THIRTY-THREE

Trouble with Gravediggers

Llangurig’s cemetery was on the north side of town. It was a dismal place, the grass patchy and the stones stained with streaks from the rain. Even the fresh flowers on the graves looked tired; the clouds were dark, the wind chill. Row upon row of headstones charted the history of Llangurig’s railroad conflict, from the first death in 1862 to the most recent only forty-seven minutes before. The latest had already been buried, due to a hyper-efficient funeral service that could have someone in the ground before they were cold. Ten graves had been dug in preparation for the inevitable casualties that evening, and the cemetery’s eight thousand inhabitants outnumbered the Llangurig living five to one. The graveyard 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 cut short.

“The loss seems even more when you see them laid out like this,” I said.

“It doesn’t make much sense,” added Perkins. “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 that the Eye of Zoltar even exists, we’re not going any farther.”

Perkins hailed a passing gravedigger. His clothes were worn but respectfully neat, his hands were leathery, and his shovel had been worn shiny by constant use. The man introduced himself as something that sounded like Dirk, and Perkins explained who we were looking for.

“Kin?” asked Dirk, staring at us suspiciously.

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

“Ar,” said the gravedigger, “follow I.”

He led us past hundreds of headstones carved with a name, date, and a short epitaph in a typical Railwayese style. They ranged from the direct—Ran out of Steam or Hit the Buffers—to the more polite—Shunted to a Quiet Corner of the Yard or Withdrawn from Service.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 Dirk as he pointed at a simple cross marked Quizzler and a date six years back.

“Ever meet him?” I asked.

“Only once.” He chuckled. “But he were 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 had to master the art of random quirky banter before they’d even let you touch a shovel.

“The grass?” I asked.

“Aye. Was all grass around here when he arrived. 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 alive he did, then dug his own grave while he was a-dyin’.”

Perkins and I looked at each other.

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

“Sort of,” said the gravedigger, “only he didn’t walk in here, and wasn’t put into the grave. Came in fast, he did, and buried hisself quicker than a sneeze. Heard him the other side of the yard.”

Perkins was becoming exasperated too. “If I give you some money,” he said, speaking very slowly and firmly, “would you tell us what in the blue blazes you’re talking about?”

Dirk wagged his finger and laughed again.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ve almost got this. He arrived in a hurry but not through the entrance, and buried himself while he was dying in almost no time at all while making a loud noise?”

“Aye,” said the gravedigger, sounding disappointed at our failure to understand him. “And you’ll get nothing further from me, not till you’ve learned some smarts.”

He turned to walk away, but Perkins called after him.

“Did you just . . . backfill over him after he landed?”

Dirk stopped, then turned slowly to face us. His eyes twinkled and he very purposefully looked up. I didn’t need to follow his gaze; I knew what he meant. Able Quizzler had arrived in the graveyard not by walking, but by falling. And if he had hit the grass hard enough to bury himself, he had fallen from a great height.

“From a Leviathan, do you suppose?” I asked Perkins.

“No other explanation,” he said. “And Leviathans lead us to Pirate Wolff, and from there we get to the Eye of Zoltar. Or do we?”

“Sadly, no,” I said after a moment’s thought. “We just get to Able Quizzler hitching a ride on a Leviathan. Ralph would have suffered the same fate—only I don’t think he had the good luck to fall into a graveyard.”

I stood there, unsure of what to do. I would risk all our lives if there were evidence of the Eye of Zoltar, but not for evidence of a Leviathan. This was a magic expedition, not one in pursuit of an endangered species, fascinating as that might have been.

“Right,” I said, coming to a decision. “Once we’ve got the princess back, we’re moving on to Cambrianopolis to negotiate for Boo’s release. My goal was to find evidence of the Eye. We don’t have any, so I’m pulling the plug.”

“Shame,” said Perkins. “I was looking forward to climbing Cadir Idris and facing all those terrors. Jeopardy tourism has kind of grown on me.”

“Well, it’s not growing on me,” I said. “Come on.”

We walked back through the graveyard after giving Dirk a tip. We had almost reached the entrance when Perkins stopped.

“Jenny?” he said. “I was just thinking. I mean, is it even possible for someone to bury himself by falling from a great height?”

“What’s your point?” I asked.

“I’m thinking that perhaps you’d only leave a dent in the ground, if that. Unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you were made of something much, much heavier.”

It dawned on me. “Like . . . lead?”

Able Quizzler must have come into contact with the Eye of Zoltar. But it had not given him the power he craved—it had changed him to lead, the fate of anyone unskilled who tried to tap its massive powers. Quizzler would have been riding on a Leviathan when it happened, and if he’d become too heavy to be carried aloft, they—Pirate Wolff, probably—would have dumped him over the side.

We stood in silence for several moments. This changed everything.

“Well,” I said, “Kevin was right about the Eye. Looks like we’re heading farther north after all.”