Cleofan studied his son. The boy was eleven years old. All he thought about was hunting and fishing. Soon, he’d become a man, and then he’d want to build a hut, take a wife, tend a patch of earth. No, he thought, I can’t allow that. His son was meant for greater things. And this was where he must begin. Before it was too late. Cleofan raised his hand and beckoned his son. “Come here, Waeccan,” he said.
The corners of Waeccan’s mouth turned down into a frown. Oh no, he thought, what have I done wrong this time? He’d only been playing to pass the time.
Cleofan forced a smile. “Come forward, Waeccan,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
Waeccan stood slowly and dawdled across the ledge. As he neared his father, he gave the dark stone slab a sideways look. It’s so big, he thought. Bigger even than my father. He shuddered. There was something about it he didn’t like, something that scared him. It was too flat, too straight, and too…unnatural.
“Come, Waeccan,” his father said, “kneel here, by my side.”
Waeccan swallowed and did as he was told. When he knelt down, the stone seemed even larger. He could only just see onto its flat top. He looked up to his father. What was he meant to do?
“Look, Waeccan,” his father said. He gestured to the black stone. “This is the Darkeningstone.”
“The Darker…the Darkeningstone,” Waeccan mumbled, his tongue tripping over the unfamiliar word.
Cleofan nodded. “That’s right, Waeccan. And what do you think the Darkeningstone is?”
Waeccan swallowed. “Is it…is it something to do with the Shades?”
Cleofan raised his eyebrows and nodded in approval. “Very good, Waeccan, very good.” There was hope for the boy.
Waeccan smiled nervously and looked up at his father.
But Cleofan did not return his smile. He turned back to the dark, forbidding slab of stone. ”I want you to look into the Darkeningstone,” he said. And his voice was low, an insistent whisper. “I want you to look deep into it. And I want you to tell me…tell me what you see.”
Waeccan’s eyes were wide. He’d never seen his father like this. His stomach squirmed. He quickly scanned the ledge. There was nowhere to run to, no hiding places. And anyway, his father would be furious if he did that. No, he thought. I’d better do what Father says, and just try to get it right. Waeccan narrowed his eyes and looked down onto the dark stone. And he gasped.
CHAPTER 6
3500 BC
BURLIC STOOD AT THE EDGE of the lake. He looked to his left and his right, scanning the shore, taking in the lush, green reeds that softened the line between water and solid earth. He closed his eyes for a moment and listened to the gentle shush of the reeds in the breeze. Finally, he gazed across the water and watched the sunlight flicker on the surface. His sharp eyes picked out the faint ripple from a fish dimpling the surface as it fed. He took a deep breath and released it in a long sigh. Yes, he thought, this is the place. He knelt and dipped his hands into the clear water, rubbing them together. He watched the dried blood soak away from his skin, clouding the water. He reached for the pouch at his belt and pulled out the two talismans. Carefully, he unthreaded the remains of their braided straps and dropped the scraps of leather onto the ground. The straps were not important, they held no power. He turned the talismans in the light, once again admiring their perfect roundness and the skill in their carved markings. What power did the patterns hold? What spirits were they dedicated to? Burlic sniffed. I’ll never know, he thought, but it doesn’t matter. When it came to it, they hadn’t been strong enough to protect the men who had worn them.
He took one talisman in each hand and, holding them gently, he dipped them into the water. He turned his hands over so that the talismans lay in the palms of his hands, and uncurled his fingers. He rubbed his thumbs over the talismans, until the delicate patterns were pristine.
Burlic smiled. The time was right. He rose to his feet, looked upwards and took a deep breath.
“Here at the joining place,” he called, “I bring the strength of these men.” He stretched out his arms in front of him. “These men were my enemies,” he said, “but they died bravely.” He looked back to the talismans and placed them both in his right hand. “Shades, I call on you.” He drew back his arm, and looked out across the water, picking out the right place. “I call on you,” he yelled, “to let them pass.” And in one smooth, powerful action, he hurled the talismans over the lake. The smooth discs span and whirled in an arc, catching the light, then fell, tumbling through the air. They slipped into the water at exactly the same moment. The two small splashes sparkled and were gone. Only ripples remained. And Burlic stood perfectly still and watched until the last of them had faded away.
CHAPTER 7
2007
DAD OPENED HIS HAND and smiled triumphantly.
Squatting next to him, at the edge of the hole he’d dug, I squinted at the grimy round object in his hand and wrinkled my nose. More junk. “What is it?”
Dad stared at me. “Can’t you tell? Look closer.”
Dad held the thing out toward me. All I could see was a flat disc, coated in mud. What was Dad getting so excited about? I craned my neck to examine it more closely. There. Beneath the layer of mud, there was something. “What are those marks?”
Dad rolled his eyes. “For goodness sake,” he muttered. He dipped his find back into the hole and swirled it gently through the water. When he took it out again, it was clean and clear to see. “Do you see?” he said.
The disc was corroded, but most of the original black paint remained. And there, around the edge, the white and green markings were clear to see. “Yeah,” I said. “Numbers. Is it a speedo?”
Dad looked at me and gave a heavy sigh. “No,” he said patiently. “It only goes up to nine. Look.”
“Oh yeah. What then?”
“This is the key thing. This here.” Dad tapped the disc.
“All right,” I muttered, “keep your hair on.” I looked closer. The letters were scratched and scuffed, but I could just about make them out. “A, L, T,” I said. “What’s that, the brand or something?”
Dad sighed. “Everything isn’t a logo,” he said. “It’s an abbreviation—short for ‘altitude.’ It’s an altimeter, from a plane.”
“Oh.” I smiled as the penny dropped. “Of course.” I looked at Dad. “But what’s it doing here?”
Dad tilted his head to one side. “I don’t know for sure,” he said, “but it probably crashed.”
“Wow.” A plane crash. It wasn’t the sort of thing that happened so close to home. It didn’t seem real. And yet here we were, digging up part of it.
“Here,” Dad said, “take a closer look.” He offered it to me and, gently, I took the flat metal disc from his hand. I looked down at the altimeter’s scratched face. I’d seen ones just like it in the old war films Dad liked. I pictured the luminous hands that would’ve shown the plane’s height. Had those hands spun backward as the plane plummeted toward the ground? Had the pilot bailed out? Had anyone been killed?
I looked up at Dad. “What sort of plane do you think it was?”
He shook his head. “I’ve no idea,” he said. For a moment, he looked thoughtful. “But maybe, if we have another go with the metal detector, we might find some more clues.” He grinned. “If you want to, that is.”
“Yeah,” I said, “we can’t stop now.” I handed the disc back to Dad and jumped up to my feet. Maybe we’d find something bigger next time, something really cool, like a joystick. Maybe even some bullets. I grabbed the metal detector, and slid the headphones over my ears. I flicked the power button and looked at Dad. “Let’s get started,” I said. “And next time, it’ll be my turn to dig.”
CHAPTER 8
3540 BC
WAECCAN GAZED at the dark stone slab. And as he let his eyes wander over its strange surface, he gasped. This wasn’t right. Stone was dull, solid. But this…this was different. As he watched, the stone’s surface shifted an
d stirred, grew darker. It’s like the deep, cold water of the lake, he thought, when you dive down too far. And now he understood why his father had told him to look into the stone. Suddenly, the black rock seemed to fall away before his eyes, like a dark tunnel plunging into the earth. His stomach lurched. How could this be happening? He must look away, but then, what was that? For a moment, he thought he’d seen something, something inside the stone—a speck of light, as blue as the night sky. Waeccan blinked. No. He must’ve made a mistake. He mustn’t tell Father, it would only make him angry. Waeccan kept his head down, kept his eyes on the stone. He cocked his head to one side. What was that noise? A faint hissing and crackling, like damp wood on a hot fire. Was he imagining it, or could his father hear it as well? Waeccan opened his mouth to ask, but then…there it was again—the glimmer of blue light. And another, darting across the stone, stronger, brighter. It was beautiful, like watching ripples in the river by moonlight. Waeccan smiled. Now he knew why this Darkeningstone was so special. And then it began.
The hiss rises to a roar, drowning out all other sound. It fills Waeccan’s mind. He wants to put his hands over his ears, but there’s something wrong with his fingers. He looks down at his hands. He can’t move them. They’re too cold. No. They’re frozen solid, like a carcass buried in the snow. Waeccan opens his mouth to cry out, to call to his father for help, but it’s too late. The sound catches in his throat. He can’t turn his head away, can’t move. He can only watch as the icy numbness slides its thin needles through his flesh. It creeps along his arms, spreading across his shoulders, his neck, his face. And then, suddenly, as the cold darkness overwhelms him, Waeccan can see.
The demon tears through the air, a growling nightmare rushing toward him. Waeccan cannot look away, cannot even close his eyes. And it hurts. It hurts inside his head. He can’t breathe. His chest aches, burns. But something grabs him and holds him tight, squeezing the breath from his body. And it whispers, whispers without words, and Waeccan understands. He knows the man is coming, knows this man has seen the Darkeningstone and has tried to take it for himself. This man can no longer be trusted to keep this sacred place secret. He must be stopped. And now, Waeccan’s mind has only one thought: The stone must be protected. Over and over, the words burn through his mind. He looks deep into this vision, focusing his mind upon the monstrous creature of the air, piercing it with his savage thoughts. And suddenly, it is done. The demon whines and drops from the sky, spinning and fluttering through the air like a falling leaf. Waeccan hears it slam into the ground. He feels the wash of heat over his face as the creature is consumed in flames. In a matter of moments, it is gone.
And the Darkeningstone sighs and whispers, and finally, it lets him go.
Waeccan’s young body crumpled to the ground, his lips trembling, and his eyes closed. Cleofan stared at his son in disbelief. He reached out and touched the boy’s forehead. It’s all right, he thought, he’s warm. Suddenly, Waeccan moaned, and his father drew his hand away. The boy would live. But what had he seen? Cleofan stood and gazed at the Darkeningstone. He ran his hands over his face and tried to understand. “I know,” he said. “I know what it means. He has the gift.” Cleofan smiled. His son had the gift, and the Darkeningstone had chosen him. Of course. What other explanation could there be?
And now, things would have to change. Cleofan paced the ledge. There’d be no more games with the other boys for his son now, no more hunting and fishing. He was ready, and he must begin his training right away. And it would have to be kept secret. But how? Everyone would expect Waeccan to build a hut and take a wife. They’d expect him to raise a family, to hunt and grow crops to feed his kin.
Cleofan frowned. And then he saw the answer. “We could live here,” he muttered, “here in the pit.” He strode over to Waeccan and bent over to shake his son’s shoulder.
Waeccan moaned. His eyes fluttered open. He coughed and raised a hand to rub at his temple.
“Come on, Waeccan,” his father said. “Up on your feet.”
Waeccan used his arms to push himself up off the ground. He rose shakily to his feet. “My head hurts,” he groaned.
“Never mind that,” Cleofan said. He reached out and placed his hands on Waeccan’s shoulders. “You’ve done well, very well.”
Waeccan managed a weak smile. His head wasn’t so painful now, but every time he moved, the world span and swayed. “Father, can I have a drink?”
But Cleofan shook his head. “Later,” he said. “Come on, my boy. We’ve got a hut to build.”
CHAPTER 9
1944
SOON, WING COMMANDER BUTTERWORTH was hard at work, immersed in a world of memos and standing orders. The engine droned, and time slipped away. He picked up another blurred carbon copy and scanned it. Hadn’t he read this one already? He blinked and rubbed his tired eyes. Maybe I’ll finish the rest later, he thought. He checked his watch. Good, they should be landing soon. He needed to stretch his legs.
Suddenly, Corbett twisted in his seat, straining to see out of the window. He was a big man, and as he turned in the narrow confines of the cabin, his elbow dug into Butterworth’s arm. The Wing Commander bristled. What on earth did the fellow think he was doing? “I say, Corbett,” he said. “Are you quite all right?”
But he didn’t get a reply.
Corbett craned his neck toward the window, staring down and off into the distance. He ran a hand over his face. Were his eyes playing tricks? Or was he really looking down on the place where he’d spent nineteen years of his working life? He could scarcely believe it. He’d tried not to think about it for so long.
He searched for a landmark, a fixed point that would prove him wrong. But no. There was the church spire, the ribbons of road, even the high street. There was no mistake. This was his home. And beyond the huddle of houses, spreading from the town’s side like a malignant growth, a barren stretch of pale grey rock: Scaderstone Pit.
He took a slow breath. It was all right. He’d known they’d fly close by. I just wasn’t prepared for it, he thought. It was just a shock seeing it like that. He let his eyes roam over the pale-grey scar on the landscape, the place where he’d made his living for so long. From the air, it was almost worse than a bombed-out battlefield, so utterly empty, so purposefully laid to waste. “So ugly,” he whispered, “such an eyesore.”
Wing Commander Butterworth wasn’t accustomed to being ignored. “Listen, Corbett,” he snapped, “what’s going on here?”
Corbett flinched and turned away from the window. He couldn’t look Butterworth in the eye. “I’m sorry, Sir,” he said. “I didn’t mean to…cause an upset. It won’t happen again.”
“But whatever were you staring at, man?” Butterworth demanded. “Is something wrong with the aircraft?”
Corbett’s mouth hung open. “Oh no, Sir,” he said. “Nothing like that. No. It’s just, I saw the place I used to work—the quarry. It caught me unawares. It looked so different from up here.”
Butterworth ran his fingers over his moustache, smoothing it down. “Well thank god for that,” he said. “The way you were carrying on, I thought the ruddy wing was dropping off or something.”
“Sorry, Sir. I don’t know what came over me.” He hung his head. He’d done it now.
Butterworth studied the man’s woebegone expression. And he had an idea. He half rose from his seat and tapped the pilot on the shoulder.
Startled, the pilot glanced over his instruments then reached up and pulled the flap of his flying helmet away from his left ear. He leaned back slightly, keeping one eye on the view ahead. He forced a humourless smile. This would be a damn sight easier, he thought, if the Wingco would wear the correct headgear. Still, a Wing Commander must be humoured. “Yes, Sir?” he called over his shoulder.
“I say, Johnson,” Butterworth said. “Can you take this thing lower for a bit?”
Captain Johnson nodded slowly. Typical top brass, he thought, has to interfere, can’t let a chap just get on with his job. Bu
t he kept his expression blank. “Certainly, Sir,” he said. “The Messenger can go as low and slow as you like—built for it.”
“First rate,” Butterworth said. “You see that quarry down there on the right?”
Johnson raised his eyebrows. What was all this about? But he dutifully scanned the ground, fixing the quarry’s position and bearing in his mind. “Yes, Sir.”
“I want you to make a low pass—nice and slow. Let us have a good look at the place.”
Johnson checked the fuel gauge—it was fine. And so far they’d made good time. Besides, what choice did he have? “Will do, Wing Commander.” He shifted the joystick and pressed the rudder pedals. As the plane began to bank and turn, he called back to the Wing Commander: “Sir, with the greatest of respect, I suggest that you return to your seat.”
Butterworth smiled. “Will do,” he said cheerfully. He patted Johnson on the shoulder and sat back in his seat. He smiled at Corbett. “This’ll cheer you up, Corbett,” he said. “Give the old place a buzz, eh?”
But Corbett was pale, anxious. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. A sheen of sweat formed on his forehead. He’d heard most of Butterworth’s conversation with the pilot, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit. He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly he felt the plane fall away from him as the pilot started a gentle dive. Vincent swallowed hard. There was nothing he could do.
“Chin up, Corbett,” Butterworth said. He reached across in front of Vincent and pointed out his window. “Look, we’re coming around. If only your old workmates could see you now, eh?”
Despite himself, Vincent obeyed and looked out of the window. And there it was: the bleak grey stone, rushing up to meet them. He ground his teeth together. Just get through it, he thought, it’ll all be over in a minute. And maybe it would be all right. After all, he’d been away for years—maybe it would all be different now. He clung to that thought, and let his eyes search out the far end of the quarry, willing himself to see nothing more than barren stone. But no. The dark patch of green was unmistakeable. The only living thing in the pit—a tangle of bushes and stunted trees still clinging to the slope.
Trespass_A Tale of Mystery and Suspense Across Time Page 3