Trespass

by Michael Campling

  I picked my way forward, lifting my feet high. At each step I nudged my feet carefully through the leaves, testing the ground. At each step I held my breath as I transferred my weight. If the ground was too soft, I tried another place. I tried not to think about quicksand and leeches, bodies found preserved in bogs, tried to put images of bear traps out of my mind. I said, “You’ve been watching too many cartoons.” Then I gritted my teeth and went on in silence.

  My thirteenth step took me out of the leaves and onto solid ground. I’d done it. In front of me, the straggly line of bushes was not as dense as I’d thought. I squeezed through a gap, ignoring the snags and scratches. And I smiled. It was astonishing. I stood on the floor of the pit itself. And it couldn’t have been more different than the dank shadow and debris of the quarry’s edge. The sun shone down onto the wide semi-circular sweep of the quarry floor, an inviting carpet of long grass and wild flowers. The sides of the pit curved away from me and rose to form a magnificent amphitheatre. And I had just stepped onto the stage. I stood, with my head back, my mouth open, and stared from left to right and back again. Once, Dad had dragged me to York Minster. I’d sulked the whole way there, but once inside I couldn’t help but pick up on the magic of the place. There was just something impressive about the sheer space. I had that feeling now. I wanted to take it all in, absorb every sight, every sound.

  The edges of the pit, which must once have been brutal bare rock, were now softened by lush green plants. Bracken, ivy, brambles and ferns tumbled from every fissure, crept over every crumbling boulder. It was as though the plants were escaping, emerging from the heart of the dead rock where they’d been trapped and controlled by generations of quarry men. Now, free and unnoticed, they poured out like a living lava flow to reclaim the place for themselves. There were even small trees, scattered across the slope, growing out at impossible angles.

  A breeze ruffled through the undergrowth. I could almost see the plants edging forward, growing toward me. And along the top edge of the pit, my new horizon, was the distant hard line of a fence, just like the one I’d fallen from. I was fenced in, surrounded by this barrier between me and the rest of the world.

  But the star of the show was the pit floor itself. Dotted across it, standing like works of art in a surreal sculpture park, was a bizarre selection of objects. A huge old TV sat on a ripped armchair, its broken screen staring blindly in my direction. An upturned cast-iron bath pointed its feet toward the sky. A chest freezer balanced on its end, its door hanging open to display the silver interior. An ornate iron bedstead seemed all the stranger for being the right way up. An old-fashioned lawnmower waited for a long-gone groundsman to return and finish the job.

  And then there was the prize. The main attraction. Some way away, right at the back of the pit. A car. And not just any car. Even at that distance the outline was unmistakable. This was an MG GBT, my favourite classic sports car. The colour was hard to make out, but it could’ve been British racing green. Fantastic. I whistled under my breath and whispered, “How the hell did that get there?” My dad would’ve gone mad at the sight of it. He loved classic cars—once he started going on about them, there was no stopping him. So it was no wonder that some of that interest had rubbed off on me. It was something we shared—or always had in the past. It was hard to see what we shared anymore. “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “I can’t tell him about it anyway.” For a moment I wondered what he’d say if he knew I’d been in the quarry. Then I jammed my hands into my pockets, pushed the thought away. I was meant to be finding something to stand on. But could I leave without taking a closer look at the car? “I wonder,” I said. “I wonder if it’s got the wire wheels.” A thought struck me, and I felt in my pocket for my phone. I could do it. I could take a picture of the car, show it to my friends. Otherwise, no one would believe it. Of course I’d still be looking for something to stand on, to get out of there. That was still the plan. “Right,” I said, and I set off to cross the pit floor.

  CHAPTER 4

  3500 BC

  BURLIC SCREAMED. He threw back his head and roared a single furious word into the night: “Waeccan!” The name erupted from him in a savage wail that rasped at his throat, over and over until he could shout no more.

  His howls echoed along the valley. In the village, the other hunters heard and exchanged glances, shook their heads and said nothing. The women clutched their talismans, told the children to go inside. They had tried to help, but there was nothing they could do for Burlic now.

  Burlic slumped, sat heavily on the cold, hard ground. He was drained, exhausted. He squeezed his eyes shut tight. And saw Waeccan’s face. It was the old man’s fault. Yes, he was to blame. He had used his dark magic to deal out this grief, this unbearable hurt.

  Burlic opened his eyes and stared up into the sky. Why had Waeccan done this terrible thing to him? Why? There was no reason, no way to know. Burlic could make no sense of it, and it bewildered him, made him weak.

  Burlic scowled. “Weak?” he growled. “Never.” He clenched his fists, pushed them into the ground. He didn’t need to know why Waeccan had done this—he only needed the strength to deal with the old man. My anger will be my strength, he thought. The rage surged through his blood. He jumped to his feet. “I will have my revenge on you, Waeccan,” he snarled. The old man must die. It was the only way.

  CHAPTER 5

  2010

  I SKIRTED AROUND THE EDGE of the pit floor, keeping the steep slope on my right. I didn’t want to march through the middle of the quarry. It was too open, too exposed. And as I walked, I figured it out—how the car got there. The public footpath, the one I’d been walking along, had once been the road to the quarry. They’d tried to rename it River Walk, but everybody still called it Pit Lane. The place where I’d jumped over the fence (OK, the place I’d fallen) was the original entrance to the quarry. I could dimly remember an older fence—posts and barbed wire. Back then it would’ve been easy to break into the quarry. Someone had just driven the car in there and abandoned it. Joyriders probably.

  I was a clever guy. I smiled up at the sunny slope of the quarry’s sides, admired my new kingdom and congratulated myself on finding this amazing place. And stopped. Over to my left, as the long grass moved in the breeze, a flash of bright red caught my eye. I looked back toward the car. It wasn’t going anywhere. Why not look around on the way?

  But as I waded through the long grass, I slowed, frowned. I could make out the curve of red plastic: a bulky, vaguely familiar shape. And then a gust of wind parted the grass, and I saw them. Chemical drums. A clutch of them, lying on their sides. Some had been smashed wide open; others were cracked and split. None of them were in one piece. Something fluttered in the breeze. A label, peeling, faded. It had once been bright orange, but the bold black symbols were still plain to see: a cross, a hand with a chunk missing. I felt the soft ground give a little beneath my feet. What had leaked from those drums? What was I standing on? “Bloody hell.” I wasn’t waiting to find out. I backed away, turned, marched back to the path I’d made through the grass.

  I shook my head. “No more exploring,” I told myself. “No more wandering off.” I looked over to the car. I wanted to see it, wanted to touch it, make it real. I wanted that photograph. I took out my phone, tried the camera. The car was no more than a blob from this distance. It could have been anything. “OK,” I said. “Straight there and back.” I put my phone back in my pocket. “And on the way, find something to stand on.” I nodded. I’d be sensible and look where I was going. I’d be cautious.

  So when I came across the piece of mouldering carpet, laid out as if for a long-forgotten picnic, I didn’t walk across it. Instead, I carefully lifted one corner with my toe, then kicked the carpet back. Nothing dangerous. Just some old wooden fence posts, quietly rotting. I almost laughed in relief. But then I saw the nails. Long, thick, crooked, rusting nails, pointing upwards from the posts. I had a sickening vision of standing on the carpet, feeling a nail puncture
the sole of my trainer, pierce my foot. I could picture it bursting out through the top of my shoe in slow motion, covered in blood. I shuddered. Who would leave something with the points upwards like that? And why cover them over with the carpet? It was almost like they’d done it on purpose. Almost like…I had to say it out loud to believe it: “Like a trap.”

  And now, when I looked around me I didn’t see an inviting, natural amphitheatre. I saw a threatening place. I saw a place where, just for once, the dangers that my dad had warned me about were real. My dad. I remembered something he’d once said.

  We were walking past the quarry, and I’d asked him if anyone ever went in. “No,” he’d said. “No one who’s supposed to.”

  “What do you mean?” I’d said. But he’d just frowned, changed the subject. I’d asked him again and again. But he wouldn’t tell me. And he wouldn’t say why.

  Now, a chill ran through me as I wondered what my dad had known. Who had been in the quarry? And why would they leave such a vicious trap?

  I ran my hands over my face, swore under my breath. I’d been careless, blundering. I’d been lucky to have escaped unhurt—so far. I looked again at the car, squinted doubtfully all around. If I could see something to stand on, I’d grab it and turn back. I’d take it as a sign. And I’d take all the bad things that had happened to me—the stinking bog, the leaking chemical drums, the hidden nails—as signs that I should go no farther, that I should go straight back to the fence and get the hell out of there.

  But there was nothing useful in sight. And that seemed like a sign I should go on. “Stick to the plan,” I said. “Now you know what to watch out for. Be careful.” And cautiously skirting around the carpet, picking my way through the long grass, I went on. “You’ll be OK,” I said. “You’ll be OK.”

  CHAPTER 6

  3500 BC

  BURLIC BARELY NOTICED the sounds of the village fading into the distance as he strode into the night. He thought only of Waeccan. And revenge.

  Ahead, the path led into the forest. Into darkness. Into wind-creaked branches and shifting shadows. Into the lair of the spirits, the Shades. This is their time, Burlic thought. This is their forest. He should stop, turn back. He stumbled, tripping over his feet, but he did not slow his pace.

  “Just you wait, Waeccan,” he muttered. “You can’t stop me with your trickery now.”

  Next to the path, a broad oak stood solid, unmoved by the breeze. And yet its shadow stirred. Burlic did not see. He blundered ahead, noticed nothing. Soon, it would be too late.

  Beneath the tree, a man watched, waited. Clumsy and careless, he thought. This shouldn’t be too difficult after all. He readied himself. Waited. He had been waiting for a long time. Now he could hear Burlic’s every breath. He tensed. His moment had almost come. A heartbeat. And then he pounced.

  There was barely a whisper of rushing air as he launched himself at Burlic. Even so, Burlic managed to turn to face the danger, his hand flashed to his knife, his knees bent, ready to fight. But it was not enough. Someone was on him, and Burlic was down, flat on his back, the breath crushed from his body. His assailant loomed above him, his weight pressing him down, pinning his arms to his sides. Burlic gritted his teeth, sucked in a breath and strained to free his arms. But it was no use. There was no escape. You fool, he thought. How could you have been so stupid?

  Burlic glared at the silhouette of his attacker, bared his teeth. But the snarl died on his lips as the figure slowly leaned down toward his face. And spoke. A single hissed word: “Burlic.”

  Burlic gasped. This man knew his name. But no one from the village would do this. Who then? Or what? He stopped struggling. A cold fear squirmed in his stomach. It was a Shade. A Shade was on him. He had trespassed in their forest, and they had caught him. And now they had his name. And if a Shade spoke your name, you were lost. Burlic could feel his strength, his life, draining away.

  Still the figure’s face grew nearer. Burlic moaned. His stomach turned. And yet something was wrong—something familiar, something he couldn’t place. A smell. That was it. He could smell meat on its breath. The Shades didn’t eat, did they? So this was a man. An ordinary man. And he could be fought. Burlic clenched his teeth, gathered his courage. “Who are you?”

  The reply was whispered, urgent. “Burlic. It’s Tellan.”

  Burlic choked back his astonishment. Tellan was Scymrian’s younger brother. He had been beaten by his own brother-in-law.

  The voice continued. “I’m going to let you go now. But first, you must promise me something. You must promise that you won’t fight me. And that you’ll listen to what I have to say. Do you promise?”

  Burlic did not reply. With a roar, he pushed himself up, toppling his attacker. Tellan rolled over, tried to scrabble to his knees, but in one movement Burlic was on him. One hand ground Tellan’s face into the soil, the other pressed his knife against his throat.

  “Now,” he growled, “I’ll listen. And I hope you beg for mercy better than you fight.”

  CHAPTER 7

  2010

  THE MG WAS BRITISH RACING GREEN—or had been once, but it didn’t have wire wheels. It didn’t have any wheels. Both doors had been wrenched off. There were no headlights, no wing mirrors, no chrome trim. Even the radiator was gone. And as I approached this skeleton of a car, the remains of its windscreen and windows caught the light—a million angular pieces, scattered among the grass. I sighed and shook my head, said, “Who would do such a thing?” Still, I had a photo to take. I knelt to get a good angle and fired off a couple of snaps. Then I stood and leaned against the bonnet, holding my phone at arm’s length to take a photo of myself with the car in the background. It didn’t come out too badly. I peered into the car’s interior. The seats were slashed, but frankly I was surprised they were still there. I wanted a shot of me sitting inside. I lowered myself onto the driving seat and held my phone out through the space where the windscreen had been. I was just about to take the shot when my phone vibrated and started ringing. I flipped it around to see the screen, hoping it was Matt. But the screen was going haywire—the background image was flickering like crazy. Random messages flashed up then disappeared, unknown number, no network, emergency calls only, no signal, no Wi-Fi. I jabbed and swiped hopelessly across the touchscreen, shouted the magic words, “Come on, you useless piece of junk!” And it stopped. The screen went blank. I stared at it for a second then tried the power button. Nothing. “Oh great,” I said. “It’s completely knack–”

  “Hey!” A woman’s voice ran through me like a knife. I jolted back against the car seat. I dropped my phone, heard it clatter into the footwell.

  “Jesus,” I breathed. “Who the hell’s that?”

  “Hey—where’s everyone gone?” The voice came from somewhere above. It didn’t sound like they’d seen me yet. I had to get out of there. I reached down, scrabbled for my phone. I couldn’t find it. I pressed my face against the dashboard and reached farther, groping through the rust and dirt. My fingers brushed against something smooth. That must be it. I grabbed for it. Yes. I sat up, hurriedly stuffing my phone back into my pocket while clambering awkwardly from the car. I looked up, hoping to see the coast was clear, hoping to see nothing but rocks and trees and trailing ivy. But instead I saw her. And she, very clearly, had seen me.

  “Oh,” she said. “Who are you?”

  CHAPTER 8

  3500 BC

  TELLAN CROUCHED, held both hands to his nose and tried to breathe slowly. The blood was stopping now, but the pain wasn’t. Burlic stood over him, breathing hard, and for the third time he growled the same question. “Why did you follow me?”

  Tellan took his hands away from his nose, looked up at Burlic. In the darkness, he seemed larger, more threatening. Tellan was beginning to wonder why he’d bothered. Surely Burlic could look after himself. But he knew the answer. “For my sister. For the village. And partly,” he paused to stand, “for your son.”

  “My son. My son is…” Burlic closed
his eyes and shook his head. His mind whirled with memories, with pictures that he did not want to see. “My son is gone.” He hung his head.

  Tellan tried again. “No, Burlic, your son is waiting for you back at the village—he needs his father. And your wife—Scymrian—she needs her husband.”

  “Scymrian, she was so…” The memories were flooding in now: Scymrian, before the baby. She had been so strong, so sleek and perfect while she carried their child within her. And she had been so happy. She’d been so sure that this child would be a fine son. And in the evenings, when she’d been too tired to work, she’d sat by the fire with Burlic and sung for him.

  Tellan reached out and placed his hand on Burlic’s shoulder. He tried to speak gently. “Burlic, I know that you blame Waeccan for what has happened—the whole village knows that you do. But I don’t know why. How could he do this?”

  Burlic bristled at the mention of Waeccan’s name. With one hand he brushed Tellan’s hand from his shoulder, and with the other he pushed Tellan hard in the chest. His voice was a cold fury. “I’ll tell you how. I went to see him. I needed stone for the new hut—the new hut for Scymrian and the baby. I told him how her time was near, how the stream was low, how my Scymrian struggled to carry the water. And he gave me water—a whole skin of it—for Scymrian. And I gave it to her. I trusted him.”