Tunnel Down to Moonrise

By Tom Henighan

Jack Toland, 17, has traveled to England with his mother, Cara Peters, who plays “Montana Black” in a well-known TV adventure series. They are to meet Jack’s father, Dr. Charles Toland, a “TV scientist” who has been investigating destructive gold mining practices in Eastern Europe. The family is attempting to have a special vacation together at Halliwell Hall, an ancient estate in the north of England near Durham Cathedral. The estate belongs to Freddy and Gail Armstrong, the latter a former actress and close friend of Cara Peters. Freddy Armstrong is the CEO of a resort chain, buying up historic properties to turn them into expensive tourist playgrounds.

The Tolands’ carefree vacation turns frightening when there is an attempt to kidnap Jack, and to murder his father. Jack and Cleo (Gail Armstrong’s daughter) are drawn together and must deal with the threat of a sinister international mafia group known as the Cromlech Gang. They learn that the gang is after much more than gold: they seek power through a remarkable invention that enables the user to travel in time and space to alternative universes. The machine is tuned in with the ancient megalithic monuments, which retain the power to activate dimensional travel.

Jack and Cleo must outsmart the gang and enter “the tunnel down to moonrise” in order to visit the unspoiled world of Stonehenge that exists in an alternative earth. They discover an odd and dangerous society, and take part in strange-seeming ceremonies. But they soon see how respectfully these ancient people treat the earth and their dead ancestors. Getting back to earth is not easy and when they return Jack and Cleo find themselves caught between the international mafia and British intelligence, both of whom are out to capture the time-travel machine. Can they rely on their new friend, the scientist Arthur Harker, and the clever but somewhat dubious Freddy Armstrong to help them at the critical moment?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Henighan
• Release date: Jun 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9780973760743

Tom Henighan

Tom Henighan's numerous works of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry include The Maclean's Companion to Canadian Arts and Culture, The Well of Time, and the YA novel Viking Quest (2001). He lives in Ottawa, and teaches at Carleton University.

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TUNNEL DOWN TO MOONRISE

Tom Henighan

Copyright © 2012 Tom Henighan

Smashwords Edition

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All characters, names and events in this story are fictitious and have been invented for the story. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events, is purely coincidental. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share it with another person please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, please do so. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Stone Flower Press

To the memory of four great literary scholars: James Maxwell, Peter Ure, Ernst Honigmann, and J.I.M. Stewart. I was lucky to connect with and be instructed by all of them, once upon a time in the North.

Oh, where are you going, said Haunter to Hunter,

"That path tunnels deep in the doom of the day.

While time lengthens slowly, like a shadow at sunset,

The stones point the priest on his perilous way . . ."

Variation on the traditional ballad of The Cutty Wren

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Afterword

One: Making Connections

Heathrow Airport, London, was crawling with people. It was only nine o'clock, but a bright Monday morning, and the beginning of summer, and everybody seemed to be in motion.

Jack sat squashed in one narrow corner of a bench and peered down at the lower level of the terminal, trying to spot his father. It was like watching a clothes fair come to life. Sportshirts shook and moved, jeans jogged, turbans trotted, skirts shifted, suits ambled – or else people stood around, gaped, and looked bored or helpless. A few men and women, hauling luggage carts through the crowd, seemed pleased with themselves; but toddlers squirmed, and mothers, squinting at the arrivals and departures screens, shook their heads. Older teens about Jack’s age, and young people, loaded down with skis or tennis rackets, joked and eyed one another.

This is kind of neat, Jack said, turning to his mother, no reporters and no nasty little guys with bombs in their shoes. At least I hope not! Where’s Dad got to, I wonder?

His mother looked horrified. Shhh, Jack, please! They can throw you out of here for mentioning the b-word! I have no idea where your father is, and I don’t need any extra worries, believe me. It’s bad enough that he missed his plane from Geneva, but why he won’t call me . . . I just can’t understand.

Shifting impatiently on the hard bench, she studied the passers-by for a minute or two, then gave a little gasp, nudged her son in the ribs, and whispered to him.

Oh God! I knew it. I do see a reporter—or even worse—maybe a fan, in the offing.

Jack curled his lips in a wry smile. His mother pretended to hate the publicity that came with being a television star, a celebrity, and he could see that it was often annoying. But she also greatly enjoyed the fuss, loved being a name, a recognizable person. Jack didn’t spend a lot of time in her company—this trip was a big exception—but when he went with his mum to a restaurant, or they did one of their walkie-talkies, little strolls in which she delivered some timely advice, or passed him some money, he noticed how she waited expectantly for strangers to give her the look. Whenever they did, she bore it nobly, pretending to be unaware, and maintaining a cheerful smile, but if they didn’t take notice, she was inclined to be grumpy.

The looks cast in his mother’s direction didn’t happen just because she was quite beautiful, or because of her chic or snappy clothes; they were a tribute to a famous TV face. Because on television, that is, in reality–for television is the real reality to many people–Jack’s mother played Montana Black, a secret agent who tracked terrorists for a U.S. government counter-intelligence group. In her fictional guise she wasn’t easy to miss either, since Montana wore the craziest, sexiest off-beat clothes, sported a silver Lueger, and was accompanied and protected by a highly intelligent Alsatian named Bruno.

Although Bruno was definitely not around, his mother had a bit of a Montana air about her just then. Getting dressed for the flight the previous night she had asked Jack the ritual question: So how do I look?– then explained to him her chosen outfit. This included a black top with bare shoulders and cocktail dress straps, partially concealed by a featherweight cashmere sweater, cropped green designer chinos, and high-heel chocolate suede shoes with suede tassels and brass studs. She had put her blonde hair up and showed off her blue eyes and terrific bone structure to best advantage.

If they want to see Montana, let them gape away! she said, after Jack had winced and mumbled a few words about her pretty interesting outfit.

She had certainly captured a few glances on the plane, as had Jack himself, a tall, trim 17-year-old, with his mother’s deep blue eyes, a shock of blond hair, and a ready smile. Now he looked around and, from among the throng of passers-by, tried to figure out just whom his mother suspected of identifying her. There were no paparazzi in sight, only a couple of cute teenaged girls, lolling around and cradling skis on their shoulders, but they seemed to be eyeing him, not Montana Black; he also spotted a solid-looking older woman plunked in an chair, knitting something, and covertly watching them while babbling away to a young child. Also a swarthy man in a turban, casting covert glances at them from beside a nearby news stand.

Let’s see if I can figure this out, Jack said. "I’d guess that the woman with the knitting is the fan, the guy at the news stand is a reporter from the Mumbai version of Rolling Stone, and the cute girls are just cute girls—right, Mum?"

Oh, I have no idea, really. I just wonder what we’re supposed to do now. If I’d known your father would let us down I could have asked Gail to pick us up. We’ll have to hire a car—I don’t feel like driving in England—or else take the train. We can’t just sit here forever . . . Why didn’t your father come through that gate over there when he was supposed to? Gate thirteen! I thought they never used that number. You’re sure that last bunch arrived from Rome?

Sure, Mum. I checked the board. I even asked one of them. A real grumpy guy. He seemed to think I was going to hit him for money.

I guess we should go to the Swiss Airline information desk, though heaven knows where that is! Can you make out any of those announcements?

They had been straining their ears to decipher the garbled, strangulated phrases that occasionally blared through the racket of the terminal. Only a word here and there was comprehensible – it sounded like the voices were coming from a sewer or an air vent.

I'm getting thirsty. Maybe I could go and get a drink for us, and check the Swiss desk for you, Mum.

Well, I guess that’s OK. That woman with her knitting is going to come over here, though, I swear it. Maybe I ought to go with you."

No, Mum. Just sit tight. I’ll be right back.

Jack was tired of hanging around his mother. He wanted to do something on his own. Yet he knew they ought to stay close by the gate. They were both used to Charles Toland's punctuality and efficiency, and had expected to see him appear at any moment.

Jack's father was a scientist, and, wonder of wonders, also a TV star, although a very different kind from his mother. Dr. Toland, an ecologist, hosted a show called Green Planet, one that stood high in the North American ratings, although miles below the realms of Montana Black and her macho, karate-chopping companions.

The fact that his mum and dad were both public persons didn’t make things easier at home, however. The Tolands had a very stormy relationship. This had bothered Jack, an only child, a lot when he was younger, and there had been interventions, therapy, and a big effort by his parents to keep him occupied. As a result he had attended any number of sports and music camps, had taken lessons in almost everything imaginable, and had spent a lot of time with his grandfather Toland, who had a ranch in Alberta. Even now, at age seventeen, when he had to do the parent-travel thing, he tried to make sure it was with either his father or his mother, not both. He loved and respected both his parents, but together they could sometimes be a circus. It was absurd at times, even funny, but mostly it was just plain embarrassing.

As Jack prepared to take off, the garbled voice began to speak again above their heads.

YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE. Would Cara-eeters annn-ummm-desk at–Swiss–as soon as poss–ummm. Ur's a mussuge at sooshurdesk for Ms. Peters. Would Caaa–eeters come to the desk at sisseuro, as soon as possible, please.

Jack jumped to his feet. Cara Peters! Swiss Euro! That's for you, Mum! For us. There's a message from Dad, I bet!

That's a relief! said his mother. But what in hell’s wrong with his cell phone?

As the message began to be repeated by the same drawling, strangulated voice, she got up quickly, so quickly that she dropped her handbag, and almost bumped into the man who had descended, swiftly and suddenly, on their bench.

Pardon me, the man said, But aren’t you the famous Cara Peters?"

He was tall dusky-skinned, and he wore a turban, a head dress, and moved with a self-conscious distinction that, as Jack could see, attracted some attention even in this sophisticated airport. But the man seemed unaware of this. He bent over, smiling, picked up the handbag and handed it to Jack’s mother.

Allow me, Ms. Peters he said politely, Or perhaps I should call you Montana Black?

Thanks so much, his mother said, ignoring the allusion to her alter ego. I'm not usually so clumsy.

The man laughed. He was tall and rather handsome, neither young nor old, with a thin, odd moustache, and dark eyes that glittered as he looked, first at Jack's mother, then at Jack himself – a sharp look, very personal, that made Jack catch his breath.

I resume my path, the man said quaintly, and strode away into the shifting crowd.

Wow, Jack said. He didn’t even ask for your autograph. Did you see that gold ring he was wearing? I’ll bet it’s worth almost as much as that necklace Gail sent you.

Jack cast a glance at his mother’s recent present from her oldest friend, a necklace consisting of a gold chain, with three rectangular gold panels suspended beneath, a marvellously simple and effective design, as his mother had noted when it arrived just before their departure from Toronto.

Gail Armstrong, a former actress and night-club singer, whom they were on their way to visit in County Durham in the north of England, had very good taste, as well as a lot of money. The necklace was her idea of a good luck charm for the trip. It hadn’t worked very well so far, Jack thought.

I don’t think that man’s a reporter, Jack said. He didn’t ask any questions. He just seemed to want to identify us. Did you see the way he looked at us? At me, as well as you.

Yes, it was irritating. Presumptuous somehow. Judging by his dress, he must be from Iran or India, or somewhere like that, but he looked like Mandrake the Magician. I guess it was that silly moustache! If he wasn’t so obvious, he might make a good TV villain.

Who's Mandrake the Magician?

An old comic book character. He wore a top hat and tails, even in the jungle. Although maybe it was Lothar I'm thinking of. Mandrake had a helper called Lothar–I think he was an African. . . The oriental I'm thinking of must be that fellow who used to work for Daddy Warbucks. He wore a turban, surely. Or maybe Mandrake did too. I may be confused about it. I had to read a script about some of these characters once, but the project didn’t happen . . . thank goodness. Come on! Let's get to the Swiss Euro desk and find out what's happened to your father.

They joined the swirling throng. Pushing their luggage ahead of them, they made their way along a crowded corridor, then down a ramp, stopping to ask directions a few times, and finally ending up at the Swiss European information desk, a plush, expanded cubby-hole that sat alongside similar plush, expanded cubby-holes under a hangar-like facade.

We have a fax for you, Ms. Peters, said a man behind the counter, when she had identified herself. He handed Jack's mother a thin blue envelope. Someone was inquiring for you.

For us? Who could that be?

I'm sorry, Ms. Peters. I've just now come on duty. The message sheet says there was an inquiry, though.

I can't imagine. . .

She tore the envelope open rather quickly and started to read the message. Then gasped, said Oh my God!, glanced at Jack, and began to read again.

What’s the matter, Mum? Everything okay?

Your father’s had an accident. How awful! But he’s all right—he says he’s fine. Oh, this is terrible! But he’s all right—that’s the main thing. He says not to worry, but some equipment got destroyed. His laptop and cell phone—oh my goodness! The hired car had a problem—he doesn’t say what. He’s left me a number and a time to call. Oh, this is awful! Here, read it for yourself!

His mother handed the message to Jack, who scanned it very quickly. His father had concluded by advising them how to get up to the Armstrong place. Don’t hire a car, he wrote. Take the train, make sure it’s going to Oxford, and stay well in the public eye. I’ll explain it all later. But watch yourselves. Tell Jack to keep a lookout. If anything suspicious occurs, don’t hesitate to call the police. Now here’s how to get in touch with me . . .

Jack stood still and whistled softly to himself. Wow! What’s going on? It doesn’t sound like just an accident to me. I wish he could have told us a bit more. But at least he’s okay–that’s the main thing. We’d better do as he says, right away!

Yes, yes! His mother stamped one foot with impatience. Of course we’ll do as he says! But what a mess! If we had only known there would be trouble we could have delayed a few days and come over on Zack’s plane. And how can we take care if we don’t know what the danger is.

Zack was the producer of his mother’s show, and the very successful creator and producer of several big internationally famous TV shows. Jack had once flown in one of the company’s hired planes, and it was a whole different travel experience. But he hadn’t wanted to do it this time. He had wanted to trip around in public with his famous mother. So here he was, in an airport with the inimitable Montana Black, who seemed simply baffled, upset, and quite unsure what to do next.

Jack reached over and patted his mother gently on the shoulder. I guess we should be going for the train right away. Dad obviously wants to talk to you when he’s sure we’re heading north. By the way, Mum, nobody’s after Dad or anything, are they?

His mother gave him a startled look.

God! I never thought of that! I hope not. These ecological types can be pretty dangerous—although most of them seem to love what your father does. Well, at least he’s in Geneva, and not in somewhere like Turkey or Angola or the Congo. You’re right, though, we’ve got to get out of here as quickly as possible.

I'll push the cart, Jack said.

They joined the swarm and plodded on through the tunnels. I wonder who was asking for us back at the desk?

His mother stopped in her tracks and gazed at him. God! I forgot about that! That’s scary!

Let’s get out of here.

They moved on quickly, and kept watching the signs, which seemed endless – signs for airlines, for hotels, for lounges, signs for lost luggage and rest rooms – everyone in perpetual motion, going somewhere – it made you dizzy just to think about it. At last, however, they found the way to the taxi. Leaving the terminal building they came into a bleak landscape of half-hearted brown lawns, concrete ramps and the backs of hangars.

The day had clouded over suddenly – it was even chilly – and Jack shivered as they waited in line for their ride.

When their turn came they settled with relief into the quaint taxi, a black sedan with a separate passenger compartment and the luggage resting nicely in front of them. Jack eyed the driver closely, but the man seemed ordinary enough.

Paddington! his mother called out, the driver nodded, and they were off.

This was more like it, yet Jack 's excitement faded as they laboured along a motorway that seemed impossibly clogged with traffic, then descended among a sprawl of shapeless buildings, anonymous storefronts, cheap hotels and blocks of flats.

Just like Toronto, he said sadly.

Just like anywhere, his mother corrected. But it will be very different at the Armstrongs. They live in quite a mansion, I believe. I wish we were there now—with your father.

Dad will be okay, Mum. Don’t worry about him. . . But about Gail and family–what is it that Freddy Armstrong does again? I know he’s some kind of developer.

Oh, he invests in and develops tourist properties all over the world. You know the Golden Horizon Hotel chain?—well, he owns a lot of it. Freddy’s a bit of a card, not exactly my package, but Gail puts up with him.

She likes his money, I guess.

"Don’t be so crude, sweetie—you’re talking about my best friend. God! I hope your father answers when I call! I’m tempted to try now, but he always gets furious when I act impulsively. And his cell phone was destroyed—didn’t the fax say so? I wish I really was Montana Black—I’d know exactly what to do."

Jack smiled and stared out the window. Their cab rolled along at a brisker pace. And before long they found themselves approaching Paddington Station.

Jack took in the sights. He had been in England a few times, but only as a child, when his main interest was picking up treasures in Hamley’s toy shop. But here was London all right, familiar names like Hammersmith and Kensington, redbrick and stone buildings everywhere, a few skyscrapers, and a distant skyline of domes and spires that looked vaguely familiar. All of a sudden it seemed to Jack that the bones of the past were vividly present amid all the flashy glitter of the present day city. For when they climbed from the taxi, the smell of age – a smell of coaldust from ancient vanished fires, of beer, and of dampness that seeped from the heart of the stone – struck him so forcibly that he stopped in amazement and looked around, as if he had returned to some familiar place.

By the time they settled down in the train, his mother, who had tried to explain everything as they went along, seemed even more nervous and exhausted.

We just made it, she said. I have to make that call in twenty minutes. She used the compartment mirror to check her make-up, almost as if she were going to make a video-phone connection, Jack thought.

They were settled in now, in some kind of special passenger train that was supposed to be an historical replica of a famous old British Rail unit. A few American tourists and English business types had settled in with them, but Jack looked around, bored, and longed to explore the train a bit. Also, his father had told him to keep a sharp lookout—but for what? He had no idea. If only the message had been more specific. But maybe the phone call would fill them in.

He waited until the train got underway, staring at a wilderness of tracks and railroad yards, at the seedy backs of buildings, then asked his mother if he could wander around and maybe get a drink or something. She looked very dubious, but finally murmured her approval.

Come back as quickly as you can. I want you to be here when I get through to your father.

Sure, of course. I can’t wait to talk to him.

He wandered down the aisle, a few English coins jingling in his pockets. Through the old-fashioned compartment windows he caught glimpses of other passengers – mostly businessmen, reading newspapers, and a few families on vacation – though the train was surprisingly empty. He had no idea where he might get food and drink, and wandered the length of two cars before he ran into a conductor.

Just sit tight, there’s a snack bar opening up soon two cars down, the man told him, not realizing that Jack had come from first-class.

The wheels rattled and sang, the train shook and seemed to be gathering speed. Jack stood uncertainly; he would soon have to go back and keep an eye on his mother.

But at that moment the shade was raised on the compartment window just beside him. The door slid open and a face peered out. Jack saw that it was the man from the terminal, the man with the turban, and the Mandrake moustache.

So we meet again, he said in his odd accent. And without the guardian mother. Do come in and talk to me, young man. I have something here that may interest the son of Charles Toland.

Two: Crazy Man

Jack hesitated a moment. The tall man stepped back and pointed to a seat.

The compartment was empty, but the one opposite, on the other side of the aisle, held a grey-haired, dignified older woman and a child, a little girl of about four or five. The woman was reading a newspaper, while the girl played with a Teddy Bear on the seat. Jack was puzzled; the woman looked very much like the one he’d seen in the terminal watching his mother. Had everyone from the airport boarded the same train for Oxford?

Jack stood uncertainly in the passage, then the child glanced up at him and smiled; the old woman nodded slightly and went on reading her paper. He found this reassuring. Curiosity got the better of him and he followed the turbaned man into the compartment.

How did you know my name? Jack asked, taking his place a little warily beside the open passage door, and attempting to keep some eye contact with the woman across the aisle.

Oh, your mother and father are so well-known, and people do write gossipy articles about such a family, the man said. Let me introduce myself–I’m Ashok Gond—you can call me Ash for short. I’m a journalist, a science reporter– which is one connection I have with your father. Of course, as an assiduous magazine reader and web surfer I’ve learned quite a bit about your illustrious parents. I can describe their current projects, tell you what their hobbies are; I know their political opinions, and even who they hang out with in their spare time. I know that they are a very happily married couple, but that they have their little family issues. I know how much your mother earns, where she buys her clothes, and what your father likes to eat for breakfast. I also know that you and the famous Montana Black are joining your father for a little vacation in County Durham.

Jack sat speechless, amazed, and a little shocked, at these revelations.

Ashok Gond waved his hand dismissively.

But never mind, those kinds of superficial things don’t really concern me. I’m not a gossip writer, I’m a serious researcher. And right now my interest in your family is connected with much more serious matters. I should explain that I’m stopping at Oxford to interview a scientist named McCallister. Have you ever heard of him? He's an expert on ancient technologies. How the Bronze Age people who built Stonehenge measured the equinox and all that kind of thing. He has his own theory about Stonehenge. His ideas are ridiculous, of course. For one thing, he hasn’t read the Russians on space-time connections and alternative universes. If he had, he’d know that there are better sources of information on the ancient world—much better.

Gond smiled a knowing smile and Jack wondered at the man's self-confident air. He seemed a smug sort of fellow, and at the same time completely wacko. Space-time connections and alternative universes? The man was obviously a nut case. He wondered what his father would think of him. Not much, he was sure. He shifted on his seat, anxious to get away from the fellow and explore the train for some food and drink.

Gond noticed his impatience, smiled and reached into his inside jacket pocket. Jack watched closely.

Would you like some sweets? They're very good – Swiss chocolate, you know. Much better than the English.

No, thanks, Jack would have loved some candy, but something made him increasingly wary of this strange fellow.I really should be on my way, he said.

Gond reached over and pulled the window shade down. Jack immediately pulled it up again.

The woman in the car opposite gave them a sharp glance.