Trespass: A Tale of Mystery and Suspense Across Time (The Darkeningstone Book 1) (18 page)

1939

VINCENT HURRIED
THROUGH
the rain and barged through the toolshed door. It was midday, and the rest of lads were already inside. The shed was gloomy, but it was dry and out of the wind, and they were all glad of it. The other workers were sitting on a makeshift bench that they’d cobbled together from wooden crates and an old plank. They chatted as they ate their dinner, drank tea from their tin mugs.

“All right there, Vince?”

Vince nodded in reply. “All right, Bert.” Bert was one of the older quarrymen. He had responsibility for handling the dynamite when they were blasting, and they all treated him with a certain respect. Vincent put his metal toolbox on the floor then took his cap off and shook it. It was soaked through. He hung it over the handle of a pickaxe that was leaning against the wall then grabbed his knapsack from the shelf and looked for a space to sit.

“Shift up, lads,” Bert said. And he moved along the bench, pressing against the man next to him and forcing the others to make room. They didn’t grumble as they shuffled along the bench, but they didn’t look happy about it either. The cheerful atmosphere had gone. “There you go, Vince,” Bert said.

“Thanks, Bert.” Vincent sat down. He grabbed his flask from the knapsack, poured the hot tea. He took a drink and thought,
I’m going to need this, for what I’m going to do
.

For a minute the men ate in silence. Vincent looked around. John, one of the younger men, was glowering at him. Vincent returned the stare. “All right, John,” he said.

“All right,” John said. “There’s plenty of room—now that Bob’s not here.”

Vincent squared his shoulders. “Well that’s up to him, isn’t it?”

“Is that right?” John said. “Only, no one’s ever said what’s up with him—why’s that, do you reckon?”

“How should I know?” Vincent snapped. “I mind my own business—unlike some.”

But John wasn’t to be put off. “I’ve heard he won’t even get out of bed. It’s like he’s not himself anymore, they say—it’s like the life’s gone out of him.”

“Gossip,” Vincent said. “If Bob’s too idle to turn up for work then that’s his lookout. It’s not down to me. And when he’s not here it’s me that’s got to work harder to make up for it.”

“Quite right, Vince,” Bert said. “These young lads—they don’t know what work is. If they don’t like it, there’s plenty waiting to take their place.”

“Here we go again,” John said. “Same old song—listen to your elders and betters.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Bert snapped.

“I don’t know,” John sneered. “Maybe we should ask Bob.”

Bert opened his mouth to speak, pointed a finger at John, then changed his mind and shook his head. Vincent swallowed. They were all looking at him, waiting to see what he would say.
I can’t believe this
, he thought.
Do they really think it’s all my fault?
Well, he wouldn’t stand for it.

“Now you listen,” he said. “If you’ve got something to say to me, say it to my face.”

John opened his mouth to speak, but Bert interrupted.

“Now, lads,” he said. “You know what Mr Burrows says to troublemakers. Just one word—goodbye.”

But Vincent hardly heard him. “Well, John?” he said quietly.

John looked around the other workers for support, but they were all suddenly occupied with their food and drink. Only Vincent would look him in the eye, and John couldn’t hold his fierce stare. He shook his head. “Oh, forget it,” he said. He slumped back against the shed wall and took out his tobacco tin, busied himself with rolling a cigarette.

Vincent sat back and drank some more tea. What was all that about? Did they really all blame him for what’d happened to Bob? And how much did they know about it anyway? It was all getting out of hand.

“You going to eat your dinner then?” Bert said.

“What?” Vincent said. “Oh yes. I was just thinking…I think I’ve left some tools outside.”

“Have you?” Bert said. “That’s not like you, Vince. Have you looked in your toolbox?”

“Erm…no, but I’m sure they’re not there.”
Of course they’re not there
, he thought.
They’re where I’ve hidden them
.

“Well,” Bert said. “They won’t have gone far. No one else will have picked them up.”

“True,” Vincent said. They all knew how particular Vincent was about his tools. Each one was clearly marked. His initials VCC were carved into the wooden handles or stamped into the steel. And all the lads had learned, some of them the hard way, that you didn’t touch Vincent’s tools, and you never asked to borrow them. “All the same,” Vincent said. “I’d better go and have a look.” He drank the last of his tea and shoved the cup back into his knapsack. It was now or never.

“But…you haven’t had your dinner,” Bert said.

Vincent stood up. “Never mind,” he said. “I’d better go. I don’t want them going rusty.”

“No, I suppose not,” Bert said. But Vincent was already out the shed door, letting it slam shut behind him.

“Dammit,” Vincent said. The rain was heavier now, and he’d forgotten his cap. He half turned back to the shed. But if he went back in now, they’d all stare at him and wonder what he was up to. And once he was back in the dry, he wouldn’t want to go out again.

He sighed. Rain trickled down inside his collar.
Oh well
, he thought,
I can’t get much wetter
.

He hunched his shoulders against the rain and trudged off across the empty quarry floor.
I must stand out like a sore thumb
, he thought. He glanced furtively toward the site office, wondered if Burrows was watching from the window. Would Burrows believe his reasons for being out in the pouring rain at dinner time? No. But maybe he wouldn’t be watching. Maybe the foreman would be eating his dinner, sitting comfortably with his feet stretched out toward his paraffin heater. Maybe.

“If I lose this blooming job…” Vincent grumbled to himself. Then what? What would he do? He paused and ran a hand over his face, wiped the rain from his nose. He was almost there. He could see the half-finished slab where he’d hidden his tools: his club hammer and bolster. At the time, he’d thought it was a clever idea, a good reason to nip out on his own. Now it seemed like a feeble excuse. But it was too late to back out. He had to go on.

His heart beat faster as he strode toward the slab. Quickly he crouched and reached underneath. His tools were safe and dry. He grabbed them and stood up, holding them close against his body in case anyone was watching. Then he made a show of casting around as if searching for something, while edging toward the scrubby patch of bushes where he’d first looked for Bob.

This was it. “What the hell am I doing?” he said. He took a deep breath and slipped in among the dripping greenery. At least now he was hidden.
And if anyone asks
, he thought,
I’ll say I was caught short—who would argue with that?

It didn’t take him long to find the place to start climbing. He remembered the way easily, and he could see where his boots had scraped away the loose covering of soil from the steep steps. Only yesterday he’d guided and cajoled Bob to the bottom. Since then, he’d thought about little else. The mysterious slab of dark stone had even slipped into his dreams. Now he knew what he had to do. He had to know what’d happened to Bob, he had to see that dark stone again, take a proper look at it. He had to know. What other choice did he have?

“No choice,” he muttered. He put the club hammer into his left hand with the bolster, gripped them tightly together, and with his right hand free he started to climb.

The steps were wet and slippery, but Vincent was determined. Soon he was at the ledge, breathing hard with the effort—and with worry.

Had he taken too long already? Had anyone wondered where he’d got to? It didn’t matter. This was his best chance, maybe his only chance to have a proper look at the stone.

And there it was—the small bank of earth that had hidden Bob as he lay quivering and helpless. Vincent swallowed. What if he ended up the same way? The thought stirred the pit of his stomach, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. No. Bob was scatterbrained, impressionable. He’d got himself overexcited then had some kind of fright and lost his head—that was all.
But I’m not like that
, Vincent thought.
I won’t lose my nerve
.

Vincent squared his shoulders and crossed the ledge to the bank. There it was—the dark slab. It was even more perfect than he remembered. Around the bank were the stones that Bob had moved to uncover it. The shape of the bank reminded Vincent of a grave. Maybe Bob had convinced himself he’d seen a ghost. Vincent smiled and shook his head. He didn’t hold with such daft ideas. But if the slab was a tombstone then there ought to be an inscription somewhere. Vincent bent over the bank, grunted as he saw what a poor effort Bob had made at clearing away the smaller stones. Bob had concentrated on clearing the centre of the top surface. Soil still clung to the edges where it formed a lip, held the rainwater in a shallow, muddy layer across the slab’s surface.

Vincent placed his club hammer on the grass by his feet and used his bolster to scrape away some soil from the nearest edge. The muddy water began to trickle away, and Vincent searched for any sign of an inscription. He frowned. There was nothing—no trace of a carving, no clue as to who had put the slab there, or why. Vincent used the bolster to scrape away more soil. He worked quickly and methodically. By heck, the stone was smooth. He could feel it, even through the heavy bolster and despite the gritty, grimy rainwater. This stone was expertly finished. No—more than that—it was polished to perfection. And then, as the rain spattered against the muddy surface, he caught a glimpse of the stone’s true colour, and gasped. He’d thought the stone was black, but now he saw how wrong he’d been.

“Now, that stone,” he said under his breath, “did not come from this quarry.” Vincent knew his craft. He’d heard of different sorts of quartz and gemstones, but this was too dark, too translucent, too pure. Vincent ran his hands over the cool stone and gave a low whistle. It must be worth a fortune. Perhaps poor Bob had thought he’d struck lucky for once and got overexcited. But that didn’t make much sense. Even if the quarry’s owner, Mr Matthews, didn’t know the stone was there, it was still on his property. The thing wasn’t just there for the taking. And anyway, how could it be moved from such a high ledge? Vincent sighed. The stone was amazing, but it solved nothing, explained nothing.

“Come on, you lot! Time to get a move on. You don’t mind a bit of rain, do you?” It was Burrows. Even from this distance there was no mistaking the foreman’s arrogant yell. Vincent jumped up in alarm. “Oh no,” he muttered. “What the hell am I playing at?” He rushed across to the edge of ledge. He could see right across the quarry floor. There was the toolshed, and there was someone sheltering under a black umbrella. It had to be Burrows. But who was that standing next to him? As Vincent watched, the figures turned in his direction, and he recognised the second man. It was John. What has he up to now? To Vincent’s horror, John raised his arm, pointed directly toward the ledge. Vincent ducked down into a crouch, scrambled away from the edge.

“Dammit!” he hissed.

He had to get back down. But the stone—he needed to see it properly, he needed to understand it. What could he do?

No
, he thought.
That’s just stupid
. But he was going to do it anyway. He seized the club hammer from the ground with his right hand, and with his left placed the bolster ready on the slab’s corner. He was going to take a piece of it with him. He paused with the hammer on top of the bolster, feeling its balance, then swiftly, surely, in one practised motion, Vincent raised the hammer and brought it down hard.

3,500 BC

BURLIC DREAMED
.
It was night, and he was lying in a clearing in a forest. He was resting after a hunt. All was well. Then silently, without warning, dozens of dark demons appeared, sneaking from the shadows, creeping toward him, hissing and snickering. But Burlic couldn’t move, couldn’t cry for help. Soon they surrounded him, crept toward him, closer and closer. He could smell their stinking breath. And then they began to wail, a horrifying drone of despair. They lifted their arms toward him, reaching out with long white fingers of bone, touching him, piercing his body. They wanted his Shade, they wanted to rip it from him, and there was nothing he could do to stop them.

Suddenly the demons fell silent.
This is the end
, Burlic thought. But now the demons began to murmur, a hoarse, croaking, rasping whisper of just one word. Burlic’s flesh crawled. They were saying his name. Over and over they chanted it, calling him, leading him away. They wanted him to be with them, to become one of them. And they would never stop, never leave him alone. He had to go with them; he had no choice. He was lost, defeated. And they knew. Somehow they knew they had won. They hissed his name, surged forward in a seething mass of darkness and despair. It was over.

Burlic screwed his eyes shut tight and thought of Scymrian, thought of her waiting for him.
No
, he thought.
Not like this
. And now his eyes were open. A demon leaned over him, its face close to his. Burlic grabbed it by the throat, wrapped his hands around its scrawny neck and squeezed with all his strength, choking its foul whispering, crushing the breath from…from…from Waeccan. What was he doing?

Fully awake now, Burlic released his grip. Waeccan sat back heavily, gasping, coughing as the breath rasped in his throat, his eyes wide in terror, his face a vivid red. Burlic rolled over, pushed himself up onto all fours. His head swam. He closed his eyes briefly then crawled toward Waeccan. He forced himself to speak, his voice thick: “Old man—Waeccan—are you all right? I…I didn’t know…I thought…” He could think of nothing more to say. He looked for a sign that Waeccan understood. But the old man still struggled for breath. He couldn’t speak, but his eyes no longer showed fear– only pain.

Burlic crawled closer to Waeccan and crouched in front of him. He placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder. The effort of every breath shook Waeccan’s fragile frame. Burlic had been in enough fights to know what to say: “Slowly, Waeccan, let the breath do its work; it will come to you, slowly.” And gradually, it worked. Waeccan’s chest rose and fell more steadily, the blood-red colour faded from his face. Waeccan closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath then looked Burlic in the eye. It hurt to speak, but there was something he had to say: “Thank you, Burlic.”

Burlic lowered his eyes, took his hand from Waeccan’s shoulder. “I cannot explain,” he mumbled. “I haven’t the words, I –”

But Waeccan interrupted him, his voice growing stronger. “Whatever has happened to you…has happened to no other man. What you have seen has been seen by no other man—not by me, nor by my father. There is no one who can explain it, no one who can understand it. No one. You were chosen and you alone.”

Burlic sat back on his haunches, then slowly, keeping his eyes on Waeccan, he stood. “Chosen? Why do you say that? I have not been chosen for anything. What do you mean?”

But Waeccan just gave a knowing nod. He raised his arms, gestured for Burlic to help him up. “Come, help me to my feet,” he said. “We’ll go by the fire. The night is cold, and we must talk more.”

But the younger man did not move. “No,” he said. “You’re wrong.”

Waeccan looked up at Burlic, saw the grim determination in his eyes, in the line of his mouth. He tried a gentler tone: “Burlic, I’m sorry you don’t see it. To my mind, it’s as clear as water.”

“What is it I don’t see?” he snapped. “I may not be wise, but I see you clearly enough. I see an old man who meddles with things that should be left well alone. And you want me to help you? Well, I will not.”

Waeccan paused.
He’s frightened
, he thought,
afraid of the unknown
. He shook his head. “It’s true that I ask the Shades for guidance,” he said. “And it’s true that I have long wished for someone to help me in my work. But it is not I who has chosen you, it is the Darkeningstone.”

Burlic looked from the old man to the stone and back again. “The stone?” he said.

“Yes,” Waeccan replied. “The Darkeningstone has shown its true power to you, and to you alone. The duty to continue in my place must fall to you, and to you alone.”

Burlic took a step backward. “No,” he said. “You’re trying to trick me.”

Waeccan smiled. “No. I’m telling you the truth. I have dedicated my life to the Darkeningstone, and now it is your turn. It is your path to stay here and learn its mysteries, for as long as you live.”

Burlic took another step back, shook his head. “As long as I live?” he said. “What are you talking about?” Burlic scanned the edge of the ledge. There it was—he marked the place where the stairway began. Just a few steps more, and he could get away before it was too late, before he was trapped.

Waeccan struggled to his feet. “There is no choice, Burlic,” he said. “This is your destiny, your duty. It is a great honour.”

But Burlic wasn’t listening. “Stay back, old man,” he said. “Don’t come any nearer.” He took two more steps away from Waeccan. Almost there. He could go, back to the village, back to his own kind. He had a wife; she needed him.

“Burlic?” Waeccan said. “What’s the matter?”

But Burlic was almost at the stairway.
This is it
, he thought.
This is my chance
. He wouldn’t listen to Waeccan, he wouldn’t be caught up in his madness. He’d run. Now.

Burlic turned and hurled himself onto the stairway. He crashed downwards, half falling, half scrambling, slipping, scraping legs and arms against the sharp edges of the steps. And then he was at the bottom and running. He ran like a hunted deer, racing, leaping, springing through the trees. He didn’t falter, didn’t look back, only watched from the corner of wild eyes to see the Shades flitting alongside him. He ran until the dreadful pit was far behind him. By sunrise, he would be home.

Waeccan hung his head and sighed. After a moment, he collected up his sacred instruments and rolled them carefully in their piece of deerskin. Then he shuffled to the fire and, with difficulty, sat down. He put the roll of deerskin on the ground and tossed a small piece of wood onto the smouldering embers. He’d almost run out of wood now.
The fire won’t last the night
, he thought.
But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all
. He lay down and closed his eyes. “This is the end,” he mumbled. “The end of many things.”