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Wardstone.
    â€œWell, lad, you’ve read it. What have you to say for yourself?”
    â€œIt might have been someone with my name who bound the evil, whatever it was,” I suggested.
    â€œAye, it might—that’s a possibility. But the word ‘ward’ also means something else. It’s the old name for a district. So the stone might simply mark the corner of some plot of land whose ownership has long been forgotten; it might be nothing to do with your family name. Does anything else come to mind?” my master asked.
    â€œWhatever happened here was a long time ago. How long ago was the last ice age?”
    â€œThousands of years, lad. I reckon it was thousands and thousands of years back in time.”
    â€œThat’s a long time ago to have an ancestor called Ward— and language changes, doesn’t it? You once told me that during an ice age, when it is difficult to survive, men forget knowledge and live in caves and hunt, concentrating on survival. How old is this inscription? It might not be that old—just somebody commemorating a legend.”
    â€œIt’s hard to estimate its age, but it was there at least a hundred years ago, because my own master, Henry Horrocks, saw it when he visited the spot as a new apprentice in the company of his master. The truth is, we’ll probably never find out when that lettering was carved into the stone. It’s one of the great mysteries—another example of the unexplained. However, I want to put something else to you, lad. What if this big rock really can move through time? If that were true, it would open up two possibilities. The inscription might be a record of something that happened long ago in the past. But what else could it be?”
    I didn’t have to think. It was as if a deep part of my brain had always known and now surrendered the knowledge to my conscious mind. When I opened my mouth, the words just fell out, as if they had been readying themselves to escape.
    â€œIt could point to something that’s going to happen in the future. It could have been written in the distant future, looking back on events yet to happen in our time. It could be a prophecy.”
    The Spook seemed deep in thought. He didn’t believe in scrying—for him the future could not be fixed. But during my years of training with him, I had seen that belief challenged over and over again.
    â€œOn the other hand, the Wardstone might go somewhere else but stay in our own time,” he suggested.
    â€œWhat do you mean? Where else could it go?”
    â€œSome folks believe that there are other worlds, invisible but very close to ours. You should know, lad. You’ve been to one of ’em yourself—the Hollow Hills, where you got that sword, is one example. Of course, that could be just an extension of the dark.”
    â€œCould the Wardstone go to the dark?”
    â€œWho knows? It’s part of the unexplained, and another mystery to be solved.”
    Then, without another word, my master led me off the fell, and we headed back toward Chipenden.

CHAPTER VI
    T HE D OOMDRYTE

    A FTER spending another night outdoors, we arrived back at the Spook’s house early in the afternoon. I was tired, but my master seemed bright and full of energy.
    â€œThat was just what I needed, lad. Despite the wet weather on the way there, the pains in my joints have gone. That walk has done me a power of good.”
    I smiled and nodded. It was good to see the Spook’s health and attitude so much improved, but I was feeling down again. I had hoped to find Alice waiting for me at the Chipenden house, but she wasn’t there. Moreover, the Spook’s suggestion that the inscription on the stone might be a prophecy troubled me.
    It said that a “man died there.” Who could that be . . . the Spook? But I was turned sixteen now, so I probably counted as a man, too. Was the end in sight for me? Perhaps I