have to sound convincing, know what I mean?” She rattled the knob.

  “Let me try.” Ian gripped the doorknob, jimmying the key with his other hand. “Sorry, Pippin, this is majorly stuck.”

  “Blimey, what was Bron thinking?” moaned Pippin. “This key’s a fake. It’s totally useless!”

  Using a technique she’d seen in an anime film, Zoé swung her foot, aiming it at the door and kicking as hard as she could. With a loud creak, the door opened and she jumped back, startled.

  “What the heck?” said Ian. “I thought everybody in Britain was fanatical about locking their doors.”

  “That Iris Tintern is totally brainless,” said Zoé, peering into a storage room stacked with crates of soda bottles. “Doesn’t she know anybody could walk into her café and rob her blind?”

  She inched her way inside, inhaling a mix of heady vapors. Ian’s headlamp lit up another door and he flicked the latch, pulling it open with a soft snick. Standing side by side, the three peered into the darkness of the King’s Ransom Café.

  Zoé swept her beam along the counter, lighting up rows of dusty bottles and jars, followed by Iris’s Electro Freeze soft-serve machine. Images swam before her eyes: daffodil wallpaper, brass spigots, curved mirrors, a metal cash register, words on a chalkboard. The curtains drooped over the café’s front window like half-closed eyelids.

  Ian scooped something off the floor. “Wow, look at this totally weird snail. I wonder where this came from?”

  “Yuck, it’s alive,” said Zoé, seeing its long antennae twitch. It was three times the size of an ordinary snail.

  “Totally
disgusting, that,” said Pippin, holding out her hand. “Hey, look here, what’s this, then?”

  “That’s a trilobite,” said Zoé knowledgably. “I’ve got a collection of those at Granddad’s cottage.”

  “Yeah, but it’s movin’ around, like.”

  “No way,” said Ian. “Trilobites disappeared two hundred and fifty million years ago.”

  The three exchanged nervous glances.

  Zoé aimed her flashlight at the floor, illuminating a line of stark, primitive creatures that seemed to have no bones—a mélange of slumped crabs, writhing eels and squidlike creatures with heads like tiny crocodiles. Smelling the wet tang of their shells, she felt an instant urge to run.

  “What’s going on here?” said Ian. “Those things look like biological throwbacks.”

  “They’re not normal, that’s for sure,” whispered Pippin.

  “What if they’re from the Harshlands?” said Zoé, remembering. “What if the Scravens brought them here?”

  A tense silence fell over them.

  “Crikey, look behind the counter! Iris left a door open,” said Pippin. “Better check it out, eh?”

  They tiptoed across the café, bumping into tables and chairs, Zoé nearly upsetting a tea trolley. Pippin threw open the door and they looked down a stairwell: somewhere far below, Zoé could see a diffused green light, and she felt her stomach start to churn.

  “You’re not getting me down there,” she said, remembering Invasion of the Body Snatchers and all the other scary movies she’d seen. Going down to the basement, she knew, was never a good idea.

  “It’s just Iris’s cellar,” said Pippin. “We might find clues! I mean, what if Iris is The First and she’s holding a big Scraven get-together down there? We can’t chicken out now.”

  “Get ready,” Ian whispered to Zoé, his voice wavering. “If Iris is down there, look quick at the Thirteenth Piece to see if it turns black—then we’ll make a run for it.”