The Eye of Zoltar

‘Who will believe us?’ said Perkins. ‘She’s in Laura Scrubb’s body right now so we can’t prove it’s not Laura – and she did say she was Laura.’

‘We could contact King Snodd,’ suggested Wilson.

‘With what?’ I said. ‘There are no public cross-border phone lines and my conch and last homing snail are in the half-track.’

We lapsed into silence, our appetites lost owing to recent events.

‘Okay,’ I said, taking out the cash that the Princess had handed me, ‘I don’t know how we’re going to rescue her, but rescue her we will. I need ideas. Here.’

I divided the money equally between Wilson, charged to see whether there was anyone to bribe to postpone the trial, and Addie, charged with finding some transport.

‘Transport to where?’ she asked, since there was still some doubt as to whether our search was continuing, or whether we were going to head into Cambrianopolis to bargain for Boo’s return.

‘I’m not sure,’ I said, realising that I first needed to find Able Quizzler. ‘Just get me some wheels and I’ll let you know.’

Wilson and Addie left the pub, leaving Perkins and myself at the table. I beckoned the barmaid over and asked whether she knew where I could find Able Quizzler.

‘Able?’ she said. ‘Are you friends of his?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you can pay his unpaid bar bill.’

‘More colleagues actually,’ I added quickly. ‘Do you know where he is?’

‘That I do,’ she said. ‘In fact, I can tell you precisely where he is right now.’

‘A man of habit?’ asked Perkins.

‘Very fixed in his ways,’ said the barmaid. ‘You’ll find him in the cemetery.’

‘A gravedigger, is he?’

‘No, he’s dead – and has been these past six years.’

Trouble with gravediggers

Llangurig’s cemetery was on the north side of the town. It was a dismal place, the grass patchy and the stones streak-stained by the rain. Even the fresh flowers on the graves looked tired, the clouds dark, the wind chill. Row upon row of headstones charted the history of Llangurig’s railway conflict from the very first death in 1862 to the most recent, only forty-seven minutes previously. That latest addition was already buried owing to a hyper-efficient funeral service that could have someone in the ground before they were even cold. Ten graves had been dug in readiness for the inevitable casualties that evening, and with eight thousand inhabitants, the occupants of the cemetery outnumbered the Llangurig living five to one, and it was twice the size of the town itself.

‘This is grim,’ said Perkins as we walked past the headstones, each commemorating a young man or woman’s life not lived.

‘The loss seems more when you see them laid out like this,’ I said.

‘It doesn’t make much sense,’ added Perkins as we walked along. ‘If Quizzler had died, wouldn’t Kevin have foreseen it?’

‘Kevin doesn’t see everything,’ I replied, ‘but I agree it’s annoying. We’ll find out what we can, grab the Princess and get out of town. Without any evidence about the Eye of Zoltar, we’re not going any farther.’

Perkins hailed a passing gravedigger. His clothes were worn but respectable, his hands looked as though they were made of leather, and his shovel had been worn shiny by constant use. The gravedigger introduced himself as something that sounded like ‘Dirk’, and Perkins explained who we were looking for.

‘Kin?’ asked Dirk, staring at the pair of us suspiciously.

‘A distant cousin,’ I said, ‘on my mother’s side.’

‘Ar,’ said the gravedigger, ‘follow I.’

The gravedigger led us past hundreds of headstones carved with a name, the date and a short epitaph in a typically railwayese style. They ranged from the direct ‘Ran out of steam’ or ‘Hit the buffers’ to the more poetic ‘Shunted to a quiet corner of the yard’ and ‘Withdrawn from service’.

We turned left at a crossroads and followed another avenue of headstones.

‘You must be kept busy,’ I said to the gravedigger.

‘Busier than a turkey neck-breaker at Christmas.’

‘Nice simile,’ said Perkins, ‘full of charm.’

‘Jus’ thar,’ said the gravedigger as he pointed at a simple cross marked ‘Quizzler’ and a six-year-old date.

‘Ever meet him?’ I asked.

‘Only once,’ chuckled the gravedigger, ‘but he was in no mood for talkin’.’

‘You know how he died?’

‘Some say it were the grass what killed him.’

I sighed. Gravediggers always spoke in dark riddles. As a student at gravedigger college you’d have to master the art of random quirky banter before they’d even let you touch a spade.

‘The grass?’ I asked.

‘Aye. Was all grass around here when he arrived, and he wasn’t brought here by the undertaker, and we didn’t dig his grave, neither.’

‘Then who did?’

‘He done dig it hisself. He done everythin’ hisself ’cept read the sermon. Delivered hisself he did, then dug his own grave.’

Perkins and I looked at one another.

‘So what you’re saying,’ I said slowly, ‘is that he walked in alive, dug his own grave and was then laid into it?’