The Eye of Zoltar (2 page)

‘Okay,’ I said to Tiger, ‘fetch Mawgon and Moobin, and you should also call Once Magnificent Boo.’

‘Got it,’ said Tiger.

‘Take a rain check on that date?’ I said, turning to Perkins. ‘In the Magic Industry, it’s kind of “Spell First, Fun Second”.’

‘I kind of figured that,’ he replied, ‘so why don’t we make
this
assignment the date? Intimate candlelit dinners for two are wildly overrated. I could even bring some sandwiches and a Thermos of hot chocolate.’

‘Okay,’ I said, touching his hand, ‘you’re on. A sort of romantic uncandlelit “recapturing a dangerously savage beast for two” sort of date – but no dressing up and we split the cost.’

‘Game on. I’ll go and make some sandwiches and that Thermos.’

And with another chuckle, he left.

While I waited for the other sorcerers to arrive, I read what I could about Tralfamosaurs in the
Codex Magicalis
, which wasn’t much. The creature was created magically in the 1780s on the order of the Cambrian Empire’s 1st Emperor Tharv because he wanted ‘a challenging beast to hunt for sport’, a role it played with all due savagery. Even today, over two hundred years later, people still pay good money to try to hunt them, usually with fatal consequences for the hunter. Oddly, this made Tralfamosaur hunting
more
popular as it seemed citizens were becoming increasingly fond of danger in these modern, safety-conscious times. The Cambrian Empire was now making good money out of what it called ‘jeopardy tourism’ – holidays for those seeking life-threatening situations.

The first to arrive in the lobby was Wizard Moobin, who, unlike all the other sorcerers, was barely insane at all. Aside from his usual magical duties he also worked in magic research and development. Last month, Moobin’s team had been working on a spell for turning oneself momentarily to rubber to survive a fall, the use of instantaneous ‘turning to stone’ enchantments as a way of transporting badly damaged accident victims to surgery, and a method of reliable communication using snails. Aside from this he was good company, aged a little over forty, and was at least polite and gave me due respect for my efforts. Tiger and I liked him a great deal.

‘The Tralfamosaur escaped,’ I told him when he walked into the lobby, ‘when you and Patrick surged this afternoon during the bridge rebuilding. Two quarter-ton blocks of stone were catapulted into the sky.’

‘I wondered what happened to them,’ said Moobin thoughtfully.

‘One fell to earth harmlessly in an orchard near Belmont, and the other landed on the Ross-to-Hereford branch line, derailing a train that was transporting the Tralfamosaur to Woburn Safari Park as part of some sort of dangerous animal exchange deal.’

‘Ah,’ said Moobin, ‘so we’re kind of responsible for this, aren’t we?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ I replied, ‘and it’s already eaten three people.’

‘Whoops,’ said Moobin.

‘Whoops nothing,’ said Lady Mawgon, who had arrived with Tiger close behind, ‘civilians have to take risks with the rest of us.’

Unlike Moobin, Lady Mawgon was
not
our favourite sorcerer, but was undeniably good at what she did. She was originally the official sorcerer to the Kingdom of Kent before the downturn of magical power, but her fall from that lofty status had made her frosty and ill tempered. She had recently entered her seventieth decade, scowled constantly, and had the unsettling habit of gliding everywhere rather than walking, as if beneath the folds of her large black dress she was wearing roller skates.

‘Even so,’ I said diplomatically, ‘it’s probably not a good idea to let the Tralfamosaur eat people.’

‘I suppose not,’ conceded Lady Mawgon. ‘What about Once Magnificent Boo?’

‘Already in hand,’ I replied, indicating where Tiger was speaking on the phone.

Once Magnificent Boo had, as her name suggested, once been magnificent. She could have been as powerful as the Mighty Shandar himself, but was now long retired and saddled with a dark personality that made Lady Mawgon seem almost sunny by comparison. The reason for this was simple: she had been robbed of her dazzling career in sorcery by the removal of her index fingers, the conduit of a sorcerer’s power. The fingers had remained hidden for over three decades until recently recovered by us, but even reunited with the dry bones, the only magic she could do was wayward and unfocused. These days she studied Quarkbeasts and was the world’s leading authority on Tralfamosaurs, which was the reason we needed her.

‘She’ll meet you there,’ said Tiger, replacing the receiver. ‘I’ll stay here and man the phones in case you need anything sent over.’

Once Perkins had returned with the sandwiches we trooped outside to my Volkswagen Beetle. There were arguably much better cars in the basement at Zambini Towers but the VW was of huge sentimental value: I was found wrapped in a blanket on the back seat outside the Ladies of the Lobster orphanage one windswept night many years before. There was a note stuffed under the windscreen wiper:

Please look after this poor dear child as her parents died in the Troll Wars.

PS: I think the engine may need some oil and the tyre pressures checked.

PPS: We think her name should be Jennifer.

PPPS: The child, not the car.

PPPPS: For her surname, choose something strange.

The car was kept – all items left with a foundling were, by Royal Decree – and was presented to me when the Blessed Ladies of the Lobster sold me to Kazam aged fourteen. After I’d checked the tyre pressures and added some oil it started first time, and I drove to my first job in my own car. If you think fourteen is too young to be driving, think again. The Kingdom of Snodd grants driving licences on the basis of
responsibility
, not age, something that can frustrate forty-something blokes no end when they fail their responsibility test for the umpteenth time.

‘Shotgun!’ yelled Lady Mawgon, and quickly plonked herself in the passenger seat. Everyone groaned. Being in the back of the Volkswagen meant sitting next to the Quarkbeast, a creature that was often described as a cross between a labrador and an open knife drawer, with a bit of velociraptor and scaly pangolin chucked in for good measure. Despite its terrifying appearance and an odd habit of eating metal, the Quarkbeast was a loyal and intelligent companion.

‘Right,’ I said as we moved off, ‘does anyone have a plan as to how we’re going to recapture the Tralfamosaur?’

There was silence.

‘How about this,’ I said. ‘We modify our plans with regard to ongoing facts as they become known to us, then remodify them as the situation unfolds.’

‘You mean make it all up as we go along?’ asked Perkins.

‘Right.’

‘It’s worked before,’ said Lady Mawgon.

‘Many times,’ replied Moobin.

‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast.

The train that had transported the Tralfamosaur had been derailed about four miles out of Hereford. The locomotive had stayed upright but most of the goods wagons were now lying in an untidy zigzag along the track. There was a huge number of police cars, ambulances and fire engines in attendance, and the night scene was lit by large floodlights erected on towers. A willowy officer named Detective Corbett introduced himself and then escorted us up the track, past the shattered remnants of the goods train.

‘The engine driver was the first eaten,’ said Corbett as we stared at the wreckage. ‘See these footprints?’

He snapped on a torch and pointed at the ground where a Tralfamosaur footprint was clearly visible.

‘The creature headed north-east,’ said Moobin after looking at several other footprints. ‘Any reports from the public?’

‘Nothing so far,’ said Corbett.

‘A Tralfamosaur can be surprisingly stealthy,’ said Lady Mawgon. ‘Discovering one near you and being eaten often happen at pretty much the same time.’

Corbett looked around nervously.

‘The roads are locked down inside a fifty-mile perimeter,’ he said in a hasty ‘I’m leaving pretty soon’ sort of voice, ‘and everyone has been advised to stay indoors, or in a cellar if they have one. Artillery batteries have been set up if it tries to go in the direction of Hereford, and if you are unsuccessful by first light, King Snodd has agreed to send in the landships.’

‘What about—’ began Moobin, but Corbett had already gone. We stared at the remnants of the Tralfamosaur’s railway carriage, then looked around. It was a dark night, and only a light breeze stirred the branches of the trees. Of the Tralfamosaur, there was no sign. Sending in the landships was a last resort: four-storey armoured tracked vehicles of immense power, they could overcome everything except Trolls, who impertinently called them ‘Meals on Wheels’.

‘I’m not sure a squadron of landships chasing after a single Tralfamosaur would do anything but cause a huge amount of unnecessary damage,’ said Perkins. ‘What’s the next step?’

‘No idea,’ said Lady Mawgon. ‘Moobin?’

‘Not a clue. Let’s face it, recapturing seventeen tons of pea-brained enraged carnivore isn’t something we do every day. How was it captured last time?’

‘Liquorice,’ came a loud voice from behind us, and we jumped.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Lady Mawgon.

‘Liquorice,’ repeated Once Magnificent Boo, who had just arrived on her moped. We all felt silent. Boo never used more words than was absolutely necessary, rarely smiled and her eyes were so dark they seemed like black snooker balls floating in a bowl of cream.

‘If you listen very carefully to my plan we will have the Tralfamosaur recaptured before the break of dawn,’ said Boo. ‘My plan is sound, and if followed to the letter, has a reasonable chance of succeeding without anyone being eaten.’

‘Define “reasonable chance”,’ said Lady Mawgon, but Boo ignored her and carried on: ‘We require only a grenade launcher, six pounds of industrial-strength liquorice, two spells of Class VIII complexity, a shipping container, a side of bacon, an automobile, several homing snails, a ladder, and two people to act as bait.’

Perkins leaned across to me and whispered:

‘Boo was kind of looking at us when the “two people as bait” thing came up.’

‘I know,’ I whispered back, ‘it’s possible to refuse, but the thing is, who are you more frightened of: Once Magnificent Boo, or a Tralfamosaur?’

An hour later Perkins and I were in my Volkswagen, parked up near a crossroads on high ground a mile or two from the damaged railway carriage. We could see the stars through the open sunroof, and the pinkish glow of the Quarkbeast where it was sitting on a wall close by, sniffing the air cautiously.

‘Enjoying the date so far?’ I asked in a cheery tone.

‘It could be improved,’ he replied.

‘In what way?’

‘Not being used as Tralfamosaur bait, for one thing.’

‘Oh, come on,’ I said playfully. ‘It’s a lovely night to be eaten by a nine tons of hunger-crazed monster.’

Perkins looked up through the open sunroof at the broad swathe of stars above our heads. As if on cue, a shooting star flashed across the sky.

‘You’re half right,’ he said with a smile, ‘it’s a lovely night. Crazy or nothing, right?’

I returned his smile.

‘Right: crazy or nothing. Let’s check everything again.’

I flicked the two glow-worms above the dash with my finger. A faint glimmer of light illuminated the two ‘SpellGo’ buttons that Moobin and Lady Mawgon had placed on the dashboard. Spells could be cast in advance and lie dormant until activated by something as easy to use as a large button. One was labelled ‘Bogeys’ and the second ‘Float’.

‘Got the rocket-propelled liquorice launcher handy?’ I asked.

‘Check,’ said Perkins, patting the weapon, which, instead of having an explosive warhead, had a lump of industrial-grade liquorice about the size of a melon. It smelled so strongly we had to poke it up out of the sunroof to stop our eyes watering. Tralfamosaurs love liquorice and could smell it from at least a mile away if the wind was strong enough.

We both jumped as a snail shot in through the open window and skidded to a halt on the inside of the windshield, leaving a slippery trail across the glass. Homing snails were one of Wizard Moobin’s recent discoveries. He had found that all snails have the capacity to do over one hundred miles per hour and find their way to a given location with pinpoint accuracy, but didn’t because they were horribly lazy and couldn’t be bothered. By rewriting a motivating spell commonly used by TV fitness instructors, communication using homing snail was entirely possible – and more reliable than pigeons, which were easily distracted.

The snail was steaming with the exertion and smelled faintly of scorched rubber, but seemed pleased with itself. We gave it a lettuce leaf, popped it in its box and Perkins opened the note that had been stuck to its shell. It was from Lady Mawgon.

‘Reports from worried citizens place the T three miles down the road at Woolhope.’

Woolhope was the Kingdom’s sixth-largest town and home to twelve thousand people and a Marzoleum processing plant. I had a sudden thought.

‘It’s heading for the flare.’

Marzoleum refineries always had a gas flare alight from a tall tower and it was this, I guessed, that would attract the Tralfamosaur. Brain the size of a ping-pong ball it might have, but when it comes to looking for food at night it was no slouch. Fire and light, after all, generally denoted humans.

‘There,’ I said, stabbing my finger on the map near a place called Broadmoor Common, just downwind of Woolhope. ‘He’ll be able to smell us easily from there.’

I whistled to the Quarkbeast, who jumped into the back of the car, and we were soon hurtling along the narrow roads as fast as we could. It was about 3 a.m. by now, and I drove, I agree, recklessly. The police had locked down the area tight and everyone had been told to stay in their homes, but even so, I was half expecting to run into a tractor or something. I didn’t. I ran into something much worse.

The Quarkbeast cried out first, a sort of
quarky-quark-quarky
noise that spelt danger, and almost immediately, my headlights illuminated something nasty and large and reptilian on the road ahead. The Tralfamosaur’s small eyes glinted dangerously as it looked up. It was bigger than I remembered from my occasional visits to the zoo, and it looked significantly more dangerous out in the open.