Trespass: A Time-Slip Adventure: The Darkeningstone, #1

CHAPTER ONE

2010

IT WAS A SUNDAY. My day with Dad. The one day in the week I saw him. That was what they’d agreed. It was supposed to be good, supposed to help me. But somehow it only sharpened the feeling of separation. I could never eat breakfast on a Sunday. I stayed in my room, watched cartoons meant for much younger kids, pretended I wasn’t waiting. And above all, I tried not to listen for the phone, tried not to dread it too much.

It didn’t work. And when the phone rang just minutes before Dad was meant to pick me up, I knew what was coming.

Jake, I’m really sorry. I can’t make it today.

Aw, Dad. Not at all? Not even for ten minutes?

I heard him sigh.

No. Not at all. I’m so sorry. I’ve got this interview coming up tomorrow, and I’m just…I’m just not ready.

But we were going bowling. It was your idea.

Yes. Yes, I know. But…if I get this job it’ll change everything. It’ll mean more money. Then I can move out of this pokey flat and get somewhere better. You could have your own proper room. You could stay over. You could come for weekends, maybe a whole week.

But you’ve never taken me bowling before. Never.

Oh hell. Look—I’m really sorry. I just can’t. Not today. I’m up to my ears, otherwise I’d definitely…I’d…oh, what’s the use? But listen, I’ll make it up to you. I promise.

But Dad…

Yes?

That’s what you said last week.

Mum, as always, was furious.

How could he do that? How could he?

I looked at the floor, shrugged.

He’s doing this deliberately. He knows I’m going out with… She hesitated, gave me a sideways look. He knows Joel’s taking me out today. Well if your Dad thinks I’m going to drop everything and cover for him, he’s got another thing coming.

I sat, pretended to listen, tried to tune her out. I picked at a tiny hole in the knee of my jeans, my good jeans. I made the threads fray, split apart; watched the hole grow. Mum didn’t even notice.

So instead of going bowling, I sat in the kitchen on my own. I ate a hastily defrosted lasagne, on my own. Stared at the greasy smears on the empty plate.

I tried phoning Matt—we often hung around together. But his family were going out to a pub for a slap-up Sunday lunch. I tried ringing a couple of other friends, but just got their voicemail. I couldn’t be bothered to leave messages. I went into the lounge, chucked myself down on the sofa and grabbed the remote. I watched trash TV until I started hurling insults at the presenters. You know what? I said. If I didn’t know better, I’d reckon I was talking to myself again. I smiled to myself, muttered, I’ve really got to get out more.

I took the public footpath that goes from the end of our road. As I walked I dragged my feet through the dusty gravel, watched the stones scatter. The dust stung my eyes, I could feel it in my nostrils, taste it in my mouth. I stopped walking and fished in my pocket for a tissue. I blew my nose, spat on the ground, the spit making dark splashes in the pale-grey dust. I rubbed my eyes, blinked. And that’s when something among the dusty stones caught the light.

I scanned the ground, and there it was again. I bent to look closer. It was just a stone—perhaps a little larger and darker than the rest. Nothing special, except that it was veined with bands of some sort of crystal—maybe quartz. Dad would know exactly what the crystal was. He’d be interested. He’d tell me all about it—there’d be no stopping him. I reached toward the stone, already imagining the conversation I’d have with Dad. But as I curled my fingers around it, I hesitated. Would Dad really be interested? Would he? Would he even listen to me? I stood up. No, I whispered. He couldn’t care less. I swallowed hard, sniffed. Bloody useless; everyone, everything. A complete waste of bloody time. I lashed out, kicked the stone, and sent it skittering along the path. I didn’t want the damn thing. I walked up to it, kicked it again, farther this time. But I could still see it, dark against the grey path. I jogged toward it, planted my left foot perfectly and swung my right with all my strength. My kick connected beautifully. The stone rose into the air, glinting in the light. I watched it bounce and skid along the path. I ran after it, determined to get it out of my sight. But the stone kept rolling. It tumbled across the path, slowed for a moment as it crossed the path’s edge, then rolled under the fence and was gone.

I stood, looking stupidly at the fence, getting my breath back. The anger drained away, left me empty. Maybe I should’ve taken the stone after all. Perhaps Dad would’ve been interested. Maybe I should’ve given him that chance. But it was too late now. The stone was gone for good. The fence was close-boarded and maybe two metres high. And beyond it was Scaderstone Pit—the old quarry. There was no way I was going in there just to get a stupid lump of rock.

For a moment, the stupid stories about the quarry ran through my mind: the rumours of deadly toxic waste, dumped in the dead of night; the urban myth of the small boy who’d picked up a stick of discarded dynamite, only to have it blow up in his hand. I snorted. The truth would be much less exciting—it usually was. There would be weeds, an old mattress and a supermarket trolley. Still, the place held my thoughts for a moment. The fence was so solid, so forbidding. I wonder, I thought, what’s it really like in there?

Then I smiled, shook my head. A load of rubbish—in every sense of the word. I turned to go. And that was when I realised I was no longer alone on the path.

Coming toward me, and already close, were three girls. My heart sank as I recognised them. They went to my school, but two years above me. Matt called them the KFC girls—partly because their names were Keisha, Felicia and Cass, and partly because it suited them. They ruled the roost, or thought they did. They were popular. But then, as Matt liked to say, so was the plague. And here they were, all in one bargain bucket. Wasn’t I the lucky one?

I won’t run, I thought, I won’t give them the satisfaction. Maybe they’ll just ignore me. But no—they’d got their eyes on me. I was younger than them, and I was on my own. I was fair game. They knew it, and so did I.

What you doing, jumping over?

They snickered.

Yeah, he’s trying to get away from us.

Poor boy, he’s shy.

I said nothing. Curled my fingers into fists. Tight. Hands hanging at my side, heavy, useless. I shut my eyes for a second, but the wishes didn’t work. The ground did not swallow me up; a heavy object did not fall on the girls.

They swaggered closer, forming a semicircle around me. I automatically stepped back, felt the fence behind me. I was trapped. I lifted my chin, tried to look each of them in the eye. But their faces blurred, their names whirled in my mind. I couldn’t remember which one was which.

The tallest one spoke first. So what about it then? You going in there? Going to go and play soldiers with the dynamite?

I remembered then. She was Felicia, the mouthiest one. Cass was the one with all the makeup on—she kept getting into trouble about that at school. So the other girl was Keisha. I looked dumbly from one to the other. Keisha looked me up and down and shook her head, sucked her teeth.

Cass wiggled her eyebrows, said, Yeah. You going to blow your fingers off like that other kid?

That was too much for me. What other kid? I blurted the words out, surprised at the strength in my own voice.

As one, the girls raised their eyebrows, shifted their heads back, and pursed their lips. My cheeks burned. But I couldn’t stop myself. What other kid? There was no other kid. It’s all just made up, just…crap. I’d done it now. I’d gone too far.

Felicia held my gaze, narrowed her eyes. She didn’t like what she saw. I’d broken the rules. I wasn’t supposed to speak to them like that. Now she had to teach me a lesson, make me suffer. My eyes stung. I blinked, tried to stay stony faced, tried not to show the nerves eating away at my stomach. The other two looked at Felicia, waiting for her to decide what to do with me. I waited, stopped myself from biting my lip. Sweat pricked my forehead. I didn’t wipe it away.

And then Felicia laughed. I held my breath. The other girls shared a look, then took their cue, laughed along. I took a breath and almost joined in. Almost. But it was joyless laughter. And they hadn’t taken their hard eyes off me. Not for a second.

Felicia said, Oh my god, girls. We’ve got a live one.

Yeah, said Cass. Real live wire.

Keisha cackled. That’s right. He don’t look like he’s got it in him.

Felicia stopped laughing, shook her head and looked away. I thought that was it. I thought she’d had her fun, lost interest in me. The tightness in my stomach relaxed a little. But it wasn’t over yet.

Without warning, she turned, stepped close to me—too close. Suddenly her right hand was in front of my face. I flinched, followed her accusing finger as it pointed at my left eye, my right. Her voice was a harsh whisper. "But you listen to me, live wire. It don’t matter what you think, you don’t talk to us like that. You don’t disrespect us. ‘Cos if Cass says there was this kid who blew his fingers off, then there was, and you don’t get to say any different. That right, Cass?"

Right. ‘Cos it was a mate of my brother’s what told me. And you know my brother, don’t you?

It wasn’t a question. I nodded anyway.

Keisha didn’t want to be left out. Unless you’re saying Cass’s brother’s a liar. Are you calling her brother a liar? Do you want us to tell him you called him a liar?

My mouth wouldn’t work for a second. No. That’s not…I mean…no. I didn’t mean that. I just thought it was, you know…an urban myth. It sounded pathetic.

Felicia sniggered. Looks like little live wire’s lost his spark.

Keisha said, "Yeah. Loose wire more like."

Felicia was suddenly all boredom and contempt. She sucked her teeth. "Yeah, more like loser. I should’ve known it. This one’s a waste of our time, girls. He’s not going anywhere, he’s not doing anything."

Cass agreed. Yeah. He’s doing nothing. She sniggered. And we thought he was going in there. Look at him. He couldn’t get over that fence, even if he did have the bottle.

Which he definitely does not, Keisha added.

They studied me, utterly unimpressed. And waited.

A silence.

I looked at each of them in turn. What did they want from me? What could I do to make them leave me alone? All right, I said. I’ll do it. I swallowed, but it was too late to take the words back. I’ll climb over. The KFC girls didn’t speak, didn’t react. There was no way they were going to let me off the hook now. I blundered on. I can do it, I said. It doesn’t bother me. I turned to face the fence, stretched up. See, I said. I can reach the top. And it was almost true.

Yeah, right, Felicia said. And that’s as far as it goes.

No, I said. Just you watch. And I was doing it. Jumping, grabbing the top of the fence, hauling myself up. My feet slipped against the smooth surface. I grunted, willed myself upwards. One more heave, and I was there, at the top. I turned and sat on the narrow edge, facing my audience. I’d done it. I’d shown them. But what was going on? They weren’t even looking. They had their heads together, muttering. Hey, I said. I told you I could. Easy.

They looked up, as if surprised that I was still there. Keisha said, Yeah, yeah, whatever. Felicia just curled her lip.

Cass said, What about…you know… She cast me a dark look. Shouldn’t we tell him?

What? I said. Tell me what?

Keisha thought for a moment, tutted. Listen, she said. See that old guy up there? She angled her head back along the path. I twisted around to see, but the path curved out of sight.

No one there, I said. You’re winding me up.

But Keisha shook her head, genuinely exasperated. Look, she said. Properly.

I twisted farther, leaned forward as far as I dared. And that’s when he came around the bend in the path. The man was old. He had the usual brown overcoat, the flat cap, the walking stick. But he was no hunched dawdler. This man was tall, impressive. His shoulders were broad, his back straight. And he didn’t walk; he marched, swinging his walking stick, stabbing it into the ground as he went.

And beside him trotted a dog. The dog was…huge, but that isn’t the right word—it was imposing. It was part Alsatian, part wolf. Suddenly it stopped. It had seen us. It sidled away from its owner, clearly not on a lead. But so what? Surely the infamous KFC girls were not worried by one old man and his dog?

The old man looked to his dog, followed its gaze. He stood still, stared—first at the girls then at me. Even from a distance it was uncomfortable. I opened my mouth to say something, but the look on Keisha’s face stopped me. A shout—the old man calling his dog. I watched it dart to his side, where it stood, alert. The old man looked down at his dog, said something quietly. Then slowly, deliberately, he turned his attention back to me. Oh my god, I whispered. He’s going to – I didn’t get to finish. The old man cut me off, bellowed a single word: Set! He raised his stick, pointed it at me, jabbed it in the air. The dog launched forward. It didn’t bark, it didn’t swerve. It just pelted across the space between us, closing me down. And the old man set off after it, marching as fast as he could. And all the time he was shouting—furious, rambling. I’ve got you, he shouted. I’ve got you this time! What had I ever done to him? He must’ve made a mistake. No, I said. I shook my head. No, not me. But no one was listening to me. And no one cared that I didn’t deserve this.

See you later, live wire—maybe. And the 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.

CHAPTER TWO

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, unconvinced. 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