The Valley of Secrets - Softcover

Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Charmian Hussey trained as an archaeologist at the University of London, through which she worked on excavations in Great Britain and the Middle East. This interest in the indigenous tribal peoples of the world led to a deep concern for their futures. The Valley of Secrets combines her understanding and passion for indigenous concerns with her love of the Cornish countryside in England, where she now lives and farms with her husband, John.

Christopher Crump abandoned his office job to pursue his dream of being an artist. He earned a B.A. degree in illustration at Falmouth College of Arts in Cornwall, England, and has just completed an M.A. in illustration: authorial practice. He lives in England.

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Chapter 32: Thieves on the Beach

Pulling off his shoes and socks as quickly as he could, and clutching them in his hands, Stephen set off across the beach toward the shining pathway of water that ran down to join the sea.

The water felt wonderfully cool and soothing. He hopped and danced amongst the waves that ran to greet him on the beach, then wandered lazily through the water along the curving line of the shore. After all those years of town life, after all the flurry and all the grime, after all the times that he'd longed for freedom -- to find himself on this tranquil beach was such a joy!

He stopped at the edge of the waves, looking out to sea, wriggling his toes and rocking his heels, sinking slowly down to his ankles in a granular soup of fluid sand. It was a satisfying feeling; yet he still looked longingly at the deep water.

"Why didn't I think of bringing my trunks and a towel?" he wondered. But the water was irresistible; he decided he would manage without them. Any spectators, who might be offended by the bright patterns of the Flintstones on his boxer shorts, would just have to put up with it; he glanced briefly across at the bracken.

There was a large patch of dry sand and several boulders at the rear of the beach, below the bracken-covered slopes. The biggest boulder had a flat, dry top. It was a perfect place for leaving his shoes and clothing.

Stephen enjoyed himself immensely. Filled with a great sense of pleasure and well-being, he swam and splashed happily in the sea, wallowing in the cold, clear water. And as he swam and splashed around, he completely forgot about the audience.

Back on the beach he spied and picked up a fine example of sea kelp -- a wide, flat strip with crinkled edges attached to a long, thick, meaty stalk. Up and down he ran in the sunshine, joyfully holding the seaweed on high. The long, green ribbon flew out like a banner as Stephen sped across the sand.

When he stopped to get his breath, a new attraction caught his eye: a big, wide, curving bank of sand, freshly washed and superbly smooth, on the far side of the bay -- an untouched virgin territory, which he knew he had to visit. Crossing the beach, he hunted for shells, collecting some very fine stones on the way: a beautiful and perfectly round, flat, black pebble and a number of chunks of a milky-white rock -- probably quartz, he thought to himself, but inset with veins of a shiny mineral that glinted brightly in the sun.

On reaching the opposite far side of the bay and the smooth expanse of pristine sand, Stephen took the greatest delight in walking boldly straight across it, noting the satisfactory line of his own crisp footprints in the sand, feeling quite pleased at the thought of himself as some modern-day Man Friday. Then leaving his precious collection of stones in a little heap on the bank, and pushing the hair back from his face with a salty, sandy hand, he set off down the beach to the headland to explore the pools at the base of the cliff.

Very few things in life are as satisfying as the exploration of rock pools. Each indentation in the rocks and every sea-filled crevice is a unique and tiny kingdom, ruled, so it seems, by tyrannical crabs that hide in cavities under the rocks or lurk behind curtains of weed. Each pool is a prison for shrimps and fish, whose camouflaged colors may save their lives -- captives until, with the turn of the tide, the waves rush back and set them free, stirring the sand and disturbing the calm, as the sea reclaims the pool as her own.

Stephen wandered slowly back along the rocky base of the cliff, trying to avoid the dangerous stretches: the barnacle-encrusted rocks; the slippery, squelching patches of weed. He investigated all the pools, crouching motionless on the rocks, gazing into the calm, clear water.

Some of the pools had intriguing sea anemones. Some had brightly colored weeds. Others appeared to be quite empty; it was only after patient waiting that tiny creatures emerged to be seen.

He was so absorbed in examining the pools that he hadn't noticed how late it was: how the sun was dipping down; how the headland opposite cast long shadows across the bay. He had quite forgotten about the tide.

When he finally stopped and stood up, stretching stiffly and looking around, he was very surprised to discover that the sea was covering most of the beach. There was no sign now of the sandy bank and his precious collection of stones.

He stood on the ridge of rocks that ran along the side of the beach, feeling suddenly very cold. He didn't like the idea of stepping off the edge of the rocks into the deep water; he was much too chilled to want to get wet again. So he worked his way along the ledge and up onto the beach that way.

The rocks, where Stephen had left all his clothing, stood in a shadowy huddle below the headland opposite. He trotted across the back of the beach toward them. The sooner he could get some clothing on the better; then back to the house as quickly as possible for something good to eat.

When he came to the place where he'd left his things, he stopped and stared in sheer disbelief. Two scruffy sneakers still sat on the rock. But all his clothing had disappeared.

Text copyright © 2003 by Charmian Hussey

Chapter 33: The Secret of the Woodland Glade

Stephen stood miserably on the beach beside the rock, considering his old sneakers. He was cold and covered with goose pimples. He hugged his arms around his body and shivered.

Even the Flintstones looked cold now. In the deep shadows of the rocky slopes, their colors seemed drab and faded. Suddenly, for Stephen too, all of the color and the pleasure had sadly faded from the day.

It really was too bad! He needed warm clothing and food. Funny that he hadn't noticed, whilst examining the rock pools, how cold and empty he'd become. Nor had he noticed the tide. If he'd gone on any longer, he might have got into real danger -- without even noticing it.

The thought of that made him shiver more. He could, he supposed, put on his shoes and jog back through the woods as he was; but it was all very annoying. He had so little clothing to his name, he couldn't afford to lose any of it.

He looked at the bracken-covered slopes -- silent now and seemingly innocent; then he studied the ground round his feet. An indistinct and blurry trail led off across the sand, then disappeared between the boulders. Stephen followed it warily, letting out a shout of triumph when he finally spotted his clothing. Someone or something had apparently dragged everything across the sand, and had dumped it in between two rocks.

Stephen approached cautiously. The clothing had been arranged to form a kind of nest. In the middle of the nest there was a group of stones -- stones similar to those that he'd been collecting himself -- the attractive, white ones with the bright and shining, silver streaks.

It was such an extraordinary thing to find. He simply stood there staring and shivering. Then he crouched down beside the nest and examined it very carefully. It looked as if some creature or creatures had been curled up in the nest, on top of the pile of stones: furry creatures, with golden-yellow and black hair. A number of hairs still stuck to the clothing.

Stephen quite forgot his discomfort. He collected the hairs and looked at them closely. With his interest in zoology, he ought to be able to identify them.

But the more closely he looked at the hairs, the more mystified he became, for they didn't seem right for any creature that he'd expect to find in Cornwall. In fact, he couldn't think of any animal -- anywhere in the world -- that made nests out of people's clothing and indulged in collecting glittering stones. It was certainly quite a puzzle!

He grunted loudly to himself, a helpless, frustrated kind of...