The Stonegate Cycle is a (planned) pair of novels intended for an adolescent audience that concern the adventures of two young friends. The Stonegates of the title are openings between this and other, more magical worlds. Here's an excerpt from close to the beginning of the first novel (which is roughly one-third completed), wherein the two friends meet and begin their adventures.
James liked his back yard a lot. It sloped drastically down from the house and bordered a park of tangled trees on one side and a stream-filled ravine on the other. The yard was full of brambles and bushes and short trees. At the very bottom corner of the yard, the trees, bushes and fencing hid him from all the other houses, and this was his favorite place of all. This was where he went to think about things; to dream up stories of pirate ships and moon rockets and lands where the grass was made of chocolate. The most attentive audience for his stories was these trees, for while his parents were kind and loving, they just didn’t understand some of the things that James felt to be important, such as flying lawn chairs and talking frogs with a gift for stand-up comedy. Yes, Mum and Dad were good people, but they weren’t much for a really good conversation.
Today was a Saturday, and James had nothing particular to do. This meant James could spend a lot of time in deep discourse with the trees, talking about such things as doors in the sky that led to distant cities of gold. He had just told a wistful tale to a honey locust tree about the Manganots, the slender, white, talkative six-winged birds of Falfalla, frozen capitol of the Lost Lands of the North, when he heard his mother call from the house.
“James! James! Joel and Jessica are here! Would you like to come up and meet Ziggy? Or should I send her down?”
Oh yes. James had forgotten. His parents had some friends that they hadn’t seen for years, but had invited to come and stay with them for a week as soon as they had returned from the States. They had a daughter who went by the ghastly name of Ziggy, and who sounded like a horror story on legs. James had heard many tales of her loud mouth and willful disposition. Decidedly not a fun person with whom to share his special place.
Uh oh. Too late. Ziggy was skipping down the garden towards him. She wore pink dungarees with a honey bee on the front, and a red-striped turtle-kneck underneath. Her curly red hair was tied up in two bunches beside her head, which bounced and swayed with each perky step. She smiled enormously and waved with both hands. “Hi James! I’m Ziggy!” she called out in a high, strident, confident voice.
“Oh boy”, mumbled James under his breath. “This is going to be worse than I thought.”
Ziggy plonked herself down before him, cross-legged. “Neat garden! I love the trees! I bet they have some great stories!” She beamed at him, then stretched her arms over her head and looked up to examine the clouds.
James was at something of a loss for words. “Um, I...” he began, but Ziggy’s voice charged on.
“I wrote a story about trees for my school paper last week.” Her smile was still wide, and her hands danced madly around as she spoke. “I went into the forest and took lots and lots of pictures of trees. Then I chose the most interesting ones and made up personalities for them. Then I made up a story where they all wake up at night and get together and sing and toast marshmallows over a fire made of humans.”
James gulped a few times. “Uh, wow. Uh, that sounds like a great story. Funny ending.” he said. Despite himself, he couldn’t help enjoying Ziggy’s seemingly boundless energy. And the fact that she liked to make up stories about trees was very, very encouraging.
“Oh, that wasn’t the ending, not at all,” said Ziggy in a serious tone.
“What happened next, then?” asked James.
“Well, a gang of beavers from the wrong side of town came by to see who was making all the racket. They set to, chewing at all the trees’ trunks, you know, trying to knock them over and make them shut up their noise. The beavers were trying to practice their paddle-drumming in the nearby pond, and couldn’t hear themselves think.”
“That sounds awful. You make up really weird stories.” said James, wrinkling his nose.
“I know. Don’t know why I put in all that violence. Normally, I hate the sight of sap.”
James laughed. “That’s an awful joke. And I’ve heard it before.”
Ziggy looked crestfallen. “Oh, have you really? Too bad- I made up the whole thing just so I could make that joke.”
A moment of silence passed, and the two children looked away from each other, toying with blades of grass at their feet.
“Still, it was a great story. Especially if you just made it up,” said James encouragingly.
Ziggy beamed again. “You really think so? Thanks!”
James paused briefly, then said “I make up stories too. I tell them to the trees.”
Ziggy furrowed her brows. “That’s silly,” she said.
James was suddenly very embarrassed, and felt like a foolish little boy. He found he envied Ziggy her seemingly bottomless self-confidence.
Ziggy was still talking. “Tell me one! You shouldn’t keep stories to yourself! There’s only a certain number of stories in the whole world, you know, so we have to share the ones we have with the people we know, not with trees- they don’t appreciate them the way they should.”
James smiled at her; he couldn’t help it. “Well, in the frozen north, long ago, there was the ancient capitol of Falfalla. In Falfalla, the people got all their stories from the Manganots- the flying poets- but the flying poets weren’t people; they were birds.”
“Hmm. Very clever, speaking birds?”
“Yes. Snow-white, with six wings. They spoke of-“ but James stopped short. They had both heard a very loud curse, coming from somewhere very nearby. James and Ziggy looked behind each other, but could see nothing and no one. They looked back at each other and shrugged.
”Wonder what that was,” mused Ziggy. “Well, no matter. Go on about the bird-poets.”
“Well, the bird-poets had a yearly holiday, on which they would eat a particular kind of seed that had to be flown in from very far-“
“BLAST!” came a very clear shout in a gravelly, thickly accented voice. Again, neither James nor Ziggy could locate the source of the sounds.
“DAMN, BLAST AND TRIPLE BLAST!” came the voice again.
James and Ziggy looked at each other, and then their eyes widened as wide as they could go, for before them, amongst the blades of grass was a wiggling, warty brown finger. The finger poked around amongst the grass for a second or two, then disappeared underneath the ground, seemingly back where it came from. There came a stream of soft cursing from under the hole the finger left by its retreat, and some strange metal clanging noises. James and Ziggy stared at the hole, then at each other, then stood up and backed away a few paces.
Within a few inches of the finger-hole, there suddenly appeared a small, vertical square fin of silver metal- the blade of a shovel. The shovel disappeared again. The shovel re-appeared, making another cut connecting at a right angle with one end of the first cut. This process repeated until the shovel had outlined a square. The square of grass thus cut from the surrounding dirt wobbled back and forth a few times, and then descended slowly into the ground. The square of sod was then replaced by a curiously shaped lamp. The lamp was of seemingly ancient design, and was suspended from the tip of a question-mark-shaped piece of blue-painted wood. The lamp disappeared again. The shovel reappeared and widened the hole. Next came a most remarkable sight: a gnarly man’s head, complete with piercing blue eyes and thick brown beard. The blue lamp holder was attached to his hat, and thus suspended the lamp directly over his head. The head was facing James, and quickly made eye contact with him.
“Greetings, sir! May I introduce myself? I am Dastur of the Seventh Grotto, constable of the Northern Fold and friend to animals!”
Ziggy sprinted around the head and stood next to James, her eyes wide and staring. “Who on earth are you?” she demanded.
“I just told you who I am! Don’t you humans ever listen?” The head descended a few inches suddenly, and the blue eyes opened wide. A worried expression creased the already well-lined face. “Whoa! Whoa! Ladder! Ladder! LADDER!!!” it said through clenched teeth. The head disappeared, and the two children heard a descending roar of fright, followed by a very, very loud crashing sound. “BLAST, BLAST, DAMN AND TRIPLE BLAST A-BLASTING-GAIN!!” shouted the voice distantly. There was a moment of silence. More crashings and bangings emanated from the hole, and shortly the head appeared again, puffing hard and covered in dirt. “Listen, may I please come up? This is a precarious position!”
James stifled a laugh, and for some reason felt completely unthreatened, neither by this strange person nor his remarkable mode of arrival. “Please do. Be my guest. Our guest, I mean,” he added, with a quick apologetic glance at Ziggy.
“Thank you kind Sir and Madam!” cried the head. He began to squirm and wriggle and push his shoulders out through the hole, grunting and puffing like a steam train leaving a station. Before long his arms appeared, and then he made short work of pulling himself up and out. He stood next to the hole, breathing heavily.
Ziggy and James were dumbfounded. The fellow was about three feet tall, and dressed in an outrageous collection of odd clothes. Aside from the oddly shaped head accessory, he was wearing a crumpled and dirt-stained red velvet jacket, a small leather backpack, a large black Santa-style belt with enormous gold buckle, tight green tartan tights and brown shoes with comically curved-up toes. There was no doubt about it: he was a gnome. An honest-to-goodness, three feet tall, bearded, tunnel-digging gnome.
The gnome stood there on the grass wiping his hands on his front and smiling a very friendly smile. The only things that made him seem out of place in the garden were that he was a little large and wasn’t made of painted cement. He extended both hands, one to Ziggy and one to James. “Dastur, as I said, at your service.” James and Ziggy stared at his hands, as though they might do something bizarre all by themselves. Dastur waved his hands up and down a few times. The children stared at him. “Shake!” he said, waving his hands some more. “Don’t you people shake hands?”
Nervously, Ziggy and James each took a hand and shook it up and down slowly. Dastur’s hands were dirty, brown and strangely cold.
Ziggy recovered her voice first, of course. “Pleased to meet you, Mister Dastur.” she said. “Um, you’re a dwarf, aren’t you?” she added, hesitantly.
“Gnome, Madam, if you please,” said Dastur genially, holding up both hands. “Dwarfs are a little larger, and more inclined to fat.” Dastur paused, then looked closely at each of them in turn. “Do you mean to say you weren’t expecting me? You don’t know who I am?”
“No, we don’t know you. We’ve never seen a dw- a gnome before, ever,” replied James.
“Oh dear and blast,” replied Dastur thoughtfully. He then made a violent shrugging motion with his shoulders that swung his backpack off his shoulders and onto the ground. He opened the pack and up-ended the top half of his body into it. He rummaged within for a few moments, adding a few comments of “Blast” from time to time, then reappeared holding a small flat black box. The box had a clear window on one side into which the gnome stared with deep concentration.
“What’s that?” asked Ziggy.
“Gnome Positioning System,” replied Dastur enigmatically. “Usually really reliable, these GPS units. Now let’s see- main line from Draddle, left at Knottingroot, right at Middle Molesford. Hmm...” He dove back into the backpack and reemerged with a pencil and paper, and began doing calculations at a furious rate. “Aha. Yes. I see now. Blast and triple blast. Definitely the batteries are out of juice. Better get some more, I suppose.”
“More batteries?” asked James.
“No, juice. Ginger root juice. Don’t suppose you’d have any?” Dastur asked, pleadingly.
“Yes!” said Ziggy. “My folks brought some ginger with them to make supper. Can we get juice from that?”
“Certainly, young Madam. All we’d need is a little water and a mortar and pestle,” replied the gnome.
“I’ve got one of those in my chemistry set. I’ll go and get it!” said James.
James and Ziggy leapt to their feet, eager to help the gnome, and quite puzzled about why they felt that way. It took a few minutes for them to find the appropriate items, but they returned shortly and presented them to Dastur. He took them with a smile and shallow bow. “Thank you kindly, young friends.” He proceeded to mash the ginger up with great vigor, frequently stopping and thanking Ziggy and James. When he was finished, he poured the resulting liquid through a corner of his shirt, presumably to filter it, into his GPS. The little box chirped and tweeted a few times, and then fell silent.
“Lovely!” exclaimed Dastur. “Now we know where we are, even if supper might be a little less flavorful!” He held the GPS up in front of his face and made a slow full turn to his right, and then another to his left. “Very good, very good. Well, I’ll be off then!” he cried and picked up his backpack.
Ziggy and James felt suddenly saddened by the imminent departure of this curious creature, who was clearly quite the most interesting thing to happen to them in their whole lives.
“Can we come with you?” blurted Ziggy, and then put her hand over her mouth and looked surprised at herself.
Dastur stopped trying to put his backpack on, and turned slowly to face Ziggy and James, one arm caught awkwardly in a backpack-strap. “Well, that would be against the rules....” he said.
“But you owe us a favor for the ginger juice,” pointed out James, timidly.
Dastur smiled conspiratorially at James. “Indeed I do, young man. Indeed I do.” Dastur continued to struggle with his backpack, and Ziggy stepped forward and helped him into it. “Thank you, young Madam. Well, that’s two I owe you then, I suppose.” The gnome glanced all around him, as if checking for spying eyes, then said, “All right, then. Come along with me, you two.” He hooked a gnarled finger at them, sat down on the grass and swung his legs down into the hole.
“Wow!” squeaked Ziggy, “how exciting!”
The gnome scooted himself forward, and with much heavy breathing and grunting turned himself around and lowered his legs into the hole. He winked up at Ziggy and James, and then slowly disappeared into the earth. Ziggy sprang forward and followed suit, without so much of the rasping lung-work. She too smiled up at James as she descended below the surface.
James swallowed hard. “This is all very well for brave types like Ziggy, but it’s quite another thing for quiet thinking types like me,” he said to himself nervously. Then he found some courage somewhere inside, and moved forward to the hole. The air felt cold and damp as he lowered his legs into the ground. Shortly he felt his feet find the close-set rungs of a wooden ladder. It took a few moments for him to convince himself to commit his full weight, but soon he was descending into the dark, damp, quiet earth.