Trespass: A Tale of Mystery and Suspense Across Time (The Darkeningstone Book 1) (10 page)

3,500 BC

SLOWLY WAECCAN
RAISED HIS HEAD
.
Where am I?
Of course. He’d reached the top, he was on the ledge. The vicious grip on his chest relaxed a little. He could breathe. After a few moments, he could stand. He pushed himself shakily to his feet.
I’m all right
, he thought,
I have survived
. He looked toward the Darkeningstone. The Shades still had a purpose for him. He had a task to perform. But did he have the strength?

Waeccan looked to the sky. It would soon be dark—he must try. He staggered across the ledge toward the Darkeningstone. His feet found the familiar kneeling place, worn smooth through use. He must prepare himself.

But before he was ready, it began.

A cool breeze blowing into his body. Flecks of light flit within the Darkeningstone, dart across its surface. And beyond the lights there is darkness beyond depth—dizzying, a bottomless pit, an endless void. A brittle crackling, like dry twigs snapping. An acrid smell catches at the back of his throat, a bitter taste in his mouth. And there it is. Waeccan’s heart stutters, his breath is caught in his chest. A form, a Shade, sitting upon the Darkeningstone. A perfect image of pure, pale-blue light. It has the shape of a boy, no, wait, a young man. Even in his most wonderful visions, Waeccan has seen nothing so clear, so real. He stifles a sob. It is almost too much to bear. What message does it bring? As if sensing the question, the Shade turns, looks directly at Waeccan. He meets Waeccan’s eye, and there is a connection between them. Waeccan feels as though his heart will burst. He reaches forward, willing the Shade to take his hand, to prove this is really happening. But the Shade does not move. Waeccan opens his mouth but can’t find the right words. And then, cruelly, the Shade is gone. The lights are snuffed out; they leave no trace. The Darkeningstone is solid rock once more.

Waeccan held his hands to his cheeks. “I’ve never…” he whispered, “never seen anything like…anything so…it was…and he looked me in the eye.” The Shades had answered his call. They had sent one of their own. And their messenger had appeared as a young man. It could only mean one thing. “This is the sign my father mentioned,” he said. “I am to have an apprentice after all.” Waeccan smiled. He looked up to the sky. His work would be continued; his legacy would not be forgotten.

Waeccan’s mind reeled.
Great things are about to happen
, he thought.
I’m sure of it. But when?
“The Shade will come back,” he whispered. “Yes. And then he’ll tell me what to do.” He rubbed his hands together. It could happen at any moment. And when it did he must be ready. He must begin at once.

He shuffled to the back of the ledge. Even in the failing light, he found them quickly. His fingers were used to the small, low niche in the rock where his most treasured possessions were hidden, wrapped in deerskin. He moved to the Darkeningstone and knelt down to unroll the deerskin on the ground. Carefully, he laid out the sacred instruments his father had given him—the sharp splitting blade, the heavy striker. Now, he touched each one in turn, gently lining them up. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. Each is in its place.”

And he waited, focussing on the Darkeningstone, watching for the first flickering of light. But something was disturbing his concentration. What was it? There—a rustling of leaves. And again. It was too regular to be the wind.

“Waeccan,” his father called softly, “there is someone coming—an outsider. He is climbing up the stairway.”

“Yes, Father,” Waeccan sighed. “I know.” His eyes did not move from the Darkeningstone, but there was no doubt. Waeccan had climbed the stairway so often he was all too familiar with the whisper of leaves that accompanied every step.

“Remember my words, Waeccan. You must protect our secrets—whatever the cost.”

Waeccan nodded grimly. He must not allow himself to be distracted from his task. He gritted his teeth. “Father,” he hissed, “there is still time. If the Shade comes now, all will be well.”

“How can you say that?” Cleofan demanded. “We
cannot
allow an outsider to see the Darkeningstone. It’s unthinkable.”

“But the Shades will show me what to do.”

“No, Waeccan.
I
will tell you what to do. I am your father.”

The intruder was closer now. Waeccan could hear his stifled grunts. But still Waeccan did not look away from the Darkeningstone.

“Waeccan,” Cleofan commanded. “Go now to the top of the stairway. Take the sacred instruments. Strike him as he reaches the ledge. Send him to his death.”

Waeccan reached out toward the instruments, then hesitated. They were precious, a gift from the Shades, meant only for a special purpose; they were not weapons. He wrung his hands. “Father,” he said. “How can you say such a thing?”

“Do as I have told you.”

Was his father right? Waeccan touched the instruments, wrapped his hands around the heavy striker. He could hear the intruder’s heavy breathing. He was almost at the ledge. He picked up the striker, struggled to his feet. “Father,” he moaned, “I have never…”

“Now!” Cleofan growled. “Before it’s too late.”

Waeccan took an unsteady step toward the top of the stairway. The sounds from the stairway grew louder. The intruder was almost at the top. Waeccan raised the striker to shoulder height. The intruder was climbing quickly now, rushing toward him, breathing hard with the effort. Waeccan ground his teeth together. He gripped the striker as tightly as he could. It was heavy. It could crush stone. Waeccan closed his eyes. What would it do to a man’s skull?

It was no use. He lowered the striker to his side. “I…I cannot do as you ask,” he said. He hung his head. His father roared in anger, but Waeccan hardly heard it, hardly cared. The pain had returned to his chest. And this time it was worse.

The ache grew inside him. It was like a living thing, a presence. He could almost touch it. It consumed him, crushed him, tore at his chest, twisted his face into a grimace. He let the striker fall to the ground and beat his clenched fists against his chest. He could bear no more.

Without hearing, without knowing, Waeccan cried out in agony. His body crumpled. He fell, twisting awkwardly, landing hard on the cold ground. And then he lay still.

3,500 BC

BURLIC CLIMBED
AS FAST AS HE COULD
.
I’m making too much noise
, he thought.
The old man will know I’m coming
. But he couldn’t help it. The footholds were too narrow, too steep, too hard to see in the fading light. At last he saw the top of the steps just above him. He was almost there. He hesitated, breathing hard. Had Waeccan heard him? Would the old man be lying in wait? He leaned back from the rock face as far as he dared and craned his neck to scan along the rim of the ledge above him. There was no sign of Waeccan, but that meant nothing. Burlic could not see onto the ledge itself. He listened. At first there was nothing, but then Waeccan’s wavering voice echoed through the empty space of the pit. Burlic’s flesh crawled. “Who’s he talking to?” he muttered.
The Shades
, he thought. He swallowed, ran a hand over his face. It would soon be dark. He was alone and clinging to a rock face. There was nowhere to hide.
I should’ve brought Tellan
, he thought.
I should’ve listened to him
.

But it was too late for that. He was here now, and he’d come for the sake of his poor wife. “Scymrian,” he whispered. And he scowled. She’d lost her spirit because of Waeccan. She wouldn’t care for their son because of Waeccan. The baby would most likely die because of Waeccan. No more watching and waiting. He would end this now. There was no one to stop him, no one to bear witness. He placed his foot on the next step…and froze.

The screech of pain ran through Burlic to the bone, chilled his heart, the tortured, rasping shriek of a dying man. His nerve snapped. He launched himself upwards, springing from the steps onto the ledge. He landed poised, his knife ready in his hand.

And there he saw Waeccan. The old man’s thin body was slumped, twisted sideways on the ground next to a flat dark stone. Burlic caught his breath. A trap? He scanned the ledge. They were alone.

Slowly, holding his knife in front of him, Burlic moved closer to where Waeccan lay. He stood over the old man and shook his head. Waeccan’s arms were wrapped tight around his chest, his face locked in a grimace. But the corners of his mouth still twitched—he was alive.

Burlic smiled grimly. “Just an old man,” he said. “Helpless.”
Is this a sign?
he thought.
Have the Shades delivered Waeccan to me?
One cut—that’s all it would take. One swift stroke of his knife across Waeccan’s throat, and it would be done. Not murder but mercy.

Burlic shifted his grip on the knife’s handle and took a step closer.

2010

I PAUSED
AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STEPS
. No sign of my phone. “So what now?” I said.
I’ll start near the steps
, I thought.
And work my way back toward the car
. There was a clump of bracken to my right. I’d start there. I pictured my phone sliding from my pocket as I’d started to climb, sinking among the green fronds without a sound.

I picked my way through the bracken, pushing it aside, peering into the shady spaces between the crowded stems. Something snagged the right leg of my jeans. I took a step back and tugged my leg free. It worked, but something scratched across my ankle. “Jesus,” I hissed. I clamped my hand over the pain. My sock was wet. I took my hand away, saw the tinge of red on my fingers. Blood.

“I don’t want to look,” I breathed. “I really don’t want to look.” But I had to. I squatted down, winced as I pulled the sock away from my skin. Just above my ankle, a jagged gash traced through the flesh. I couldn’t tell how deep it was, there was too much blood. I watched as it welled out, trickled away. It was like I was watching it on TV. It wasn’t
my
leg. I shook my head. “It’s OK,” I muttered. “It looks worse than it is. It looks worse than it is.” I fumbled in my pockets, found a tissue, crumpled but clean. I half remembered something from a first aid video we’d had. I pushed the torn skin back together, laid the tissue over the wound and pressed as hard as I could bear.

I waited for the bleeding to stop. What the hell had done that to me? With my free hand, I parted the fronds of bracken and gasped: a tangle-toothed mass of razor wire, twisted into a spiteful ball of vicious blades. It snaked among the feathery fronds of bracken that must have grown up through the wire.
You’d never see it
, I thought,
until it was too late
. I rubbed my hand over my face and blew out a deep breath. It was pure dumb luck I’d been walking so slowly.

I released the pressure on my ankle. The tissue was soaked in blood. But had I stopped bleeding? I daren’t look under the tissue in case that pulled the wound open again. I pulled my sock up to hold the tissue in place and stood up. My ankle complained when I put my weight on it, but it was bearable. “I really, really have to get out of this place,” I said.

But what about my phone? Should I carry on looking for it? I hadn’t had it long, and it was a good one too—top of the range. I chewed my lip, and remembered:

“Dad,” I’d said. “You know my phone? It doesn’t charge up properly anymore. It’s useless.”

“You need a phone,” he’d said.

“Yeah, but Mum says I can’t have a new one. She says I have to make do with her old one.”

“We’ll see about that,” he’d said. “Might as well spend it before the lawyers get their hands on it.”

Sure enough, the next day we’d gone shopping for the very best phone money could buy. But he paid with a credit card and I was there when Mum opened the bill. She didn’t say anything, she just got very tight lipped and screwed her eyes shut, like someone trying very hard to remember something. These days, I didn’t even like to ask for dinner money.

I had to find that phone. I couldn’t just give up. “Maybe near the car,” I muttered. But I’d only taken a couple of steps when I heard it: a faint metallic sound—scrabbling and scraping, like some sort of animal. I thought of Cally and her friends, but this noise wasn’t coming from above. I tilted my head, tuned into the sound. It was echoing across the quarry floor. It came from the fence—the one I’d fallen from. Something was trying to get into the quarry. Was it a dog? The man who’d shouted at me—he’d had a dog. He couldn’t still be out there, could he?

I looked back to the steps in the rock face. He’d never catch me up there. But could I climb them with my weakened ankle? There wasn’t time. A screech of scraping metal. I ducked down into the bracken, pushing myself sideways to avoid the deadly razor wire. Just in time. Voices. Hard, jeering voices. I wasn’t alone.