The Glass Puzzle

by Christine Brodien-Jones

  “Phooey,” she said, turning to Ian and Pippin. They gazed back with glum expressions.

  The waves were growing fiercer, whitecapped and steep, and the smell that rose up was strong and cold—as if, thought Zoé, it was bubbling up from the deepest, blackest part of the sea.

  “Need a ride to Caldey, do you?” said a voice.

  Zoé turned to see a lean, bony figure walking down the pier, hunched inside a yellow raincoat, his broad-brimmed hat flapping in the wind, eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses.

  “It’s Ned Larkin. His mum is head postmistress,” said Pippin, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Bit of a layabout, Ned, spends his time trawling but never catches anything.”

  Pippin stepped forward. “We do need a ride, Ned Larkin, and we need to go this very minute.”

  “Follow me,” said Ned, but with the wind howling, Zoé could make out only half of what he was saying. “Boat’s over there, see? Black with green trim. A real beauty …”

  Zoé had seen Ned around town, but today she had a funny feeling about him. As she pulled out the puzzle-glass, the wind tore Ned’s hat from his head. She stole a quick look: on his forehead was a whirling black eye.

  “Scraven!” she yelled.

  They sprinted down the pier, Ned Larkin shouting after them, “You’ll have to swim, then—there’s no one who’ll take you!”

  Running up Penniless Cove Lane, the three disappeared into the crooked streets of the Old Town as the fog enclosed them, muffling their footsteps, turning them invisible.

  Bron stood waiting outside the Smugglers’ Haunt, one of the older hotels overlooking North Beach, eating a fried egg sandwich. Today her hair was a rich canary yellow. Zoé couldn’t decide which of Bron’s hair colors she liked best: pink, purple, orange or yellow.

  On the hotel doorstep a workman stood leaning on his shovel, smoking a pipe. There was a strong smell of cherry tobacco in the air, and Zoé could see a handwritten sign saying the hotel was closed for repairs.

  After their failed attempt to catch a ride with Mr. Angel, Pippin had called Bron, asking about the secret tunnel to Caldey Island, and Bron had offered to take them to the entrance. Zoé found it hard to imagine a tunnel beneath the sea, but Pippin assured her it was real.

  “No entry,” said the workman as they headed for the front door. “No one’s allowed in under any circumstances. Hotel reopens end of July.” He puffed on his pipe, sending out fresh waves of cherry tobacco.

  “Grumpy old sod,” muttered Pippin.

  Bron shot the workman a piercing glance. Zoé shared a knowing look with Ian, then watched the man’s face go blank and doughy, the shovel clattering to the pavement. He stumbled backward, eyes glazing over, and collapsed into a heap on the sidewalk.

  “She’s done it again,” whispered Ian.

  “The bloke won’t remember a thing,” said Pippin. “There’s the beauty of it, see.”

  They hurried past the prone figure into the Smugglers’ Haunt, Bron steering them around sheet-draped furniture, paint cans, ladders and rolled-up carpets. Plaster dust floated through the high, airy rooms.

  “I’ve timed it perfectly,” said Bron. “Workers are on break.”

  They entered a dining hall with mullioned windows and a black marble floor. Bron made straight for an enormous stone fireplace, ducking inside it. Zoé and the others followed, emerging on the other side into a drafty corridor where Bron stood before a set of glazed French doors.

  “Tunnel’s on the other side,” she said, unfolding what looked like a map. “For you, Philippa. Hang on to it.”

  Pippin nodded solemnly as Bron placed the map in her hands.

  “Drawn by French smugglers on a tunnel wall. I copied it,” said Bron, and Zoé’s ears pricked up. A pirate map? How swashbuckling was that? “Moored their ships off Caldey, smuggling brandy and whatnot into Tenby through this tunnel, with no one the wiser.”

  Zoé studied the map over Pippin’s shoulder. A zigzag line ran from Crackwell Street down to Tenby Harbor, then under the ocean to Caldey Island. What a cool story that would make, she thought, a hair-raising tale of pirate maps and spells and tunnels under the sea.

  “Only men are allowed inside the monastery. This gets you through the door.” Bron placed a thick envelope in Ian’s hand. “Tell the monks it’s an urgent message for Father Gwydion Yates from the Mother Superior of the Community of Cistercian Nuns at Holy Cross Abbey in Whitland.”

  Ian held the envelope up to his face and Zoé could see a wax seal stamped on the outside. “Did you say nuns?”

  “I copied Sister Agatha’s signature exactly. They’ll never suspect it’s a forgery.”

  “You forged a nun’s signature?” croaked Ian.

  “Here’s where I leave you,” said Bron in that clipped tone of hers, ignoring Ian’s question. “Who has the runestone, eh? Pippin says there’s a spell needs lifting from it.”

  “Here,” said Zoé, opening her pack and pulling it out. “Thanks for helping us, Bron. Miss Glyndower needs it right away.”

  “Then it comes back to us, so’s we can fight off the Scravens,” said Pippin. “Miss Glyndower gave us kids instructions to stand near the goddess and whisper the incantation. Think maybe you can help us with that? We need to know it by heart.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Bron with a cryptic smile, and before Zoé could say another word, she vanished down the corridor.

  Ian adjusted his headlamp, double-checking that everyone had a puzzle-glass in his or her pocket, along with the vials of mist, chocolate bars and water. He pushed open the French doors and the three linked arms, striding confidently over the threshold, across the soft, sandy floor toward the sea. Zoé felt alternately euphoric and terrified, her mind filled with images of ghosts, pirates, wreckers and plague victims. Rats, too: there were bound to be rats down there. But she could handle all those—what she tried hard not to think about were Scravens.

  “Nothing to be scared of,” Ian reassured her. “The Scravens aren’t down here, Zoé, they’re aboveground taking over people like Iris Tintern and Catherine Beedle and that ghoulish kid Ned Larkin.”

  But that didn’t do it for her—and she knew he didn’t believe it either.

  The tunnel reeked of fish and seaweed, although the floor was surprisingly dry, and Zoé could hear a wailing wind echoing around them. The walls were the same rock as the shoreline, only smoother. Ian explained how the tunnel had been cut from sandstone using pickaxes, and every time the diggers hit granite they had to change direction, which accounted for the tunnel’s zigzag nature.

  Ian checked his compass, the one Zoé admired because it was made of real silver and embossed with his father’s initials. How cool would it be to own something with her mom’s initials, she thought, like her mom’s iPod or maybe one of her sparkly bracelets.

  “We’re entering Tenby Harbor, all is well,” announced Ian.

  The three started to run, and Zoé had trouble seeing too far ahead because of the tunnel’s jags and turns. Whenever she looked back, it seemed as if shadows were following them.

  “Look!” cried Pippin, pointing to the wall. “Brilliant, that is!”

  They stopped, shining their lights on the tall letters cut deep into the stone: CALDEY → 1.5 KM.

  Zoé dragged her feet along the tunnel’s sandy floor, exhausted from running, yearning for a bite of her chocolate bar. It seemed as if she’d been following the crooked passageway for ages, listening to the wind moaning, fearful that any minute a Scraven would jump out and wrap its leathery wings around her. Fortunately, all she’d seen so far were bats, huddled in tight knots, high up in the cracks of the tunnel.

  “Remember Caldey Ghost Pirates?” said Ian, referring to a game he and Zoé had invented a few summers ago. “Remember how scared I used to get because I thought ghost pirates were going to make me walk the gangplank?”

  “You used to get, like, catatonic,” said Zoé. “You’re a whole lot braver now.”

&
nbsp; She thought she saw him smile through the darkness. When Ian was younger, her murderous tales of pirates and ghosts had terrified him. She remembered his bad dreams and the way he’d wake up screaming in the nights. But things had slowly changed, and every summer he seemed a little bolder, slightly more daring than the year before. Was it because of her? she wondered. Had she inspired him to be braver? She liked to think so.

  “Maybe you could teach me how to play Caldey Ghost Pirates,” said Pippin, hair floating stormily about her face. “I’ll teach you a game called Zombie in the Cellar.”

  “Deal,” said Ian.

  “I’d love to play a game with zombies in it,” said Zoé. “Sorry I was mean and yelled at you, Pippin. You know, when I said you let in the Scravens and everything?”

  “That’s okay,” said Pippin, and Zoé felt a weight lift from her heart. “Even harrowers get rattled sometimes.”

  “Hey, you guys,” said Ian, “look up there!”

  In the half-light of his beam, Zoé could see tiers of arches hewn from rough stone, unfolding one after another. The three began to run, racing pell-mell through the archways, to a massive wooden door with a scrolled handle and thick iron hinges. Leaning their shoulders against the rotted wood, they pushed with all their strength.

  This is the kind of thing explorers and archaeologists do, thought Zoé as the door creaked inward, opening into a vaulted hall with a floor of cobbled stone, its gold ceiling faded and cracked, yet beautiful still. She looked around dreamily at the primitive wooden statues lining the walls, wondering who on earth had made them and why they were there.

  “Look how thick these walls are, and those statues, totally ancient!” said Ian, bristling with excitement. “Hey, guys, I think we’re under St. David’s Church. It’s medieval, but originally it was a Celtic chapel, sixth century. Wow, this is like a page torn from the past.”

  Zoé smiled to herself. She’d read that phrase, “a page torn from the past,” in a history pamphlet Ian had picked up at the Tenby tourist office. Was he trying to impress Pippin? On the other hand, tidbits of history always tended to wind him up.

  “The monks hid down here when pirates and Vikings raided Caldey.” Zoé watched the flash from his camera bounce off the walls. “Then there’s the story of the Black Monk of Caldey, who was walled up in the monastery along with his gold, back in the fifteen hundreds. I’d give anything to have been around in those days.”

  She shuddered. Ian was beginning to sound like Stokes.

  “Hair-raising times,” said Pippin. “Must seem tame nowadays for them monks. What do they do all day?”

  “I know there’s a little chocolate factory here where the monks make fudge,” said Zoé. “Granddad took us there last summer. And they make perfume from wildflowers on the island.”

  At the mention of the word chocolate, all three pulled out their chocolate bars and finished them off as they climbed a stone stairway up to the nave of a tiny church. Lozenges of colored light fell through the stained-glass windows, and Zoé felt her heart expand. She especially loved the window with a red fish swimming through turquoise waves. It felt peaceful here, peaceful and safe.

  Outside the church, they stepped into a flat, stark landscape wreathed in mist, while dark clouds scudded overhead, threatening rain. The small village was silent, and Zoé imagined the monks hard at work making fudge and perfume.

  They traipsed past a cemetery, Ian taking photos of the wooden cross markers, down a dusty narrow road to the monastery, a white building of grand proportions looming up through the mist. Gazing at the red-tiled roof, the immense colonnade and spires and arched windows, Zoé felt suddenly nervous to actually be meeting a real monk—at least, she hoped Father Gwydion would come out and talk with them, since girls weren’t allowed inside. What was he like? she wondered. And more importantly, would he be willing to give them the Thirteenth Piece?

  A path of terra-cotta stones led to the monastery’s wide stairway. At the top they stood before a large wooden door flanked by red and white squares.

  “Go ahead, Ian, you’ve got the letter,” said Pippin. “Try to smile, eh?”

  Ian hesitated, clenching the envelope tightly in one hand. He’s probably worrying about Bron forging the nun’s signature, thought Zoé. For someone planning to be a secret agent, Ian was awfully squeamish about telling lies. Maybe he should be a park ranger instead, or a math professor, like his dad.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered in his ear. “Just act like your normal friendly self. Father Gwydion will think you’re a cool kid.”

  She stood on one side of him and Pippin on the other, staring up at the door as Ian reluctantly shuffled forward and knocked.

  “Louder,” said Pippin. “A church mouse couldn’t hear that.”

  Zoé choked back a nervous giggle and Ian rapped harder. Her heart beat fast as the door swung open and a bearded monk wearing sandals and a white robe gazed down at them.

  “Good morning. Er, my name is Ian Blackwood and I’m here to deliver a letter for Father Gwydion Yates—an urgent letter,” said Ian, sounding stiff and formal. Zoé felt Pippin nudge her in the ribs and she tried not to laugh. “The letter is from the Mother Superior of the Community of Cistercian Nuns at Holy Cross Abbey in Whitland. Whitland, Wales, that is. And I—I really must speak with Father Gwydion.”

  Seeing the expression on the monk’s face, Zoé grew uneasy. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Well, maybe a whole flock of ghosts. Or … had he seen something else? She swallowed hard, not wanting to think about the alternative.

  “Father Gwydion Yates?” repeated the monk, tugging his beard. “But Father Gwydion is no longer with us.” His eyes darted from Zoé to Pippin and back to Ian again.

  How can Father Gwydion not be here? thought Zoé. Monks were supposed to stay put in their monasteries, not go lolly-gagging about.

  “He’s not?” said Ian. “Then where can we find him, Father—sorry, what’s your name?”

  “Father Bertrand. Our departed Gwydion was laid to rest, oh, it’s been a good five years now. You’ll find his gravestone in the cemetery next to St. David’s Church.”

  The monk with the Thirteenth Piece was dead? Zoé wondered if the old monk had made a mistake, or maybe he was confused because something had scared him.

  “How did you find your way to Caldey?” asked Father Bertrand, narrowing his eyes at them. “These days only the Sea Kestrel comes from the mainland, and I know for a fact that passengers are no longer allowed on Arthur Angel’s mail boat.”

  “Um, well, we—” stammered Ian.

  Zoé said the first thing that flew into her head. “The coast guard brought us and—” She stopped, worried about what might happen if she got caught telling a fib to a monk.

  “That’s right,” said Pippin, picking up the thread, though Zoé could see Father Bertrand wasn’t buying any of it. “We told the coast guard this was a super-important mission and they said, ‘Right, then,’ and we rode here in one of them big rescue boats.”

  “You really should leave now!” hissed Father Bertrand in a shaky voice. He bent down until he was at eye level with them. Zoé could see his eyes widening with fright. “A great darkness has fallen upon us here on the island. I cannot explain what is happening, but it seems a strange illness has overtaken the monastery.” He glanced back over his shoulder, and Zoé wondered what exactly was going on inside.

  “You are in grave danger, my children,” he continued. “The island is no longer safe. Please, go home. Go back to the mainland.”

  Zoé felt the hairs on top of her head lift up. She was certain Father Bertrand was talking about Scravens, and the thought of them invading this tranquil island filled her with a sick dread.

  “Sure, okay, that’s fine with us,” said Ian, stuffing the unopened letter into his messenger bag. “Thanks for letting us know, Father Bertrand.”

  The monastery door slammed shut.

  “What did he mean, ‘a great darkness’?” asked Pippin.
“Sounds like the plague.”

  “Don’t you get it?” said Zoé. “The Scravens are here on Caldey! They’re turning the monks into the Afflicted!”

  “I think we should go home—now,” said Ian, hoisting the messenger bag over his shoulder. “This place is freaking me out.”

  “Can we make a quick stop at the cemetery?” asked Zoé. “I want to see Father Gwydion’s grave.”

  “Okay,” said Ian. “But let’s keep close together so we don’t lose each other.”

  Suddenly they all realized how anxious they were to leave the abbey, and they ran helter-skelter down the steps and through the trees, along the road to the church.

  Walking through the knee-high weeds, Zoé was shocked by the neglected state of the cemetery, where everything had been left to grow wild. She wondered if the Scravens had anything to do with its decrepit state.

  “Those plain wooden crosses mark the older graves,” said Ian. “We won’t need to bother with those.”

  Zoé walked up and down the rows of tilting headstones eroded by time and wind and the salt air, peering closely at each one, checking for Father Gwydion’s name. Sadly, everything was slowly being strangled by vegetation. Tendrils of ivy and leafy plants wound around the headstones, causing some to crack and others to fall over, while drifting fog gave the place an even more surreal atmosphere.

  At last she found the gravestone, half buried in moss and lichen, set slightly apart from the others. The monk’s name was shrouded in vines, but as she pulled a strand away she saw Yates carved into the stone.

  “Over here!” she shouted. “I found him!”

  Kneeling before the gravestone, she began uprooting weeds, creepers and nettles. Ian and Pippin joined her, tearing away long streamers of ivy.

  “Go on, read it out loud, Zoé,” said Ian once they’d finished.

  The letters engraved on the tombstone were solid and upright, just the way Zoé imagined the monk to have been. “ ‘Father Gwydion R. Yates,’ ” she read, “ ‘beloved brother of the Order of Reformed Cistericans, Caldey Abbey, Caldey Island, Wales. May He Rest in Peace.’ ” She ran her hand over his name. “Poor monk.”