Breaking Ground: A Tale of Mystery and Suspense Across Time

by Mikey Campling

  “See you later, live wire—maybe.” And KFC girls were walking away. What did they care? They could take care of themselves. And anyway, it was me the old man was coming for – his arms swinging, his coat flapping, and his dog ready to tear me apart.

  The height of the fence wouldn’t save me. The dog would leap at my dangling legs, drag me down. Or the man would grab me from my precarious perch and hurl me to the ground. Jump down, I told myself, jump down and run away, you might make it, you just might get away. I looked down, judged the distance. If I landed wrong, if I slipped, if I twisted my ankle. Just do it. If you stay here you’ve had it. I held my breath, took my weight on my arms. And that’s when it happened. I felt my right hand slip, felt the burning in my left shoulder as my body twisted, felt my weight drop away from under me. My arms flailed as I grabbed for the fence. I felt the wood against my fingers, felt my nails scrabble against it, and felt it slip past my fingertips. It was no good. The world lurched, and I was falling. Falling backward. Falling into the quarry.

  I saw my feet sailing up against the sky, saw my hands outstretched into thin air, and saw the fence gliding away from me in silent slow motion. And then I hit the ground. I landed awkwardly; my right shoulder took the full force of the impact, my back slammed onto the ground, knocking the breath from my lungs.

  I lay for a moment, gasped for air. Was I OK? “I’m not sure,” I said. I sat up, wincing as a piercing pain flashed through my shoulder. I held out my arms, flexed my fingers and a sharp sting arced across my right hand. The wound was long and jagged, right across the back of my hand. Blood seeped out, trickled across my skin, tracing a pattern through the dust and dirt. How did that happen? I wiped some of the blood away with my fingers. It wasn’t too bad—just a scratch. But I needed to get up, needed to get it clean. My legs were half-buried in dead leaves. I gave them a stretch, wiggled my toes; they seemed OK. I put my good hand on the ground, pushed myself forward and stood up. I brushed the leaves from my jeans.

  “I’m all right,” I said, then felt ridiculous. No one cared. “I’m all right,” I repeated, louder, just to hear the words. Had the KFC girls gone? “Hey!” I called out. “What’s going on?”

  This time I got a response, although I had to strain to hear it.

  “Live wire? You loser!”

  “I don’t believe it, he’s gone in.”

  “What’d he do that for?”

  “No way—he fell in. I told you, he hasn’t got the bottle.”

  “Listen, live wire, we got to go now.”

  “Yeah, but I’d stay right there if I was you. That old guy catches you—he’ll set his dog on you.”

  “That’s right. He’ll chew you up proper.”

  Their voices were fading rapidly now.

  “See you later, live wire.”

  “Watch out for the bogeyman.”

  “Yeah, and get a plastic bag—to put your fingers in.”

  Their whoops and cackles dwindled into the distance.

  “Wait,” I said. “Come back. Help me out of here.” But I didn’t shout it. There was no point. I stood, looked at the sheer height of the fence. There was something wrong. Something…No. Why hadn’t I noticed before? Why hadn’t I looked? I went right up to the fence, stretched my arms up as high as I could. My shoulder burned, but my fingers were nowhere near the top edge. It was obvious—the drop was farther on this side of the fence—much farther. There was no way I could climb out.

  I felt in my pocket for my phone. But who would I call? Mum was out for the day, and Dad was miles away. The fire service? The police? I was trespassing. Breaking the law. The KFC girls certainly weren’t going to help me—they’d gone. “I’m so glad you’ve had your fun,” I said.

  I banged my fists against the fence in frustration. No one was going to help me. I was trapped, and if I was ever going to get out of there, I’d have to find the way myself.

  TRESPASS CHAPTER 2

  3500 BC

  WAECCAN WAS OLD—unnaturally so, some said. He slept an old man’s fitful sleep, riddled with disconnected dreams, muddled with distant memories. But tonight it is not his dreams that disturb him, but something real—something alive, something close.

  Waeccan snapped awake, lurched upright, called out into the darkness. “Who’s there? Father? Is it you?”

  No answer.

  Waeccan shivered. What had woken him? What had he heard? He shook his head to rouse himself, dispel the confusion of waking. It didn’t help. He was drained, couldn’t think properly, hadn’t been able to for days—not since…

  His father’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “No, my son. Don’t think of that. Don’t let fear steal your thoughts.”

  “No, Father.” But he had heard something. Something nearby. Whispering or rustling, like someone wading through dead leaves.

  “Hold your breath, Waeccan, listen.”

  Silence. If he could hear it again, he could identify it. An animal perhaps; the pounce of a night hunter, the scrabbling of its prey. He’d often heard these sounds on nights as still as this. So why was he so afraid?

  The answer pushed itself to the front of Waeccan’s weary mind—it was him; the stranger, the intruder, the sinister interloper who’d slipped secretly into Waeccan’s world. It was no use denying it. Waeccan shuddered. Who was the intruder, and why had he come to torment him? Waeccan did not know, but one thing he had discovered—the intruder was inhumanly stealthy. He could easily have crept close, could even have stolen into his hut as he slept. Waeccan rubbed his eyes, scanned anxiously for any sign of trespass. Moonlight shone through the hut’s doorway, threw mischievous shadows onto the stone walls. There was nothing out of place. But that proved nothing, gave no comfort. What should he do?

  “Father? Father, I…”

  “Shh, Waeccan. Listen again. Close your eyes. Focus your senses, as I taught you. Listen.”

  Waeccan tried. Despite his fear he closed his eyes, let his breathing slow and allowed the ambience of his familiar world to wash over him, flow through him. There was nothing. All was as it should be. Waeccan opened his eyes. Whatever had woken him was no longer nearby. Or so he hoped.

  Waeccan shuffled around on his bedding, turned to face the doorway. As he moved, his glance fell on his father’s bed. He didn’t like to look at it; its emptiness saddened him, even though it had been empty for more years than he could remember. He looked away, peered through the doorway and into the darkness outside.

  “Better not to dwell on it,” he muttered to himself. Otherwise the lonely seasons would stretch out in his mind, become an endless succession of desolate winters.

  “At least I have your words, Father,” he said. “For when I need you the most.”

  “It is my gift to you, Waeccan, my bequest from the Shade World.”

  “Thank you, Father.” And Waeccan was grateful. It went some way to make up for his loss. “Father,” he said, then hesitated. He’d learned that Cleofan’s Shade came and went of its own free will. It gave advice when it wanted to, but he couldn’t command it, he couldn’t question it too closely. Waeccan pursed his lips. He needed help. He would take the chance. “Father, someone has come here—an intruder. I do not know who or why. I know he hides. I know he watches me. But I don’t know what to do.”

  A silence. Waeccan hung his head, certain that Cleofan’s Shade had gone. But then, from close by, he heard his father’s voice again.

  “A villager?”

  Waeccan thought for a moment. “I can’t be certain. I don’t think so. They fear this place. They won’t come here after dark. But I feel the intruder has been here all day.”

  “Yes, the villagers are ruled by their foolish fears. But fear can move men in strange ways—it can bring suspicion, even violence.”

  Waeccan swallowed, dry mouthed. This wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear. “He is a threat?”

  “Perhaps. But remember, my son, they need you, they need your skills.”

  Waeccan nodded, unconvi
nced. “Yes, Father.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Waeccan forced himself to concentrate, to order his muddled memories. “All day long I’ve had the feeling someone was there. Little things. A twig snapping. A bird’s warning call. And I was almost certain I was being watched.” He paused. So far, it was an unimpressive tale. He hurried on. “But then…I saw him.”

  “Tell me.”

  Waeccan spoke quickly now, relieved that Cleofan was listening. He told his father how it had been evening, the end of a hard day’s work. He’d been tending his fire, intent on coaxing the smouldering bundle of twigs into a flame. But the wood had been damp. It had steamed and spat but would not light. He’d added more from his precious supply of dry tinder, and blown gently, gently. At last he’d been rewarded with a lick of flame. He’d stood quickly, coughing from the smoke and damp air. He’d needed more dry wood, immediately. He’d rushed to the nearby hawthorn bush. It was old and dense—a good source of dry kindling. But as he’d stooped, parted the branches, he’d seen it. A pair of eyes—wild, staring at him, the face hidden in shadows. A dark figure. A boy—no, a young man, crouched with the poise and stillness of a hunter. A hunter watching his prey.

  Waeccan had called out, trying to hide the fear in his voice. “Who are you? What are you doing there?” For a moment, the figure had frozen, alarmed at having been discovered. And then he had gone. Slipped away, almost silently. Waeccan had called after him, more out of frustration than hope of success. “What do you want? Why do you hide like a coward? Show yourself if you are a man.” But the interloper had vanished. And Waeccan had hung his head, his eyes stinging with tears.

  Waeccan finished his account, took a deep breath and waited. Cleofan’s response was a long time coming, but when it did it was unusually stern and commanding.

  “Waeccan, outsiders must not learn our secret.”

  “No. Of course not, Father. But…but what shall I do? How can I stop him?”

  “You will do what is needed, whatever the cost. Do you understand?”

  Waeccan was taken aback. He’d never known his father to sound so angry. He nodded dumbly. “But Father…he is young and strong; I am old. I cannot fight him. So how can I stop him, Father? How?”

  He waited. But there was no answer. “Father? I need…” But it was no use. Cleofan’s shade had gone. And there was no way of knowing when it would return, if ever. Cleofan sometimes stayed away for many days. In those long silences, Waeccan always feared his father had forsaken him forever, his grief like an old wound that would not heal.

  Waeccan sighed. What would he do without his father? Even tonight, as he’d woken, he had called out to him. When there’d been no reply, he’d been confused. In his dream, he’d been young again, working at Cleofan’s side. Now Waeccan tried to recall the dream, to cling to its simple happiness. When he’d been a boy, his father had always been nearby, watching over him, passing on his knowledge and his skills. The memory of Cleofan’s proud smile warmed Waeccan for a moment. But then the damp night air needled his aching joints. It would not let him forget his fears. He was an old man—old and alone, isolated and vulnerable.

  Waeccan sat, hunch-shouldered, and stared apprehensively out through the doorway. It started to rain, a fine drizzle lit by the predawn gloom. He could see very little. He shivered. Under his breath he cursed his tired and aging eyes. He would have to go out soon, attend to his duties. And what would he find? Would the intruder be out there somewhere, watching? It seemed inevitable. But what would he do about it? What could he do? His ordeal, though bad enough, had hardly begun.

  Waeccan thought of his father’s words, muttered them to himself: “Outsiders must not learn our secret…do what is needed…whatever the cost…whatever the cost.” He looked at his gnarled hands, clenched them into fists. His father was right. Of course he was. This outsider threatened the purpose, the core of Waeccan’s existence. It would be right to drive him away, fight him and even to kill him. After all, the intruder could not be one of the villagers. Even if they’d overcome their fear of the place, no one had time to lurk among the trees day after day. It was beyond all reason. Waeccan would have to deal with him. And he would have to do it on his own.

  It would’ve been different, Waeccan thought, if I’d taken a wife, raised a strong son to protect me. But no. He snorted in contempt. Don’t be a fool, he thought. You’ve made your choices, accepted your responsibilities. Now the sky grows lighter, and you have duties to perform.

  Waeccan rose unsteadily to his feet. Whatever the day brought he would face it, just as he always had, with the help of the Shades. He would not fail them, would not fail the memory of his father. He must make haste. It was time to prepare.

  He stooped to pass through the doorway, then straightened his back to survey his realm. Its familiarity gave him a little confidence. This place was his world, his territory. Here he could practise his unique skills. Again Waeccan reminded himself of Cleofan’s words: They need you, they need your skills. He walked to the nearest rock face, reached out, laid his hand reverently against its pale, glistening surface, spoke to it.

  “I am the only one, aren’t I?” he said. “The only one you’ll allow. You wouldn’t stand for the foolish village folk, with their fearful fireside stories, trying to scrape away at you with their deer antlers. How they fear you. They only come here when they need my help. They don’t know how I coax you into good stone blocks, straight and true. And they don’t want to find out. They only know that our stone makes fine, sturdy huts that will outlast them. They wonder how I stand this place, when it is you that has tolerated me all these years. I am your servant, and you are my protector, my Shades’ Stone, my Sceadu Stan.”

  The cool touch of the rock soothed Waeccan. He felt its strength flowing into him, trickling through his fingertips. The Shades were on his side. They would bring back the peace he needed for his work. The intruder was just a man—nothing more. He would be dealt with. Everything would be as it was meant to be. Waeccan allowed himself a grim smile. How strange it was that he, whose name meant watcher, had become the one who was watched.

  TRESPASS CHAPTER 3

  2010

  I LEANED MY BACK against the fence and kicked at the dead leaves around my feet, then wished I hadn’t. The leaves were mixed with decomposing litter and filthy plastic bags, ankle-deep, piled against the fence by the wind. It smelt like a wheelie bin on a hot day. I wrinkled my nose. At least the leaves must’ve broken my fall, but what had scratched my hand? I looked back to the patch of disturbed leaves that showed where I’d landed—and gasped. There, just to one side—a jagged row of thin metal rods thrust upwards, the rusting skeleton of some metal contraption. The remains of corroded wheels stuck up into the air. It was upside down, but had once been a supermarket trolley. I rubbed my injured hand. The trolley was probably to blame. But if I’d fallen just a little farther to the right, I’d have landed on top of it…I shuddered, tried not to picture the metal tearing my flesh. “I told you,” I said. “I knew there’d be a supermarket trolley.” But this time I couldn’t smile at my own joke.

  I looked up to the top of the fence. I couldn’t climb over because I couldn’t reach the top. I had to find something to stand on. I went over to the trolley. Parts of it were rusted through completely, but at least it was already next to the fence. I pushed my foot against the trolley’s side. It didn’t move. I pressed my right foot onto it, to see if it would take my weight. It bent, but only a little. Carefully, I stepped up onto what had once been its underside—first my right foot, then my left. The trolley settled a little into the soft ground, but it seemed OK. I leaned forward against the fence, stretched my fingers toward the top, balanced on the tips of my toes. Almost there. If I could just…

  “I know you’re in there!” It was the old man, roaring at the top of his voice. “I know what you’re up to, my lad. I’ll call the police.”

  I thought he’d gone, given up. But no, here he was, hammering
against the fence. His dog barked, snarled ferociously. Startled, I pushed myself backward, away from the fence. I felt the rusted trolley give beneath me, heard it creak. I swayed. My fingers scraped the surface of the fence, found nothing to hold on to. It was fall, again, or jump. I jumped.

  I bent my knees, landed in a crouch. At last a gym lesson had come in useful. I breathed a sigh of relief. But the dog was still barking, the old man still yelling, “I can hear you! It’s no good hiding in there.” He pounded something against the fence. I guessed he was hitting it with his walking stick, and I had a horrible picture of him doing the same to me: lashing out, beating me down.

  “I know you can hear me,” he bawled. “Why don’t you just clear off?”

  I stood, leaned back against the fence. It was solid, strong. What could the old man do? Nothing. That’s why he was so angry. But I was getting fed up of his shouting at me. I’d had a tough day, and it wasn’t getting any better. I had a wicked thought.

  “Why don’t you clear off?” I shouted back. He stopped shouting. I giggled, picturing his face. His silence didn’t last long.

  “Right. That’s it,” he said. He wasn’t shouting now, but he sounded very determined. “You stay right there, my lad. I’m calling the police.” He whistled for his dog, which finally stopped barking, and they were off. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was safe—for the moment. But if he really was going to call the police, and I didn’t doubt it, then I’d better get out of there.