The Eye of Zoltar

‘Ook,’ said Ralph, sort of in agreement.

‘An ornithologist?’ I said, still considering Wilson’s earlier statement.

‘It’s how I managed to negotiate his release so easily,’ said Addie. ‘Gareth mistook ornithologist for anthologist. Practitioners skilled in the art of collecting works of poetry are sound, tradable commodities out here, while birdwatchers just eat your food and say: “Ooh, stop the car a minute, I think I can see Painted Dillbury”.’

‘Where?’ asked Wilson excitedly, before realising it was simply an example. ‘The funny thing,’ he added, ‘is that I am also an anthologist. I didn’t tell them because they never asked. I’m very grateful, by the way. As a special treat I’ll tell you all about the Cloud Pippit. The sparrow-sized bird has a density only slightly greater than helium and nests upon rising columns of air—’

‘Bored now,’ said Curtis.

‘Still rude,’ said Wilson.

‘Where are you heading?’ I asked.

‘This way, now,’ he said, pointing in the direction we were going. ‘I have no plans. You?’

‘Llangurig,’ I answered, ‘and then perhaps to Cadair Idris.’

‘To watch Leviathans?’ he asked, suddenly excited.

‘It’s possible.’

‘Not exactly birds, but they do fly and have as yet unobserved mating rituals – I’m in.’

‘It’s on a fifty per cent risk factor,’ I said, ‘and we’ve not lost anyone yet so mathematically speaking you could still be fair game.’

‘I’m still in,’ said Wilson with a grin. ‘I’ve heard Leviathans are a total blast.’

There were no other incidents of note in the next hour, and after driving through a narrow gorge where we had to pay two sub-quality bandits an insultingly low fee for the privilege to pass, we came upon the Claerwin lake, a large body of water nestling quietly about twenty miles inside the Quarter. We drove along the banks of the lake for a mile or so and arrived at one of the many campsites dotted about the countryside, expressly for the use of travellers eager to spend a safe and unmolested night.

‘Okay,’ said Addie as we pulled into the deserted campsite and parked next to the shattered remains of long-abandoned armoured vehicles, ‘I know it’s not late, but we’ll camp here for the night. It’ll be a long day tomorrow if we’re to make Llangurig before nightfall.’

We climbed out of the half-track and stared at the lake, which was about a mile across.

‘It looks almost perfectly … circular,’ said Curtis.

‘I read in Conspiracy Theorist magazine that the lakes around here are craters from top-secret Thermowizidrical Device weapons tests back in the eighties,’ said Ignatius.

‘Thermowizidrical … what?’ asked Curtis.

‘Using magic to cause explosions,’ I said, ‘usually two contradicting spells that draw increasing amounts of power as they attempt to cancel each other out. If left unchecked the spell will break down and then either fizzle out or go supercritical and violently explode. Crucially, the two spells could be potentially just written down – the power to take out a city block or two from a few scribbles on the back of an envelope.’

‘There was magical fallout for years following the testing,’ said Addie, ‘resulting in all sorts of odd occurrences: balls of light, strange apparitions, levitations. We think it’s how Buzonjis were created. That a pony and an okapi were too close to one another drinking at the lake and, bingo – fused by a wayward spell.’

‘Wow,’ said Ignatius, ‘it’s like we’re standing near the location of a massive weapons test area or something.’

‘It’s not like we are,’ said Curtis, ‘we are standing on the site of a weapons test area.’

‘Is it still dangerous?’ asked Wilson.

‘Not if we don’t stay too long,’ said Addie, ‘forty-eight hours, max. If anyone notices any weirdness, raise the alarm.’

‘What sort of weirdness?’ asked Curtis.

‘Metal corroding too quickly, sand changing into glass, growing extra toes – you’ll definitely know it when you see it.’

‘Like that?’ he said, pointing to where a jetty had been built out into the lake, and to which several rowing boats had been tied. All three were floating in the air like balloons, held down only by the ropes that attached them to the jetty. Two of the rowing boats bumped gently in the breeze like inverted wind-chimes.

‘Yes,’ said Addie, ‘kind of like that.’

We had a look around. There were several camping tables, barbecues and what looked like old leather sofas. I was about to sit on one when Addie stopped me. She kicked the sofa a couple of times and it eventually got up in a very fed-up manner and waddled off into the brush.

‘Physarum emeffeye metamorphica,’ said Addie, ‘a sort of furniture-emulating slime mould. Annoying more than dangerous. Ten hours’ sleep in one of those and it would digest all the stitching out of your clothes. I’ve seen them transform into Regency card tables, futons and barstools. One example that had disguised itself as an Eames Lounge Chair even got to the first round of bidding at an auction of contemporary furniture.’