Trespass_A Tale of Mystery and Suspense Across Time Page 2

  Burlic forced himself to wait. The axeman stepped forward. Despite his injuries, he swung his axe with a frenzied speed and strength. From the corner of his eye, Burlic followed the arc of the axe, waiting until it was almost too late. He leapt back, just enough to escape the vicious blade. The axeman followed through, his axe meeting only thin air, and he turned too far, over-balancing and exposing his side and back. Without hesitation, Burlic launched himself at the man’s back, toppling him to the ground, landing on top of him with his full weight. The axeman screamed as his ravaged face was driven into the dirt. Burlic recovered quickly, sitting up and astride the man, pinning him down. With both hands, Burlic gripped the man’s neck, forcing his fingers around his throat, squeezing, crushing.

  The axeman tried to twist away, his arms flailing, one hand still waving the useless axe in the air. He choked, vile, guttural noises hissing from his throat. And then it was over. The axeman’s body slumped, and Burlic felt the life of his enemy slip away. He waited a moment and then released the man’s throat, watching him carefully—just to be certain.

  Burlic stood and took a deep breath. He looked from the dead axeman to the body of the bowman. This was their hunting ground, and they’d fought to protect it. Burlic sniffed, taking in the tang of fresh blood. I’d have done the same, he thought. He walked over to the bowman’s body, pushed him onto his back with his foot. A talisman dangled from a braided-leather strap around the dead man’s neck. As the body rolled, the talisman swung across his bloodied chest, and Burlic bent over to look more closely. The talisman was a smooth, flat disc, carved with an intricate design of curling lines. Carefully, Burlic picked it up. “Beautiful,” he whispered. How could a man make such a thing?

  He put his hand to the flint knife at his belt and hesitated, struck by a sudden thought: He’d killed two men, and he hadn’t even drawn his knife. This was a strange day, and it would make a good tale. But that was for later. Now he must make sure the men’s Shades could leave their bodies. He took out his knife and, clutching the talisman firmly in his hand, he cut the leather strap. He stood and returned to the axeman’s body. This man’s talisman was covered in blood. Burlic wiped his thumb across its surface. The carved design was similar to his companion’s. He dragged his knife across the strap, the fine flint edge slicing easily through the blood-soaked leather. Burlic held both talismans together in his palm and took a deep breath.

  He looked up and checked the height of the sun. There would be plenty of time. And he knew what he had to do.

  CHAPTER 3

  1944

  ON THE MORNING OF THE DAY HE DIED, Wing Commander Butterworth stood at the edge of the runway and watched the single-engine Miles Messenger come in to land. He rocked back and forth on his heels and smiled as the pilot executed a perfect landing, the plane almost gliding to the ground. Good man, he thought. And a nice little plane too. Butterworth looked up into the clear autumn sky and scanned the horizon. Not a cloud in sight. He was looking forward to this. Looking forward to this trip, looking forward to his tour of the airbases in the North. He’d shake them up and get them moving. He took a deep breath, baring his teeth to the cool, crisp air. This is it, he thought. At last, they were getting somewhere. The tide of the war was turning. He could almost taste it. There are great days ahead, he thought. Great days. And he’d play his part to the full, starting here, with this perfect day to be up in the air.

  As the Messenger taxied to a standstill, Butterworth turned to the two men who’d be travelling with him. Harvey, his batman, was already bending over their bags, checking the leather luggage straps were fastened securely. This other chap was a bit of a mystery—an aircrew sergeant, urgently needed up North, apparently. So when his Group Captain had mentioned they could give him a lift, Butterworth had been happy to agree. It was always good to keep in touch with the NCOs—they were the ones who could tell you if the men were battle ready. And they’d need to be.

  Now, what was his name—Cornet? No, that wasn’t right. Butterworth gave him a nod, smiling to himself as the man snapped to attention for the umpteenth time. “Ready to go, Sergeant?”

  The man stared straight ahead as though on parade. “Yes, Sir.”

  “Very good. Stand easy, Sergeant,” Butterworth said.

  “Yes, Sir,” the man said. He relaxed his shoulders slightly, moved his feet apart a little, but remained upright and alert.

  Butterworth gave him an approving glance. He looked like a solid character, salt-of-the-Earth type. “Sergeant,” he said, “could you just remind me of your name?”

  Startled, the man shot him a sideways look. “Sergeant Corbett, Sir.”

  “Ah yes.” He gestured toward the plane. “So tell me, Corbett, what do you think of the Messenger, eh?”

  Sergeant Vincent Corbett turned to the plane. The doors were open now, and a small knot of ground crew fussed around the fuselage while the pilot stood to one side, stretching his legs. “Very good, Sir,” he said. “Very reliable.” He hesitated. “I believe Monty, I mean Field Marshal Montgomery, uses them, Sir.”

  Butterworth laughed. “Well, if it’s good enough for Monty, it’s good enough for us, eh?”

  Corbett smiled uncertainly. Had he made a joke? He’d no idea. There was no understanding these officer types.

  Harvey cleared his throat. “They’re ready for you now, Sir.”

  “Very good,” Butterworth said. “Harvey, you ride up front. I’ll share the back with Corbett.”

  Corbett opened his mouth to protest, but Butterworth slapped him on the shoulder.

  “Come on, Corbett,” he said. “Let’s not keep them waiting.” He turned and strode toward the plane.

  Harvey looked Corbett up and down, pursing his lips. “Certainly, Sir, I’ll just stow our bags, Sir.” He picked up their luggage, pointedly leaving Corbett’s bag on the tarmac, and marched off toward the plane.

  Corbett bent down and picked up his bag. Riding with a Wingco? If the lads could see him now, they’d take the mick and no mistake. He sighed. The pilot was already in his seat. What choice did he have but to go along with it?

  ***

  As the plane levelled off, Butterworth turned away from the window and raised his voice over the thrum of the engine. “Well, Corbett, we’re on our way,” he said. “So tell me, why are you going up North in such a hurry?”

  Corbett swallowed hard. His ears hadn’t popped properly. “Operational Training Unit, Sir. I’m to train navigators.”

  “Good man,” he said. “Can’t sort the buggers out if we can’t find them, eh?”

  “No, Sir,” Corbett said. He wanted to say that there was a bit more to it than that, but he knew better. He folded his arms and stared ahead. It would be good to be back in the North, good to be near his hometown. He could probably get some leave and pop over to his house and give it an airing. He closed his eyes and tried to picture his front room. What colour was the carpet? He shook his head. It was no good. He should’ve visited earlier when he’d had the chance. But first he’d been stationed down South, and then Africa and Italy. Since he’d been back in England, he’d made excuses and stayed away. Now his little house would be damp and neglected. He’d been away far too long.

  Butterworth cast his eye over Corbett’s morose expression. It looked like the sergeant wouldn’t be such good company after all. The man was in a world of his own, staring into space and moping like a love-struck lad. And that may well be the problem, he thought. Woman trouble. He’d seen it all too often. The man needed cheering up, that was all. Butterworth sniffed. No need to get involved. Best to let the chap’s CO sort him out when he gets there. After all, he thought, I’ve plenty of my own work to do. He pulled his leather briefcase onto his lap, undid the straps and pulled out a bulging cardboard folder. His heart sank at the thought of all the documents inside. And they were all to be sifted, read and mastered. He picked up the first piece of paper, a memo from the War Office, and stared at the mass of close-set typing. Impenetrable. He g
lanced toward Harvey in the front, but he’d be no help there. He needed him by his side. Damn it. He’d have to plough through it all himself. He scowled and returned to his papers. There was no doubt about it—insisting that this man, Corbett, sit next to him, had been a terrible mistake.

  CHAPTER 4

  2007

  I PUSHED THE TROWEL as far as I could into the cold, hard earth and levered up a small clod of gritty soil. At this rate, I thought, we’ll still be here next Christmas.

  “Dad,” I moaned, “I told you we should’ve brought a proper spade.”

  He laughed. “We didn’t have time to get one,” he said. “You were in such a rush to get going.”

  “Huh,” I muttered, “only because I had to pry you away from the TV.”

  He laughed again. “I thought that’s what Boxing Day was for.” He bent down and picked up the metal detector. “Do you want to try somewhere else?”

  I sat back on my haunches and looked around. The Common all looked the same to me: a bleak stretch of straggly heather, dotted with clumps of tough, brown grass. “Not yet,” I said. “I’ll dig a bit more. The metal detector beeped so there must be something here.” I bent back to my task, holding the trowel with both hands and stabbing it furiously into the pathetic hole I’d made.

  “Maybe you didn’t have it adjusted right,” Dad said. He swung the metal detector around and studied the control panel.

  “Don’t change it,” I said. “It took me ages.”

  “All right,” Dad said. Reluctantly, he put the detector back down. “Just trying to help.”

  “Well don’t.” I changed my grip on the trowel and drove it down into the ground, felt it bite through the earth. Suddenly, the blade hit something hard and came to an abrupt stop. My hands slipped down the handle, and my fingers hit hard against the trowel’s top edge. “Bloody hell,” I hissed.

  “I beg your pardon,” Dad said.

  I smiled up at him. I didn’t care that he’d moan at me for swearing. I didn’t care that I’d hurt my hand. “Dad,” I said, “I’ve found something.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.” I dug for all I was worth, scraping away the soil, delving into the dense, stony ground. There. The distinct rasping of metal grating on metal. I widened the hole, following the line of this mysterious metal object.

  Dad squatted down beside me, peering into the hole. “Go on,” he said, “you’re doing really well.”

  I grinned to myself, and kept digging. Soon I had a decent-sized hole. At the bottom, under the loose soil and stones that kept sliding back into the hole, I caught a glimpse of rust. This was it. I pressed the tip of the trowel against it, sliding it along the hard edges of my find, tracing out its shape. It was long and thin, narrowing to a rounded point. I gasped, could it be the blade of a short sword? That would be better than gold. I scraped away more soil, poking my tongue out between my lips as I worked.

  “Oh,” Dad said. His voice was flat, disappointed.

  I stopped digging and looked up at him. “What?” I said.

  Dad looked me in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know what it looks like…but it isn’t.”

  “What?” I said. “How do you know?”

  Dad sighed. “Well, for a second, I thought it was a sword too, but then…” He pulled the glove from his right hand and reached into the hole, brushing away some soil from the flaky rust. “Then I saw this.” He pointed to where he’d exposed a broader piece of metal that lay at right angles to the long strip.

  I stared and searched for the right word. “The hilt?” I said.

  Dad shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “It’s a hinge. One of those long ones you get on big shed doors.”

  My shoulders slumped. He was right—of course he was. I sat back, looked down at my hands and tried to rub away the ingrained soil. All that effort for nothing.

  “Never mind,” Dad said. “We can have another go.”

  I didn’t look up. I shook my head.

  Dad put his hand on my shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “Tell you what—next time, I’ll do the digging.”

  I shrugged.

  “And if we don’t find anything,” Dad said, “we’ll go home, and I’ll make you…I know…curried beans on toast.”

  I looked up at him and half smiled. “I thought we had to have cold turkey today.”

  “Stuff the turkey!” Dad said.

  I laughed. “You crazy old man,” I said.

  “That’s the spirit,” he said. He stood, and reached out his hand to pull me up. “Come on. Let’s get going.”

  ***

  I stopped walking and swung the metal detector slowly back across my path. There. The tone in my headphones rose and fell. Dad stood and looked at me expectantly. I nodded and took the headphones off. “Right there,” I said, pointing.

  Dad frowned. “There?” he said. “You’re winding me up. It’s a bog.”

  I sniffed. “It’s not that bad,” I said. I stepped forward and felt the ground give a little beneath my feet. Black, peaty water squeezed up onto the surface, threatening to soak into my trainer. When I pulled my foot away, there was an audible squelch.

  Dad shook his head. “Let’s call it a day. It’s probably just more scrap metal.”

  I gave him a sharp look. There was no need to remind me about what I’d found so far. “You said you would dig,” I said.

  He sighed. “OK, OK,” he said. He squatted down and pointed with the trowel. “Here?”

  “Right a bit. There.”

  He set to work, muttering, “I don’t know—the things you do.”

  I pushed my hands into my coat pockets and watched him dig. He didn’t want to do it, not really. He’s doing it for me, I thought. Sticking to his promise. But maybe I should’ve let him off this time. I chewed my lip. It would be OK. Dad was warming to his task now, and the ground was soft. The hole was a good size, though I couldn’t see the bottom for the dark water draining into it.

  I shuffled my feet, imagined the damp seeping in through the soles of my shoes. A shiver ran through me. I turned my face to the wintry sun. Somehow, it made me feel colder. And I was getting hungry too.

  “Dad,” I said, “maybe we should give-”

  But Dad shot me a look. “My god,” he whispered.

  “What? What’s the matter?”

  “I…I think I’ve found something.” He pushed his sleeve up his arm and plunged his bare hand into the cold, murky water, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

  I held my breath.

  “It’s round,” he said, “round and flat. Like a disc. But it’s stuck in the mud.” He reached farther into the hole, groping blindly in the mud. His sleeve slipped down and dipped into the filthy water, but he didn’t notice, didn’t care.

  I squatted down next to him, craning my neck to see. The bottom of the hole was a mess of peat-black water, thick with churned mud. I couldn’t see a thing. “What is it, Dad? Can you pull it out?”

  He didn’t answer. He shook his head and frowned, still scrabbling furiously in the slippery mud.

  “Dad, please,” I said. “Tell me what it is.”

  He stopped and looked me in the eye. “No,” he said, “I can do better than that.” And when he lifted his arm out, I saw what we’d found.

  CHAPTER 5

  3540 BC

  CLEOFAN RAN A HAND OVER HIS FACE and sighed. This time, it had been harder to slip away to the pit. And the climb up to the ledge had taken longer. This time, there’d been…a complication.

  He shook his head. What was done, was done. I’m here now, he thought. I’ve made my decision, and must live with the consequences. He raised his eyes to the horizon. Soon, the sun would dip toward the distant hills, sending long shadows to snake through the pit. Then it would be too late. Too late to do what must be done.

  It was now or never. Cleofan crossed the ledge and, bowing his head, he knelt down before the Darkeningstone. Slowly
, slowly he raised his eyes, and allowed his glance to skip across the sacred stone. And his breath caught in his chest. The Darkeningstone lay before him in all its glory, a perfect slab of pure black stone. He gazed at its immaculate proportions. It was longer than a man was tall, as wide as a man’s outstretched arms, and the perfect height for Cleofan to kneel and look down upon its flawless surface. And it was his. He had found this treasure, had uncovered it, releasing it from its hiding place among the lifeless stone.

  “I’m the only one,” he whispered, “the only one who understands, the only one you’ll allow.” He bit his lip and, almost despite himself, he reached out an unsteady hand toward its cold perfection. His fingers trembled, brushing against the stone’s sharp edge. A flash of blue light flickered across the stone, and Cleofan jerked his hand away. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have… I… I wasn’t ready.” And yet, he must make himself ready, control his thoughts. He had a task to perform.

  Cleofan put his hands up to his face and rubbed his tired eyes. Last night, the stone had slipped into his mind as he’d slept, had murmured its lonely message into his dreams: The secret must be shared. It was time to pass the sacred duties to the man who would one day take his place. Cleofan’s knowledge must not die when he passed into the Shade World. And so, he had made his decision, his choice.

  Now, he hesitated. It was too great a responsibility. What if he’d made a mistake? He took a deep breath. He could not deny the will of the Darkeningstone, but perhaps he should choose someone else, someone older. “It’s not too late,” he muttered.

  “What’s not too late, Father?”

  Cleofan blinked, refocused his eyes beyond the Darkeningstone. Across the ledge, his son, Waeccan, sat on the ground, idly arranging a collection of smooth stones into patterns in the soil.