Copyright © 2016 by GMS written as Tobey Alexander
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Tobey Alexander / CreateSpace.com
Book design by Tobey Alexander
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Published using CreateSpace self-publishing services. All enquiries directed to the author through CreateSpace services or visit www.footprintsontheotherside.co.uk
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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ORIGINS OF THE MAGDON:
VERCOVICIUM
Vercovicium
A stone fort built AD124 at the site of Hadrian’s Wall in the parish of Bardon Hill, Northumberland, England.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One – Introducing Archy
Chapter Two – Welcome to Vercovicium
Chapter Three – A morning for exploring
Chapter Four – Into the unknown
Chapter Five – The darkness beneath the ground
Chapter Six – Facing the Nivag
Chapter Seven – A narrow escape
Chapter Eight – Flash and fever
Chapter Nine – The new path ahead
Reference
Dedicated completely to my children who inspired me to create the Magdon and the history behind it. Thank you for feeding my madness.
Prologue
The world beneath the one we know
Consider this book to be an invitation.
This is not a story dragged from the imagination but instead a reminder of the world we have forgotten over the centuries. It is easy to accept the world we live in and forget the things that happened long ago.
For those happy to live in this world, then perhaps these pages are not for you. What is contained within this book is the truth of what we have forgotten. If you can live without that knowledge, then I advise you to turn away now.
If you wish to understand that there is more beyond what we know, then read on.
Picture a cobweb dancing in a morning breeze. Our world is but a single strand of that web. But how many other strands does the spider spin? Each strand is connected to the next, feeding a path from one to another and all the while offering each other support. If you take one strand away the web begins to fail; it starts to crumble, and the same is true of our existence. We are but a single strand of a very intricate and complicated web.
Vibrations from one strand can echo across all those to which they are connected.
I’m certain you have heard of Robin Hood, King Arthur and his Excalibur, the Loch Ness Monster. These are familiar but for every story that has survived the passage of time, there are a handful that have not. This book will force you to question your belief of what is fact and what is fiction, what is a myth and what is truth.
Bring yourself through these pages and remind yourselves that there is more to the world than what you have been told.
So settle back, open your mind and take the steps to rediscovery.
Together we shall rediscover the Origins Of The Magdon.
Chapter One
Introducing Archy
As the train gathered power and began to pull out of the station, Archy did not lift his attention from the photo in his hand. Staring at the picture of his mother he felt a pang of sadness. Although it had been five years since her death, he could still remember the cold winter's morning vividly as he watched her coffin lowered into the sodden ground.
His father stood on the platform, equally as disconnected, staring at the window of the carriage through the glasses that perched on the end of his rather large nose. Archy and his father had never been close and instead of drawing them together, the untimely and unexpected death of his mother had pushed them further apart.
Professor Nicholas Oscar Skevington was a cold man. Overweight and fighting against an inevitable baldness he stood on the platform looking at his son. A man of discipline and education he had long realised that Archibald, his only child, would never grow up to be like him. Rather than spend another summer at loggerheads with Archy he had arranged for him to travel north to visit the archaeological site of a learned friend.
Archy had been ecstatic when his father had announced the summer trip. Since moving to London following his mother’s death he had longed for the countryside. London was too busy, the horse and carts running the streets lacked the grace and beauty of what he was used to. Unlike his hometown of Nottingham, London was a cold and lifeless city. Perhaps, it suddenly dawned on him; it was the reason his father had chosen to move there after his mother’s death. Sitting in the carriage, Archy finally realised his father belonged in such a cold and disconnected place.
At last, the pair made eye contact as the train began to move along the platform slowly. Unlike the weeping mothers and frantically waving grandparents that littered the station around his father there was little sign of emotion from him. All Archy received as the train finally began to gather momentum was a curt and almost formal nod from his father.
Archy didn’t even bother to return the acknowledgement and returned his attention to the photo in his hand. He missed her warm smile and could only imagine the tears she would be fighting back had she been stood on the platform waving goodbye.
Sitting back in the seat Archy, at last, took note of his surroundings. The carriage was half full but still he felt very much alone. Other families muttered excitedly at the end of the carriage but his only company was that of a snoring elderly woman sat on the opposite side of the narrow walkway from him.
Smoke billowed all around the train outside; Archy could smell it creeping through one of the sliding windows that someone had left slightly ajar. He knew however as the train gained speed the plumes of smoke would be thrown up above the train. After then all he would hear would be the wind whistling past the narrow opening. Archy listened as the train gained its momentum and the thump-thump of the pistons pulling the great wheels began to get faster and faster.
Having spent his terms living at school the freedom this trip offered him brewed an excitement in the pit of his stomach. At sixteen Archy knew his father was expecting him to make decisions as to his future, how he would uphold the family name. Both of them knew Archy would not follow his father into a world of teaching and books.
While this trip was the perfect fuel to Archy’s keen interest in history and adventure he suspected it was an orchestrated attempt by his father to turn him back towards teaching. He could almost hear the dry voice of his father telling him how he could develop his interest and feed it to the keen minds of others.
Just thinking about his father irritated him and he quickly cast the thought aside.
‘I’m not going to let you ruin this trip,’ Archy whispered to himself and carefully slid the photograph of his mother into the pocket of his jacket.
Disturbed by his mutterings the old woman across from him stirred a little. Archy suppressed a laugh as her flowery bag slipped from her lap, and she awoke with a start staring wide-eyed as if her cat had leapt onto her lap.
‘Morning dear.’ She mumbled sleepily with a soft smile and quickly closed her eyes resuming her almost mus
ical snoring.
Archy knew the journey would be long. The train would be stopping at nearly all the stations between London and Bardon Mill, and Archy would have more than one change along the way. His itinerary had been dictated by his father once he had told him of the trip. Ignoring the formality of his announcement Archy had scribbled the plan in a small leather-bound journal he had purchased for the trip.
He knew once he arrived at Bardon Mill he should find one of the students that worked under the tutelage of his host waiting for him. He hoped that whoever it was would be friendly. From there it would be a short ride to the excavation site.
Archy looked at the notes he had hastily scribbled on the first few pages of his journal and tried to remember what information he could. The scholar overseeing the excavation was a friend of his father. In that respect he expected an equally cold and testing man to greet him at the site.
Preparing himself for an onslaught of questions and checks of his knowledge Archy poured himself into the almost verbatim scribbling he had made from what he could find in the library.
As the journey rolled along steadily and Archy grew nearer to his destination, he could not deny his excitement. In his mind’s eye, he could almost taste the country air as the landscapes out of the narrow carriage window began to change from long open plains to rolling hills. Climbing through the Peak District Archy could finally feel free of his father’s gruelling grasp and felt he could finally relax.
Archy drew his hand through his blonde hair, before resting his elbow on the narrow window ledge. He cast his gaze outside the train and stared out of the window.
‘Vercovicium here I come.’ He sighed and smiled at the lush rolling countryside outside.
Chapter Two
Welcome to Vercovicium
Archy shielded his face and coughed loudly as the plumes of steam and smoke from the train billowed around him on the platform. The green painted carriages smeared with grease slowly pulled away and as the train drew away from the station he found himself alone on the platform.
The station building was a strange affair. A long single story structure sat aside the main building with its high pitched roof and a large bay window looking out across the platform. Archy saw no signs of movement. For a second a wave of uncertainty washed over him. Alone so far from home he suddenly felt isolated and nervous.
As he walked towards the freshly painted picket fence that marked the entrance to the station he could finally hear the sound of hooves clip-clopping across the road outside the station. Awash with anticipation Archy’s speed increased a little as he marched through the opening in the fence and out towards the road.
Looking along the way to the source of the noise he was disappointed to see a young girl walking alongside a small pony. Dropping his suitcase to the floor beside his leg Archy sat on top of the sturdy case and sighed.
‘Don’t tell me,’ a voice startled him from behind as Archy quickly spun on the spot. ‘You must be Archibald Skevington I expect.’
Archy took in the source of the voice and smiled to himself.
‘I prefer Archy.’ He offered in reply and held out his hand in greeting.
The young man now stood before him smiled warmly. Looking at his dirt-stained hands, he brushed them against his tattered trousers and grasped Archy’s hand firmly. Grateful for the gesture Archy subconsciously brushed his hands together as he noted the vein attempt to clean his hands before shaking Archy’s had done nothing to dispel the dirt and dust from the young man’s hands.
‘Sorry about that,’ the young man chuckled. ‘Hazards of the profession. If you’re not getting filthy, then you’re not doing it right. Shall we?’
The young man motioned towards a horse and cart that sat waiting at the far side of the station building. At the helm of the carriage sat a very wrinkled and weathered old man whose twisted and knotted fingers gently caressed the mane of the equally aged horse that waited patiently to pull the cart.
‘Yes please.’ Archy could barely contain his excitement and the young man could only smile to himself as they walked to the waiting transport.
‘I forget myself sorry, my name is John, but everyone calls me Mole.’
‘Mole?’ Archy quizzed as he hoisted his luggage into the cart and stepped up to take a seat on the solid wooden bench.
‘Yes, it comes from the fact I seem to be able to fit myself into some very dark, very tight holes.’
Taking in Mole’s appearance Archy could understand why. A head of dishevelled and unkempt red hair sat atop a very thin face. The clothes Mole wore were not only tattered and torn from his time on the excavation but also ill-fitting, being some two sizes too big. His exposed arms only highlighted the young man’s thin and wiry frame. There was no denying that Archy could quite easily imagine Mole scrabbling between narrow gaps in rocks to explore places most others could not fit.
‘How long until we get there?’ Archy asked as Mole slid onto the seat across from him and directed the old driver to begin their journey.
‘It’s about three miles so get comfortable, but it shouldn’t take us too long.’
Archy could barely suppress his excitement as his gaze darted from left to right taking in everything he could of his surroundings. For the most of this final stretch of the journey, Mole sat silently across from him. He seemed amused by Archy’s excited and boyish behaviour. Finally, Mole had to speak and bring Archy’s attention back from wherever it had wandered.
‘We will have to walk the rest of the way, but it isn’t too far, even in those clothes.’
Archy was about to question Mole’s meaning but when he looked he realised, rather sheepishly, that he was somewhat overdressed for the occasion. In a smart jacket, trousers, and shoes Archy looked the educated city boy very much and seemed out of place in comparison to both Mole and the old driver of the cart.
‘I have other clothes that aren’t so,’ Archy couldn’t find the right word to finish his sentence and was glad as the rocking carriage came to a stop at the side of the road.
‘Too late now, you can get changed when we get to the top.’ Mole interrupted as he jumped down from the carriage, turning his attention to the driver. ‘Thank you George, I’ll get this young man to the site from here and see you in the morning.’
‘Right you are.’ The old man replied.
Once Archy had stepped himself down and recovered his suitcase the old man turned the horse and cart around and began his journey back the way they had come.
The pair walked up a steady incline towards a copse of thick green trees. As they reached the crest of the hill Archy could see a row of tents along the edge of the trees.
Casting his gaze to the right Archy saw the crumbled stone remains climbing in all directions marking out the outline of a long lost impressive construction. Wide-eyed and filled with an undeniable excitement Archy could only stare at the huge site, its size and presence catching him completely by surprise.
As he stared towards the grey stones that littered the green hillside around him he did not hear the footfalls of his host on the soft grass until again he was dragged from his amazed silence by a new voice.
‘Is this my latest guest?’ A gruff voice asked.
‘It is professor; this is’ the much older man cut Mole off before he could finish his introduction.
‘Archibald.’ He completed shortly. ‘Yes, I am well aware of who he is. Incidentally, I have known your father for quite some years young man.’
Archy felt a pang of dread. Indeed this man seemed of the same ilk as his father.
‘Thank you, sir, for letting me come.’ Archy replied.
Unconsciously he found his hands straightening his jacket and brushing off his trousers of imaginary dirt.
‘You’re more than welcome. Your father was disappointed you don’t want to follow him into a life of books and reading, but he has said you have a somewhat natural drive and thirst for history.’
Oddly Archy felt a sense of pri
de inside him. For all his coldness he had never expected his father to speak kindly of him to his peers.
‘Thank you,’ he muttered in reply.
‘My name is Thomas Bee, this my dear boy is Housestead’s Roman Fort.’ Thomas waved his arms in the air grandly as if announcing to a filled theatre. ‘What can you tell me about it?’
The question did not catch Archy by surprise, and while Thomas Bee seemed an unpredictable man he knew the man was a teacher. While somewhat warmer and more welcoming than his father he was aware that the man would always have a desire to test.
Thankfully the long train journey had offered Archy the time to prepare for such an eventuality. Confidently Archy withdrew the journal from his jacket pocket and moved to open the pages.