Vincent squared his shoulders and crossed the ledge to the bank. There it was—the dark slab. It was even more perfect than he remembered. Around the bank were the stones that Bob had moved to uncover it. The shape of the bank reminded Vincent of a grave. Maybe Bob had convinced himself he’d seen a ghost. Vincent smiled and shook his head. He didn’t hold with such daft ideas. But if the slab was a tombstone then there ought to be an inscription somewhere. Vincent bent over the bank, grunted as he saw what a poor effort Bob had made at clearing away the smaller stones. Bob had concentrated on clearing the centre of the top surface. Soil still clung to the edges where it formed a lip, held the rainwater in a shallow, muddy layer across the slab’s surface.
Vincent placed his club hammer on the grass by his feet and used his bolster to scrape away some soil from the nearest edge. The muddy water began to trickle away, and Vincent searched for any sign of an inscription. He frowned. There was nothing—no trace of a carving, no clue as to who had put the slab there, or why. Vincent used the bolster to scrape away more soil. He worked quickly and methodically. By heck, the stone was smooth. He could feel it, even through the heavy bolster and despite the gritty, grimy rainwater. This stone was expertly finished. No—more than that—it was polished to perfection. And then, as the rain spattered against the muddy surface, he caught a glimpse of the stone’s true colour, and gasped. He’d thought the stone was black, but now he saw how wrong he’d been.
“Now, that stone,” he said under his breath, “did not come from this quarry.” Vincent knew his craft. He’d heard of different sorts of quartz and gemstones, but this was too dark, too translucent, too pure. Vincent ran his hands over the cool stone and gave a low whistle. It must be worth a fortune. Perhaps poor Bob had thought he’d struck lucky for once and got overexcited. But that didn’t make much sense. Even if the quarry’s owner, Mr. Matthews, didn’t know the stone was there, it was still on his property. The thing wasn’t just there for the taking. And anyway, how could it be moved from such a high ledge? Vincent sighed. The stone was amazing, but it solved nothing, explained nothing.
“Come on, you lot! Time to get a move on. You don’t mind a bit of rain, do you?” It was Burrows. Even from this distance there was no mistaking the foreman’s arrogant yell. Vincent jumped up in alarm. “Oh no,” he muttered. “What the hell am I playing at?” He rushed across to the edge of ledge. He could see right across the quarry floor. There was the toolshed, and there was someone sheltering under a black umbrella. It had to be Burrows. But who was that standing next to him? As Vincent watched, the figures turned in his direction, and he recognised the second man. It was John. What has he up to now? To Vincent’s horror, John raised his arm, pointed directly toward the ledge. Vincent ducked down into a crouch, scrambled away from the edge.
“Dammit!” he hissed.
He had to get back down. But the stone—he needed to see it properly, he needed to understand it. What could he do?
No, he thought. That’s just stupid. But he was going to do it anyway. He seized the club hammer from the ground with his right hand, and with his left placed the bolster ready on the slab’s corner. He was going to take a piece of it with him. He paused with the hammer on top of the bolster, feeling its balance, then swiftly, surely, in one practised motion, Vincent raised the hammer and brought it down hard.
CHAPTER 51
3500 BC
BURLIC DREAMED. It was night, and he was lying in a clearing in a forest. He was resting after a hunt. All was well. Then silently, without warning, dozens of dark demons appeared, sneaking from the shadows, creeping toward him, hissing and snickering. But Burlic couldn’t move, couldn’t cry for help. Soon they surrounded him, crept toward him, closer and closer. He could smell their stinking breath. And then they began to wail, a horrifying drone of despair. They lifted their arms toward him, reaching out with long white fingers of bone, touching him, piercing his body. They wanted his Shade, they wanted to rip it from him, and there was nothing he could do to stop them.
Suddenly the demons fell silent. This is the end, Burlic thought. But now the demons began to murmur, a hoarse, croaking, rasping whisper of just one word. Burlic’s flesh crawled. They were saying his name. Over and over they chanted it, calling him, leading him away. They wanted him to be with them, to become one of them. And they would never stop, never leave him alone. He had to go with them; he had no choice. He was lost, defeated. And they knew. Somehow they knew they had won. They hissed his name, surged forward in a seething mass of darkness and despair. It was over.
Burlic screwed his eyes shut tight and thought of Scymrian, thought of her waiting for him. No, he thought. Not like this. And now his eyes were open. A demon leaned over him, its face close to his. Burlic grabbed it by the throat, wrapped his hands around its scrawny neck and squeezed with all his strength, choking its foul whispering, crushing the breath from…from…from Waeccan. What was he doing?
Fully awake now, Burlic released his grip. Waeccan sat back heavily, gasping, coughing as the breath rasped in his throat, his eyes wide in terror, his face a vivid red. Burlic rolled over, pushed himself up onto all fours. His head swam. He closed his eyes briefly then crawled toward Waeccan. He forced himself to speak, his voice thick: “Old man—Waeccan—are you all right? I…I didn’t know…I thought…” He could think of nothing more to say. He looked for a sign that Waeccan understood. But the old man still struggled for breath. He couldn’t speak, but his eyes no longer showed fear– only pain.
Burlic crawled closer to Waeccan and crouched in front of him. He placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder. The effort of every breath shook Waeccan’s fragile frame. Burlic had been in enough fights to know what to say: “Slowly, Waeccan, let the breath do its work; it will come to you, slowly.” And gradually, it worked. Waeccan’s chest rose and fell more steadily, the blood-red colour faded from his face. Waeccan closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath then looked Burlic in the eye. It hurt to speak, but there was something he had to say: “Thank you, Burlic.”
Burlic lowered his eyes, took his hand from Waeccan’s shoulder. “I cannot explain,” he mumbled. “I haven’t the words, I –”
But Waeccan interrupted him, his voice growing stronger. “Whatever has happened to you…has happened to no other man. What you have seen has been seen by no other man—not by me, nor by my father. There is no one who can explain it, no one who can understand it. No one. You were chosen and you alone.”
Burlic sat back on his haunches, then slowly, keeping his eyes on Waeccan, he stood. “Chosen? Why do you say that? I have not been chosen for anything. What do you mean?”
But Waeccan just gave a knowing nod. He raised his arms, gestured for Burlic to help him up. “Come, help me to my feet,” he said. “We’ll go by the fire. The night is cold, and we must talk more.”
But the younger man did not move. “No,” he said. “You’re wrong.”
Waeccan looked up at Burlic, saw the grim determination in his eyes, in the line of his mouth. He tried a gentler tone: “Burlic, I’m sorry you don’t see it. To my mind, it’s as clear as water.”
“What is it I don’t see?” he snapped. “I may not be wise, but I see you clearly enough. I see an old man who meddles with things that should be left well alone. And you want me to help you? Well, I will not.”
Waeccan paused. He’s frightened, he thought, afraid of the unknown. He shook his head. “It’s true that I ask the Shades for guidance,” he said. “And it’s true that I have long wished for someone to help me in my work. But it is not I who has chosen you, it is the Darkeningstone.”
Burlic looked from the old man to the stone and back again. “The stone?” he said.
“Yes,” Waeccan replied. “The Darkeningstone has shown its true power to you, and to you alone. The duty to continue in my place must fall to you, and to you alone.”
Burlic took a step backward. “No,” he said. “You’re trying to trick me.”
Waeccan smiled
. “No. I’m telling you the truth. I have dedicated my life to the Darkeningstone, and now it is your turn. It is your path to stay here and learn its mysteries, for as long as you live.”
Burlic took another step back, shook his head. “As long as I live?” he said. “What are you talking about?” Burlic scanned the edge of the ledge. There it was—he marked the place where the stairway began. Just a few steps more, and he could get away before it was too late, before he was trapped.
Waeccan struggled to his feet. “There is no choice, Burlic,” he said. “This is your destiny, your duty. It is a great honour.”
But Burlic wasn’t listening. “Stay back, old man,” he said. “Don’t come any nearer.” He took two more steps away from Waeccan. Almost there. He could go, back to the village, back to his own kind. He had a wife; she needed him.
“Burlic?” Waeccan said. “What’s the matter?”
But Burlic was almost at the stairway. This is it, he thought. This is my chance. He wouldn’t listen to Waeccan, he wouldn’t be caught up in his madness. He’d run. Now.
Burlic turned and hurled himself onto the stairway. He crashed downwards, half falling, half scrambling, slipping, scraping legs and arms against the sharp edges of the steps. And then he was at the bottom and running. He ran like a hunted deer, racing, leaping, springing through the trees. He didn’t falter, didn’t look back, only watched from the corner of wild eyes to see the Shades flitting alongside him. He ran until the dreadful pit was far behind him. By sunrise, he would be home.
Waeccan hung his head and sighed. After a moment, he collected up his sacred instruments and rolled them carefully in their piece of deerskin. Then he shuffled to the fire and, with difficulty, sat down. He put the roll of deerskin on the ground and tossed a small piece of wood onto the smouldering embers. He’d almost run out of wood now. The fire won’t last the night, he thought. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all. He lay down and closed his eyes. “This is the end,” he mumbled. “The end of many things.”
CHAPTER 52
2010
I COUGHED. After the dash up to the ledge, the cigarette smoke burned my throat and scoured my lungs. Matt spluttered. We looked each other in the eye, poker-faced. I’m not going to be first to admit defeat, I thought. But Matt probably felt the same. Then, at exactly the same moment, we burst out laughing. Matt threw his cigarette onto the grass by his feet and squashed it under his heel. I quickly copied him. It was good to be back on the same wavelength. No secrets—for a while at least.
“So,” Matt asked, “smoking—what’s all that about then?”
“God knows,” I laughed. “Do people really do that every day?”
Matt grinned. The double act was definitely back in action. “Yeah,” he replied, “but the thing you’ve got to remember about cigarettes is, they’re just a nipple substitute.”
“If you think that,” I said. “You must’ve been going out with the wrong kind of girl.”
Matt had a glint in his eye. “That might explain why their bras always catch fire,” he said.
I suppressed a laugh. “Either that, or you’re moving too fast.”
Matt chuckled. “Is that fact or friction?” he said, and we both cracked up laughing. Fantastic. A real belly laugh. I didn’t want it to stop, even when my sides started aching. But after a while, we had to draw breath.
Matt wiped his eyes and gave me a friendly punch on the arm. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s have a look around.” He jumped to his feet. I was still giggling as Matt wandered along the ledge. Then suddenly he stopped, stood stock still. There was a pause, then he said, “Hey, what’re these? Are they yours?”
I stopped giggling. What had he seen? I rubbed a tear away from the corner of my eye. Did he mean the stone platform? Then why did he say “these”? I jumped up. I was suddenly very serious. “What do you mean?” I said. Had someone else been up on the ledge—the Brewers perhaps? I went to Matt’s side.
He was by the platform, but that wasn’t what had caught his attention. He had something in his hands. “These,” he said. He held them out to show me, and asked again, “Are they yours?”
In his right hand, he was holding a large hammer. It looked like a miniature version of a sledgehammer. In his left hand he had some kind of heavy, broad chisel.
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “They’re not mine. Where did you find them?”
Matt pointed to the platform. “Just there,” he said. “They were just lying on the top.” He handed me the hammer. “Here,” he said. I took it. It was very heavy, very solid, very real. There was no way I could’ve missed seeing it the last time I was there. Someone must’ve been there in the meantime. Cally? Her college friends? I turned the hammer over in my hands. It seemed old-fashioned somehow, like the rusty old tools at car-boot sales. But this one certainly wasn’t rusty. It was well-worn, but it gleamed. It was smooth, almost polished. The chisel Matt held was in the same condition.
Without thinking I said, “They weren’t here the other day.”
Matt looked sharply at me. He frowned. “Are you sure?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “I had a pretty good look around. I’m sure.”
“So someone’s definitely been up here,” he said. He nodded grimly. “They’ll come back for these.”
“Maybe,” I said. I took a deep breath. “There was…someone here.”
Matt shot me a look. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. You know, on like a field trip or something.”
“You’re blushing,” he said.
“No. I’m not. It’s the cigarette—made me a bit red.”
“Bloody hell,” Matt said. “It was a girl, wasn’t it? You’ve been in here with a girl.”
“Well…sort of,” I said. “I wasn’t exactly…”
Matt grabbed my sleeve. “Was it Imogen?” he said. “No, she’s way out of your league. Was it Sarah? Was it, erm, who was it? Come on. Tell me.”
I shook my head and smiled. “Sarah?” I said. “Give me some credit.”
“I’ll give you slap in a minute if you don’t tell me who it was.”
“All right,” I said. “But it isn’t anyone you know, and it wasn’t like that. I didn’t bring her in here—I met her in here.”
“What?” Matt said.
“She’s older than us—she’s in the sixth form somewhere. A bunch of them were in here with some students doing some kind of dig, and she got lost. I tried to help.”
“A sixth former, eh! Wow. What was she like? Was she nice?”
I shook my head. “No, not nice,” I said. Then, as Matt’s face fell I said, “She was gorgeous.”
“Aw, man,” Matt said. “What happened?”
“Well, she…I don’t know really. We were getting on really well, and then…”
“Go on,” Matt said.
“She just sort of…disappeared.”
Matt stood back, looked me in the eye. “Are you winding me up?” he said.
“No,” I said. “She was right here. I talked to her for ages.”
“What was her name then?” Matt said.
“Cally” I said. “Short for Callisto—like the moon.”
Matt pulled a face. “Callisto?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Oh,” Matt said. “Shame.”
“What is?” I said.
“I thought maybe these were her initials,” he said. He turned the chisel to show me the handle. Clearly stamped into the metal were three letters. “Check the hammer,” he said. Sure enough, the same letters were neatly carved into the hammer’s wooden handle. “Hey, maybe we can find this girl,” Matt said. “All we need to work out is what they stand for.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But what has the initials VCC?”
CHAPTER 53
1939
THE PAIN RIPS THROUGH Vincent’s hands. It slashes the skin from his fingers, tears the flesh from his arms. It seethes through his body, shrieks into his mind and slices
into his heart. The whole world is white-hot.
The explosion throws him backward. He thumps into the ground, flat on his back, but he doesn’t feel the impact. He lies in the wet grass, his eyes wide open, dazzled. For a second, he is stock still, then his chest shakes, and his breath returns, shallow and far too fast. The pain soaks away into the cold ground. The colour returns to the leaves that sway and drip above him.
Vincent groaned. Slowly, he lifted his hands to see his wounds. The scorched skin will be blackened and blistering. But no. Nothing—not a mark on him. He blinked, turned his hands around, flexed his fingers. They didn’t even hurt. Thank god for that, he thought.
He forced himself to take a deeper breath. “Come on, lad,” he said. “Get yourself up.” He rolled onto his side. His arms shook as he pushed his body from the ground. Slowly he stood and brushed himself down. He was wet through and muddy, but apart from that he was all right. “What the bloody hell…?” he said. He looked toward the stone slab and shook his head. He’d get no answers there. Whatever happened, he thought, I’m still in one piece—that’s the main thing. Now, he had to get out of there and get back down to the quarry before they came looking for him. He was a bit wobbly, but that wouldn’t show, would it? He looked a mess, but he could explain that, say he slipped in the mud. “Now then,” he muttered. “Where have I dropped my tools?” He scanned the ground, turned around and tried to picture where they might have landed. “Dammit. Where are they?”
It was useless. He couldn’t see them anywhere. But what could he do about it now? His mind whirled. He felt giddy, light headed. He gritted his teeth. “Think,” he said. He ran a hand over his face. Maybe it didn’t matter. Easier to get new tools than a new job. And in a way, losing the tools made sense. He’d told everyone he’d lost them, and now he really had. It all tied in. He wouldn’t even have to lie about it. He just had to dash back down, then he could walk out across the quarry with his head held high.
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