Trespass: A Tale of Mystery and Suspense Across Time (The Darkeningstone Book 1) (13 page)

3,500 BC

WAECCAN PAUSED
.
They were almost at the Darkeningstone. He shifted his grip on Burlic’s arm and leaned against the younger man for support.

I hope he hasn’t noticed
, Waeccan thought.
I hope he can’t tell how much I’m trembling
.

It wasn’t just that Waeccan was exhausted. It wasn’t just that he was in pain.

“Burlic,” he said. “What I’m about to show you has been seen by no one except me and my father—not by the villagers, not even by my own mother.”

Burlic nodded.

“My father…” Waeccan said. “He never allowed it—not for any reason.”

Something in Waeccan’s tone made Burlic look him in the eye. “But you’re disobeying him now?” he asked.

“Yes,” Waeccan said. “I’m going against his wishes.”
And there must be consequences
, he thought.
Consequences that I may not survive
. Cleofan’s Shade would be watching, and he would not be pleased. Waeccan tilted his head to listen. And sure enough, he could hear his father’s voice as clearly as if he stood beside him.

“Waeccan,” he hissed. “Why do you disobey me? How dare you?”

“Father, I had no –” he began, but stopped when he saw the horror in Burlic’s expression. He didn’t want to panic the young man. He didn’t want to frighten him away. He gritted his teeth. “Come on, Burlic,” he said. “There is much to do.”

But Burlic stood his ground. “Wait,” he said. “You said ‘Father.’ You were talking to your father. But he’s dead.”

Waeccan nodded sadly. “Yes,” he said.

“Ha,” Cleofan spat. “You want to share our secrets with this oaf?”

Waeccan recoiled. He took a deep breath. “I am trying,” he said. “Trying to be a dutiful son.” He looked to Burlic and tried to force a smile. “I’ve always tried,” he said.

But Burlic wasn’t fooled. “You weren’t talking to me,” he said. “You were talking to…” his skin prickled as he realised the truth. “Your father,” he said. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

Waeccan studied Burlic’s face. “Tell me,” he said. “Do you hear him?”

“No,” Burlic said. “I can’t hear him. I don’t want to hear him.”

Cleofan snorted. “Waeccan! This man cannot communicate with the Shades. He has no skills. He can’t even hear me, and I’m right next to him.”

Waeccan closed his eyes and sighed.

“It’s not too late, Waeccan,” his father said. “Take up the sacred instruments and end this fool’s life.”

But Waeccan shook his head. He turned to Burlic. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It must be you.”

“What?” Burlic tried to separate himself from Waeccan, tried to back away. Every instinct told him he’d walked into a trap.

Suddenly Waeccan released his grip on Burlic, and with some reserve of strength pushed with both hands against the young man’s chest. The shove caught Burlic off balance. He fell backward, twisting to save himself. He landed heavily on his side. His head struck the ground. Dazed, he raised himself onto his hands and knees. And he saw it.

“Now, Father,” Waeccan said. “It is decided. Burlic has seen the Darkeningstone. This cannot be changed. Our future lies in his hands.”

And when his father did not reply, Waeccan smiled.

Burlic blinked. He shook his head slowly. In front of him, the Darkeningstone glittered cold in the moonlight. Burlic pushed himself up to his feet, all the while staring at the stone’s perfect surface. Waeccan studied the young man’s face. Burlic’s eyes were wide, his mouth hung open. Waeccan nodded. It was good. It was all exactly as it should be. Silently he stepped forward to stand at Burlic’s side.

“It’s all right, Burlic,” he whispered. “You can look closer—if you want to.”

Without taking his eyes from the Darkeningstone, Burlic bent to look more closely. “How?” he said. “How could you have carved such a thing?”

“Me?” Waeccan scoffed. “I could not. No man could.”

“Then who?” Burlic asked.

Waeccan hesitated. Slowly Burlic reached out a hand to touch the stone.

“No!” Waeccan shouted. And suddenly he grabbed Burlic’s arm, wrenched it away from the stone. Burlic wheeled around to face him. He opened his mouth to protest, but Waeccan didn’t give him the chance.

“You must never touch the Darkeningstone,” he said. “Whatever happens.”

Burlic stared at the old man, narrowed his eyes and growled. But Waeccan was not to be intimidated. “You want to know who made it?” he said. “It was made by the Shades themselves.”

Burlic flinched.

“So listen to me,” Waeccan said. “You must not touch the stone. Do you understand?”

Burlic nodded. “All right,” he said. “I won’t touch it.” He looked pointedly down to where Waeccan was still holding onto him.

Waeccan let go of his arm. “Good,” he said. “It will be safer for you if you do as I tell you.”

Burlic grunted. Waeccan supposed that this was as much of an agreement as he was going to get. Already, Burlic had turned all his attention back to the Darkeningstone. Waeccan shook his head slowly.
It will be safer for you if you do as I tell you.
How often had his father said exactly those words to him?

“You know, Burlic, I remember the first time my father showed me the Darkeningstone,” he said.

Burlic tilted his head to listen, but he said nothing.

“I was only a child,” Waeccan continued. “I was so proud he was sharing this secret with me. The stone was not even fully revealed back then. You could still see where my father hadn’t quite cut away all the stone that had…hidden it.”

Burlic turned to look at Waeccan. “Cut away?” he said. “So he did carve out the stone.”

“No,” Waeccan said. “The stone covering it was ordinary—pale. It was the same stone you build a hut with, the same stone you see all around you.”

“Then how?” Burlic said, gesturing toward the Darkeningstone. “How did your father make this?”

Waeccan sighed. “He didn’t make it,” he said. “He found it. It was hidden within the ordinary stone.”

Burlic chewed his bottom lip. Stone within stone. Perhaps that did make sense. Perhaps. “You still haven’t told me how,” he said. “How could your father cut away the one sort of stone from the other?”

Waeccan hesitated. How much should he tell him? “He didn’t complete the task without…help,” he said.

“You helped him?” Burlic asked.

“Yes,” Waeccan said. “I helped him every day. And when he passed over, I continued without him. Without anyone. Every day.”

Burlic shook his head in wonder, clearly puzzled.

Waeccan pursed his lips. Had he overestimated Burlic’s abilities? Would this simple villager ever be able to understand the depths within the stone? But it was too late for questions, too late for doubts. He had to find a way to make Burlic understand.

“The Darkeningstone was born from the rock itself—from the earth,” he said. “And through the rock, it connects to the earth…and to the Shades.”

Burlic nodded slowly. All things sprang from the earth and returned there in the end.

Waeccan took a deep breath, felt the pain stir in his chest. Burlic was as ready as he was ever going to be. This was the right moment.

Choosing his words carefully, he said, “Burlic, I can explain nothing more of the Darkeningstone for you. The rest you must find out for yourself, if you have the courage and the heart to do so. If not, if you find yourself afraid, then you must return to your home now. But I see much in you that is brave and strong. I believe that you will go on. Is that so?
Are
you strong enough?”

Burlic glared at the old man. He hadn’t understood everything Waeccan had said, but he knew when his manhood was being questioned. He’d show the old fool. He squared his shoulders.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m ready.” But that was not enough. He looked the old man in the eye. “Waeccan, no doubt you are wise,” he said. “But do not dare to question my strength again. What I start, I finish.”

“Very well,” Waeccan said. “That is as it should be. Kneel before the Darkeningstone here, at the exact centre.” Waeccan gestured toward the place. For a moment Burlic hesitated, but he couldn’t back down now. He did as he was told. The kneeling place was obvious, worn smooth by years of use. He knelt, then looked to Waeccan, waited for his instructions.

Waeccan moved closer to stand at Burlic’s side. “Now,” he whispered, “allow yourself to be guided, allow yourself to be shown, and look into the Darkeningstone, deep into the stone.” Burlic looked. Despite his strong words, fear squirmed in his guts. He pushed the feeling aside. Why must Waeccan confuse everything? Stone was solid, dull—how could you look
inside
it?
But I can’t take my eyes off it
, he thought.
I want to see what Waeccan sees—I want to believe
. He tried to look into the stone, tried to imagine what could be beyond its surface.

Waeccan bent down to collect the sacred instruments. But no—only the splitter was there. He picked it up, and as he straightened his back he remembered: he’d dropped the striker near the top of the stairway.
But this is no good
, he thought.
I must pass both instruments to Burlic
. No one should kneel at the Darkeningstone without holding them—it was unthinkable.

“Just wait,” he said. “Wait…I need to…” But Burlic did not respond. Waeccan turned away, shuffled across the ledge. Where was it? He knelt down, grunting at the pain in his back. He ran his free hand across the ground. There. His fingers brushed against something cold, hard. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the striker’s handle, picked it up. It was heavier than usual. He clutched the instruments to his chest and tried to stand. But it was no use. His legs trembled, his back burned. And with his hands full, he couldn’t get his balance. He grimaced, closed his eyes, tried to ignore the pain. He heard his father laughing at him, mocking him. Waeccan gritted his teeth. “Not now,” he whispered. “You cannot stop me now.”

Burlic caught his breath. There—was the stone changing? Was he imagining it, or had it grown even darker? Yes, and there was something else—a glimmer of light, a faint flicker from deep within the stone.
It’s wonderful
, he thought.
But is this really stone? It’s more like looking down through deep water
. And then it happened. The stone’s surface melted, rippled. Burlic swayed. He felt dizzy. He leaned forward, toward the stone. It was pulling at him, drawing him in.
I mustn’t touch the stone
, he thought.
It’s not safe
. But he couldn’t help it. His body rocked back and forth, nearer and nearer to the stone.

The stone was utterly dark now. Burlic’s eyes could find nothing to hold on to. Fear rose up from the pit of his belly. The stone was no longer solid. It was an endless pit sunk deep into the rock.
It’s a trap
, he thought.
The Shades are dragging me in. I’ll fall, and there’s nothing I can do
.

His mind reeled with horror, but he could not look away. He had to watch as the stone fell away before his eyes. Slowly his body tipped forward. His stomach lurched. He put his hands out to steady himself, to push himself away from the edge of that unnatural emptiness.

With a deep groan Waeccan staggered to his feet. He turned, and suddenly his mouth was too dry for words. This was wrong. Burlic’s face should be alive with joy and wonderment. Instead he looked terrified, on the edge of blind panic. Burlic’s body shook. He looked ill. Was he seeing some powerful vision on his first visit to the Darkeningstone? “No,” Waeccan whispered. “You’re not ready. The sacred instruments…” This wasn’t right. But how could he stop it? How could he interfere?

Waeccan watched, helpless as Burlic leaned slowly forward. His heavy body slid toward the stone, as unstoppable as a mudslide. He watched as Burlic reached out toward the Darkeningstone. Surely he wasn’t going to touch it. But it was happening.
I’ve got to do something
, Waeccan thought.
I’ve got to stop him
.

“No,” he shouted, as loudly as he could. “You must not…” But further words would’ve been wasted. Burlic was no longer there.

2010

I’D GOT
MY BREATH BACK
by the time I got home. I slowed down as I walked up the path to our front door. Mum’s car was in the drive, but that didn’t mean anything. She’d gone out in his car. The door was on the latch. I put my key in the lock, then hesitated. I looked down at my ruined trainer, my stained jeans. “Oh hell,” I muttered. “This is going to be good.”
And it’s not just my clothes
, I thought.
I’ve cut my ankle, scratched my hand, my face feels grimy and I’ve got bits of dead leaves in my hair. And to top all that, I’ve lost my phone
.

I took a deep breath and turned the key.
Say nothing
, I thought.
Shrug your shoulders. Don’t look her in the eye
. I stepped in. All was quiet. “Hello?” I called. But I didn’t expect a reply. I could always tell when the house was empty.

In the kitchen, there was a message from Mum on the answering machine:

“Sorry, love, but I’ll be back late—Joel’s got to meet a client at the golf club, and he’s taking me along. It might go on a bit, so don’t wait for me—get yourself something for tea. There’s a lasagne in the freezer—your favourite. There’s instructions on the box. Oh, and a there’s a bag of salad in the refrigerator. Anyway, I’ll see you later. Take care. Bye.”

I sighed. “I hate lasagne,” I said, and I hit the delete button on the answering machine.
What now?
I thought. Was I hungry? I sat down at the big kitchen table. We used to eat all our meals there. Now it was too big for two. If Mum and I ever ate together, we had trays on our laps in the lounge. I stood up, trudged over to the refrigerator. I knelt down to the freezer compartment and put my hand on the handle, but I didn’t open it. These days, there always seemed to be
something
in the freezer. Always the cardboard sleeve, the glossy photo of delicious food. And inside—the plastic tray of congealed disappointment.

“What would Dad say?” I said to myself. He wouldn’t have ready meals in the house. He was a health food fanatic, and he let everyone know it. There were a lot of pointless, post-shopping arguments with Mum. I kept well out of it. I could never see what all the fuss was about. But lately, with all this stuff I’d been having from the freezer, I was starting to be on Dad’s side. Shame was, he’d probably never know.

I stood up, hugged my arms to my chest. “Is it just me,” I muttered, “or is it cold in here?” I went over to the stereo and turned it on, changing the station quickly so I wouldn’t have to listen to Mum’s middle-of-the-road mush. I needed to hear some good music. The DJ was in the middle of a phone-in competition. He was laughing like a maniac while Sasha from Brighton got every answer wrong. His forced, hollow laughter echoed from the tiled walls, made the house feel emptier. I flicked the channels: sports news, classical music, more news, jazz, a traffic report. “For god’s sake,” I said. “Get a satnav, get a life.” I turned it off.

I shivered. I rubbed my eyes.
What the hell’s wrong with me?
I thought.
I’m safely back home– I should feel great
. But I didn’t. It was like I’d just arrived from another planet. Had I really been out for just a few hours? The house was the same as ever: clean and neat and ordered.
It’s me
, I realised,
I don’t fit in
. I was wet and muddy and cold and hungry. I felt like an uninvited guest. I couldn’t just sit down and eat. But I couldn’t wait either. I compromised and put the kettle on. I pinched one of Mum’s “luxury” instant hot chocolate sachets and tipped it into a mug. While I waited for the kettle I raided the biscuit tub. “Result,” I said. “Chocolate digestives.” I grabbed a couple and put the lid back on. The water was ready, and I poured it onto the powder. “Damn!” I said. “That’s not meant to happen.” The powder floated in a mess of brown lumps. Were you meant to put the water in first? I took a teaspoon from the drawer and stirred. It looked a little better. I threw the spoon into the sink and took a bite of biscuit. “Mmmm,” I said. I closed my eyes for a second to savour the taste. It was the best thing I’d ever eaten. Without hesitating, I pulled the top off the biscuit tub and took the whole packet. I picked up my mug and headed upstairs.

In my room, I felt better, more myself. I put my drink and biscuits on my bedside table, stripped off my wet clothes and chucked them in the corner. Mum would make a fuss if I left them there, but I could bung them in the machine later, and she’d never know. I propped my pillows up against the headboard, jumped into the bed and pulled the duvet up to my chin. The drink was hot and sweet, and most of the lumps had gone. It was the perfect way to wash down the chocolate biscuits. For a few minutes everything was just perfect. I chuckled to myself. I thought,
I must look like an old lady, huddled up here with my mug
. It seemed so funny. I laughed out loud. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stop. But then I caught sight of the muddy clothes on the floor. “You prat,” I whispered. “You idiot. You’re such a…such a bloody loser.” And suddenly it all came flooding back: every embarrassment, every humiliation, every failure. Self-pity welled up inside me. I looked down at my mug, but for some reason the hot chocolate was sloshing around, threatening to spill. My hand was shaking. I held the mug tighter, both hands, but I couldn’t keep it steady.
I’m going to spill it on the duvet
, I thought.
What will Mum say?
It seemed so terrible, but I couldn’t help myself, I was so clumsy. And then my whole body was trembling. And the tears came. I put the mug down on my bedside table, then I put my face in the duvet, and I sobbed.

I couldn’t have told you exactly why I was crying, couldn’t have explained it. Not properly. So maybe it was just as well that there was no one to ask me.