The Stone

By Simon Falshaw

Fossil-hunters Zoe, Jake and Adam find an enigmatic and beautiful stone which drags the children into a whirlpool of adventure. They set out to uncover the truth about the stone. But then the stone goes missing….Follow them into  a world of strange and wonderful creatures, the warm hearted nubble-hummocks, the bizarre and hesitant mully-wuzzles and the terrifying Zwaartmoord.  Behind the evil lurks Lord Skarn a genius of genetically engineered monsters on a mad quest to destroy and recreate the earth. The very future hangs in the balance...

• Language: English
• Publisher: APS Publications
• Release date: Nov 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393021018

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APS Books,

4 Oakleigh Road,

Stourbridge,

West Midlands,

DY8 2JX

APS Books is a subsidiary of

the APS Publications imprint

www.andrewsparke.com

Copyright ©2020 Simon Falshaw

All rights reserved.

Simon Falshaw has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published worldwide by APS Books in 2020

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of the publisher except that brief selections may be quoted or copied without permission, provided that full credit is given.

The resemblance of any persons contained in this novel to any person living or dead is entirely coincidental. The existence of any path, road or access in this novel should not be taken to indicate the existence of an actual right of way.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

CHARACTERS

Zoe: a young girl living in Dudley.

Adam and Jake: Zoe's cousins.

Umberley Moss: A nubble hummock.

Claylies: Shape shifters made of clay.

Skarn: An evil genius.

Siebella and Lithostrotium: Mullywuzzles living under Dudley castle. Prone to overthinking.

Puddingstone Humble: Another nubble hummock living under Dudley Castle.

Captain Potassium: A soldier, captain of a platoon of the Stonc.

Dulse and Sloke: Two soldiers under Captain Potassium's command.

Scarlet O'Tarragon: A retired rock living in Dudley Zoo.

Garnet Khan (The Tiger): The head of the High Council of the rock people.

Cinnabar: A commander working for Skarn.

William Scrougie: A grindle. Works as an independent lost property return agent.

The Zwaartmoord: Soldiers under Skarn's command.

King Ironside the Third: King of the rock people.

Pyrites: A lynx.

A map of Dudley by Zoe Livingstone

PROLOGUE

It snowed. When the raw red rock cooled, the lava stopped flowing and the ash stopped falling, it began snowing, and it snowed and it snowed. There was no spring nor summer nor autumn nor seasons, just one yearless age of winter. In time the ash and dust drifted down from the heavens and settled, the skies cleared, the sun began to break through the thick clouds and the earth began to warm up. And then the kingdoms and the empires of the south looked north, and expeditions set out to explore and reclaim lost lands that now lay on the edge of a vast ice sheet.

In the year 55 AY (After Yellowstone), at least by official reckoning, the empire of Greater Gambia sent one such mission to the Island of Britain. After nine months they had explored and mapped a segment of the south-western edge of the ice wall and were returning home.

**

I found these, Your Reverence. What are they?

Private Wilson passed up two large semi-circular pebbles to the heavily cloaked man on horseback. He threw back his hood and looked at the objects he had been handed. They were thin and surprisingly light, much lighter than a piece of stone. One end curved towards a sharp hooked point. At the other end where it was broader there was a round hollow, so smooth and well-proportioned it looked as if it was made to fit into another pebble.

It looks to me like a claw. It must have belonged to a very big animal. Not something you would want to meet. However this looks like a fossil. No need to worry, said the priest. I'll keep it in the research collection.

There's a lot more, sir. They're scattered all along this bank. Another soldier was holding up two more of the claw-like objects. The priest dismounted and walked over to the soldiers who had laid down their rifles and were now scouring the bank. He pocketed three more of the stones and would have continued but was interrupted.

So, what have you got for us, scout? A bed, a roof, fresh meat and plenty of beer, I hope? The priest has been praying all day in his saddle and I won't spend another night in a leaking ruin if I can help it, bellowed the captain, as the scout brought his horse to a halt and dismounted. The priest winced. Even after nine months the captain’s mocking attitude towards him had not lessened. It still pained him.

Good news, sir. There is a castle in the village. They call the village King Fayre. It looks large and they seem very welcoming. The villagers look fat and well fed. The scout smiled, pleased to bring good news.

And what about the head man or woman – the King of King Fayre? Have you met them? Will they welcome us?

He is a man called Edward Allbriton and he does claim to be a king.

I see. And what is he the king of?

Of England.

The captain and the soldiers laughed loudly, and even the priest smiled weakly. Well lead the way, and let’s see the capital of this kingdom.

***

Their capture had been too easy, shamefully easy the captain thought, as he sat on the floor of the cell. The walls were a warm red sandstone and at least it was dry. They had laughed at Edward Allbriton. His claim to be King of England seemed absurd, particularly when they saw his palace built of log staves. It was large, but it was nevertheless no more than a glorified hut. The king was a small man with a beard and mischievous eyes. However, they had eaten well – too well – and drunk plenty of good local beer. It must have been then, late in the evening, that their drinks were drugged. Now they were slowly stirring in the cell, sour-tempered and hungover.

Padre, sing us a song, said one of the soldiers.

The priest grunted. His throat felt like sandpaper, his head throbbed, his back ached and he certainly wasn't a common entertainer. Moreover, in his heart he didn't feel like singing. After nine months with the soldiers, he thought he had grown used to their crude and yet direct ways. Last night he had felt it more personally when the king's soldiers had searched him. Unlike the others, he hadn't fallen unconscious and had vainly tried to fight. They patted him down roughly, but there were no money jewels on him. He tried to explain that the real treasures had gone ahead of them to the coast, but they beat him all the same. All the soldiers could find were the fossil claws. He tried to explain that they were only pieces of rock, worth nothing, but nevertheless they took them and threw them away contemptuously. Then they dragged him off to the cell and threw him in, onto the unconscious bodies of the squad.

I haven't got a song. I can't sing.

He can't sing, he can't sing. Where is your joy, man of God? croaked a voice from a dark corner of the cell. It was a woman's voice, and sounded strange – not mocking, but compassionate. Heads turned in surprise. The soldiers had assumed that they were the only prisoners in the cell.

Questions buzzed around the cell.

Who are you?

What did they lock you up for?

How long have you been locked up?

The woman listened and then replied mysteriously, I'm here because I see the truth, behind and beyond. I tell what needs to be heard, but will not be spoken.

What do you mean, old woman? asked one of the soldiers, but she refused to answer and ignored all their further questions.

The woman's words stung the priest. He was supposed to be an ambassador of Christ to this pagan land, and in faith rise above suffering. How dare she tell him how he felt. I can't sing but I can still speak.

Well then, Padre, say something to lift our spirits, said the captain impatiently.

Let us pray, said the priest.

No! replied the captain. Not now.

Sir, Wilson has a story, said one of the soldiers.

A story! said the captain.

Yes, sir. I found it on the floor of a church. It may cheer us up, so to speak, sir, said Wilson.

All items residing within the walls of a church are church property. Hand it over at once, said the priest pompously.

Strictly correct, but for now it’s Private Wilson’s, said the captain. Someone in the darkness at the back of the cell sniggered and said, A story!"

Less mockery thank you, unless you have any better suggestions. If no one has, read on, Wilson. Let's see how it goes.

Chapter 1 THE HOLE

When the first light of dawn brightened the sky in the north east, creatures of the night began to retire. It had rained overnight but now the air was clear. Looking east over the city that was normally shrouded in blue haze, even the drab factories seemed to shine. The birds sang no more sweetly than before, and the grass was no greener, but to Zoe Livingstone it was a morning looking for adventure. Zoe had imagination. She was a girl who could see underwater cities in puddles, secret doors behind ivy, monsters in the waving branches of trees caught in a storm. And if she tried hard, holding her breath and counting to thirty, she could even see tadpoles in her porridge. Zoe poked her head through a gap in the curtains and looked out.

The garden of 33 German Avenue was long, narrow and messy. By the house there was a small patio with cracked stones and some unhappy plastic chairs. The lawn was rough and covered with patches of mud. At the far end of the lawn was a small goal for playing football, and beyond that the garden was wild and untamed. The grass had not been cut for many years and hiding in it were rusty tools, broken chairs and lost toys. Zoe's cousins Adam and Jake were football fanatics.

The boys’ father, Scott, shared their passion for football, or at least watching it on the telly. He had told the children many times how he used to play in goal for Upper Gornal At Home. At Home was the name of the team when they played away, and even for a season when they had no pitch of their own but played on a cricket pitch in Halesowen ten miles away. Scott had played for them until in one match he broke his leg. They knew the story very well, all about the player who tackled him and knocked him down – Warren Robbins – but who wasn't sent off by the referee. Scott, however, was off work for three months and nearly lost his job. As a result, and after some strong words from his wife, he gave up playing football. The bones or muscles in his leg never quite put themselves back in the same place and he now walked with a limp.

Despite his love of football, Zoe was learning to like Scott. He wasn't her proper dad, but the nearest she had to one. Her dad had left her mother when Zoe was two. He wasn't a very nice man. Not at all, Zoe. You don't want to know about him, was what her mother would say, and then turn away to cooking or cleaning, or would just stare ahead into the distance. But Zoe did want to know and so sometimes she would pester her mother to tell her more.

But why did he leave? And why haven't I got a proper dad who is here all the time? she asked.

Her mother replied, One day I'll tell you more, but not now. Not for the moment.

Zoe pestered her aunt Jane for more information. Aunt Jane would reply, Not a nice piece of work. You're better off without him. And you're with us, and then add hastily as an afterthought, and with your mum.

Zoe lived with her mum. At least that is what the school and the doctor had in their records. Zoe's mum worked as a mobile hairdresser. She visited people in their homes to cut their hair, to wash it and dry it and sometimes tint and perm it. She worked mainly while Zoe was at school, but sometimes after school had finished Zoe went with her mother to work. Every house was different. In some she sat with the children watching the telly, in others she sat with a warm cat on her lap, stroking it and feeling it purr. Sometimes she would sit in the kitchen, fidgeting while her mother skilfully snipped hair and talked to the customer. Most of the women were kind and thoughtful, and would give her a glass of orange squash to drink, and a biscuit. They were kind but it was a drink that caused the accident.

The very large lady had given her a very large glass. The kitchen didn't have chairs, but tall bar stools. The adults were busy cutting hair while Zoe balanced carefully and struggled up into the seat. She sat there imagining she was a giraffe or a small bird bobbing its way up the giraffe's neck looking for insects, or maybe on a very high mountain. Then she realised that while she was struggling onto the stool, she had pushed it away from the breakfast bar. Her drink was only just within reach. She stretched out, got hold of it, and took a sip, but when she tried to put it back on the bar, she suddenly found the stool slipping from under her and down she fell to the floor. She landed with her hand on the glass and the jagged edges cut deeply into her hand. For a moment there was silence, and then shouting, crying and screaming. Zoe's mum never finished cutting the old lady’s hair. A bandage of sorts was stuck on her bloody hand and they rushed off to the casualty department at the hospital.

Zoe stopped going to work with her mum but instead after school went home with her cousins. At first she had only gone on Thursdays, but then she began going in the holidays and staying overnight. When the long summer holidays began, she went for the first week and then seemed to have stayed for most of the summer. She didn't dislike staying at German Avenue – and neither did she dislike her cousins – but it wasn't the same as living at home with Mum. She stared out of the window and thought deep down inside, Where is my home?

Her eyes wandered lazily across the small garden, and those of the neighbours. She remembered how at the beginning of the holiday she organised a teddy bears picnic in front of the goal. She draped coloured sheets over the goal frame and set out her bears on a blanket in front, seated round cups and plates. She threaded dandelions into the goal net and then went inside to look for some biscuits. When she came back, Adam and Jake were standing on her picnic blanket with their arms folded, looking very angry.

What's this? said Adam. Why are you messing up our goal with flowers? This is a football stadium!

They're having a picnic, replied Zoe. It's the teddy bear school end of term picnic. They've all been very good and brave and— but she didn't finish.

Know what happens to things on a football pitch? They get kicked, said Adam, picking up the largest bear and kicking him down to the far end of the garden.

Yeh, that's right, said Jake, the younger brother, who picked up another teddy and kicked him but – lacking the skill of his brother – this bear flew off over the fence into the garden next door. A dog growled and then barked.

Florence! He's eating Florence! cried Zoe.

Adam walked to the fence and pulled himself up to look over. The dog – a big, unfriendly brute – rushed at the fence, barking ferociously. A quick look was enough for Adam. No, she's alright, he said, scrambling down quickly.

But my picnic, said Zoe, biting her lip. It was all too much. She turned and ran inside, crying, Jane, Jane they've killed Florence.

And so it happened that a peace of sorts was made between the children. Aunt Jane exhorted the boys to share like she had had to share with Zoe’s mother when they were younger. The lawn became the boys' territory and the rough patch at the back, Zoe's.  Aunt Jane removed some of the black bags of rubbish and eventually Scott cut a path through the long grass.

How long had she been staring and thinking? Soon her cousins would be out playing football. A stray ball from their game, accidental or deliberate, was an unwelcome trespasser into her daydreams. Dressing quickly, she tiptoed down the stairs and out into the garden. The sun was strong and even the dull messy grass, freshly washed by dew, was radiant with colour.

She sat down and crossed her legs. She could hear a light wind the in the trees and the traffic in the distance. Birds twittered. She sat very still and tried to concentrate on the garden. Her legs began to ache. The grass was itchy. She was about to get up and start building a house when she heard a strange sound in the grass. She listened, but it wasn't movement in the grass, rather it seemed to be coming from underground. Maybe it was a mole or a fox or a goblin. The later thought made her frightened, but then she thought how could something imaginary be frightening?

She listened to the noise. It sounded like someone or something scraping the earth, or digging. It was coming from the far corner of the garden. Cautiously, she moved closer. The sound grew louder and then the ground moved. A square of grass lifted up like a trap door and out popped a hand. The hand was followed by another hand dragging out a bucket and then a head. It was Jake.

Jake what are you doing down there? asked Zoe.

Shhh. Not so loud. It's a secret, said Jake holding his finger to his lips. Come here. Quick, get in the hole, he motioned. Zoe scrambled down.

Jake what are you doing! asked Zoe.

Jake said nothing.  He was annoyed with himself that he had been discovered, and even more annoyed that it was his cousin who had found