Trespass

by Michael Campling

  The tribe were gathered around the fire and every head was turned in Hafoc’s direction. Most of the tribe were squatting on the ground, though three men stood, their bows in their hands. They stared at Hafoc for a moment and then their eyes went to the darkening forest behind him. For a heartbeat, Hafoc wondered what they were looking at. And then he found out. The shove sent him staggering forward, his arms flailing for balance. He caught himself, just in time and whirled around, his hand on his knife. Brond faced him, a satisfied smirk on his face.

  Hafoc jutted his chin forward. He pictured his knife ripping across Brond’s throat, could almost feel the spray of hot blood against his skin. But Brond was bigger, stronger, and faster. And they both knew it. Hafoc took his hand away from his knife and stood up straight. He looked Brond in the eye. “I knew you were there,” he said.

  “Ha,” Brond sneered. “I think not, little brother.”

  Hafoc wanted to say that he’d heard something, that he knew someone was behind him ages ago, but what was the point? His brother would just ask him why he hadn’t done anything about it. Instead, Hafoc pulled a face and looked down. And there was Nelda, sitting by Brond’s side and watching Hafoc with her mouth open and her tongue hanging out. She looked as though she was sharing the joke. I should’ve known, Hafoc thought. Wherever his brother went, Nelda was never far from his side. Treacherous dog. He’d know better than to trust her next time.

  Hafoc fought the urge to walk away. If he turned his back on Brond now, he was asking for another shove. He tilted his head to one side and looked up at Brond. Is that it? Have you finished making a fool of me?

  Brond shifted his weight and stood tall. “You broke from the other hunters. You went off alone. Now, you return late and with nothing to show for it.”

  Hafoc nodded. It would be a waste of breath to argue. Better to accept the insults and get it over with.

  “Do you have nothing to say?”

  Hafoc shook his head, but that wasn’t good enough for Brond, who stepped closer. “Well you’d better think of something, before I beat it out of you.”

  Hafoc sighed unhappily. “I was tracking a deer. I wanted to do it on my own. But, it got too late, it was too dark to see the trail. I…I thought I’d better come home.”

  Brond snorted in disgust. “No. We tracked a deer. We worked together. We brought it home. You—you wandered away. You could have been killed, or worse, you could have brought danger to our home.”

  Hafoc hung his head. It was all true. He should’ve known better. But why did Brond always have to make him feel so small?

  “You never learn,” Brond said. “You won’t do what you’re told. If our father were alive he would be ashamed of—”

  “No!” Hafoc yelled. He glared at Brond. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you ever—” In his rage, he didn’t see the punch coming. The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, the wind knocked from his chest. Brond stood over him and put his foot on Hafoc’s right arm, pressing down hard.

  Hafoc’s mind burned with the need to draw his knife, but its sheath was angled diagonally across his chest. The knife was easy to draw with his right hand, but much harder with his left. But it wasn’t impossible. Hafoc dropped his bow and his fingers scrabbled for the knife’s handle.

  Brond snarled and pressed his foot harder onto Hafoc’s arm, twisting it to grind the bones against the hard ground. A flash of white pain burst in Hafoc’s mind and he cried out.

  Brond bent over him and slapped him across the face. “Be quiet,” he barked. “Do you want to tell the Wandrian where we are?”

  Hafoc glared up at him. He gritted his teeth against the pain. “There’s no such thing,” he hissed.

  Brond took his foot from Hafoc’s arm. He bent down and, grabbing the front of Hafoc’s tunic with both hands, he shook his brother. Brond’s face was a mask of cold fury. “You fool,” he spat. “They’d take you without a thought. They’d rip out your heart with their bare hands.”

  Hafoc blinked rapidly. He couldn’t help but picture the Wandrian: a savage people who killed men, women and children without mercy and ate their victims’ flesh to steal away their spirits. The Wandrian crept silently through the forest, their skin covered with strange patterns to help them blend into the shadows. They had stalked Hafoc’s dreams since he’d been old enough to sit and listen to tales at the fireside.

  “And you say there’s no such thing,” Brond sneered. “You. A man who gives up a trail because he’s afraid of the dark. You’re no better than a child.”

  “No,” Hafoc shouted. “I was not afraid. It was too dark to track anything.” He put his hands on Brond’s arms and tried to push himself away but it was useless.

  “Afraid,” Brond spat. “Afraid of the spirits. Afraid that the stories our mother told you will come true.”

  Hafoc said nothing. He did not trust himself to speak. He screwed his eyes tight shut, and felt the hot tears of anger and frustration building up inside him.

  “No,” he whispered. “Not afraid.”

  “Brond!”

  Brond looked up. On the other side of the fire, Sceldon was standing, his arms folded across his chest. “That’s enough,” he said.

  Brond hesitated, then, giving his brother a look of pure contempt, he let go of his tunic.

  “Brond, if you’re so unafraid,” Sceldon said, “you’ll go into the forest to get more firewood.”

  Brond snorted. “I fear nothing.” For a moment, he glared at Sceldon, but then he dropped his gaze. “I’ll get the wood.” He cast a glance at Hafoc then turned away and strode toward the edge of the clearing.

  Hafoc sat up, rubbing his shoulder. He was sick of being treated like this. Who did Brond think he was? He wasn’t his father. He’d never take their father’s place. Brond was nothing more than a bully. Hafoc shook his head in frustration. And a malicious thought came into his head. “Brond,” he called. “You forgot your talisman.”

  “What?” Brond spun on his heel, clutching at his chest, his eyes wide in horror.

  Hafoc laughed. It was a childish trick but Brond was stupid enough to be taken in by it. “My mistake,” he said. “It looks like you’ve got it after all.”

  Brond growled, his hand going slowly toward the flint knife at his belt.

  Hafoc didn’t see Sceldon moving toward him, but suddenly the older man stood above him. Sceldon grabbed Hafoc’s tunic with both hands and hoisted him to his feet. Hafoc twisted his face away, preparing himself.

  Sceldon’s voice was a low growl. “When will you learn? In our tribe, we show respect for our elders.”

  Hafoc closed his eyes. He’d gone too far and now he’d pay for it. He sniffed, tried to stop his bottom lip from trembling.

  “Ha,” Brond said. “Look at him—snivelling. Don’t waste your time, Sceldon. I’ll deal with him later. For now, I’ll go and get the wood.”

  “Yes,” Sceldon said. He let go of Hafoc’s tunic and took a step back.

  Hafoc opened his eyes and gave Sceldon a guarded look. Was that it? Had he been punished enough? Sceldon smiled. Hafoc smiled back. “I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect.”

  Sceldon shook his head. “Yes you did.” Sceldon’s smile vanished, replaced with a mask of stony condemnation. Slowly, he raised a fist in front of Hafoc’s face. “And that is why you must be punished.”

  Hafoc wanted to run. He wanted to hide. But that wasn’t their way. He took a breath and looked Sceldon in the eye as steadily as he could. The blow to the side of his face was powerful enough to knock him off his feet. He sat down heavily on his backside, his ears ringing. His hand went to his jaw.

  “Let this be a lesson to you, Hafoc,” Sceldon said.

  Hafoc nodded sadly. He ran his tongue around his mouth and tasted blood.

  Sceldon turned and walked back to his place by the fire. “Now eat,” he said as he sat down. “And in the morning, you’ll be the first out of camp and you’ll fetch water for the whole tribe.”

  Hafoc
stood up and shuffled over to the fire, thinking how long it would take him to fill everyone’s flasks in the morning. Still, it could be worse. He’d seen Sceldon dole out much harsher punishments. The tribe had watched all this with interest, but now it was forgotten as they returned to the more important business of eating. No one took any notice of Hafoc as he sat down by the fire. He rubbed his jaw. It would be tender for a while, but it wouldn’t stop him from eating. Sceldon had judged the blow well. A year ago, Sceldon would’ve hit him only with the flat of his hand. Hafoc longed to be treated as a man, but he hadn’t realised it would hurt so much.

  He reached forward for a piece of meat from the deer carcass that lay on the ground by the fire. The meat smelled good. Of course, he’d missed all the best bits, but at least it was still warm. His stomach churned and his mouth watered as he tore a hunk of the dark flesh from the bones. But as he raised the meat to his open mouth, he froze.

  A savage scream tore into the still night air, and every head in the tribe turned as one. Meat was dropped to the ground as swift hands reached for weapons. The dogs barked and snarled, their hackles raised. Men leaped to their feet, turning their heads to search the darkness for the threat. And many of the tribe cast anxious glances at Hafoc. Yes. The look in their eyes confirmed what Hafoc already knew. The scream they’d heard could only be from one person.

  Brond.

  CHAPTER 2

  FOR A WHILE, ON THAT FIRST NIGHT ON THE HILLTOP, I just sat on the damp grass next to the black stone, hugging my knees to my chest, staring out into the darkness.

  I wish I could tell you that a hundred thoughts and ideas were whirling around my head. I wish I could tell you that I was already coming up with a plan and springing into action. But the truth is, my mind was empty, my body drained. Whatever had happened to me on the stone, it had left me utterly exhausted. All I really knew was that I was alone. Lost. Disconnected.

  Eventually, the first pale-grey shades of sunlight seeped into the sky and I took a few slow, steadying breaths and watched the sunrise. “That’s east,” I murmured. At last I’d found something I could cling on to, and it gave me some comfort.

  Slowly, I pushed myself up to my feet and stood, half-heartedly stretching my back, rubbing my arms to get some life into my cramped muscles. The hilltop where I stood was the highest point for miles around and I looked out across the landscape, searching for a landmark, hoping to see something I could get a fix on. But there was nothing—just an endless forest stretching in every direction. I rubbed my hands across my face. This can’t be right. But I had to accept what I was seeing. It didn’t make any sense, but what could I do about it? “Think,” I whispered. “You’ve got to think of something.” I closed my eyes and a whirl of muddled memories and disjointed thoughts flooded through my mind: the glint of Robbo’s knife as he’d walked toward me; the tall fence that should’ve kept me out of the quarry; Matt’s frightened face as we’d cowered up on the ledge; the strange old man I’d imagined when I’d made contact with the stone slab.

  My eyes flew open. The stone. I turned to face it. The black rock towered above me, glittering darkly in the pale dawn light. It was made from the same dark stone I’d fallen against in the old quarry, and its length and width were the same, but the slab in the quarry had only been half a metre high. This stone was at least two metres tall. There was no way it could be same stone. And anyway, how could it have moved from a ledge partway up a sheer, rocky slope, to the top of a green hill?

  I ran my hands through my hair. None of this makes any sense. But I couldn’t just stand there staring. I had to do something. I let my eyes roam over the stone’s sparkling surface and suddenly my stomach was hollow. “You must’ve brought me here,” I muttered. “You can bloody well take me back.” I knew exactly what I had to do.

  I reached up to the top of the stone and curled my fingers over the sharp edge, pressing my fingertips down onto the smooth surface to get a grip. But just as I tensed my arm muscles to pull myself up onto the stone, I hesitated. When I’d fallen onto the stone in the quarry, I’d banged my head against it, but that didn’t explain the pain I’d felt. It had been almost unbearable; a savage, icy burn, ripping through me, tearing me apart. What if it’s just as bad this time? What if it’s worse? I took a sharp breath. If it means I can go home, I’ve got to try it.

  I pressed my fingers harder against the stone and hauled myself up with my arms. I was tired, weak, and my arms wobbled as I pulled myself up. “Come on,” I hissed. And then I was there, level with the top. Another pull and I was sliding my chest over the edge. I leaned forward and lay flat on the stone, dragging my legs up behind me. “Yes.”

  I sat up and rubbed my palms together. “Now what?” I laid my palms flat against the stone and ran my hands over its smooth, cold surface. It gleamed in the early morning sunlight and a tingle of anticipation ran up my spine. Beautiful. I recalled the first time I’d seen the stone slab in the quarry and I thought of Cally; her beautiful smile, the mischievous glint in her eye when she’d shown me the black stone. It seemed a lifetime ago, but it had only been the day before yesterday, hadn’t it? I shook my head. Ordinary things like days of the week didn’t matter right now. All I cared about was getting home.

  “OK,” I said. “Let’s get it over with.” Gently, I lowered myself down onto my front, watching the stone carefully all the time. Back in the quarry, I’d seen strange reflections; flashes of blue light that seemed to come from within the stone. Now, there was nothing—just a flat slab of pure black, solid rock. I closed my eyes and rested my forehead on the cool stone. It felt good and I realised my head had been hurting for a while. A dull, throbbing ache had crept over my scalp and settled around my tired eyes. I sighed and longed for a tall glass of ice-cold water and the cool comfort of fresh cotton sheets on my bed at home. And I waited.

  Soon, the press of the cold stone against my forehead wasn’t a relief anymore, but a painful pressure. “It’s not working,” I said. “Why isn’t it working?” I opened my eyes and rolled over to lie on my side. I must be doing something wrong. What exactly had happened back in the quarry? I’d backed away when Robbo threatened me and then I’d fallen onto the stone by accident. I was lying on my back. Perhaps that was the key. I lay down on my back, but that wasn’t quite right. In the quarry, I’d curled up into a ball to protect myself. “Worth a try,” I muttered. I curled up and hugged my legs against my chest. I closed my eyes tight and thought of home, of seeing Mum and Dad, of meeting up with Matt, my best friend. I thought of my house, my bedroom, the street where we lived. “Please,” I whispered. “Please, I just want to go home.”

  And nothing happened. Hot tears stung at the corners of my eyes and I screwed my eyes shut tighter. I swallowed hard. “Please,” I said, my voice hoarse and unsteady. “Please. Please, please, please, please. I…” But I didn’t know what to say. What was I going to do—promise to be a good boy from now on?

  I shook my head. It’s not working. And of course it wasn’t. I’d no idea how the stone worked, or if it worked at all. I bit my lip and thought again of my family and my friends. But they couldn’t help me now. There was no one to rely on, no one to turn to. I was on my own. If I wanted to get home, I’d have to do something about it.

  I opened my eyes and pushed myself up to my feet. I wiped my eyes with the backs of my hands and looked out at the acres of countryside surrounding me on every side. There were no signs of civilisation, but there had to be someone out there. The nearest town was probably just hidden in the dip of a valley or tucked away behind a hill. And there would be a road to follow, or a signpost, or at the very least, some sort of path through the trees. There had to be something. It wasn’t like I was in the middle of a tropical rainforest or a jungle. It looked like England. The gently rolling hills, the forest—it all seemed familiar; a picture postcard view of the English countryside. And the weather was right too. The early morning air was cool and fresh despite the almost cloudless sky. It felt like Eng
land. And in England you couldn’t go far without seeing a farm or a village or a road. There had to be something useful nearby; some clue as to where I was.

  I turned my head and scanned the horizon, letting my eyes follow the almost unbroken line of dense woodland. I chewed the inside of my cheek, and for a moment, I pictured the vast woodlands in other countries. There were forests in America and Canada that covered countless acres, weren’t there? I pushed the thought away.

  “England,” I muttered. “I’m still in England.” After all, I’d seen no evidence I was anywhere else. Don’t get carried away, I told myself. This isn’t The Wizard of Oz. I allowed myself a small smile. But even in England, people got lost in the countryside. Hardly a year went by without a news story of search parties sent out to rescue hikers who’d underestimated the demands of Snowdonia or Dartmoor. And often enough, I’d watched the TV news as they’d shown the helicopters landing, the exhausted walkers led out with blankets wrapped around their shoulders. There was always talk of exposure and dehydration.

  I nodded to myself. I was getting thirsty already. I need to find some water. Yes. Water first, and then food, and if it came to it, some shelter. I’d look after my basic needs first, and while I did that, I might even come across someone who could help me or at least tell me where I was. It was a plan.

  I looked down at the stone slab and narrowed my eyes. “Stupid bloody thing,” I whispered. It had taken me away from everything I valued, ripped me from my life, torn the heart out of my existence, and now it just sat there, impassive, as though it was a hunk of ordinary rock. I let out a snort of frustration. “This is your last chance,” I said. “Take me back home. Take me back right now or I’m going away and I’m never coming back.”