The Rebel of Time E-Book

Craig Andrew Mooney

• Herausgeber: Lightning Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 505

Beschreibung

Doran West can travel through the ages. But so can his enemies... 'Expertly weaves Scottish history into a thrilling time-travel adventure' Sophie Cameron Welcome to the one-street village of Linntean in the Scottish Highlands. It's great for tourists, less so for local teenager Doran West. He and his best friend Zander crave a change of scenery, some excitement. What they have in mind is a weekend away to the nearest city. Fate has a little more in store. An accident while fleeing school bullies leads Doran to an extraordinary discovery: he can travel in time. What's more, he isn't alone. There are others who share his gifts, hiding in plain sight and tied to a shadowy organisation called the Eternalisium. With Zander in tow, he embarks on a terrifying odyssey through the ages, risking death on the gallows and battlefield, contending with ruthless enemies from the future and learning more than he'd like about his own adult self. Mind-bending, thrilling and funny, The Rebel of Time bounces from Robert the Bruce's Bannockburn to Leonardo Da Vinci's Tuscany, with stops in Hollywood and the First World War trenches, in a spellbinding adventure from a masterful new storyteller.

Leseprobe

‘With rich writing and plenty of wit, The Rebel of Time expertly weaves Scottish history into a thrilling time-travel adventure’

Sophie Cameron, author ofOut of the BlueandLast Bus to Neverland

‘With magical mysteries, secret societies and a wise-cracking best mate, The Rebel of Time is an exhilarating adventure through time and space. A rich world with relatable characters, I devoured this novel’

Claire McFall, award-winning author of Ferryman

‘An ambitious and inventive romp through time, rich in themes of friendship, family and forging your own destiny’

Darren Simpson, author of Scavengers

‘This opening volume lays the groundwork for what I believe will be one of Scotland’s great fantasy series. Craig Andrew Mooney is a formidable storyteller and The Rebel of Time is easily one of the best books I’ve read this year’

Kenny Boyle, author ofThe Tick and the Tock of the Crocodile Clock

‘A modern, fantastical adventure through time’

Pierre Novellie, award-winning comedian and writer

‘A pacy, pictish/Celtic-inspired fantasy adventure story full of dangers and intrigue, with a strong, touching and enduring friendship at its core’

Janis Mackay, author of The Accidental Time-Traveller

‘A wonderful debut novel. This writer is one to watch’

Kevin McLeod, author of The Viking’s Apprentice series

A compelling and unusual twist on the coming-of-age story with a rare focus on positive male friendships’

Alan Bissett, author of Boyracers

Published in 2023

by Lightning Books

Imprint of Eye Books Ltd

29A Barrow Street

Much Wenlock

Shropshire

TF13 6EN

www.lightning-books.com

ISBN: 9781785633423

Copyright © Craig Andrew Mooney 2023

Cover by Nell Wood

Typeset in Adobe Jenson Pro, Cinzel and Cinzel Decorative

The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

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

Contents

1: Destiny Calls

2: The Forest of Linntean

3: Traveller’s Day

4: The Waterfall

5: The West Family Secret

6: The Trunk

7: The Test Run

8: The Spy

9: Trespassers in Time

10: Leonardo

11: Tobias Tormented

12: Fate and Foresight

13: The Eternalisium

14: The Serpent

15: The Frozen Rain

16: The Slave

17: Sir Richard West

18: ‘Hello, Doran’

19: The Suited Man

20: The Hanging

21: Léonie Devereux

22: Border Reivers

23: The Future King of Scots

24: The Moon of the Moor

25: The Common

26: Fire and Ice

27: Homecoming

28: The Empty House

29: The Lion and the Doe

30: The West Restoration Front

31: The Show Must Go On

32: The Beginning

Acknowledgements

1

DESTINY CALLS

He’s not coming. That’s what the letter had said. For decades they had waited and there it was, in black and white. The boy was to be kept away from the dangers bound to his name, protected by ignorance.

The decision, once shared, would surely mean war. It was hard to envision any other outcome. Clutching the declaration was a professor, suffocated by tweed and sodden with sweat. Ianto Everie scuttled along a narrow corridor, his pristine Oxford shoes scuffing the velvet carpet.

Nonsense. Utter nonsense. Being asked to personally convey the news, like some errand boy. A doctorate in languages and yet, here he was, running around like Tobias’ lapdog. The man had become drunk with power. That was it. He had been in charge too long.

Ianto’s grip tightened around the letter. How many more years of this would he be able to stand? Perhaps it was finally time to move on. Cambridge would surely jump at the chance to employ a linguist of his prestige.

The professor paused for a moment to catch his breath. His hand danced across his chest. There was that twinge again. It was happening more and more. Stress – that’s what the doctor had said. But Ianto knew better. He’d seen too many of his own kind fall prey to similar conditions once they reached a certain age. You couldn’t expect to wield power usually reserved for gods without a few side effects.

His knuckles brushed against the door. If he made light enough contact, he could simply turn around and get back to work. Sorry, I must have missed you, Tobias. Avoiding you? Never.

A silky-smooth voice came from inside. ‘Enter.’

Damn.

Trying to rid himself of every last crease, Ianto smoothed his jacket and trousers. Only when the final crinkle had been dispatched did the door creak open.

Tobias Blue was hunched over his desk, scribbling furiously, his broad frame concealing his work. The minute he saw who was before him, the pen fell from his hand.

‘Well?’

‘His mother replied,’ Ianto said, irked by the crack in his voice.

‘His mother?’

‘Yes. She…eh…well…’

‘Oh, spit it out will you, Everie?’

Ianto started and his hand hovered over his chest again. ‘She…she said that the boy is completely normal and is to be left alone.’

‘Completely normal? A West?’

Ianto could almost taste the scepticism. ‘It’s not so outlandish an idea. His grandfather, for example?’

‘But that was a chance in a thousand,’ Tobias said. ‘Let’s not forget the boy’s father.’

‘A cautionary tale, yes.’

‘And precisely why the boy must be trained.’

Ianto frowned. ‘You mean to say, you wish the boy to come?’

‘And why would I not?’ Tobias said. ‘Shouldn’t any loyal Eternalisium member wish it?’ His tone was amiable but his eyes flashed with the predatory gaze of a coiled snake. Ianto fought back a shudder.

A likely story, Ianto thought. He cleared his throat. ‘But if the boy possesses no trace of—’

‘I’m inclined to disbelieve the boy’s mother. I think we should keep a very close eye on him over the coming year. If he shows no signs after that, then we can assume he is indeed as ordinary as his dear grandfather. But if not…then the safest place for him would be here.’

Ianto pulled himself up to full height, which wasn’t at all impressive, and fixed his gaze on Tobias. ‘And how exactly do you plan on keeping him safe?’

The linguist immediately regretted his boldness, as Tobias disappeared from his chair at such an impossible speed it was as if a trap door had opened beneath him. He left a spark of electric-green lightning in his wake and before Ianto could even finish his blink, Tobias was inches from him. While Ianto would have needed a small stepladder even to reach Tobias’ shoulders, he stood his ground.

When Tobias spoke, his voice was low and soft but had the hiss to match his gaze. ‘You appear to have woken up with an uncharacteristic amount of backbone this morning, Professor Everie,’ he said. ‘My loyalty is – and has always been – to this society and its preservation. And, of course, to those who require its sanctuary. Now in the interest of the boy’s…safety…I ask that we keep an eye on him, just to make sure his mother isn’t being foolish.’

Tobias grew closer still, his hot breath tickling Ianto’s ear. ‘And if he does exhibit any traces of his heritage, then I want him here. You will bring him to me. You will bring me Doran West.’

2

THE FOREST OF LINNTEAN

Doran West charged through the overgrown grass and hurdled over fence after fence. These were his fields, his home. He had the advantage.

Time was running out and he ignored the prickly sweat forming in his hair and on his face. The main road was in sight; he was almost there.

He vaulted over a crumbling drystone wall and stopped, taking in the cloudless sky. Catching his breath, he closed his eyes, the June sun warming his face.

And that’s when he heard the school bus drive past him.

Great.

Following a swift kick at the gravel, he noticed Mrs Angus, the semi-professional gossip who spent her retirement glued to her living room window. He provided the customary smile and wave his mum had taught him to the old busybody and trudged in the direction of his school. After all, what choice did he have? One more missed day and his mum was sure to be called in. Then he would be subjected to a meeting with a bunch of sour-faced adults taking it in turns to outline their disappointment in him. Or better yet, utter the six words every teacher seemed programmed to say: ‘We expect much more from you.’ There was nothing for it. A hike it must be.

The walk to school, while long, was described by many a tourist as ‘unbelievably picturesque’. And Doran supposed that was true. Objectively speaking. He imagined outsiders would be enchanted by such a view. The arrogant trio of mountains with their perfectly pointed snow-topped peaks. Who did they think they were? And then there was the winding ‘devastatingly blue’ loch, to quote another enthralled passer-by. A stretch of hydrogen and oxygen molecules that got lucky. That’s all it was.

Doran reached a white sign which stated in big bold letters, ‘YOU ARE NOW LEAVING LINNTEAN THANK YOU FOR VISITING’. He paused for a moment, as he always did, and glared at the black letters. Were they taunting him?

The village of Linntean was located in the Scottish Highlands, with nothing but remote islands to the west. The sort of places where puffins outnumber humans by about five to one. The village itself consisted of one main road winding around the houses, and various local businesses, clinging to the one place commercialism hadn’t yet found.

The village didn’t have enough people to warrant its own high school, which meant that those of age from the surrounding villages had to get the bus to a central academy. Five miles and two throbbing feet later, Doran reached this school’s large, rusted gates and hobbled to the main entrance.

Glenmoral Academy was split into two large box-shaped buildings, connected by a cylindrical red structure. The building had been painted that colour to mask its overwhelming dullness and to try to hide its need for renovation.

Doran arrived at the front door and pressed the buzzer for reception. He met the familiar gaze of Mrs Hunter, the head of the school office, whose beady eyes had seen multiple generations of the community pass through the school. According to Doran’s mum, her ‘winning’ personality was nothing new. The pair performed what had become their habitual greeting for one another: Mrs Hunter raising a thin, wispy eyebrow at him, Doran replying with a small shrug and the slightest of smiles before being allowed to enter.

Mrs Hunter wrenched open the reception window. ‘You’re late, Doran West.’

‘Mrs Hunter, how are we this morning?’ Doran said, resting his elbows on the counter.

‘You would think by sixteen years of age you’d have learnt to keep time,’ Mrs Hunter said. ‘This is the tenth time this year you have shown up whenever it has suited you.’

‘The bus was early. You would think that by fifty, Jack would be starting to slow down.’

Mrs Hunter narrowed her eyes. ‘Just like your father; always a quick answer.’

Doran fought to keep his face neutral. ‘Yeah, well I wouldn’t know, would I?’ he said before tapping the counter. ‘Be a pal and sign me in.’

It was 10:40, which meant he should be in History with Mr Bishop, a young, newly qualified teacher with an inordinate amount of enthusiasm. Doran reached the open classroom door and all thirty sets of eyes fell on him. It was always a downside to being late. The attention. A few extra minutes in bed didn’t seem a fair exchange for their judgemental stares.

‘Ah, Doran. Nice of you to join us,’ Mr Bishop said, not a trace of sarcasm in his voice. ‘Take a seat, take a seat. We are just about to learn about some local history.’

A collective groan rumbled through the classroom.

‘Now, now,’ Mr Bishop said, ever the showman trying to placate his audience. ‘Remember, history isn’t just about world wars and bubonic plagues. We are all here as a result of history and some very interesting things might have happened right on your doorstep.’

‘Only thing on my doorstep is what my dog had for lunch, sir,’ came the cocky voice of Kieran McDowall from the back of the room.

This provoked some laughter from the class, a few only joining in out of fear of reprisal from the school’s current alpha male. Doran remained quiet, settling into his seat and trying to blend into the desk and chair.

‘Yes, very amusing, Kieran,’ Mr Bishop said when the laughter died down. ‘But I’m talking about something which is unique to this area and this area alone. I’m talking about why Linntean celebrates Latha an Siubhailadair. Does anyone know why Linntean celebrates Latha an Siubhailadair?’

A small, mousy-haired boy raised a timid hand. ‘Isn’t it to do with Pictish times?’

‘Close,’ Mr Bishop said. ‘Anyone have anything to add?’

A girl at the back of the class shot her hand into the air. ‘Sir? Is it not about remembering people going missing back in olden times and those weird Jedi kinda people you see folk dressing up like?’

‘You’re both dancing around the answer,’ Mr Bishop said with a smile. He turned to the whiteboard and began writing while he explained. ‘Latha an Siubhailadair or “Traveller’s Day” traces its origins to Pictish times, around the same era that the Romans began to invade Britain. Now the Picts would use such a day to remember those of their tribe who had gone missing throughout the past year. Some people believe these disappearances were due to the Romans stealing people away in the night. Perhaps to ship back to Rome as slaves or for some other nefarious purposes. Though this is widely accepted, there is another more mystical and mythological story that I am sure most of you remember drawing pictures about in primary school. It is said that...’

Mr Bishop continued to drone on but Doran’s attention drifted out of the window to the PE lesson outside. He had noticed his best friend, Zander Munro, staggering around the faded running track, panting like a thirsty dog. A smile spread across Doran’s face, knowing exactly what Zander would be thinking at that moment. Firstly, how to successfully get away with killing their PE teacher, Mr Urquhart, and secondly, how to make light of his distinct lack of ability. Zander had always been short for his age and, with little need for persuasion, had taken on the role of the year’s jokester.

Sure enough, as he approached the finish line, he slowed down, raising his arms in the air like a rock star trying to get the audience to make some noise. The rest of his class, who had finished a full minute ago, began clapping and whooping, much to the annoyance of Mr Urquhart. Zander came to a complete stop, cupping his hand behind his ear. The class grew louder and more animated, and he nodded in appreciation of their response. He feigned a run-up, then dashed to the finish line, performing a dive forward roll and ending in a seated position. He raised his arms as a gymnast might to indicate the completion of their routine, waiting humbly for the applause. It came in floods, and he stood and bowed, shaking a few hands before coming to a stop in front of Mr Urquhart. Zander also grabbed his hand and shook it firmly, patting his teacher on the arm. It was then that Doran finally let out the snort of laughter he had been trying so hard to suppress.

‘Something funny about pagan sacrifice, Doran?’ Mr Bishop said.

Doran’s attention snapped back to where it should be. Once again, all eyes were on him. ‘No sir. Sorry,’ he said, sinking even further into his chair.

Not soon enough, the school bell rang and Doran sprang from his seat. Swinging his bag over his shoulder, he made a beeline for the exit. He had to escape before…

‘Doran, would you mind waiting behind for a second?’ Mr Bishop called after him.

So close. He hovered by the doorway while his peers bustled around him as though he were a troublesome rock in a fast-flowing river. Only when they had all gone, did he turn around to see the familiar concerned smile on his teacher’s face.

‘Everything all right?’ Mr Bishop asked.

‘Sir?’ Doran replied, shuffling on the spot.

‘Late again – and may I say you seem distracted. I’m just wondering if you’re all right?’

‘Fine, sir,’ Doran said, one eye on the exit. ‘Can I go?’

Mr Bishop sighed, sitting on the edge of his desk in an apparent attempt to seem relatable and understanding. A classic ploy from the teacher handbook. ‘You’re a bright boy, Doran. But you seem rather disengaged in my class. Local history bore you, does it?’

Doran didn’t answer, suddenly finding his shoe laces very interesting.

‘It’s all right,’ Mr Bishop said with a chuckle. ‘I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. I have the advantage of not being from Linntean. So for me, your village’s history is all new and fascinating. Whereas I imagine you have had it drummed into you your whole life.’

Doran nodded and managed to tear his gaze away from his feet. Mr Bishop reached behind his back and pulled out a small textbook. The teacher gave it a loving look that lasted a fraction too long.

‘This was given to me by my old professor,’ Mr Bishop said. ‘It’s what got me so interested in this subject in the first place. I’d like you to hold onto it for me.’

‘What?’

‘Just for a couple of weeks. Have a read and see if it piques your interest.’

Doran outstretched his hand and accepted the book. As he did so, he felt a small tingle in his fingers, like a static electric shock from a balloon. With a start, he dropped the book and it hit the floor. ‘Sorry, I…’ he said, bending down and gathering up the book.

‘It’s all right, it’s all right; don’t worry about it.’

Doran stared at the book in his hands. When he had felt the shock, he could have sworn he had seen a short-lived green spark. He looked at Mr Bishop, whose expression had not changed. He didn’t appear to have seen anything.

The book was faded and battered; the spine worn. Doran ran his hands across the cover, its texture like sandpaper. It had no attractive artwork – merely gold writing which read: Ancient Myths of the Pictish People by Oswald MacAlpine.

‘It’s a good read. Chapters ten through eighteen are all about the lesser-known tribes of this area, including Linntean.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘History made us all. It’s important to learn where we come from. It helps us discover who we are.’

Doran nodded again. What? Brandishing the book, he gave an awkward smile and hurried out of the classroom.

Once in the freedom of the corridor, he stared at the book again, wishing Mr Bishop was as cynical and apathetic as the other teachers in the school. Why did he have to care? Did he not have a life?

Doran stuffed the book into his school bag and headed toward his locker.

The corridor was crowded, every class emptying and moving to its next destination. Doran wove in and out of the bodies to reach his locker, delighted to see Zander was already at his, putting away his PE kit.

‘Quite the performance,’ Doran said.

Zander spun around, the curls of his mousy-brown hair bouncing. ‘Yeah. Coach says I should make the track team this year,’ he said in a convincing American accent. ‘If I can get my eight hundred metres time under ten minutes that is,’ he added, in his natural Scottish twang.

‘Sport’s Day will be a breeze I’m sure,’ Doran said, grinning.

‘What time did you make it in today then?’ Zander asked. ‘Maybe you should buy a rooster?’

‘I notice you didn’t ask Jack to stop the bus for me.’

‘No fun in that.’

Doran laughed. ‘Not like it’s my first time.’

‘Mrs Hunter give you much stick?’

‘No more than usual. You think she’ll ever retire?’

‘Doubt it. My theory is that she might have died about ten years ago but didn’t realise. Now she’s just haunting the place in between filing… You coming tonight?’

Doran had been waiting for this question. ‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Not really, no.’ Zander jabbed him on the arm. ‘Come on, we’ve finally started to get invited to these things. You’ve got to come. Be a person, you know?’

Doran rubbed his arm, his eyes narrowed. ‘You’re invited.’

‘And you’re my plus one,’ Zander said. ‘I tell you something. Taking drama was the best thing I’ve ever done. Those girls are the people to know in this school.’

‘Not to mention it’s a place where you can finally fulfil your incurable desire to show off,’ Doran added.

Zander grinned and shook him by the shoulder. ‘There he is,’ he said. ‘Have you asked your mum yet?’

‘What do you think?’ Doran asked, eyebrow raised. ‘Any tips?’

Zander scoffed. ‘Doubt my dad would even notice I was out. I don’t plan on telling him either.’

Doran nodded, regretting the question. Parents had always been a sensitive subject with Zander. When he was eight his mum had walked out on his dad and left Linntean without warning. Neither had spoken to her since. Since then, his dad had spent more time drinking than being with his son. Zander had basically lived with Doran during their final primary school years.

‘Besides,’ Zander continued, ‘your mum won’t mind, surely?’

‘You’ve met her, right?’

‘Fair,’ Zander said. ‘Well, don’t let me down. I’m such a shy, anxious young man without you.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Rendered mute, I assure you,’ Zander said, trying and failing to look as serious as possible. ‘Right, I’ll see you at lunch.’ He flounced away but paused to call back, ensuring the whole corridor could hear. ‘We can talk through our outfits for tonight. Make sure they don’t clash.’

He smirked before darting out of sight, leaving Doran to roll his eyes. He considered his friend’s pep talk as he shuffled along the grimy linoleum floor. While Zander’s words had provided some much-needed confidence, he hoped the evening wouldn’t be as bad as he was envisioning.

Doran passed the two lacklustre apple trees outside his home and traipsed up the front garden path. The plot of land on which the house stood had been in the West family since the 1700s. Doran had been entertained as a child with stories of his ancestor, Jonathan West, an English soldier who fell in love with a Scottish woman. He eventually defected to the Jacobite side during the War of the British Succession and fought alongside his adopted Scottish brethren at the Battle of Culloden. As Doran recalled, the story did not have a happy ending. Their son, Douglas West, managed to survive and built the first house on this land in the late eighteenth century. The current version was the third incarnation, a sturdy two-bedroom bungalow. Doran’s parents had built it themselves with help from local contractors.

The house and the plot of land would one day be his to do with as he pleased. As much as he hated Linntean, he knew he could never sell it. Though he also didn’t want to stay. The plan since beginning secondary school had been to do enough to escape this close-minded, small village. At eighteen, he could leave and go to university, perhaps in a city like Edinburgh, or even London. He thought of all those people, bustling around, going about their day. All the traffic; people rushing. Rushing to get somewhere. Imagine! Doran heard a rustling inside the house and his momentary glee faded. That must be his reason to stay.

He opened the front door to see his mum, Kate West, moving around the narrow hallway at record speed. ‘Doran, thank God. Help me find my keys, would you?’ she said, lifting a small wicker basket in the air.

Doran strode to the array of coats hanging up and put his hand in one of the pockets, immediately bringing up a set of jingling keys. His mum smacked her palm against her forehead. She took the keys and smiled, brushing his cheek. ‘Thank you, Dory,’ she said. ‘What would I do without you?’

Doran shrugged away from her. ‘Don’t you think it’s time we retired the Dory nickname?’

His mum laughed and resumed her chaotic bustling. ‘Not a chance. She was your favourite character as a kid and it matches your name. It’s too perfect.’

‘I was three, Mum. Let it go.’

‘And you always will be,’ Kate said, giving him a playful tap on the nose.

Doran couldn’t help but grin. ‘You’re a lot sometimes, you know that?’

‘Ooh so sassy today,’ Kate said. ‘Let me guess – girl trouble?’

‘I’m leaving,’ Doran said, spinning on his heels and aiming for his room at the back of the house.

Kate giggled. ‘I saw Rufus this morning,’ she called as she was putting the keys in the door.

‘Please tell me you didn’t feed him this time?’

Rufus was a scruffy, one-antlered deer who lived near the West family’s plot of land. He would regularly hop over the fence and explore their garden. Doran’s mum had begun leaving leftover food for him to scavenge.

‘I think he’s starting to know who I am,’ she replied, with a worrying level of excitement.

‘You can’t have a deer as a pet,’ Doran said. ‘It’s bad enough that you’ve named him.’

‘That’s so unfair,’ Kate whined in an all-too-familiar tone.

‘Fantastic impersonation,’ Doran said, pouting. ‘Do you have any more? Perhaps we can get you on The Highlands Have Talent next year.’

Kate giggled again and threw open the front door.

Doran chucked his school bag onto his bed with a thud. He was about to unpack when his mum spoke again. ‘OK, I’m late for my shift. Dinner is in the oven. Should be ready in five minutes. Now, remember I’m on the night shift this week so I won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon.’

Doran popped his head back into the hallway. ‘Wait. Before you go…’

‘What’s up?’

‘There’s a party in the woods tonight,’ Doran continued, considering the order of every word. ‘I thought I might go?’

Kate’s face fell. ‘OK. Be careful.’

‘Just like that? I can go?’ He hadn’t been expecting that response. His mum had always been overly cautious with him – overprotective at times. He had never known why, or what triggered this behaviour. She could be so relaxed about certain things, almost closer to a big sister. Yet there were times this was definitely not the case and she would put her foot down quite forcibly.

‘Yes, just like that,’ Kate said, with an evenness he found very suspicious. ‘As you said, you’re not three any more and it would be hypocritical of me to say no. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t do that at your age. In fact, your dad and I…’

She caught herself mid-sentence and a pregnant pause filled the air. In the silence, Doran’s thoughts of escape only minutes before returned, accompanied by a fresh wave of guilt. Doran’s father had died when he was very young. He had only known one parent in his life and was fully aware of the sacrifices she had made for him. A single mother, working long hours to make sure he had a decent life. Could he really repay that sacrifice by abandoning her at the earliest opportunity?

His mum appeared to recover, and smiled, though only with the lower half of her face. ‘Have fun and—’

‘Stay away from the top of the waterfall. I know.’

She gave a less forced smile and nodded as she closed the door behind her.

Doran hovered in the doorway of his room until a sharp beep from the oven punctured the silence and he hurried to the kitchen to retrieve his dinner.

He carried the plate of steaming lasagne to his bedroom and laid it on his desk. As he wrestled some books from his bag, the smallest one slid from the pile, knocking his plate onto the floor.

Doran swore loudly and scooped up his plate, returning it to the desk. That’s going to leave a stain, he thought, as he inexpertly rubbed the mess into the carpet with a nearby towel.

Resting on his knees, he sighed and rounded on the source of the carnage.

Mr Bishop’s book lay open beside the stain. Several black and white pictures, labelled as Pictish symbols were dotted across the page. Doran glanced at the chapter title – Chapter Eleven – The Legend of Garnaith – before slamming the book shut and stuffing it back into his bag.

After salvaging what was left of his dinner, he scanned his schoolbooks. His shoulders slumped as he tapped his pen on his unfinished homework. The tapping grew louder and louder until it started to sound like a knock at the door, which jolted him back to consciousness. The pen fell, hitting the paper with a dull thud.

He pulled himself out of the chair and paced beside his bed, ruffling his hair with his fingers. Eventually, he threw open the wardrobe. The first problem to overcome: he had to decide what to wear that night.

The marble pools of Linntean were famous around the world. The ancient waterfalls had gradually eroded the rock to create deep basins that had grown more popular with every passing year. Tourists would flock from far and wide to marvel at the majestic views and swim in the emerald and cerulean tarns. But those who had grown up there knew more than the visitors to their village.

The woods of Linntean were home to many secrets. The majority had been transformed into myths and bedtime stories, which had been a staple of Doran’s childhood. The trees stretched across and up the area’s largest mountain, and, if you knew the way, you might happen upon a clearing no tourist had ever visited.

Doran emerged from the trees and looked up at the largest waterfall Linntean had to offer. The water cascaded down the rocks a full fifteen metres before crashing into the deep marble pool at the bottom. Daylight was fading fast, but the sun and the blue sky were still reflecting, creating a shade of water more associated with the Mediterranean. Despite Doran’s downer on his home, he had to admit that few other places could boast such a view.

As he ambled over the small ridge, the sound of the waterfall was increasingly overwhelmed by music and youthful cheering. Gathered by the pool at the bottom of the waterfall were the majority of the senior pupils at Glenmoral Academy. From where Doran was standing, they looked like giant bees, packed together in a tight swarm. Zander had been right. Everyone was indeed there.

He reached the bottom of the path and waded through the various dancing bodies, providing an awkward nod hello to those who spotted him.

Wham. A set of short arms wrapped themselves around his waist and tried to wrestle him to the ground. Doran only just managed to stay on his feet, shoving off his attacker.

‘You made it,’ Zander cried, with a level of gusto Doran hadn’t quite been expecting. He grasped him by both shoulders, holding him at arms-length as a parent might to check if their child was presentable. ‘You clean up well. I’m glad I didn’t wear my two-year-old black shirt.’

‘Shut it,’ Doran said, shoving him. ‘I know my look.’

Zander laughed. ‘Goth kids are off doing pagan rituals in the woods if you want to join them.’

Doran gave a forced chuckle. ‘Hilarious. You should save all that wit for your drama girls.’

‘Funny you should mention that…’

Doran’s eyes narrowed as he searched his friend’s face for the rest of the sentence. ‘What have you done?’

Zander’s jaw clenched and he swung his arm around Doran, ushering him to walk and talk with him. ‘Well, you know how me and Georgia Mackay have been messaging after school and stuff?’

He seemed reluctant to get to the point and Doran knew he wasn’t going to like the final destination of this conversation. ‘Uhuh.’

‘Well, it turns out Hanna has just broken up with her boyfriend and Georgia’s saying she needs to spend time with her tonight. But I know if I can just get her alone for a bit then I might stand a chance of getting beyond “friend” status.’

Doran decided to raise an eyebrow rather than respond.

‘So, I was wondering if you could speak to Hanna and...distract her? Maybe flash a bit of that winning personality?’

Doran glanced over Zander’s shoulder to see Hanna Williams, the school’s head girl. She was twisting that perfect wavy hair of hers into a bun and laughing with Georgia. The two were sitting on a nearby rock, swinging their legs and chatting. Doran was momentarily mesmerised by the water trickling down Hanna’s olive arms before he remembered why he was looking at her in the first place.

His face must have betrayed everything he was thinking but he decided to hammer his point home. ‘You want me to talk to Hanna Williams? As in pretty, popular, Hanna Williams? Hanna Williams, who has never so much as looked in my direction? Hanna Williams, who is the recent ex-girlfriend of Kieran McDowall? The school’s resident gorilla and all-round nutcase?’

‘Basically, yes. Exactly.’

‘I hate you,’ Doran said, and part of him almost meant it.

‘No you don’t. I’m far too adorable,’ Zander said. ‘Please mate, this could be my one shot with Georgia.’

Doran watched as Zander fell to his knees. Like a sinner asking for forgiveness, he clasped his hands together in prayer, batting his eyes for added effect. Doran was in no mood for granting absolution and hauled his friend to his feet. ‘Get up, will you?’ he said, craning his neck to see if anyone was watching them. ‘Fine. I’ll do it.’

Zander gave him a swift hug. ‘I owe you one.’

‘You can start by not messing around, and behaving like a normal human.’

‘You got it, captain,’ Zander said, saluting.

Doran grinned. ‘You’re an idiot.’

‘Damn right,’ Zander replied, wiggling his eyebrows. ‘Let’s go.’

With every step, Doran felt a fresh wave of panic. What was he even supposed to say? Did he open with a joke? Should he play it cool? Should he scream that there was a bear behind them and run away? That last option became more and more tempting as he and Zander reached the two girls.

His experience with girls was limited to say the least. He had kissed Danielle Hutton at his fifth birthday party, where both parties had found the whole ordeal rather gross. Somehow, he didn’t feel that was going to cut it.

Before he knew it, Zander was giving him a supportive pat on the shoulder and hurrying off with Georgia. This left Doran standing in front of an incredibly indifferent Hanna, who seemed affronted by her friend’s decision to leave.

The silence seemed to stretch on forever. Doran’s mind kept tussling between complete blankness and loud yelling. He reached to every corner of his brain, rummaging for anything useful to say. Hell; two or three coherent words would do. Bonus points on offer if they made sense one after the other.

‘Nice night…’

‘What’s that?’

Doran shook his head. ‘Just a rubbish way of opening a conversation.’

Hanna’s mouth twitched and her face softened a little. ‘Zander put you up to this I take it?’

‘No, I regularly look for ways to make myself feel as uncomfortable as possible.’

Hanna laughed. ‘Well, I’m sorry you’ve been forced to come over here. Helping those two get loved up probably wasn’t your idea of a party.’

Doran nodded, smiling. He gestured to the open space on the rock beside Hanna. She allowed him to sit and he did so, crossing his legs, then uncrossing them. Which was more natural? How did human beings sit again? ‘To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t know. This is my first real party.’

‘No way!’ Hanna said, mouth agape. ‘Well, you’re talking to a girl so that’s a good start.’

‘Feels amazing,’ Doran said. He may as well poke fun at his gawkiness.

Hanna laughed again. That was twice now. ‘You’re doing just fine. And talking to me, Hanna Williams and all,’ she said, smirking.

‘I think bravery points should be awarded, yes.’

‘Well, you’re funny. Don’t lose that.’

Her fingertips grazed his arm and Doran tried to keep his face as neutral as possible. Come on, he thought. Act like pretty girls touch your arm all the time. Just like any other night as far as you’re concerned. Her face then contorted as if she had seen something she couldn’t quite comprehend. ‘You also have really nice eyes. What colour is that?’

Between the touch and the fact that her ocean-blue gaze was now fixed on him, Doran momentarily felt his brain freeze over again. ‘Oh that,’ he said, realising she meant the jagged ring of bright green which circled his chestnut-brown eyes. ‘That’s nothing. My mum said it’s a family trait.’

‘It’s different. Something else you’ve got going for you.’

She was being nice. More than that, could she possibly be enjoying talking to him? ‘You know, you aren’t what I expected.’

Hanna grinned. ‘Yeah, I’ve grown up in the last few months. Getting to the end of high school does that to you. Soon I’ll be out of this place. Off to a whole new adventure. I’ll leave all these people behind and won’t look back.’ She nodded to Kieran McDowall who Doran noticed was chancing glances in their direction. Hanna sighed and looked up at the now dark sky as she continued. ‘It’ll be nice not to be Hanna Williams. Head girl. Popular. “All should fear her”. I’ll get to just be…me again, you know?’

‘I think I do, yeah,’ Doran murmured, settling on a bright star in a glittering display. ‘Can I come too?’

Hanna laughed again, this time more loudly and Kieran’s attention fell completely upon them. ‘You’ll be out of here in a couple of years too, hopefully. Big old world out there. Got to see it.’

‘Yeah.’

A red plastic cup arced through the air and collided with Doran’s head. The fizzy liquid exploded over him, soaking his dark hair. Both he and Hanna leapt to their feet and before he knew what was happening, he felt himself being grabbed and pushed against a nearby tree.

‘What you trying here then?’ came the arrogant voice of Kieran McDowall through the froth.

Doran blinked away the liquid on his face to see his assailant more clearly. Hanna appeared next to Kieran and grabbed his arm. ‘Get off, Kieran!’ she yelled. ‘He wasn’t trying anything.’

‘Like hell he wasn’t,’ Kieran said, thrusting him against the tree again.

‘Now, now, Kieran, let’s be gentlemen about this,’ Doran said between winces. In these situations he knew flippancy was rarely recommended, particularly when the adversary’s fists were quicker than his brain. But he couldn’t help himself.

‘Someone doesn’t know the law of the jungle,’ Kieran said. ‘That’s my girl you were talking to.’

‘I am not,’ Hanna said, still trying to pull Kieran away. ‘We broke up, you moron.’

Kieran didn’t appear to like that last comment because he dropped Doran as though he were a book with no pictures. ‘What did you call me?’ he said, advancing towards Hanna.

Doran coughed. ‘“Law of the jungle?”’ he said. ‘Seriously?’ he added to Hanna.

Flippancy may well be ill-advised, but antagonising is near-suicidal. Though it had the desired effect. Kieran turned back to face him instead, which let Hanna slip away to find her friends. She glanced back at him, biting her lip, but Doran nodded for her to carry on.

‘What makes you think she’d be interested in you?’ Kieran asked with a sneer.

‘Well, she went out with you, so surely even a shaved gorilla would have a chance.’

Kieran swung a leg and booted Doran in the stomach, delivering him to the dirt. ‘You just don’t know when to shut up, do you?’

‘It’s a sickness,’ Doran said, choking on his words.

Kieran shook his head and was gearing himself up for another kick when a familiar voice yelled, ‘Hey, Kieran!’

He paused, confused by the interruption. Doran’s eyes refocused to see Zander emerging from the bushes, Georgia slightly behind.

‘Who are you?’ Kieran demanded.

‘I’m Zander Munro,’ Zander said, as though introducing himself at a friendly dinner party. ‘I sit behind you in English. You’ve got a fantastic undercut. Who did that for you?’

For a moment, Kieran resembled a curious infant, mouthing back the words he had just heard.

‘I was just wondering if you could keep the noise down a bit – you’re kind of spoiling the mood if you know what I mean?’ Zander said with a wink, prompting Georgia to hit him with mild disgust. ‘Ow. Was that necessary?’

Once Georgia had marched off and was out of earshot, Zander leant towards Kieran. ‘We totally made out,’ he said in a stage whisper, cupping his hand beside his mouth.

Doran grinned and crawled on his hands and knees behind the tree before slipping into the forest. He’d have to thank his friend in the morning for his excellent distraction.

As soon as Zander’s voice began to fade, Doran broke into a run. He charged through the spiky bushes and wove in and out of the trees.

‘After him!’ he heard Kieran call to his friends in the distance.

It wasn’t the most ideal of head starts but it would have to do. If he could just make it to…

‘He’s heading for Garnaith’s Path!’ Doran heard Kieran yell. ‘Cut him off, McCart.’

Doran swore under his breath. Of all the times Kieran could have picked to have more than one brain cell. Garnaith’s Path was the closest way out of the woods and the nearest to his house. He’d have to find another way.

‘There!’ McCart said.

They were gaining on him. He ran even harder, desperate to stay ahead.

Chest burning, he made a snap decision and scurried to the right, bashing into a low, protruding branch. As he stumbled, he heard the boys’ voices getting louder and closer. Where could he go? How could he get away?

He kept weaving and changing direction until even he wasn’t sure where he was headed. Eventually, a low rumbling sound crept into his eardrums and gave him pause. It couldn’t be. How had he ended up there?

Doran felt a squelch underfoot as he scaled the steep hill. He could no longer hear his hunters so he caught his breath while he had the chance. Edging his way to where the ground stopped, he peered over the side to see the same waterfall at whose base he had been a short while ago.

As he stared at the raging avalanche of water, a thought struck him that he quickly dismissed as crazy. He couldn’t? Could he? If he didn’t die from the fall, his mum would surely kill him. There had to be an easier way to escape. A safer way. But he couldn’t think of a direction to go at this point where at least one of the boys wouldn’t catch him.

He peered over the side again. The idea was becoming both crazier and more necessary by the moment. Doran edged towards the precipice. The forest floor ran out, and before he could stop himself, he did what any right-minded person tells you not to do in such a situation: he looked down.

His legs wobbled and, with the poorest of timing, he heard Kieran’s voice once again. It had an unmistakable sense of glee. ‘I’ve got him lads! He’s over there!’

Doran stumbled backwards away from the waterfall. He tripped over a large root and fell, crashing onto the ground and rolling back down the hill, unable to stop himself. Rocks and tree stumps battered into him, piercing his skin.

He thought he would never stop falling – until he clattered into something solid. His head bobbed lazily, the trees and the rage of the rushing water interspersed with quiet darkness.

His eyes tried to focus on what he had crashed into. Some large rock?

No. A rock implied no thought or placement. Doran didn’t understand why the thought had crossed his mind but it was as if this piece of stone was meant to be here. It stood waiting, covered in moss, forgotten.

Doran slammed his hand against the stone, trying to use it to get to his feet. As he fought to stay conscious, his hand slipped down the jagged, uneven surface.

Ouch. Doran retracted his fingers. It was hot; more than that: boiling.

As he looked closer, he thought he could see carvings underneath the thinner moss – and he suddenly realised they were like the black and white drawings he’d glimpsed in Mr Bishop’s book. Pictish? But these were no pictures. The carvings were glowing, growing a brighter shade of green with every moment that passed.

Doran found his hands floating of their own accord towards the glowing symbols. He felt a tingle in his fingertips. It was the same sensation he had felt in Mr Bishop’s classroom. His hands were hovering just above the enchanting light when a low whistle cut through the air.

Darkness threatened to overwhelm Doran as he turned in search of the sound. He wrestled it back, desperate to stay awake and find the source of the noise.

It was then he saw a man, cloaked in shadow, standing up where Doran had fallen from minutes before. A fleeting spell of blackness overcame him. When he regained his senses the man had vanished.

‘Where did he go?’ Doran heard Kieran ask his friends.

‘He must have turned back and tried to make a break for the path again,’ one of the boys replied.

Kieran growled. ‘Come on,’ he said and he charged off, the two boys in hot pursuit.

Doran lay very still, clinging to the stone. What if they saw the glowing light? He may as well have sent up a flare.

‘What’s that?’ he heard Kieran call.

‘He’s over here!’

Doran heard the rustling leaves crunch louder with every step. The darkness continued to tempt with its warm embrace. It would be so easy just to give in.

They were going to find him, and he could do nothing to stop them. Why did Zander have to bring him to this party? At school, Kieran and his goons wouldn’t dream of touching him. They at least had that much sense. But out in the woods anything could happen and be chalked up to an unfortunate accident. For once he longed to be within earshot of a teacher.

The tingling sensation had returned to his fingertips, and as he blinked in and out of consciousness he was sure he saw bright green sparks again, flashing in the darkness all around him.

The last thing he heard was an unmistakably triumphant cackle from Kieran as he finally gave in to the nothingness.

3

TRAVELLER’S DAY

‘DORAN…’

Doran’s eyes flickered open, an unknown voice and the faintest trace of the whistling sound ringing in his ears. Above was the clear blue sky; beneath, dewy grass that tickled his palms.

He wasn’t sure how long he remained still, unfazed by the damp seeping into his clothes, or the mild morning breeze that made his hairs stand on end.

It was morning.

Doran sat bolt upright. Blinking, he tried to adjust to his new surroundings. He wasn’t sure how he knew he was no longer in the forest, but perhaps the aroma of freshly cut grass gave it away.

He swivelled himself around and gaped at the sight of a familiar, ugly red cylinder. He was at school. How could he possibly be at school? While the forests of Linntean were vast and stretched all around the area, the waterfall would still have to be at least five miles away.

Images of the previous night flashed in his mind and he jerked his head around, ignoring the burning pressure from behind his eyelids. But there was no sign of his pursuers. There was no sign of anyone.

Doran pulled out his phone: 7:35am. So, it was indeed the next morning. But that still didn’t explain how he had managed to get there. He pressed his temples as if trying to squeeze the memories out of his head. More images flashed in his mind but quickly faded, forever lost, like a dream dwelt on for too long.

The last distinct memory he could muster was those green sparks dancing all around him. He had clearly hit his head rather hard. Perhaps he had been seeing stars. His hand danced across the back of his head, feeling a grape-sized lump underneath his hair.

Choices limited, Doran limped towards the main entrance of the school. He tugged on the front door but it remained shut. Through the glass, he saw Mrs Hunter gawping at him, as if he was a wildcat that had wandered in from the forest.

Mrs Hunter slowly reached under her desk and the door clicked open. Her eyes didn’t leave him as he staggered towards her, resting his elbows on the counter just as he had done the previous morning. He frowned. Had it really been a whole day since then?

Mrs Hunter’s lips were not twisted into her usual grimace. For the first time in all the years Doran had appeared outside her office, she looked concerned.

‘What on earth has happened to you, young man?’

Doran wished he knew the answer, searching every corner of his brain. He was about to respond when he realised how dry his mouth was. He glanced inside to see a group of pupils sitting eating toast and jabbering to one another. ‘Breakfast club,’ he said, thinking on his feet. His voice sounded like he smoked ten packs of cigarettes a day.

‘Well, I’m glad you’re finally starting to make an effort to arrive at school on time,’ Mrs Hunter said. ‘But I must admit this seems a little excessive. Did your mother kick you out of the house this morning?’

‘Yeah… She had an early shift,’ Doran said, continuing to invent wildly.

‘While I commend her for it, she has allowed you to come to school in quite frankly a horrid state. You look as though you’ve been up all night. Where’s your tie? And are your trousers torn?’

Doran looked down at his outfit from the party. There was indeed a gaping hole in the left knee of his jeans. ‘Got dressed in the dark.’

‘Clearly. You’re not coming in looking like that. Mrs Scrimgeour would have a fit. There are spare uniforms in lost property. Go and find something your size. I’ll want it back on Monday, mind you.’

Where usually a sarcastic comment would have escaped his lips, Doran couldn’t seem to find the words. Instead, he meandered into the school and found a passable shirt, tie and pair of trousers. Before he knew it, he was sitting in the dining hall, having a staring contest with an uninviting piece of soggy toast.

His attention drifted to two of his teachers, who were rushing to put up a banner before the bell rang. It read ‘LATHA AN SIUBHAILADAIR’ with the helpful translation of ‘TRAVELLER’S DAY’ underneath in bright, multi-coloured letters. Doran found himself drawn to the luminous green of the first ‘E’. The letter seemed to be leaping at him, like he was staring at it through a pair of 3D glasses.

The chatter of his peers seemed distant and muffled as the unnerving whistling sound invaded Doran’s mind once again. Goosebumps arose across his arms as that unknown voice also returned, calling to him, whispering in his ear. ‘Doran… Doran… DORAN…’

‘Doran?’

He snapped to attention to see Mr Bishop standing before him. There was that concerned smile again. Did he ever have a day off?

‘Come with me.’

Doran was in such a malleable state he complied instantly, gliding after Mr Bishop and leaving his untouched piece of mushy toast behind.

‘Take a seat,’ Mr Bishop said as they entered his classroom. ‘Are you all right? You look a bit peaky.’

‘Fine,’ Doran mumbled.

‘Has anything happened?’ Mr Bishop asked. ‘Anything you want to talk about?’

Doran shook his head, forcing his face to look as nonchalant as possible. Inside, he was still searching for any memory of his missing chunk of time.

‘All right,’ Mr Bishop said, though Doran doubted he had given up his enquiry. ‘Did you have a chance to read the book I lent you yet?’

Doran shook his head. Books? Really? He had far more pressing concerns than some old textbook.

‘I’m sure you’ll get around to it,’ Mr Bishop said. ‘It’s got quite a few interesting theories about Traveller’s Day, actually.’ He gestured to the title on his whiteboard which read, ‘HAPPY TRAVELLER’S DAY!’ in big black letters. The handwriting seemed to mirror Mr Bishop’s frustratingly sunny disposition. ‘Some of the symbols in the book refer to it.’

‘Symbols?’ Doran said, finally meeting Mr Bishop’s gaze.

Curiosity flashed in his teacher’s eyes. ‘Yes…’

‘I saw some.’

‘In the book?’

‘Yes…but also…’

‘Also? Also where, Doran?’

The school bell cut through the corridors.

‘Ugh. You’d best get to assembly. As must I as a matter of fact,’ Mr Bishop said, glancing out of the classroom. He seemed disappointed at their conversation being cut short. Doran hoped that didn’t mean he’d try to find him later for a further catch-up. There should be a daily limit on chats with teachers.

‘Assembly?’

‘Of course. It’s the Traveller’s Day assembly today, remember?’ Mr Bishop said, with an eagerness Doran had no intention of matching.

‘Right… Of course,’ Doran said, rising dreamily to his feet and wandering out of the classroom to be carried off by the procession of people outside.

He surfed the wave of his peers into the assembly hall and sat down, watching the remainder of the school file in. Doran caught a glimpse of Kieran McDowall and his cronies. Their mouths hung open, staring at him as if he had just performed some incredible magic trick. Clearly, they too had no idea how he had eluded them the previous night.

‘Well look who survived,’ Zander said, plonking himself down next to Doran. ‘You managed to get home then?’

His grin fell away the moment he caught sight of Doran.

‘Oh my god. Look at the state of you. Mate, I’m so sorry. I should have come after you. I thought you’d have had enough of a head start to get to Garnaith’s Path. They’ve given you a right seeing to, haven’t they?’ Zander examined him, inspecting all the scratches and bumps on his face and neck.

‘They didn’t.’

‘What do you mean?’ Zander asked. ‘You certainly look as if you’ve taken a beating.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’m only saying if Kieran didn’t do this to you, then what happened?’

‘That’s just it – I don’t know,’ Doran said as Mrs Scrimgeour, the headteacher, walked across the small stage to begin her address. ‘One minute I’m running for my life, the next I fall and smack my head on some old stone statue.’

‘And then what?’ Zander whispered, completely ignoring Mrs Scrimgeour’s demand for silence.

‘I was completely out of it,’ Doran said. ‘Hearing strange voices and sounds, seeing things. A weird glow, a man…’

‘What man?’

‘It was only for a second. Probably just the knock to my head playing tricks on me.’

‘Did your mum freak?’

‘Not seen her yet. She’s on nights this week and besides…’ Doran paused, unsure whether to go on. Would Zander think he had gone mad?

‘What?’

‘I woke up here.’

‘Here?’ Zander said, a little too loudly, and a few eyes fell on them. Doran saw Mrs Hunter give them a reproachful look and they huddled closer, speaking out of the corner of their mouths. ‘What do you mean here?’

‘In the school grounds.’

‘How on earth did you end up here?’

‘No idea. The last thing I remember, I was about to pass out in the woods. Kieran and his fellow Neanderthals had found me – and then I woke up here.’

‘So, you blacked out?’

‘Must have done,’ Doran said, though a small part of him was struggling to believe it. How could he possibly have made it all the way to the school grounds, injured, potentially concussed, and with three determined bullies chasing him? It made no sense. But that must have been what happened. Right?

The boys fell into a thoughtful silence, turning to watch what was unfolding on stage. As per tradition, a local amateur dramatics group had come from Inverness to put on a short play about the history of Traveller’s Day. It was exclusively dull and appealed to the audience as much as the Antiques Roadshow. Doran noticed a few heads in front of him bobbing.

‘That’s your future,’ Doran said to Zander, gesturing to the overacting performers on stage.

Zander smirked. ‘Shut it. West End for me, mate. I’m going to be a star.’

‘West End of Glasgow you mean?’ Doran said and both boys chortled, only stopping when they heard a sharp shushing sound from one of the teachers.

It felt good to be cracking jokes again and the laughter soothed Doran’s soul somewhat. He even began to push away thoughts of the previous night’s ordeal and tuned into the performance.

‘And so, the Romans began a craftier venture,’ one of the actor’s voices boomed. ‘Some say that because they couldn’t strike fear on the battlefield, they resorted to stealing away people in the night. But is that the whole story? What of the legends and tales of old, passed down from generation to generation? Could these stories be the true history of the Travellers?’

Another actor stepped forward as the rest of the cast began constructing a contraption behind him. ‘Some say the people of this land simply vanished, without a trace. But there are legends throughout history of lost souls reappearing, sometimes generations later, as if no time had passed, and returning to the place they once called home. The tribes would call this a miracle and a feast would be thrown every year to celebrate those who had returned and remember those who were still lost.’

The other actors raised a black cloth in front of one of the women. With a white flash and a crack, the black cloth fell and the woman had vanished. The black cloth was raised again and with another crack, she had reappeared at the other side of the stage, an over-the-top look of bewilderment on her face.

The same process happened a few times, the other cast members all taking a turn. With every crack,Doran began to feel more and more queasy, his fingernails digging into his palms. The flashes seemed to be growing brighter and on the last one, he found himself standing, as though the flash itself had willed it. Only Zander and a few others around him seemed to notice his apparent premature ovation to the performance.