“You poor fool,” he muttered. “You poor, poor fool.”
“You are the foolish one, Waeccan.” His father’s scornful voice cut into his thoughts. “I warned you not to defy me.”
Waeccan hung his head. “Yes, Father,” he said.
“There will be consequences,” Cleofan warned.
Waeccan looked up. “Consequences?” he asked. “What consequences?”
“I don’t know,” Cleofan snapped. “Even I cannot say what damage you’ve done.”
Waeccan stared into the fire and said nothing.
“You’ll be punished, Waeccan,” his father said.
“Yes,” Waeccan said. “I know. I am prepared.”
“Maybe,” Cleofan sneered. “But are you prepared for what will happen to him?”
Waeccan was shocked. “To Burlic?” he asked. “What will happen to Burlic? He will wake up, won’t he?”
But there was no reply. His father’s spirit had deserted him once again. Waeccan rubbed his eyes. “Oh no,” he muttered. “Oh no, no, no. That cannot be.” But what could he do? Once, he would’ve known how to act. Once, he had understood the Darkeningstone. He had lived by its rules. But then he had broken those rules and begged for some small sign from the Shades. Yes, his need had been great, but that did not excuse what he had done. And now, it was too late. Too late for him, too late for Burlic. Waeccan looked to where the young man lay. He stared at the Darkeningstone and whispered a question to the unhearing rock. “What have I done?” he said. “Tell me. What have I done?”
CHAPTER 49
2010
“SO WHEN DID YOU FIND THIS? I thought no one ever came in here.” Matt grinned and threw himself into the MG’s driving seat. “Ow,” he said and rubbed his thigh. “I shouldn’t have done that—I think a spring just got me.”
“Erm,” I said. I stood by the passenger door and picked at a flake of rust on the roof. “Well, the other day, I just sort of…”
“Hey look,” Matt said. “I wonder what this does.”
“Matt,” I said. “I don’t think we should muck about with it.”
“Yeah?” Matt turned to look at me. “Do you think the owner might be a little bit cross if we damage his pride and joy?”
“Very funny,” I said. “Come on, I’m bored.”
But Matt was scrabbling around at the side of the seat. “This is chrome,” he said. “I wonder if it’ll come off.”
I turned away. I thought, Maybe if I just walk away he’ll follow.
A loud metallic crack stopped me in my tracks. I spun back around.
“Shit,” Matt hissed. “Damned thing broke—nearly took my thumb off.” He was holding his left thumb with his right hand, and he wasn’t grinning any more.
I bent down to look through the car window. “Are you OK?” I said.
Matt winced as he released his thumb and peered at it cautiously. “It’s bleeding,” he said. “But I think it’ll be alri –”
That was all he had time to say. With a crunch that shook the whole car, the seat back collapsed, and Matt went with it, almost lying flat on his back.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then Matt started to laugh. “Hey,” he said. “It does work after all.”
I shook my head and smiled. “Your face,” I said. “You should’ve seen it.”
“I bet,” Matt said. “Shame you didn’t get a video of that.”
“Yeah, you could’ve gone viral.”
“For sure,” Matt said. “Hang on. What’s this?”
“What’s what?” I said. But Matt didn’t answer. He reached up to the car roof and started tugging at the lining. “What’re you doing?” I said.
“There’s something in here.” He said. “Someone’s cut a slit, hidden something underneath.”
Suddenly I was nervous. “Leave it,” I said. “Just leave it alone.”
“I can almost reach it,” Matt said. “If I just…” I heard the fabric rip. I stormed around to the driver’s side and leaned down, put my face close to his.
“Matt,” I said. “Leave it.” He ignored me. “Matt,” I said and punched him on the arm.
Immediately he stopped what he was doing and sat up, glaring at me. “What’s the matter with you now?”
I took a step back. “I’m fed up of hanging around waiting for you while you fiddle about with this heap of junk,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Matt looked at me for a second, trying to figure out the reason for my outburst. Then he made his mind up. “Nah. You’re all right,” he said. “We haven’t done what we came in for yet.”
“We’ve found my phone,” I said.
Matt swung his legs out the car and stood up. “No,” he said. “Ciggies—remember? I’m not leaving till we’ve had one.” He bent down and picked up an old bottle, waggled it at me. “Unless, this is your bottle?” he said. “You didn’t by any chance lose your bottle did you?”
“Oh stop it,” I said. “You’re too funny for me. You must’ve been reading that joke book again—the one with the nice big letters.”
“No,” Matt said. “I didn’t understand the pictures.”
I snorted. “Yeah,” I said. “I get Dennis but Gnasher—what’s that all about?”
Matt grinned. “I’ve G-no idea,” he said, and we both laughed. Matt tossed the bottle into the undergrowth and reached into his jacket pocket.
“Excuse me,” he said, affecting a posh accent and producing the packet of cigarettes. “Is this a no-smoking quarry?” He opened the packet, made a show of choosing which one to take.
“OK,” I said. “But let’s get out of here. Why don’t we go down by the river?”
Matt shook his head, spread his arms wide. “What, and miss all this natural beauty?” He took out a cigarette. “Besides, someone might see us down there—my brother for instance, or one of his mates.” He lifted the cigarette toward his lips.
Yes, I thought, maybe someone would see us by the river, but I know exactly who might see us now. I had to do something, say something. “Wait,” I said. “I know a better place, much better.” There was no alternative. If I couldn’t get him out of the quarry, I’d have to take him deeper into it, find a place we couldn’t be seen. “Up on a ledge,” I said. I pointed up toward the rock face. “No one would ever see us up there. And it’s good. Cool.”
“Really?” Matt said, looking up to where I’d pointed. “Where? I can’t see it. How do you get up to it?”
“That’s the beauty of it,” I said. “You can’t see it from down here. And it’s easy to get to. There’s steps cut into the rock.”
“Yeah? Steps in the rock—very Tolkien,” Matt drawled. He was trying to sound bored, but I could see a definite spark of interest in his eyes. I was one of the few people who knew his secret obsession with The Lord of the Rings. And I don’t just mean the films; he’d actually read all the books back to back—several times.
“Yeah,” I said. “And there’s something up there. Something weird. A sort of…” Well, what was it exactly? How could I describe it without feeling ridiculous?
Matt studied my face, searching for signs that I was making the whole thing up. “A sort of what?” he said. His tone of voice said it all. If I was making fun of him he wasn’t going to be pleased.
“I dunno, I’ll have to show you,” I said. “Maybe you can figure it out.”
Matt looked down at the cigarette in his hand, then slowly he put it back in the packet and replaced them in his pocket. I’d won. He shot me a half grin. “All right,” he said. “But it’d better be worth it.”
“Oh yeah, it is. Come on. You’ll like it—trust me.” I hoped that I sounded sincere.
It didn’t take me long to find the steps. “See,” I said.
Matt nodded. “Come on,” I said. And I started scrambling up the steps as fast I could.
“Hang on,” Matt moaned. But I didn’t slow down. All the way, I could hear Matt panting and swearing under his breath. He was determined not be o
utdone. By the time I reached the ledge I was totally out of breath. I turned and offered my hand to help Matt up over the edge. He just shook his head and heaved himself up. His face was a distinct shade of scarlet. “I’m all right,” he said. He took a deep breath and blew his cheeks out. “No problem.”
“Sure,” I said, smiling. “I’m just gonna get my breath back—over there.” I nodded toward the back of the ledge, where I knew we’d be out of sight.
“Yeah, OK,” Matt said. “If you need to.” We moved well away from the edge and squatted down.
“So, what do you think of it?” I said.
Matt nodded. “Yeah,” he said between breaths, “I’m liking it. But tell me,” he turned his head and spat into the grass, “why did we have to practically run up the steps?”
I laughed. I was lightheaded, buzzing from the overenthusiastic climb. But there was something else: we were hidden, we were safe. At last.
I sat there, and I beamed. I looked to the trees above, watched the mosaic of leaves as it shifted in a gentle breeze. I sucked in the cooling, fresh air. I listened to the symphony of birdsong. Perfect.
I know moments like that don’t last forever. But what I didn’t know, and could never have guessed as I sat there smiling with my best friend, was how horribly this moment was going to end.
CHAPTER 50
1939
VINCENT HURRIED THROUGH the rain and barged through the toolshed door. It was midday, and the rest of lads were already inside. The shed was gloomy, but it was dry and out of the wind, and they were all glad of it. The other workers were sitting on a makeshift bench that they’d cobbled together from wooden crates and an old plank. They chatted as they ate their dinner, drank tea from their tin mugs.
“All right there, Vince?”
Vince nodded in reply. “All right, Bert.” Bert was one of the older quarrymen. He had responsibility for handling the dynamite when they were blasting, and they all treated him with a certain respect. Vincent put his metal toolbox on the floor then took his cap off and shook it. It was soaked through. He hung it over the handle of a pickaxe that was leaning against the wall then grabbed his knapsack from the shelf and looked for a space to sit.
“Shift up, lads,” Bert said. And he moved along the bench, pressing against the man next to him and forcing the others to make room. They didn’t grumble as they shuffled along the bench, but they didn’t look happy about it either. The cheerful atmosphere had gone. “There you go, Vince,” Bert said.
“Thanks, Bert.” Vincent sat down. He grabbed his flask from the knapsack, poured the hot tea. He took a drink and thought, I’m going to need this, for what I’m going to do.
For a minute the men ate in silence. Vincent looked around. John, one of the younger men, was glowering at him. Vincent returned the stare. “All right, John,” he said.
“All right,” John said. “There’s plenty of room—now that Bob’s not here.”
Vincent squared his shoulders. “Well that’s up to him, isn’t it?”
“Is that right?” John said. “Only, no one’s ever said what’s up with him—why’s that, do you reckon?”
“How should I know?” Vincent snapped. “I mind my own business—unlike some.”
But John wasn’t to be put off. “I’ve heard he won’t even get out of bed. It’s like he’s not himself anymore, they say—it’s like the life’s gone out of him.”
“Gossip,” Vincent said. “If Bob’s too idle to turn up for work then that’s his lookout. It’s not down to me. And when he’s not here it’s me that’s got to work harder to make up for it.”
“Quite right, Vince,” Bert said. “These young lads—they don’t know what work is. If they don’t like it, there’s plenty waiting to take their place.”
“Here we go again,” John said. “Same old song—listen to your elders and betters.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Bert snapped.
“I don’t know,” John sneered. “Maybe we should ask Bob.”
Bert opened his mouth to speak, pointed a finger at John, then changed his mind and shook his head. Vincent swallowed. They were all looking at him, waiting to see what he would say. I can’t believe this, he thought. Do they really think it’s all my fault? Well, he wouldn’t stand for it.
“Now you listen,” he said. “If you’ve got something to say to me, say it to my face.”
John opened his mouth to speak, but Bert interrupted.
“Now, lads,” he said. “You know what Mr. Burrows says to troublemakers. Just one word—goodbye.”
But Vincent hardly heard him. “Well, John?” he said quietly.
John looked around the other workers for support, but they were all suddenly occupied with their food and drink. Only Vincent would look him in the eye, and John couldn’t hold his fierce stare. He shook his head. “Oh, forget it,” he said. He slumped back against the shed wall and took out his tobacco tin, busied himself with rolling a cigarette.
Vincent sat back and drank some more tea. What was all that about? Did they really all blame him for what’d happened to Bob? And how much did they know about it anyway? It was all getting out of hand.
“You going to eat your dinner then?” Bert said.
“What?” Vincent said. “Oh yes. I was just thinking…I think I’ve left some tools outside.”
“Have you?” Bert said. “That’s not like you, Vince. Have you looked in your toolbox?”
“Erm…no, but I’m sure they’re not there.” Of course they’re not there, he thought. They’re where I’ve hidden them.
“Well,” Bert said. “They won’t have gone far. No one else will have picked them up.”
“True,” Vincent said. They all knew how particular Vincent was about his tools. Each one was clearly marked. His initials VCC were carved into the wooden handles or stamped into the steel. And all the lads had learned, some of them the hard way, that you didn’t touch Vincent’s tools, and you never asked to borrow them. “All the same,” Vincent said. “I’d better go and have a look.” He drank the last of his tea and shoved the cup back into his knapsack. It was now or never.
“But…you haven’t had your dinner,” Bert said.
Vincent stood up. “Never mind,” he said. “I’d better go. I don’t want them going rusty.”
“No, I suppose not,” Bert said. But Vincent was already out the shed door, letting it slam shut behind him.
“Dammit,” Vincent said. The rain was heavier now, and he’d forgotten his cap. He half turned back to the shed. But if he went back in now, they’d all stare at him and wonder what he was up to. And once he was back in the dry, he wouldn’t want to go out again.
He sighed. Rain trickled down inside his collar. Oh well, he thought, I can’t get much wetter.
He hunched his shoulders against the rain and trudged off across the empty quarry floor. I must stand out like a sore thumb, he thought. He glanced furtively toward the site office, wondered if Burrows was watching from the window. Would Burrows believe his reasons for being out in the pouring rain at dinner time? No. But maybe he wouldn’t be watching. Maybe the foreman would be eating his dinner, sitting comfortably with his feet stretched out toward his paraffin heater. Maybe.
“If I lose this blooming job…” Vincent grumbled to himself. Then what? What would he do? He paused and ran a hand over his face, wiped the rain from his nose. He was almost there. He could see the half-finished slab where he’d hidden his tools: his club hammer and bolster. At the time, he’d thought it was a clever idea, a good reason to nip out on his own. Now it seemed like a feeble excuse. But it was too late to back out. He had to go on.
His heart beat faster as he strode toward the slab. Quickly he crouched and reached underneath. His tools were safe and dry. He grabbed them and stood up, holding them close against his body in case anyone was watching. Then he made a show of casting around as if searching for something, while edging toward the scrubby patch of bushes where he’d first looked for Bob.
>
This was it. “What the hell am I doing?” he said. He took a deep breath and slipped in among the dripping greenery. At least now he was hidden. And if anyone asks, he thought, I’ll say I was caught short—who would argue with that?
It didn’t take him long to find the place to start climbing. He remembered the way easily, and he could see where his boots had scraped away the loose covering of soil from the steep steps. Only yesterday he’d guided and cajoled Bob to the bottom. Since then, he’d thought about little else. The mysterious slab of dark stone had even slipped into his dreams. Now he knew what he had to do. He had to know what’d happened to Bob, he had to see that dark stone again, take a proper look at it. He had to know. What other choice did he have?
“No choice,” he muttered. He put the club hammer into his left hand with the bolster, gripped them tightly together, and with his right hand free he started to climb.
The steps were wet and slippery, but Vincent was determined. Soon he was at the ledge, breathing hard with the effort—and with worry.
Had he taken too long already? Had anyone wondered where he’d got to? It didn’t matter. This was his best chance, maybe his only chance to have a proper look at the stone.
And there it was—the small bank of earth that had hidden Bob as he lay quivering and helpless. Vincent swallowed. What if he ended up the same way? The thought stirred the pit of his stomach, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. No. Bob was scatterbrained, impressionable. He’d got himself overexcited then had some kind of fright and lost his head—that was all. But I’m not like that, Vincent thought. I won’t lose my nerve.
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