Scaderstone: A Time-Slip Adventure: The Darkeningstone, #3

By Michael Campling

Once the Darkeningstone has you in its grip, it will never let you go.
Don't miss the conclusion of this gripping tale across time.

Jake has unfinished business with the stone
and with someone else.
Cally is never far from his thoughts, but dare he reach out to her?

Look into the future and peer back into the myths and mysteries of the distant past with the final book in The Darkeningstone series.

Somewhere, Sometime, The Stone is Whispering.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shadowstone Books
• Release date: Dec 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536521399

Michael Campling

Michael (Mikey to friends) is a full-time writer living and working in a tiny village on the edge of Dartmoor in Devon. He writes stories with characters you can believe in and plots you can sink your teeth into. Claim your free mystery book plus a starter collection when you join Michael's readers' group, The Awkward Squad. You'll also get a newsletter that's actually worth reading, and you'll receive advance notice of regular discounts and free books. Learn more and start reading today via Michael's blog, because everyone ought to be awkward once in a while: michaelcampling.com/freebooks

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

2021

Standing in the street, I hesitated with my hand on the low garden gate. Beyond it, the building had once been a majestic Georgian townhouse with cream-coloured walls and tall sash windows. Now, the walls were flecked with dirt and stained with damp. In places, the rendering had fallen away, revealing the dull brown bricks beneath. Cracked white paint peeled away from the window frames, and every pane of glass was dim, streaked with grime.

My dad’s flat was on the third floor, and sometimes when I arrived for a visit I’d find him looking out the window, waiting for me. But not today. I hope he hasn’t forgotten, I thought. He should’ve been expecting me—he’d called the night before and asked me to come over. Still, it was only just 11 o’clock, and Dad didn’t always surface before lunch.

I let myself in through the garden gate and walked slowly toward the front door. A path made from cracked paving slabs led through the small front garden, and next to the path stood a neat stack of plastic crates: glass, cans, paper and cardboard ready to be collected for recycling. The crate of cans was almost overflowing, and I couldn’t help but notice that most of the cans bore the brand name of a certain extra-strength lager. They might not all be his, I told myself. But I wasn’t convinced. I shook my head and stepped up to the front door.

The flat had an entry phone system, and Dad answered straight away. That’s good, I thought, at least he’s up and about. I leaned forward to speak into the intercom. Hi, Dad. It’s me.

Hi, Jake. Perfect timing. Come on up.

I smiled to myself. It sounded like this was one of his good days.

When I got to the top of the stairs, he was waiting for me at the door into his little flat. Come in, come in, he said. I’ve just put some coffee on.

Great, I said. Smells good.

He ushered me into the living room then disappeared into the kitchen. I could hear him singing to himself as he made the coffee. Do you want any help? I called.

No, no. Just sit down, I’ll be there in a minute.

OK. I went over to the couch, and just for once I didn’t have to move a pile of laundry before I sat down. The TV was on, although the screen was frozen on the credits for a TV show.

Here we are, my dad said as he came into the room carrying two large, steaming mugs. Just the way you like it.

He set the mugs down on the small table then joined me on the couch. Thanks, I said, picking up the mug and inhaling the fragrant steam. You make the best coffee.

The secret is in getting the right beans, he said. Then he gave me a sideways look and wrinkled his nose. But I’ve probably told you that before.

I smiled. Just once or twice, Dad, I said. Just once or twice.

He chuckled softly under his breath. Sorry. Stuck record. He sipped his coffee, closing his eyes to savour the taste. Nicaraguan. Just roasted last week. He glanced at me. I bought them online. Had them delivered.

I took a drink and made a show of enjoying it. The coffee was good. It didn’t taste all that different from the brew I could buy on any high street, but there was no way I’d say that to my dad. It’s really great, I said. Kind of nutty. I hesitated. But getting it delivered—isn’t that a bit expensive?

Oh, for goodness’ sake, Jake. I do have a job, you know. It may not be much, but it pays the bills.

I know, Dad. I know. It’s just… I worry, that’s all.

Dad rolled his eyes. It’s all fine, Jake. I get a staff discount on my groceries, so I won’t starve. And this place isn’t so bad.

I looked around the room and had to admit that when it was tidy like this, the flat seemed homely—cosy even. I forced a smile and nodded, but something in my expression must’ve given me away.

What’s up? He asked. Things not so good at home?

I looked down at my hands. No, it’s all fine. Really.

You know, you can always come and stay with me.

I know, I said. But you’ve only got the sofa bed. It’s all right for a night or two, but that’s all. I paused. And we’d be falling over each other.

You mean, you don’t really want to leave your mum on her own.

I shrugged. Well, there’s that too.

For a long thirty seconds we let the silence hang in the air. Don’t forget your coffee, Dad said. Don’t let it go cold.

Sure. I took a long drink of coffee and felt that first buzz as the caffeine got to work.

My dad cleared his throat. Maybe you’re right, Jake. Maybe it’s time I found somewhere bigger. He hesitated. You know… I’ve been thinking about going back into teaching.

I raised my eyebrows. Really?

He nodded. Yeah. I think maybe I’d like to give it another try.

Wow, Dad. That’s amazing. Are you sure you’re—you know—ready for that?

He looked me in the eye and let out a frustrated sigh. I’m fine, he said firmly. Everything is fine. And frankly, I think you might have a little more faith in me.

It’s not that, Dad— I started, but he wasn’t listening.

I was always a good teacher, he went on. I loved working with the kids. And I did a pretty good job of getting you through your exams when you wouldn’t go back to school.

I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. "That’s not fair. You know I couldn’t have gone back. I lost four years, Dad. Four years."

Dad stared at me for a second, his eyes hard, but then his expression softened. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…

It’s all right, Dad. It’s all right. We’ve both… we’ve been through a lot.

Dad snorted. You could say that. And there was the hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. But you’re home now, that’s all that matters.

Yeah, I said. I guess so.

Dad looked at me for a moment, chewing his bottom lip. Then he leaned forward, sitting on the edge of his seat. I’ve been thinking. It’s time for you to finish your education. It’s not too late. You could still get into college or do a part-time course.

I don’t know, Dad. We’ve been through all this before.

Maybe you just weren’t ready back then, Dad said. But now, after all these years, surely it’s time to get your life back on track. You could still get into university. You were always a bright boy. It breaks my heart to know you’re just pushing papers in an office.

I looked down at the floor. It’s not papers—it’s all on computer.

You know what I mean. It doesn’t sound very exciting anyway. I’m sure you could do a lot better for yourself.

I shrugged my shoulders.

It’s been a long time, Jake, he said softly. Seven years.

I looked up at him. You’re right, Dad. I know you are. I should put it all behind me. But somehow, I just can’t let it go.

Dad nodded in sympathy. Are you sleeping properly these days?

Not really, I said. I took another sip of my coffee. I keep dreaming about it. And it’s so vivid. It’s like I’m back there. A shudder ran through me but I hid my unease, twisting around to shift the sagging cushions on the sofa.

I understand, Dad said, and something in his tone made me give him a questioning look.

You need to know what really happened, he went on. I know what that feels like.

Another awkward silence crept into the room. We sipped our coffee and fidgeted.

Dad took a breath, and when he spoke there was an edge of anticipation in his voice. What would you say if I told you we could find some answers?

I narrowed my eyes. What do you mean?

Dad smiled. What if I found someone who could help you? If you could find out what happened and then move on, would you be willing to at least try and get into a college?

I don’t know, I said. I don’t see how anyone could help me.

There is one person, Dad said. Then he picked up the remote control and pointed it at the TV. Have a look at this. He pressed a button and the credits began to roll slowly up the TV screen.

What is it? One of your boring old documentaries?

It’s called History Live, Dad said without taking his eyes from the screen. There. Look.

I ran my eyes down the list of names. I don’t get it, Dad. What am I supposed to be… but I couldn’t finish the sentence. I froze, staring at the screen.

Do you see it? Dad said. Is that who I think it is? Is that her?

I nodded slowly. It has to be, I murmured. And it was true. I’d found her. After all this time, there was her name written in stark white letters on the black background: Historical Consultant—Dr Callisto Freeman.

It’s an unusual name, Dad said. I noticed it right away.

I tore my eyes from the screen and looked at him. Dad, when was this recorded? Does it say where they filmed it?

That’s the best part, Dad said. It’s a live show. They broadcast directly from a dig every day. Some parts are filmed earlier, but then they have these real-time updates to make it more interesting.

I sat forward and put my mug down on the table. So this show was on today?

Dad shook his head. This episode was from last night, but it’s on all week. The same time every day.

Why didn’t you tell me? I fought to keep my voice under control. Why didn’t you tell me as soon as I walked through the door?

I wasn’t sure, Dad said. I didn’t know how you’d react if I just sprang it on you. I thought it might make you angry.

I shook my head. Where are they doing this show? Is it somewhere nearby? Do you think she’s actually there, at the dig?

Dad pursed his lips. I don’t think I actually saw her. I don’t know. I’ve never met her. But there always seems to be a whole team of people working away in the background. Although…

What?

There was this one woman, and I couldn’t see her clearly, I just caught a glimpse of her. But she looked as though she was quite attractive. Dark hair.

My heart jumped. A thrill ran up my spine. Show me, I blurted out. Rewind it and show me.

Dad offered me the remote control. Here. You’re better with this thing than me.

I snatched it from him and pressed the rewind button several times until the scenes on the TV were flying backward as fast as possible. Most of the time, the screen was filled with images of grubby pieces of pottery or scraps of metal, and the rest seemed to be talking heads: dreary historians trying to look interesting, a glamorous young presenter nodding thoughtfully and smiling for the camera. But then there was a shot of the dig itself, and I hit the play button and held my breath as the camera panned across the scene. A handful of people were working on the site, most of them crouched in a wide pit in the earth, scraping away at the soil with their trowels. I stared at each of them in turn, but it was hard to tell them apart. They were all hunched over their tasks, and most of them were wearing shapeless overalls. But then one of them turned around and glanced at the camera. And there she was.

Cally, I whispered. Oh my god. I froze the screen then looked at Dad and tried to keep my mouth from hanging open.

Dad clapped his hands and rubbed them together. I knew it. I knew it had to be her.

You didn’t answer my question, I said. "You never told me where all this is happening. Is it in this country?"

Dad shook his head slowly, and my heart sank. Don’t look so worried, he said. It’s only in France. It’s not like they’re in the middle of the Sahara or anything.

I looked him in the eye. What are you saying? Do you think I should go there? Do you honestly think I should just turn up and start asking questions?

No, Dad said. "I’m not saying you should go there, I’m saying you have to go."

But, Dad, I can’t take time off work just like that. I can’t just⁠—

It’s Saturday, Dad interrupted. You don’t work at the weekends, and if you’re not back in time for Monday morning, you can phone in sick or something.

I stared at him in silence for a moment, a hundred thoughts racing around my mind. I don’t even know exactly where she is, I said. And even if I could find her, there’s no guarantee she’ll talk to me.

I thought he’d agree with me. I thought he’d say something about it being a crazy idea, a wild goose chase. But there was a glint in his eye, and he leaned forward and put his hand on my shoulder. Jake, I’ve found the site already.

Seriously?

Don’t sound so surprised. It wasn’t difficult. I can show you exactly where it is. And I can even tell you how to get there. He checked his watch. You’ve got plenty of time. There’s a train leaving in just under an hour that will get you to Saint Pancras. Then you take the Eurostar. After that, the connections are a bit tricky but I worked it out eventually. You can be in Saint Victor this evening. That’s the nearest town to the dig. From there, I’m sure you could find a taxi.

But, the tickets and⁠—

All booked and paid for, Dad said. You can thank me later. He stood up. Come on, I’ll drive you. We can swing by the house to pick up your passport and your toothbrush, then I’ll drive you to the station.

Slowly, I stood up. I don’t know, Dad. This doesn’t seem real.

He looked at me for a moment, thinking. No, it’s the other way around. For the last few years we’ve been sleepwalking through life, pretending like none of this ever happened. Now it’s time for that to change. You’ve got to get on with your life. You’ve got to lay this ghost to rest and start afresh, and this is your best chance. It may be the only chance you’ll ever get.

I glanced over at the TV screen and once more, at the sight of Cally, my heart leaped in my chest. All right, I said. I’ll do it. I took a deep breath then let it out slowly. I’ll go.

Good lad, Dad said. I know you can do it. You’ll be fine. You’ll see.

Yeah. I’ll be fine. It’s a good idea.

Right, Dad said. Let’s go.

CHAPTER 2

3550 BC

The woman ran, one hand holding her knife, the other clutching at a bundle of furs, pressing it hard against her chest. She longed for a rest. The cold air parched her throat and she ached for a sip of water, but she could not stop. Not yet. Soon, it would be midday and the days were so short. She must not be caught in the open when darkness fell.

Find somewhere to hide, she told herself. Somewhere safe.

If she could just find the forest, she could disappear into its welcoming gloom. Or perhaps she might find a trail, or some other sign that there were people nearby. If she could find a tribe, they might give her food, water, a place to shelter until morning. Please, Forest Mother, she breathed, show me the way to find you.

But there wasn’t a tree in sight, nor was there any other shelter: nothing but an endless stretch of grassland reaching out to the horizon. And the sight chilled her to the bone. Here, there were no deep shadows to cloak her, no gentle rustle of the leaves to mask the sound of her footsteps, no sturdy tree trunks to hide behind. She glanced nervously over her shoulder. There was no one in sight, but it gave her no comfort. The men who’d taken her, the Wandrian, could move like the spirits, flitting from one shadow to the next, stalking the night in silence, closing in on their prey.

And this was their hunting ground.

She bit down hard on her bottom lip and forced herself to run faster. The pouch at her waist was heavy, and it knocked painfully against her hip with every step. But she couldn’t empty it; it held the sacred weapons that had belonged to her husband, and she could not leave them for the Wandrian to find. Her husband had died with the blade and the striker in his hands, and he had killed many men before he fell. When the Wandrian found out she’d stolen the weapons back, they’d scream for her blood. And they’d stop at nothing to track her down.

The long grass hissed and sighed and grasped at her legs as she ran, but all she heard was the frantic rhythm of her own rasping breath, each gasp more painful than the last. A savage pain bit deep into her stomach and she almost cried out in pain. Keep going, she whispered, run.

But it was no use. The pain in her stomach grew stronger, needling into her flesh, and she staggered, stumbled, slipped. The world turned slowly sideways and she fell, dropping her knife and wrapping both arms around her bundle of furs. As the ground rushed up to meet her, she twisted her body and landed on her back. The impact knocked the air from her lungs and for a moment, she lay still, staring up at the dark clouds, waiting for her breath to return.

A pathetic whimper came from her bundle and she sat up and parted the furs to peek inside.

The baby’s eyes were closed and the woman’s heart lurched in her chest. Was she too late? Was her son already slipping away? No, she murmured. No, no, no. She’d wanted to save him—that was all. If she’d stayed, the men would’ve taken her poor boy and turned him against her, breaking his precious spirit, ripping all the warmth and love from his heart. She’d seen other sweet boys turned into soulless savages: cruel and vicious, knowing nothing but hate and greed. She could not have stayed and let her boy become like them. She could not have allowed him to become a Wandrian.

But perhaps she’d only made things worse. The bitter cold, the icy wind, the desperate hunger: it had all been too much for her little one. She shook her head slowly. This wasn’t meant to happen, she whispered. I was trying to keep you safe. But she’d done everything wrong. She hadn’t fed him enough. She’d let him get too cold. It was all her fault. She should’ve stayed by the fire, stayed in the shelter of the men’s’ village. They’d treated her worse than an animal, but at least they’d given her water. At least they’d shared their food. If she’d stayed, her baby would still be safe and well.

A tear stung the corner of her eyes. I’m sorry, she whispered. So sorry. She held the baby close to her face, pressing his cheek against hers, breathing in the scent of his skin.

The baby was warm. And as the woman wept silently, the child’s tiny fingers plucked at her skin, reaching out for warmth, for sustenance, for comfort.

The woman sniffed and lowered her baby, gazing down at his beautiful face, his gentle expression. Don’t worry, my boy, she murmured. You’ll walk with the spirits soon, and you’ll— Her throat tightened and she swallowed down a sob. You’ll never be cold or hungry again.

And as she watched, her baby opened and closed his mouth, over and over. He wanted feeding. But she couldn’t help him. Not here. Not now. I’m so sorry, she whispered. They’re coming for us. We have to get away.

The baby lay still as if he understood, and the woman opened her mouth wide in a soundless scream: a silent wail wrenched from the pit of her stomach. Surely, this was more pain than she could bear. She may as well bawl and bring the men running to her. She may as well let them beat her, let them use her, let them cut her throat.

But then, as her tears splashed down onto her baby’s perfect face, he opened his eyes. He opened his eyes and he looked at her, staring deep into her soul.

No, she whispered. No. I’ll never let you go. Never. And she pushed herself up to her feet. She strained every muscle to stand tall. And she ran.

CHAPTER 3

2021

My journey to France was tedious but uneventful, and by the time I walked out of the station at Saint Victor, the sky was beginning to darken. I stood on the side of the street and let the other travellers hurry past me as they bustled on their way to waiting cars and taxis. I needed a moment to get my bearings, so I held back and looked up and down the street, hoping to see a brightly lit cafe or even a welcoming restaurant. Dad had already booked me a room in a hotel in town, The Tours Nord, and he’d sent the address and directions to my phone. But before I tracked the hotel down, I needed a hot meal and a cold beer. I ran my hand across my mouth. Better make that two cold beers , I thought.

But the station was clearly in a dingy and desolate part of town. There was nothing here except for office buildings and small shops that had shut up for the night.

I checked the map on my phone. It was only a 15-minute walk to the hotel and perhaps it would have a restaurant, or maybe I’d see something open as I made my way into town. I shouldered my rucksack and started walking, ignoring the looks I got from the waiting taxi drivers.

But I hadn’t gone far before a dark saloon car cruised to a halt beside me. I glanced toward the car as its electric windows rolled down, but I kept walking.

Excuse me, sir, someone called out: a man’s voice, a French accent. Sorry, but I am a little late.

I slowed down and looked over my shoulder. The car’s driver was standing on the pavement and motioning toward his car. I was a little delayed in the traffic.

I looked around, expecting to see a businessman hurrying toward his driver. But there was no one. The man was clearly talking to me, so I stopped and said, I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong person. I’m not expecting a car.

Bien sûr. Of course, of course. You are staying at the Tours Nord Hotel, yes?

I narrowed my eyes. You’re wasting your time. I don’t need a car, I didn’t order one, and I’m certainly not paying. I turned away and started walking.

But, sir, he called out, the car is from the hotel, it has been paid for, by your father, I think.

I stopped in my tracks and turned around slowly.

The man nodded, smiling. Yes. Your father arranged for the car. Your name is Jacques, yes?

Oh. Right. Typical Dad, I thought, always planning ahead. I started walking back toward the car, but something wasn’t quite right. If Dad had gone to the time and expense of arranging a car, surely he’d have called or texted to let me know. True, he had a tendency to turn everyday events into big surprises, but this was just silly. If the car had been a couple of minutes later, they’d have missed me entirely. I should just call him, I said, and I stopped walking and looked down at my phone.

Everything is fine, the man said. But we must hurry, yes?

I nodded but I didn’t look up. I concentrated on my phone, checking in case I’d missed a message from Dad. But then I heard another man’s voice: someone grumbling in French. And the sound came from inside the waiting car. I stared at the driver and saw a flicker of panic in his eyes. Who’s that? I demanded. Who’s in the car?

Another passenger, the driver said. I picked him up earlier.

I looked at the car. Its windows were heavily tinted, so I took a step back and peered in through the windscreen. The car’s interior was dark, which was odd because the driver was still holding the door open. Normally there’d be a light, so the driver must have intentionally turned it off for some reason. As I stared, a dark shape moved in the back seat of the car, but the passenger remained silent.

The driver took a step toward me and held out his hand. Please, let me take your bag. My friend here is in a hurry to get to the hotel. The driver gave me a thin smile. He is eager to get a good table at the restaurant.

I stayed exactly where I was. But if you picked him up earlier, why didn’t you take him straight there?

The driver shrugged. We were on our way but took a detour to collect you. And then the traffic… He shrugged again then started walking toward me.

Wait, I said. I edged away from the road, putting more distance between me and the driver. But my back came up against the steel shutters of a closed shop. The man’s smile faded, and he reached for something inside his jacket.

This can’t be happening, I told myself. But my instincts kicked in, telling me