Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE
TERRA SQUIRMA
copyright 2007 Brian Clopper

The mud was comforting. Graham adored how it tried to hold his feet prisoner with each step. The squishy suction playfully reminded him that the stable ground did not stray too far from his feet. It helped him forget that his first flight was fast approaching. He was dreading the arrival of Friday, only four days away. Graham was not ready to take to the air. His puny wings did not fill him with confidence. He pictured himself tumbling off the mountain, rather than soaring deep into the clouds. Besides, he was doing just fine on the ground. Terra firma felt so stable. Just looking up at the sky made his stomach feel light and queasy.

The young gargoyle reached down to pluck several more mukka roots out of the mud fields. The lumpy, pink vegetable was the main crop of the clan of trolls who lived next to Graham’s village. The other gargoyles avoided the trolls, claiming they were dirty and stupid. Graham didn’t believe that. His best friend was a troll. Graham glanced behind him to see his friend, Ot, working feverishly to catch up to him.

“My basket’s almost full, Ot. How are you doing?” asked Graham, pausing a moment to stretch. His tiny wings flapped ever so slightly.

The troll looked up and smiled. “Yes, but I’m half as muddy as you are. Perhaps you should consider less splattering. Looks like a dip in the waterfall might be called for.”

Graham scooped up an extra moist clump of mud and tossed it at Ot. The troll, moving surprisingly fast for someone so stubby and plump, dodged the mud pie. “My goodness, your aim is terrible today. That’s the fifth time you’ve missed me.”

Graham rolled his eyes and resumed plucking the roots from the sloppy ground. One of these days, he’d manage to hit his target, he thought as he wrapped his fingers around a particularly stubborn mukka root. “I have time for one more basket, then I have to get home. Grandfather has something important to tell me.”

Ot nodded, his smile withering into a more serious expression. “Is it about his crossing over? Is it time?”

Graham dropped his basket and trudged over to his friend, the tiny rim of horns along the gargoyle’s brow curled upward in anger. “Who told you about that? Who?”

“Your sister, Flenn. She was at the waterfall and she just started blathering on about all sorts of things, the weather, the flowers, how your father was growing frustrated with the council. I tuned her out. Honest, I did. Except…” Ot’s eyes darted from side to side.

“Except?”

“Well, she started to cry. I felt sorry for her. She started telling me about your grandfather, about how gargoyles age, about the ritual of crossing over.”

“She is such a blabbermouth.” Graham threw up his hands and stomped back to his basket. He picked it up and flung the carefully collected mukka roots onto the ground. Graham was about to hurl the basket into a nearby patch of trees when his friend spoke softly, almost as if his voice would shatter the fragile air around them.

“Is it true?”

Graham sat down on a nearby rock and exhaled sharply. His voice was slightly shaken when he spoke, “It’s true. As gargoyles age, our bodies calcify, slowly turn to stone. Grandfather can still move about, but is bedridden. He is saving his strength for the crossing. He must have enough flexibility to climb a mortal church and…”

“So he really does have to return to Earth?” Ot’s face wrinkled in fright.

“Yes, it is tradition. Our bodies harden and we become guardian statues. Our presence on a church is supposed to scare away evil spirits.” Graham picked at a patch of dried mud on his orange skin.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“My sister and I just found out last week. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Why would that worry me? You’re not turning to stone anytime soon, are you?” Ot looked intently at his friend, afraid if he looked away the gargoyle would indeed turn to stone.

“No, that’s not it.” Graham paused and looked up at his friend. The gargoyle’s eyes were watery. “He’s the only one who…”

“What?”

At that moment, Ot was hit from behind by a very large mudpie. Graham and his friend looked up to see their worst nightmare approaching. Blord the village bully and his gargoyle band of misfits were zeroing in on them.

“I figured I’d find you rolling around in the mud with your troll friend, Graham,” spat Blord, as he beat his immense wings with vigor.

“Blord, just go away. I don’t want this right now.”

“Want what? Surely you’d rather hang out with me instead of some oafish runt.” Blord gestured for his fellow gargoyles to arm themselves. The boys swept up large palmfuls of mud. Graham noticed that Blord did not dirty his own hands with a mud projectile.

“Ot is a friend.”

Blord’s eyes narrowed. “Ready.”

“Don’t involve him.” Graham stepped in front of the troll and crossed his arms. He was now blocking them from pelting his friend with more mud.

Blord’s eyes flared in anger. “Aim.”

The gargoyles held their mud-filled hands high.

“You’re going to regret this,” Graham bellowed, attempting to sound strong and confident, not squeaky. Graham didn’t think he had succeeded. His voice still sounded nervous and twittery.

“Fire!” Blord beat his wings in joy as his gang bombarded the young gargoyle and his troll friend with volley after volley of mud missiles. “Let the mud fly! Ha-Ha!”