Trespass: A Tale of Mystery and Suspense Across Time (The Darkeningstone Book 1) (4 page)

3,500 BC

BURLIC BARELY
NOTICED
the sounds of the village fading into the distance as he strode into the night. He thought only of Waeccan. And revenge.

Ahead, the path led into the forest. Into darkness. Into wind-creaked branches and shifting shadows. Into the lair of the spirits, the Shades.
This is their time
, Burlic thought.
This is their forest
. He should stop, turn back. He stumbled, tripping over his feet, but he did not slow his pace.

“Just you wait, Waeccan,” he muttered. “You can’t stop me with your trickery now.”

Next to the path, a broad oak stood solid, unmoved by the breeze. And yet its shadow stirred. Burlic did not see. He blundered ahead, noticed nothing. Soon, it would be too late.

Beneath the tree, a man watched, waited.
Clumsy and careless
, he thought.
This shouldn’t be too difficult after all
. He readied himself. Waited. He had been waiting for a long time. Now he could hear Burlic’s every breath. He tensed. His moment had almost come. A heartbeat. And then he pounced.

There was barely a whisper of rushing air as he launched himself at Burlic. Even so, Burlic managed to turn to face the danger, his hand flashed to his knife, his knees bent, ready to fight. But it was not enough. Someone was on him, and Burlic was down, flat on his back, the breath crushed from his body. His assailant loomed above him, his weight pressing him down, pinning his arms to his sides. Burlic gritted his teeth, sucked in a breath and strained to free his arms. But it was no use. There was no escape.
You fool
, he thought.
How could you have been so stupid?

Burlic glared at the silhouette of his attacker, bared his teeth. But the snarl died on his lips as the figure slowly leaned down toward his face. And spoke. A single hissed word: “Burlic.”

Burlic gasped. This man knew his name. But no one from the village would do this. Who then? Or what? He stopped struggling. A cold fear squirmed in his stomach. It was a Shade. A Shade was on him. He had trespassed in their forest, and they had caught him. And now they had his name. And if a Shade spoke your name, you were lost. Burlic could feel his strength, his life, draining away.

Still the figure’s face grew nearer. Burlic moaned. His stomach turned. And yet something was wrong—something familiar, something he couldn’t place. A smell. That was it. He could smell meat on its breath. The Shades didn’t eat, did they? So this was a man. An ordinary man. And he could be fought. Burlic clenched his teeth, gathered his courage. “Who are you?”

The reply was whispered, urgent. “Burlic. It’s Tellan.”

Burlic choked back his astonishment. Tellan was Scymrian’s younger brother. He had been beaten by his own brother-in-law.

The voice continued. “I’m going to let you go now. But first, you must promise me something. You must promise that you won’t fight me. And that you’ll listen to what I have to say. Do you promise?”

Burlic did not reply. With a roar, he pushed himself up, toppling his attacker. Tellan rolled over, tried to scrabble to his knees, but in one movement Burlic was on him. One hand ground Tellan’s face into the soil, the other pressed his knife against his throat.

“Now,” he growled, “I’ll listen. And I hope you beg for mercy better than you fight.”

2010

THE MG
WAS BRITISH RACING GREEN
—or had been once, but it didn’t have wire wheels. It didn’t have any wheels. Both doors had been wrenched off. There were no headlights, no wing mirrors, no chrome trim. Even the radiator was gone. And as I approached this skeleton of a car, the remains of its windscreen and windows caught the light—a million angular pieces, scattered among the grass. I sighed and shook my head, said, “Who would do such a thing?” Still, I had a photo to take. I knelt to get a good angle and fired off a couple of snaps. Then I stood and leaned against the bonnet, holding my phone at arm’s length to take a photo of myself with the car in the background. It didn’t come out too badly. I peered into the car’s interior. The seats were slashed, but frankly I was surprised they were still there. I wanted a shot of me sitting inside. I lowered myself onto the driving seat and held my phone out through the space where the windscreen had been. I was just about to take the shot when my phone vibrated and started ringing. I flipped it around to see the screen, hoping it was Matt. But the screen was going haywire—the background image was flickering like crazy. Random messages flashed up then disappeared,
unknown number, no network, emergency calls only, no signal, no Wi-Fi.
I jabbed and swiped hopelessly across the touchscreen, shouted the magic words, “Come on, you useless piece of junk!” And it stopped. The screen went blank. I stared at it for a second then tried the power button. Nothing. “Oh great,” I said. “It’s completely knack–”

“Hey!” A woman’s voice ran through me like a knife. I jolted back against the car seat. I dropped my phone, heard it clatter into the footwell.

“Jesus,” I breathed. “Who the hell’s that?”

“Hey—where’s everyone gone?” The voice came from somewhere above. It didn’t sound like they’d seen me yet. I had to get out of there. I reached down, scrabbled for my phone. I couldn’t find it. I pressed my face against the dashboard and reached farther, groping through the rust and dirt. My fingers brushed against something smooth. That must be it. I grabbed for it. Yes. I sat up, hurriedly stuffing my phone back into my pocket while clambering awkwardly from the car. I looked up, hoping to see the coast was clear, hoping to see nothing but rocks and trees and trailing ivy. But instead I saw her. And she, very clearly, had seen me.

“Oh,” she said. “Who are you?”

3,500 BC

TELLAN CROUCHED,
held both hands to his nose and tried to breathe slowly. The blood was stopping now, but the pain wasn’t. Burlic stood over him, breathing hard, and for the third time he growled the same question. “Why did you follow me?”

Tellan took his hands away from his nose, looked up at Burlic. In the darkness, he seemed larger, more threatening. Tellan was beginning to wonder why he’d bothered. Surely Burlic could look after himself. But he knew the answer. “For my sister. For the village. And partly,” he paused to stand, “for your son.”

“My son. My son is…” Burlic closed his eyes and shook his head. His mind whirled with memories, with pictures that he did not want to see. “My son is gone.” He hung his head.

Tellan tried again. “No, Burlic, your son is waiting for you back at the village—he needs his father. And your wife—Scymrian—she needs her husband.”

“Scymrian, she was so…” The memories were flooding in now: Scymrian, before the baby. She had been so strong, so sleek and perfect while she carried their child within her. And she had been so happy. She’d been so sure that this child would be a fine son. And in the evenings, when she’d been too tired to work, she’d sat by the fire with Burlic and sung for him.

Tellan reached out and placed his hand on Burlic’s shoulder. He tried to speak gently. “Burlic, I know that you blame Waeccan for what has happened—the whole village knows that you do. But I don’t know why. How could he do this?”

Burlic bristled at the mention of Waeccan’s name. With one hand he brushed Tellan’s hand from his shoulder, and with the other he pushed Tellan hard in the chest. His voice was a cold fury. “I’ll tell you how. I went to see him. I needed stone for the new hut—the new hut for Scymrian and the baby. I told him how her time was near, how the stream was low, how my Scymrian struggled to carry the water. And he gave me water—a whole skin of it—for Scymrian. And I gave it to her. I trusted him.”

Tellan said, “But I don’t understand –”

Burlic did not let him finish. “He put a curse on the water. He must have done. As soon as Scymrian drank it, the baby came. And it was too soon—much too soon.” Burlic grimaced at the memory. Scymrian had been right, the baby was a boy. True, he was small, but as fine as any baby he had ever seen. But for Scymrian, something was wrong. “And you
know
what happened.”

“I know,” Tellan said. “I know that she would not hold him.”

“You know nothing. She would not hold him, would not feed him, would not sing to him. She would not eat or drink. She would not speak except to say…except to say she had no child.”

Tellan drew a deep breath. He knew what the womenfolk said, that Scymrian had let her soul drift so far into the Shade World that it could not find its way back to her. And he understood how helpless Burlic must feel. A man could not provide the warmth, nourishment and comfort that only a mother can give. But he also knew that they were all wrong. His sister and her baby needed help. Even now his own wife, Celepone, was caring for the child and trying to do what she could for Scymrian. He had to make Burlic see sense. He kept his voice steady. “Burlic, if you harm Waeccan, the villagers will turn against you. They need him; some of the elders revere him. You will be banished. And then what will become of Scymrian?” He paused, tried to see Burlic’s eyes in the darkness, tried to judge if he was getting through to him. But he didn’t see the punch coming. He only felt the pain in his gut, felt the air burst from his chest. He doubled over, rested his hands on his knees and gasped.

Burlic turned and walked away. By the time Tellan had regained his breath, Burlic was gone. Tellan looked back toward the village, to where his wife and a safe place to sleep waited for him. Then he sighed, shook his head and turned to follow Burlic. He walked slowly and quietly, watching the shadows. He did not seriously think that Burlic would lie in wait for him. As far as Burlic was concerned, he had beaten Tellan, and that was the end of the matter. But it was wise to be cautious, and in any case, there was no need to hurry. He knew exactly where Burlic was going.

3,500 BC

AS HE
WORKED
, Waeccan blinked to try and clear the rain from his eyes. It was raining so hard that he’d stopped feeling wet long ago.
Still
, he thought,
there is one good thing about the heavy rain—it had kept the intruder away
. He’d seen no sign of him all day.
He’s probably had enough of his silly game
, Waeccan thought.
He’s probably gone for good
. Waeccan nodded. Now he’d have the peace he needed to concentrate on his work. He smiled. He was actually looking forward to the rest of the day. He’d have a fire later. He had a small pile of wood keeping dry in his hut. “It will be good to be warm,” he said to himself. “I must remember to gather more wood and set it to dry.” For now, though, the stone must come first.

As he walked to the rock face he was to work on that day, he thought of happier times, remembering what it was like before his father had crossed over into the Shade World.

He’d been happy. In those days the village had been much larger. There were many families nearby who were glad of the stone for their huts, and happy to offer food in return. As a boy, Waeccan looked forward to their visits and enjoyed helping the men load up their stone blocks. Waeccan shook his head. “Even then,” he said to himself, “even then I knew this place was special.” He chuckled at the memory of the nervous villagers; the way their eyes darted uneasily around the shadows, the looks they gave one another when his father’s back was turned. “Ha,” he said. “They couldn’t wait to load up their stone and leave—especially if it was getting dark.”
At least
, he thought,
they had always given plenty of food in exchange
. Now there were fewer villagers, they came much less often, and if there was one thing he missed, it was the gifts of food they had brought.

Still, he got by. He survived. And now he must put his daydreams to one side. He had work to do.

The rain may have turned the soil to mud, but it had washed the rock clean. Slowly, as his father had taught him, his eyes and fingers explored the texture and the fine lines of the stone. “What do you think, Father?” he said. “Which cracks are shallow—just the scratches of the rain and the wind—and which are the deeper wounds?”

He heard Cleofan’s voice as clearly as if he were still alive and standing beside him: “Patience, Waeccan. Remember all that I have taught you. We want only the wounds that run deep into the heart of the stone. They are the stone’s one weakness.”

Waeccan nodded and concentrated on the stone’s surface. He knew all about patience. Even with a lifetime’s accumulation of skill, his work took a great deal of time. A simple mistake could undo a month’s work. He knew how to take his time. He focussed his mind. No man could see the deep veins and twisted sinews within the stone, but Waeccan had learned to picture them in his mind.

Shuffling slowly along the muddy path, Waeccan studied the line of stout yew stakes he’d hammered into a fissure in the stone. Methodically, almost automatically, he began checking that all was as it should be.

“Are the stakes fixed firmly, Waeccan?”

“Yes, Father.” He gripped the rain-slippery bark of each one and tested it was secure. Satisfied, he said, “The rain will do its job.” The wood was slowly swelling and opening the fissure. “It will be some time yet, but it will make a good block—one of the biggest I’ve ever made.” He could picture the huge block, and looking farther into the future, he could imagine the smaller building blocks he would split from it. He smiled to himself with the satisfaction of the craftsman who knows his skills cannot be bettered.

Cleofan, though, was never entirely satisfied. “It is a pity though,” he said.

Waeccan sighed wearily. “Yes, Father?”

“I passed my skills onto you. You have no one.”

“Yes, Father. I know. There is much that I could teach.”

It was a conversation that they’d repeated often, but that didn’t prevent Cleofan from going through it again.

“If only,” Cleofan said. “If only you’d had a son.”

“Yes, Father.”

“He’d be here now—watching and learning. But instead, here you are talking to an old man’s Shade.”

“Yes, Father. It seems that I am destined to live alone.”
And
, he thought to himself,
destined to die alone
.

“But that is no good,” Cleofan insisted. “Our skills and secrets must not be allowed to die.”

Waeccan thought for a moment. This was a departure from their usual discussion. “But Father,” he said. “How can that be? I cannot pass our sacred knowledge on to just any person.”

“Of course not,” his father replied. “You will need a true apprentice—someone who will dedicate their life to the stone, someone who will devote themselves to learning your skills, as you have devoted yourself to learning mine.”

“And where will I get this apprentice from, Father?” Waeccan was finding it hard to hide his frustration. “The villagers fear this place. And anyway, they cannot spare any of the men. There are so few of them now—so many died of the sickness.” Immediately, Waeccan regretted his outburst. He listened, waited. “Are you there, Father?” He should’ve kept his temper, and he shouldn’t have mentioned the sickness. After all, it was the same sickness that had taken both his parents.

There was no answer. Cleofan’s restless Shade had gone. Waeccan fretted. He rubbed his eyes and looked up toward the place where his father and mother were buried. Their bodies, at least, were at rest. The place where they lay was marked by a small mound of stones, on a ledge, high above the pit floor. It was fitting that his father’s Shade should be released close to his most profound discovery, his greatest work, and his darkest secret.