The Glass Puzzle

by Christine Brodien-Jones

  “Catherine Beedle, too,” added Zoé. “I looked at her through the glass at the movie theater and she had a scary third eye—like the Scravens!”

  “Makes me guts shudder,” said Pippin. “I mean, what’s Iris doing with an eye in the middle of her head, eh?”

  “A rather unsettling image,” agreed Dr. Marriott.

  “Yeah, but guess what?” said Zoé. “People in Wythernsea have extra eyes, too! Eyes on their foreheads!”

  “They call them shallows,” said Ian.

  “Crikey,” said Pippin, “they’ve all got three eyes?”

  “Hmm, I seem to recall Uncle Wyndham talking about the Wythernfolk having third eyes linking them to far-flung realms, which explains their deep knowledge of medicinal practices,” said Dr. Marriott. “Of course, after the Astercôtes vanished into the puzzle, Wyndham no longer talked about Wythernsea. My uncle became a haunted man: he died while I was away at college. The doctors said his heart had weakened and finally given out, but my theory is that grief got the better of him and his heart broke in two.”

  “That’s really sad,” said Zoé.

  “Miss Glyndower told us that Scravens have shallows because they were once Wythernfolk,” said Ian. “They were exiled to the Harshlands for doing away with travelers. Deprived of light, they deteriorated in the swamps, attacking any travelers who passed through there.”

  Zoé watched Dr. Marriott freeze midstep.

  “Scravens murdered travelers,” he said quietly. “Ah yes.”

  Feeling tears prick her eyes, she suddenly regretted bringing up Scravens in the first place.

  “My uncle always claimed that Scravens were behind the Astercôte disappearances. It seems now that he was right.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Zoé, her heart aching for him, and she wished she could give him a hug.

  “You mustn’t be sorry,” said the professor. “The Astercôtes were explorers, adventurers, high-level alchemists; they knew full well the risks they were taking.”

  Zoé knew that she and Ian had been reckless and foolhardy to go into the puzzle (anything might have happened), but, like the Astercôtes, she and Ian were adventurers, too. They were rovers by nature, impetuous and brave—well, sort of brave—and sometimes they had no choice but to plunge headlong into danger.

  “Miss Glyndower says it won’t be easy to rid Tenby and Wythernsea of Scravens, and she’s sent us on a two-pronged mission,” Ian told Dr. Marriott. “We have to find The First—the leader of the Scravens—and we have to find the Runestone of Arianrhod.”

  “The Runestone of Arianrhod rings a bell, but of course there are hundreds of such runestones in the British Isles. Hmm, I seem to remember seeing one at the museum years ago: a slight, rather delicate stone, no more than twelve fingers’ breadth—that’s nine inches wide—and thin as slate, with the most esoteric symbols one could ever imagine. It seemed to glow from within.”

  “It was in the museum,” said Ian glumly, “but not anymore.”

  “I’ve every confidence you will find it. Or perhaps the stone will find you. Nothing of such magical significance can ever truly be lost.”

  “We only have until Midsummer’s Day,” said Zoé. “That’s no time at all!”

  “You’ve a difficult task ahead of you, no doubt about it. This Miss Glyndower evidently has high expectations.” Dr. Marriott glanced at his watch. “Oh dear, I must be off, I’ve a buyer coming for a signed edition of The Gorilla Hunters. Dare we return to the King’s Ransom tomorrow to continue our conversation? Perhaps in a day’s time the café will be back to normal.”

  Zoé winced at the idea of seeing Iris again, and she noticed Ian tightening his jaw. But in the end they agreed: same place, same time.

  “We forgot to tell him about Stokes,” said Zoé as the three took off their shoes and waded into the sea, the damp fog curling around them. “Stokes knows about the runestone but he won’t tell me where it is.” Before she could lift her long skirt, a wave fell, soaking the hem.

  “Won’t he now?” said Pippin in a defiant tone. “This Stokes sounds like a right little horror. Then there’s nothing for it but to find him and let him know we mean business, eh?”

  Bursting into the museum, Zoé could see Dr. Thistle bent over his collection of fossils, flicking a feather duster over the brittlestars.

  “Hello, Dr. Thistle,” said Ian. “I’m wondering where we can find Mr. Stokes. I’m doing historical research on Tenby and I’d like to ask him some questions.”

  Dr. Thistle shot them a cursory glance. “Stokes?” he said, wrinkling his nose as if contemplating something unpleasant. “Try the Maritime Gallery; Stokes is setting up the Black Barty exhibit. But be quick about it, we’re closing soon.”

  There was no sign of Stokes in the Maritime Gallery, aside from a wooden stepladder Zoé found leaning against the wall. Hanging from the ceiling was a colorful banner: LEARN MORE ABOUT PEMBROKESHIRE’S MOST FAMOUS PIRATE! BARTHOLOMEW ROBERTS, ALSO KNOWN AS BLACK BARTY.

  “Hey, look, pirate trove!” said Ian excitedly, and they all rushed to the display case.

  “Cor blimey,” said Pippin, pointing to a silver dagger. “Imagine having that thing pointed at your throat.”

  “Happened more times than not, what with the pirates and all,” rasped a voice as Stokes limped into the room, wearing his official jacket, carrying a hammer and a box of nails. “A snick of the knife and some poor sod’s bought it. No second chances for the weak.”

  “You must be Mr. Stokes, the assistant curator,” said Ian.

  “Stokes is the name,” he said, gazing suspiciously at the three children.

  “Remember me? I was here this morning,” said Zoé. “This is my cousin Ian, the one who’s looking for the ancient runestone, and this is our friend Pippin.”

  “You’ve brung your crew of marauders, is it?” said Stokes with a chilly smile. “Thick as thieves, I see. No doubt you are thieves.”

  Zoé tried not to giggle. Does he think we’re pirates?

  “I’m doing a history project on Tenby,” said Ian. “I wanted to interview you about the old days.”

  Stokes peered down his nose, mouth set in a menacing sneer. “All depends what you want to know.” Zoé wondered if he was curling his upper lip to scare them. “Plenty of history in these parts, but ever’thing comes at a price—if you get my meaning.”

  “What do you mean, a price?” asked Ian. “That sounds like bribery.”

  Zoé stepped forward, hands clenched at her sides. “You should be ashamed of yourself, a town employee like you, asking for a handout.”

  “I weren’t asking for no money,” Stokes huffed indignantly. “I were just—”

  “Get a move on, Stokes,” said a familiar voice. Zoé turned to see Dr. Thistle stick his head through the door, blue lenses flashing in the overhead lights. “Off with you kids, then, it’s closing time.”

  The moment Dr. Thistle left, Pippin whirled around. “Stop playing games with us!” she hissed at Stokes, looking so furious Zoé thought she might attack him. “It’s the runestone we’re here for, so get on with it and tell us where it is.”

  “Should’ve known the blasted thing’d come back to haunt me,” muttered Stokes. “Time passes and people forget, see? But old Stokes remembers. Stokes has a mind like a steel trap.”

  “Tell us,” said Zoé, closing her fingers around the puzzle piece in her pocket.

  “Won’t be easy finding it, mind; been hidden down there for ages.”

  “Down where?” asked Ian.

  “In the Tombs, is where.” Stokes gave a self-satisfied grin and Zoé could see his ratlike teeth, yellow and chipped at the edges. “Down in the dark bowels of this museum all manner of things is stored, and among them’s your precious runestone.”

  “That’s absurd. The runestone’s a valuable artifact!” said Ian. “It should be exhibited in your museum for everyone to see. I ought to know, my mom’s a curator, and it sounds to me like something fishy’s going o
n here.”

  “Don’t you go accusing me of stealing artifacts or I’ll have your guts for garters, boyo,” said Stokes, his dark eyes flashing. “Wasn’t me who was paid a pretty sum to hide the runestone out of sight, oh no, but I watched money change hands and I know where it’s gone.”

  “Are you talking about Dr. Thistle, the head curator?” asked Ian. “Somebody paid him to hide it?”

  “Who?” demanded Pippin. “Who was it paid him?”

  “What’s in it for me?” growled Stokes. “And why should I tell you lot, anyway?”

  “What are the Tombs?” asked Zoé. “Are they down in the tunnels? Can you take us there?”

  “The Tombs lie directly below the museum,” said Stokes. “A pity the Tombs are locked. A pity the key’s been lost.”

  Zoé’s heart sank. She should’ve known he’d been stringing them along.

  “Stop your mucking about, Stokes,” said Pippin. “You’ve the key, so’s you’d best hand it over—or you’ll be right sorry.”

  “This isn’t a game we’re playing,” said Ian. “Give us the key.”

  “Say no and I’ll set Bronwyn Gilwern on you,” added Pippin in a threatening tone.

  Stokes’s grin evaporated, and a look of trepidation crossed his face. To Zoé’s surprise, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a ring of keys, grumbling under his breath something about “the witch.”

  He took his time, sorting calmly through them, choosing at last an intricate, old-fashioned key. It looked like a key to the door of a castle. Or maybe, she thought with a shudder, the key to a dungeon.

  “Take it,” snarled Stokes, dropping it into Pippin’s outstretched palm. “Take the key to the Tombs. But if it’s not back in my hands within twenty-four hours, you’ll regret you were born!”

  Zoé stood at her bedroom window, gazing out at the boiling black clouds sweeping in from the sea. Last night she’d lain in her four-poster bed, hands crossed over her chest mummy-style, listening to the rain drumming on the roof, matching the hectic beat of her heart. She’d fallen asleep to the sound of foghorns booming out over the dark storming waters, and all night long she’d had terrifying dreams.

  On her bedside table lay Dr. Marriott’s book, unopened. She couldn’t wait to read it, but too much was happening. Zoé sighed. It would have to wait.

  She dressed quickly, hearing pots slamming in the kitchen. Granddad was doing a big fry-up, most likely laverbread, a Welsh delicacy—mixing seaweed with oatmeal into patties and frying them in bacon fat. With her mom, meals were strictly vegetarian, but in Wales she ate everything Granddad set on her plate. Laverbread was Zoé’s favorite breakfast, along with the Welsh Glengettie tea that he brewed in a china pot.

  Dropping the key to the Tombs into her pocket, Zoé tried not to think about the Scravens or Iris Tintern or oily old Stokes.

  In the steamy kitchen her grandfather was frying laverbread cakes on the Aga cooker while humming what sounded like an old Welsh hymn. Ian, wearing a shirt patterned with triangles and looking like he hadn’t slept either, was pouring orange juice into sturdy glasses. Ian and Granddad look a lot alike, Zoé thought. I never noticed that before. They had the same tall frames, the same proud stance and similar faces, long and solemn, like Norman knights carved on tombs in medieval churches.

  “A card arrived from your mum,” said Granddad, pointing to the fridge, where he’d stuck it up using magnets shaped like teapots and double-decker buses.

  Zoé’s mom liked to send silly postcards that made her laugh, but they usually dwindled as the summer wore on. She knew it wasn’t that her mother forgot about her, it was just that she had important deadlines.

  This postcard showed prairie dogs in the desert, lined up like a barbershop quartet, above the words GREETINGS FROM PARADISE, ARIZONA. On the other side her mother had used a glitter pen (her mom was really into glitter) to write a spiral of words that ended with a sparkly star at the center.

  Having a blast, Paradise is hot, hot, hot, found a gecko in my shoe, have fun with Ian, take care of Granddad, I miss you, 1,000,000 kisses, xxo.

  “Your mom sure writes tiny,” said Ian, peering over her shoulder.

  “Yeah, my mom’s artistically inclined,” said Zoé, noticing that her mother had forgotten to write down a phone number where she could be reached. Maybe that was the price of being creative: artistic people like her mom tended to be forgetful.

  If she were in Arizona now, she’d be basking in the sun in her pink bathing suit with turquoise dragonflies. She might even help out at the beauty salon, streaking teenaged girls’ hair sixteen shades of red and rolling curlers on old ladies’ heads. But soon her mother would move on, taking on new assignments: back on the road again.

  The truth was, Tenby was Zoé’s number one choice. There was nowhere she’d rather be than hanging around with Ian and Granddad, her two best friends in the world.

  “Seems there’s been an accident over near Caldey Island,” said Granddad as he dished up breakfast. “A merchant ship crashed in the fog last night and got hung up on the rocks.”

  Zoé’s eyes went wide. “How awful, Granddad!”

  “A tragedy, for sure. Hasn’t happened in these parts for ages.”

  “Was everyone rescued?” asked Ian.

  “Far as I know, captain and crew are safe, but it’s a worry all the same. According to the weather prophets, more rain and fog are on the way. Arthur Angel’s in a fine fix: he’s having trouble making deliveries to the monks. Guess we won’t be going to Caldey Island today. Sorry, kids.”

  Zoé leaned over her plate, breathing in smells of laverbread, bacon and cockles. “That’s okay, Granddad, we like it here no matter what the weather. Even if it rains frogs!”

  Across the table, Ian snickered. He always appreciated her jokes, even the goofy ones.

  “Nice triangles, math wizard,” she said, pointing to his shirt, and they both started to laugh.

  Gazing out through the window, Zoé felt safe and peaceful here with her cousin and grandfather. At this very instant, while she scoffed down handfuls of laverbread, the Scravens seemed like imaginary players in one of their extravagant monster games.

  “Granddad, do you know Mr. Stokes?” asked Ian, interrupting her reverie. “He’s the assistant curator at Tenby Museum.”

  “Stokes is in charge of the Black Barty exhibit,” said Zoé. “He likes to scare kids with stories about wreckers and pirates.”

  “Ah, Black Barty, the pirate who declared he wanted ‘a short life and a merry one.’ He got his wish, too.” Granddad poured himself a third cup of tea. “As for Stokes, I know the gentleman by sight. He’s a singular chap, the sort that keeps to himself. Hasn’t any family that I know of. Stokes lives alone in a flat on Lower Frog Street.”

  “That’s kind of sad,” said Zoé. If Stokes weren’t so sneaky, she might even feel sorry for him. “What about Bronwyn Gilwern? Do you know her?”

  “Oh aye, everyone in Tenby knows Bron,” said her grandfather. “Bron was born in Tenby, lived here until she was fifteen or so, then her family moved to Crickhowell in the Black Mountains. She comes here summers to work in her uncle’s bookshop. Extraordinarily gifted, Bron; they call her the Silent Seeress of Tenby. Some say she has a deep knowledge of magic and sorcery, and a knack for deciphering runes. Mirielle Tate at the Saracen’s Head Pub claims she’s seen her glide across the Irish Sea at midnight.” Granddad chuckled. “I’m not so sure about that, but I know Bron Gilwern’s got a mind with a twist of its own.”

  Zoé’s mouth dropped. Pippin hadn’t been exaggerating after all.

  “Our friend Pippin’s taking us to meet Bron today,” said Ian.

  “Splendid,” said Granddad. “She’s Welsh and she’s fierce. You’ll like her.”

  “So, Granddad,” said Zoé. “Do you believe in magic?”

  Their grandfather considered. “Centuries ago, people believed in all sorts of things. Driven by fear, plagued by superstition, they believed in
curses, spells and ghosts—and in the power of unearthly creatures. Fortunately for us”—he nibbled on the edges of a fried tomato—“we live in enlightened times.”

  Zoé and Ian threaded their way through the arcaded shops of the Old Town with Pippin in the lead. Zoé was wearing a yellow batik cotton dress, her typewriter keys bracelet, plaid sneakers, and glitter in her hair, in honor of meeting such a luminous personality as Bronwyn Gilwern.

  They passed one of her favorite spots, the old apothecary, with MEDICAL HALL inscribed over the arched doorway. Zoé stopped, as she always did, admiring the handblown glass bottles in the window. Each one was filled with a different-colored liquid.

  “Hey, Pippin, if we tell your friend Bronwyn about Wythernsea and the Scravens, think she’ll believe us?” asked Ian.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Pippin. “We need her help and she won’t let us down. Bron’s the only one who has a map of the tunnels—a map that shows all the secret entrances.”

  “Secret entrances?” said Zoé, impressed.

  “I’m surprised that sort of thing is public knowledge,” said Ian. “I’ve looked everywhere online and I never found a map of the Tenby tunnels.”

  “Oh, there’s a map, all right, but the authorities keep it locked away.” Zoé watched the corners of Pippin’s mouth lift into a smile. “Bron hacked into the town archives two years ago and found a digital replica of a map some bloke drew in the seventeenth century,” she said, striding off down Quay Hill. “Bron printed it out and now she takes it with her whenever she goes down the tunnels.”

  “Your friend is a computer hacker?” said Ian, his eyes going wide.

  “Wow,” said Zoé. “I never met a cyber criminal before.”

  “Bron’s not a criminal,” said Pippin defensively. “She’s just clever.”

  They turned onto Crackwell Street, following a stone wall overlooking the harbor. Pippin came to a sudden stop, pointing to a break in the wall, and Zoé looked down a flight of rough stone steps half hidden by lush greenery. Tenby sure has a lot of hidden stairways, she thought.