by S J Howland
S. J. Howland
First published in 2019 by Silverwick Press
Cover by Cakamura Designs
Copyright © S. J. Howland 2019
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN 978-1-9161662-1-9
The Haven Series
"I knew you'd be able to see. Most people can't, you know. They're so convinced by what they believe must be true that they go blindly through their entire lives, with the truth literally under their noses."
The old stories - the myths and legends - had a purpose. They were told to pass on information and warnings about our world, its inhabitants and the great forces of good and evil that sweep across history. Today, most of this lore is forgotten, and the remnants are nothing but amusing tales for children.
Xander King doesn’t believe in fairy tales. He prefers rational explanations, keeping his head down and trying to avoid the inevitable comparisons with his genius mother. The last thing he expects is to have his life turned upside down by an encounter with a mysterious stone tablet, challenging his entire view of reality, and catapulting him into the parallel world of Haven.
The Traveller's Stone is the first book in this five-part series, where Xander begins to learn the truth hidden in the ancient stories and discovers that he is not so ordinary after all. As the forces of darkness begin to rise once more, blurring the boundaries between Haven and his own world, Xander must recover the old knowledge of how to combat an ancient enemy while seeking the truth of his own heritage.
for Tom, who always had faith,
with all my love and gratitude
Chapter One
The events which change lives, forever dividing time into before and after, seldom announce themselves, line up gently or offer the choice to decline. That would probably be easier. No one had asked Alexander King whether he wanted to be thrust into a reality where shadows did not remain tamely in their places, but instead massed into terrifying ranks to pursue him, or where the laws of physics could apparently be suspended at will. There was not a single hint when he woke up to warn him this would be the last morning of his former life.
It had begun in the usual way. He had breakfast alone perched on a corner of the cluttered kitchen table, with odd thuds and muffled exclamations coming from his mother upstairs as she got dressed for work, and the morning hum of London traffic outside. The only indications that today might be any different were the jeans and shabby green jumper he was wearing, even though it was a Friday in term time. He had almost finished his first piece of toast when he heard a plaintive call from over the banisters.
‘Have you seen my bag, Xander? I know I brought it upstairs last night –’
Xander didn’t even bother to roll his eyes.
‘No, you didn’t, Mum. It’s here in the kitchen,’ he called back.
At the age of fourteen, Xander had come to the reluctant conclusion he had grown older than his mother in most relevant ways. Not that she was stupid; Xander knew – because many people had told him – she was a genius. She had been one of the youngest people ever to achieve a triple-doctorate and her work was apparently re-writing the textbooks on geophysics. It was just a shame she couldn’t always be trusted to put her shoes on the right feet.
‘Oh, thank goodness.’
Mrs King dashed down the stairs and snatched up her bulging satchel with a sigh of relief. Xander’s mother was thin because she often forgot to eat unless someone, usually Xander, reminded her and her crinkly brown hair was tied back in an untidy knot, with a pair of sunglasses holding her over-grown fringe off her face. Mrs King saw Xander glance quizzically at her head and then out of the window at the grey sky and steady drizzle.
‘I couldn’t find any hair clips,’ she explained.
‘Cunning,’ said Xander, straight-faced and then looked more closely at her. ‘Mum, your cardigan is on inside out.’
‘Is it really?’ Mrs King poured a glass of orange juice, glancing vaguely down at her clothes. ‘I’ll probably be a bit late back. Did you hear about the seismic activity last night?’
Only his mother, Xander reflected, would assume that everyone else followed each random convulsion of the earth’s surface.
‘We’ll be pretty busy – I mean, this activity is extraordinary. The last significant activity in that area was over ten thousand years ago –’
Xander paid little attention as his mother rattled on; he knew more than most normal people would ever want to about seismic activity already. Finally, she glanced at her watch and said, in what she obviously assumed would be reassurance, ‘Don’t worry, I put something for your supper in the fridge.’
Xander just shrugged. He was under no illusions that whatever she thought he could eat for dinner would be either edible or advisable.
‘It’s all right, Mum. I’ll be fine.’
This vague assurance seemed to satisfy Mrs King, and she put down her orange juice, having forgotten to drink any, and headed towards the door.
‘Breakfast,’ said Xander firmly, pressing a piece of toast into her hand. His mother took it with a smile and then spotted his clothes for the first time.
‘You have school today, don’t you?’ she asked, looking rather confused.
Xander glanced down at his jumper.
‘Yeah, but we’ve got a trip. I told you last night.’
‘Oh yes, I remember,’ Mrs King said, blinking. ‘Do you need any money?’
‘You already gave me some,’ Xander reminded her.
‘Good.’ She crammed the piece of toast in her mouth and then bent to kiss him. ‘See you later, then. Have a good day.’
‘You too,’ said Xander, brushing toast crumbs from his forehead.
Just as his mother opened the front door, Xander heard her say, ‘Morning. I’m just off.’
Xander leaned forward so he could see into the hallway.
‘Mum, your top’s still –’
The front door banged. A moment later a stout woman in a voluminous blue apron rolled into the kitchen, carrying a tub of cleaning paraphernalia and a huge handbag. She beamed at Xander.
‘Was your mother wearing her cardigan –’
‘Inside out? Yeah.’ Xander shrugged. ‘You know Mum. It’s not like anyone at work will notice – they probably all wear them like that.’
‘And the sunglasses?’
‘Don’t ask.’
Xander got up and put his plate in the dishwasher. His thick brown hair fell into his eyes as he leant down and he shoved it back. Although it annoyed him sometimes, he preferred not to cut his hair shorter; it was useful to hide behind. Xander was used to disappointing people’s inevitable expectations of him, since they always presumed that he would have inherited his mother’s academic brilliance. He was tall for his age, which drew enough unnecessary attention, but it was something his mother told him he had inherited from his father. Xander thought this was grossly unfair. He would have preferred to get at least some of her genius, rather than just large feet and a gangly build.
The stout lady was now rummaging in the depths of her handbag, although she glanced up when Xander began wiping up toast crumbs.
> ‘Don’t you worry yourself about that,’ she said, emerging brandishing a large plastic tub. ‘Here you are. Stick this in your bag. You said last week you had your trip to the museum today, so I made you a wee box of fudge.’
Xander’s face lit up.
‘Awesome. Thanks, Mrs Mac,’ he said, pulling off the lid and stuffing one of the generous chunks into his mouth. ‘This is amazing,’ he said thickly.
Mrs MacLeod was the best cook Xander knew, although admittedly his field of comparison was rather narrow; his mother felt anything that was not actively black and smoking was a culinary success.
Mrs MacLeod just winked at him, then reached once more into her bag and brought out a squashy lump wrapped in cling film, which Xander knew would be a large egg sandwich to eat with her cup of tea at eleven o’clock. She took it over to the fridge and opened the door, then stood and stared, clucking her tongue in exasperation. Xander had a good idea of the cause but walked over to confirm his suspicions.
A plate sat in the middle of the mostly empty fridge, with a scrap of paper on which was scribbled ‘Xander – supper’. On the plate were two green peppers, a small lump of parmesan cheese and a can of baked beans. Even by his mother’s standards, this was fairly bizarre.
Mrs MacLeod shook her head in disbelief.
‘Your mother may be a genius in volcanoes or whatever, but in everyday life she ought to have a keeper. Green peppers and baked beans indeed.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Xander. ‘I have loads of takeout menus.’ He was on first-name terms with most of the delivery drivers.
Mrs MacLeod put her sandwich in the fridge next to Xander’s plate and shut the door. Something seemed to occur to her, and she reached for her bag again.
‘Do you have enough money for that?’ she asked, pulling out her purse.
Mrs MacLeod had been cleaning for the King family for the last five years and during that time she had adopted a maternal attitude towards Xander, on the basis that someone ought to. It was Mrs Mac who had rectified the situation when Xander’s mother had provided him with a pack of girls’ blouses instead of white school shirts, and she again who had come to many of Xander’s junior school plays and concerts.
‘Masses,’ said Xander. ‘It’s okay. I’ll be fine.’
Mrs MacLeod touched his cheek affectionately. ‘I know you will, laddie,’ she said. ‘But you’re going to be late if you don’t get moving.’
A glance at the clock told Xander that she was right. He stuffed one more piece of fudge into his mouth before shoving the box into his schoolbag.
‘Bye, Mrs Mac. See you next week,’ he called over his shoulder as he headed for the door. ‘Thanks again for the fudge.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ she called back. ‘You take care now.’
Xander waved a hand in acknowledgement before he banged the front door behind him.
*
Three hours later, shuffling at the back of a straggling line of his fellow victims, Xander wondered whether you could actually die of boredom. There are some people who are born to teach: effortlessly holding their students’ attention, they inspire, amuse and inform. Unfortunately for the pupils of Park School, Adrian Tubner was not one of those people. His voice, both nasal and droning, had long since cleared the upper gallery of the British Museum of all but the hearing impaired. Xander had stopped listening some time ago, but he knew there was little chance of being caught out – part of Mr Tubner’s charm as a teacher was that he didn’t appear to care whether his pupils were actually taught.
Finally, the only words Xander had been listening for percolated through the fuzzy haze in his head.
‘Onwards, class, onwards.’
All morning, that phrase had preceded entering a different area of the museum, all of which had appeared promising until Mr Tubner managed to reduce it to the sum of its dullest parts. Xander wondered vaguely whether there was a guidebook he had missed at the entrance, ‘The British Museum for the Terminally Boring’.
‘D’you think if I gnawed off my own leg, he’d let me off for lunch?’
Xander grinned sideways at Will Nicholson, his best friend and fellow-sufferer, and shook his head.
‘Better not risk it. I bet he knows lots of boring facts about losing a limb – you’d bleed to death before he actually let you leave.’
Will grimaced in response.
‘Have you got any of that fudge left?’ he queried hopefully, but Xander shook his head.
‘Nah, we finished it while he was talking about 9th century glazing techniques, remember?’
Both of them winced in memory of that half hour.
The long string of boys passed once more through the central atrium, a great circular space in the heart of the museum where soaring stone walls rose to an intricate glass roof. Xander lagged behind, enjoying the brief respite from Mr Tubner’s monotonous voice. He glanced around idly and found his gaze following a tall, white-haired man who strode through the hall, weaving through the crowds, a huge black dog padding at his heels. A dog had never been possible in their rented accommodation, but Xander had always wanted one and this big black animal with its plumy tail was very close to his ideal. Xander watched it with longing and he nudged Will to draw his attention.
‘Look at that dog.’
Will looked over reluctantly. He had been eying the cakes in the cafe area with an almost palpable yearning. ‘What dog?’ he asked, giving a cursory glance around before turning back to the double-chocolate muffins.
Xander twisted around to follow the dog with his eyes as they crossed the atrium. It did not appear to be a guide-dog but he realised that none of the museum staff were paying any attention to it, even though it didn’t have a lead, nor even a collar as far as Xander could tell. The tall man paused a moment, staring at something just out of Xander’s view and it struck him that this man did not seem as if he needed a guide-dog of any description. He radiated alertness and tension, and appeared to be listening intently to something.
As if drawn by Xander’s wistful gaze, the dog suddenly looked around; its stare hit Xander like a blow. Its eyes were not brown, as he had expected, but pale, shining and filled with intelligence. They evaluated him for several seconds before the dog turned and followed the man off into the crowd. Xander let out a breath he had not known he was holding.
‘Wow,’ he breathed, and then was struck by the silence in his vicinity. Glancing around, he realised that he was standing alone and hurried to catch up with Will and the other stragglers who were passing through a large archway to the cool marble halls where the Egyptology section lay. Will was glowering now he had been removed from the food and Xander heard him muttering darkly under his breath, but the only words he could make out were ‘carrot cake’.
Xander himself looked around with interest. Several years before, his mother was invited to a conference in Cairo and had decided that he could come. She had described with great enthusiasm the myths and monuments of the ancient civilisation by the Nile and he was fascinated. Of course, as usual, something had come up and the trip was cancelled. Xander remembered this without bitterness, despite his disappointment at the time; he was used to constantly changing plans. However, his interest in all things Egyptian had remained.
His first thought on entering the echoing hall was how incongruous it seemed, these vast and ancient pieces of stone standing under fluorescent lights, thousands of miles and centuries away from where they began.
He leaned closer to what looked like a giant stone bathtub and looked at the neatly carved hieroglyphs on the side, wishing he knew what they meant. Some seemed so sharp in relief, while others were more worn and Xander began to notice many repetitions of the same symbols.
With a quick, guilty glance around, he reached out in defiance of all the signs and brushed his finger over a hieroglyph depicting a man sitting at a desk, then onto the vivid image of a bird.
‘What’re you doing?’
Will’s grumpy voice made Xand
er jump, and jerk his hand away.
‘Nothing,’ Xander shrugged. ‘Just wondering what they mean.’
‘Hmph,’ said Will, prodding the base of the stone with his shoe. Despite his lanky build – Mrs MacLeod called him a ‘string bean’ – Will was one of those people who needed regular feeding to maintain a pleasant disposition. Xander was well aware his friend’s mood was veering rapidly from bad to completely foul. It appeared that the close encounter with the cakes in the atrium had pushed him over the edge.
Gazing around for something to distract Will from his stomach, Xander spotted some large stone tablets displayed on the wall, protected by thick sheets of perspex. He shot a quick look over at Mr Tubner, who was gesturing ponderously towards a tall marble statue, quite oblivious to the pained looks he was inducing in innocent members of the public.
‘Let’s dump Tubbers for a bit,’ suggested Xander. ‘He’ll never know, he’s busy butchering perfectly good history. Some of this stuff is actually quite interesting.’
Will growled something that Xander took for agreement and, with another quick glance over at his teacher, Xander walked over to examine the stones on display. He wandered down the row of exhibits, reading the labels mounted on the wall next to each one. The last tablet was cracked, with the top left portion missing, but the clarity of the carved symbols on it belied the damage the stone had suffered. According to the sign, it was found in one of the smaller tombs in the Valley of the Kings, but experts could not decipher the hieroglyphs on it.
Xander leant closer to examine the symbols; they did seem subtly different to the others he had seen. All of a sudden, like an electrical current run briefly through a light filament, several of the symbols glittered. It happened so quickly that Xander wondered if he had imagined it and he reached out to touch the perspex over the hieroglyphs.
His fingers passed straight through the glass as if it didn’t exist and pressed against cold stone. Instantly, the symbols blazed into white light and his stomach was wrenched sideways. Xander yelped and yanked his hand back, then stared around in bewilderment to see if anyone else had seen, but no one was looking. When he turned back to the stone it was once more dormant behind its perspex protection. Xander stared at his fingers in confusion, but they didn’t look or feel any different.