Trespass

by Michael Campling

  Sceldon looked around the group, studying the men’s faces. He opened his mouth to speak, but Tostig didn’t give him the chance.

  “Three men should be enough,” Tostig said.

  All eyes turned to Tostig. What? Hafoc thought. First he’s against the plan and now he wants to take charge?

  Most of the men stood impassive but a few frowned or shook their heads in disbelief. Tostig ignored them. He stood tall and held his head high. “So I need two of you to come with me. Sceort? Flyta?”

  Sceort and Flyta looked at each other. “Of course,” Sceort said.

  Flyta shouldered his bow. “I’m ready.”

  “And me,” Hafoc said. “I’m ready too.”

  Tostig threw him a look of pure malice. “I said men,” he growled. “Not boys who are more trouble than they’re worth.” He took a step toward Hafoc.

  Hafoc stood his ground. “I was man enough not to be scared of your stories about the Wandrian,” he said.

  Tostig’s nostrils flared. His hand went to his knife.

  I’ve pushed him too far, Hafoc thought. But he couldn’t back down now. “Brond is my kin,” he said. “I have a right to know what’s happened—”

  “Tostig,” Sceldon interrupted. “You will lead the scouting party. Sceort, Flyta, you will go with him. Hafoc…” Sceldon paused and looked Hafoc in the eye, and then he spoke slowly, as if he was loath to let each word pass his lips. “You will go with them. But I expect you to do exactly what Tostig tells you. Do you understand?”

  Tostig set his lips in a firm line, but his nostrils flared and a flash of anger danced in his eyes.

  Hafoc nodded. “I won’t let you down, Sceldon.”

  Tostig took a deep breath. “Hafoc, you will stay at the back of the group. You will do exactly what you’re told—nothing less, nothing more.”

  “Yes, Tostig,” Hafoc said. “I understand.”

  “That’s good,” Sceldon added. “But, Hafoc, if you’re a danger to yourself or to the group, Tostig will tie you to a tree and leave you behind. He can collect you on the way back.”

  Tostig flashed Hafoc a cruel smile. “Good idea. Sceort, fetch a rope.”

  Hafoc studied their faces. If they were just teasing him, it didn’t show. I’ve got to stand up for myself now, or they’ll leave me behind as soon as they can. But if he argued with Sceldon, he’d just get himself into trouble. There had to be a way to make himself useful, to prove he was good enough to go with the scouting party. His mind raced. The older men were better hunters than him, but they were set in their ways. He was better than them at using his wits. But he had to come up with something quickly.

  Hafoc looked around the camp, and once more, Nelda’s restless pacing drew his attention. But this time, it gave him an idea. Yes. It would work. But he’d have to be careful how he explained it to the others. “Tostig,” he said, “do you think it would be a good idea to bring Nelda?”

  Tostig looked doubtful. “Why would I need a dog? This isn’t a deer hunt.”

  “I know that,” Hafoc said. “But she always seems to know where Brond is—maybe she could help us to find him.”

  Tostig shook his head. “A dog is just a dog,” he said. “She might know his voice but she doesn’t understand. She hasn’t the wit of a man.” He looked down at Nelda for a moment, then back at Hafoc. “Bring her anyway. She’ll warn us of danger.” He turned away. “Let’s get ready,” he said. “Gather everything you need but don’t bring too much. We’ll travel fast.”

  Hafoc smiled to himself. At least he listened to me. It was a start. But now he mustn’t make the others wait. He checked and adjusted his quiver, running his fingers over the shafts of his arrows and making sure the leather held them tight so they wouldn’t rattle against each other as he walked. Good. He had plenty of arrows. And his knife was secure in its sheath. He ran his hand over the soft deerskin pouch he wore at his waist, making sure he could feel the precious spare bowstring curled up within. He lifted his flask on the strap that ran diagonally across his body. It was half-empty, but it would have to do. I could do with a drink now, he thought. And then he realised something: I haven’t eaten since dawn. He turned to look for the rest of the scouting party. Tostig was talking to his wife and Flyta stood waiting nearby. But at least Sceort was nowhere to be seen yet. This is my only chance. Hafoc darted to the fireside and pulled a handful of meat from the carcass. He crammed the lukewarm meat into his mouth and chewed as fast as he could, while helping himself to another couple of handfuls. One was for him to eat as they set off, the other handful could be traded for a little loyalty.

  “Nelda,” he called. “Come here.”

  The dog padded toward him, eyeing the carcass by the fire warily. Going too close to tribe’s meat was a quick way to get a good beating. But Hafoc was leading her away from the fire and he was holding something out to her.

  “Come on, Nelda,” he coaxed. “Come to me.” Again he held the meat out. Nelda sidled up to him, sniffing the air. She licked her lips and nose. She was confused. This man was not her master, but the meat smelled very good. She watched him carefully, studied his face. And then, to her surprise, the boy threw the meat onto the ground in front of her. She snatched it up and swallowed it before any of the other dogs could see it.

  “Good girl, Nelda,” Hafoc said. “Come on. You might get some more.” He waved a second handful of meat and walked away. Nelda followed.

  As Hafoc walked toward Tostig, he put the second handful of meat into his mouth and chewed.

  “Are you ready?” Tostig said.

  Hafoc’s mouth was too full of meat to speak properly. He nodded and hoped he didn’t look too foolish.

  Tostig glared at him. “Do you want to stay here and eat with the other children?”

  Hafoc held Tostig’s hostile gaze. He was ready, wasn’t he? What did he have to do to get Tostig to take him seriously? He chewed furiously, and forced himself to swallow his food so he could explain himself. But he was still searching for something to say when Sceort marched up and stood at Tostig’s side. He looked Hafoc up and down and frowned.

  “Where have you been?” Hafoc asked. “We’ve been waiting.”

  Sceort gave him a cold look. “To get this, of course,” he said. “For you.” He held out his hand, and showed them a length of coiled rope.

  “Very good,” Tostig said. “Now we’re ready. Let’s go.” And he turned and led the way into the forest, with Sceort and Flyta close behind him.

  Hafoc took a last look at the camp and then he also turned away, walking quickly to catch up with the others. “Come on, Nelda,” he said. And Nelda pricked up her ears and followed the scouting party into the darkness.

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  Afterword

  The Ending

  Lots of people love the ending of Trespass. Some don’t. I hope that the epilogue gives a more rounded feel to the book, but Jake’s story was always conceived of as a trilogy, and it’s very hard to tell you anything more about his fate without ruining the next book. I really hope that you enjoyed the ending, and any feeling of disappointment is just because you want to know what happened next. I worked very hard at the ending, and I wanted to make it as good as it could possibly be. I’ve tied things up as much as I could in the epilogue, but it would cheat every reader if I gave too much away and spoiled the rest of the trilogy.

  Jake

  Above all else I wanted Jake to be realistic. The problem with Jake for some readers is that in thrillers, boys called Jake tend to be heroes. If I’d written a generic thriller, I’d probably have sold more books, but that wasn’t the story I wanted to tell. So while there are elements of the thriller genre in the Neolithic plotlines, Jake’s story is more literary in nature. And whil
e other elements of the book delve into historical fantasy, Jake’s story is more contemporary. To me, Jake is just a teenage kid struggling with growing up, and that’s something we can all recognise. We meet him at a time when he’s finding it hard to come to terms with the separation of his parents, and he feels disconnected from the world. Despite his troubles, he shows a certain amount of determination and courage in revisiting the quarry on more than one occasion. He even has the nerve to ask Cally out, which considering the fact that she is older than him and very attractive, shows a certain bravado.

  It’s worth remembering that the infamous Brewers and their henchmen are not just schoolyard bullies. They are budding members of a criminal underclass: vicious thugs who would stop at nothing to protect their turf. It would have been extremely unrealistic for Jake to have tried standing up to these characters.

  In summary, if we look beneath the surface of Jake’s character, we can see the adult that he will become, as well as the child that he once was. And if that doesn’t describe the mindset of an adolescent young man, then I don’t know what does. Jake’s character grows and develops over the course of the trilogy, and he’s very different in the subsequent books.

  Cally

  Some readers demand to know what happened to Cally. I hadn’t anticipated that Cally would be such a popular character, though it’s gratifying that readers have shown such an interest in her. The simple truth is that Cally is a minor character in this book, and I didn’t feel that padding out her plot would add any significant value to the reader.

  In Trespass, Cally plays an important part and then returns to her own time. For Cally’s fans, please be assured that Cally is a major character in the next two Darkeningstone novels, with complete plotlines that give full rein to her character.

  The Tools

  You may be wondering how Waeccan’s father, Cleofan, managed get his hands on Vincent’s tools.

  I hate to disappoint you, but that detail won’t be revealed until later. Don’t worry though, you’ll understand when you read the third Darkeningstone novel, Scaderstone.

  The Shades

  You may be wondering whether the Shades are real characters within the context of the story.

  I’d like to leave it to you to decide how much you want to believe in them, but I do strongly suggest in the text that most of Waeccan’s visions exist solely in his imagination. When the stone is active, the Neolithic people interpret it as confirmation of their deeply held beliefs.

  Scaderstone

  In case you’re wondering, Scaderstone is an entirely fictional place. I’ve always imagined it to be in the North of England, and some aspects of the place are inspired by the town in North Yorkshire where I grew up: Pickering. There is certainly an abandoned quarry there, and although it is much smaller than the one in Scaderstone, it borders a playing field, it has been used as an illegal dumping ground, and most importantly, it does have a ledge.

  If you’d like to see it, there’s a video on my YouTube channel and you can also watch the video on my blog at: mikeycampling.com.

  The Neolithic Names

  The names of the Neolithic characters are based on Old English.

  Although the Neolithic period predates Old English, the Neolithic people must have spoken some form of language and it seems reasonable that Old English must contain traces of its earlier roots. There are of course no written records of Neolithic language, so I chose Old English and stuck to it.

  Themes

  The theme of fathers and sons often appears in my work, and it is particularly prevalent in this novel. Waeccan is deeply affected by the memory of his domineering father, and he yearns for someone to take the place of a son. Jake is finding it hard to come to terms with the absence of his father. Burlic does not have our modern sensibilities, but nevertheless he is deeply moved by the birth of his son and utterly distraught when he believes that his son will die. There’s even a fatherly bond between Vincent and his hapless assistant Bob.

  Perhaps this is something I feel keenly because I am a father myself, but I think that I also wanted to pay tribute to my own father who died some time ago. Dad, like Vincent, was caught up in the Second World War, and he belonged to that stoical generation who lived their lives and carried out their duties without complaints.

  I still miss him, and this book is dedicated to his memory.

  Anything else?

  If there’s anything else you’d like to know, you can always get in touch with me and I’ll do my best to answer your questions.

  My social media links and a contact form are on my blog at: mikeycampling.com/contact

  Further Reading

  Trespass is very much a work of fiction, but if you’re keen to learn more about the background, 3500 BC is the Middle Neolithic Period in Britain. People have been settling down and farming for about 500 years. They trade in stone axes and build causeways and long barrows. They will have to wait a thousand years to use metal. Well, most of them will.

  If you’d like to know more about the fascinating Neolithic Period, I recommend Britain BC by Francis Pryor, published by Harper Perennial. Also, Britain Begins by Barry Cunliffe, published by Oxford University Press. For a look at stone buildings from the period, seek out information on Skara Brae - Orkney’s finest Neolithic settlement. If you’d like to get an idea of the clothes people wore, I’ve put together a piece on my blog: mikeycampling.com/what-did-neolithic-people-wear/

  I hope those sources are useful.

  Kind Regards,

  Michael Campling

  Also by Michael Campling

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  About the Author

  I know it’s traditional to write these things in the third person, but tradition can be a crutch, so here I am, writing to you, making it up as I go along, which is not just my job, but also the way I live my life! I confess, I’ve never been much of a planner, as you’ll see from this potted summary of my chequered career.

  I have been a computer programmer, a website builder, a full-time dad, and a primary school teacher, and those last two roles are the ones that fill me with the greatest pride. Bringing up our two children was the most wonderful, fulfilling, challenging, and exhausting thing I’ve ever done. Our son and daughter are both adults now and away at university, but as all parents know, the job never ends (and we wouldn’t have it any other way).

  After parenthood, teaching came a close second in the fulfillment stakes. As a lifelong bibliophile, my particular interest was in encouraging children to love books, especially through reading stories aloud. I have no training in drama, but I poured as muc
h emotion into those readings as I could, including funny voices, accents, and even rude noises. The children always seemed to enjoy my readings, and my proudest moment was when the parents of a boy with a learning difficulty told me that their son had finally switched on to stories and was begging for books at home for the first time in his young life.

  Today, I write stories with the same kind of commitment that I gave to those youngsters. My books are my babies, and I love them to pieces even when they’re being awkward and refusing to go along with my preconceived ideas. I work hard to build characters that readers can believe in, and to craft plots that people can sink their teeth into. My style is vivid but never flowery; every word has to pack a punch or out it goes. My stories tend to be complex and often contain more than one point of view. I also hope that they are thought-provoking, atmospheric and grounded in real life.

  I’ve always read widely, and my work spans many genres, but all my books have one thing in common: respect for the reader. My approach is summed up by the idea that amateurs strive until they get it right; professionals strive until they can’t get it wrong.

  I’m known to friends as Mikey, so if you’ve read this far, go ahead and drop the formality. My books are listed on michaelcampling.com, but my blog (and scintillating newsletter) are run from mikeycampling.com where you can sign up for my readers’ group, which is called The Awkward Squad, and I’ll send you free books and stories, plus a newsletter that’s actually worth reading. Here’s the only link you’ll need:

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  Copyright 2013, 2015, 2017 Michael Campling

  Previously published as Trespass: The Darkeningstone, 2013 and Trespass: A Tale of Mystery and Suspense Across Time, 2015

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact the copyright holder via mikeycampling.com