Jessica Jones and the Gates of Penerson

As for Jessica Jones herself, at twelve years old, she’s mostly happy with her life, and she really does get along quite well with her brothers most of the time. In fact, people often remark upon just how well, especially where it concerns Jacob.
            “It is uncanny,” they might say, “how the pair play so well together! Why, the two seem to get things done without uttering a single word to each other.”
            Which is true! If, however, those very same people were to pay a bit more attention, they might see what’s really happening. How, when Jacob is looking for a red pen instead of a blue pen, Jessica will hand one to him without either saying a word. Or, when Jacob has a question, Jessica, without looking up from what she is doing, will answer before he has opened his mouth!
            Since these little oddities have been going on for a very long time, Jacob and Jessica simply consider it natural. Jessica has always taken that sort of thing in her stride and, since she is usually busy, doesn’t pay any attention. Besides, there are other things she considers much more of a bother. Jessica Jones has a nice, happy family and she also has lots of friends besides Jake, but . . . !
            Life always seems to hold some sort of a “but . . . !”
            No matter how well everything is going in a person’s life, there always seems to be some sort of nuisance to cope with—a missed homework assignment, for example, or a fat, ugly pimple on the first day of school. Or, as the proverb should perhaps really go: every silver lining has its cloud.
            Jessica’s particular cloud, which is a never-ending source of frustration, is her height. At twelve years old, Jessica is not quite three and a half feet tall. That makes her nearly two feet shorter than most of her friends, and almost two and a half feet shorter than Billy Cox, who is the meanest, most spiteful boy in the seventh grade.

From Chapter 8, ‘The Ancient Druid Has a Spell’:

“It is a long story, master. Perhaps we might go inside and tell of it.” Abeth dipped his head in deference, and gestured to Jessica to step forward. “The child apologizes for startling you with her vision. She is proud of her world.”
            “Hmmph,” the druid growled, and peered owlishly down at Jessica, then back at Abeth. “And what makes you think either of you was the best apprentice I ever had? Bah!”
            Sencab gruffly motioned them into the hut. The inside was all that Jessica could have imagined of a druid’s lodge and more, far more. Her imagination could never have allowed for the smells. Some came from the druid himself, which she did not find surprising, because he wasn’t nearly as freshly scrubbed as his former apprentice. His robe was a menu of a month’s meals. His streaked, tangled beard badly needed a good wash and comb, and his bare feet were calloused and grimy. The lodge itself was no neater, and heavy with ripe odours: the chalky aroma of half dead ashes, the fumes of a full night pot, the salty odour of crudely tanned hides, and the acrid stink of a hundred potions.
            “Sit down.” Sencab tossed an armload of kindling on the smoldering ashes in the firepit and motioned to the animal hides on either side. “I’ll find something wet to wash the dry from your throats.”
            The druid pushed a wooden board aside with a grimy foot, revealing a dank hole in the dirt floor. He reached down and pulled an earthenware jug from inside, ignoring a dozen mice that burst from the pit in panic. Each found sanctuary in the hides, jars, and rough furnishings scattered about the room. Sencab never gave them a second glance. Jessica couldn’t help thinking of the orderly behaviour of Freddie the paperweight, still unconvinced the tiny creature was not actually real.
            The kindling quickly took light. A bright, crackling blaze lit the gloom, and the inside of the hut grew cleaner and friendlier, an illusion created by the flames. Sencab passed the stone jug to Archie, who took a long, satisfied pull and smacked his lips. Jessica politely declined and passed it on to Wulf. The old druid, meanwhile, creaked down onto a tattered wolf hide directly across from Jessica, and stared at her with eyes that mirrored his puzzlement. She began to feel uncomfortable.
            “Tell him you admire his lodge,” Abeth’s voice whispered in her mind. “I’ll form the words for you.”
            “You’ve got to be kidding.”

From Chapter 13, ‘A Trip to the Circus’:

            Several voices rang strong and clear above the general din. One in particular seemed to be shouting an order. The boys looked up at a small group of men, all dressed in long, white robes, who stood inside a special, boxed-in area. A score of helmeted soldiers stood at rigid attention behind them, each holding a spear and a brightly painted shield. A thin-faced man with a receding hairline and a green laurel wreath on his head seemed to be in charge. He, too, was pointing and shouting. None of the boys could understand a word, but they did understand that they had to get out of there—fast.
            “What’ll we do?” Jacob was close to tears, and would have cried if the twins had shown the least sign of doing the same.
            “We gotta move,” Dobar muttered as the roar of the crowd rose to new levels.
            “Where?”
            “Back the way we came. Quick.” Dobar started toward the passageway, then stopped dead in his tracks. “Uh-oh. I forgot.”
            Two lions trotted from the tunnel and crouched low to the ground, confused by the brilliant sunlight and the roaring crowd. The largest swung its head until its yellow eyes peered in their direction. The boys edged slowly backward toward the safety of the stone island in the centre of the arena, but the movement caught the big cat’s attention. The animal raised its nose, sniffed, and loped toward them. The crowd roared louder. The lion paused, its fierce yellow eyes shifting sideways to the track curving around the end of the huge stone island. The earth began to shake.
            “Oh no!” Damon wailed.
            Jacob and Dobar turned. They could only stare in horror as a half a dozen chariots careened around the curve. Wheels skidded sideways on the hard-packed track and hooves flailed in a cloud of dust as six screaming charioteers cracked their whips over the heads of twenty four squealing, snorting horses.
            They’re brown, Jacob thought nonsensically, his mind numb as the wild stampede bore down on them, not white like the ones on the screen in Penseron.

From Chapter 18, ‘The Tower of London’:

Tullus sneered, and clambered to his feet. He slid the rest of the coins across the table toward Sally. “Here, keep the change.”
            Sally’s face split in a broad smile, and she bobbed her head at least a dozen times as she swept the money into her apron. The large windfall seemed to make her chatty. “Are you gentlemans ’ere for to see the ’angings?”
            Tullus stopped in his tracks, intrigued. Jessica groaned. “’Angings?”
            “Aye, sir.” Sally blushed, as if afraid she was being too forward. “‘Daring Jack ’Awkins is up for the big stretch, along wiv a few others. They says the crowd will be bigger than it were for Dashin’ Dan Merryweather when ’e got ’ung last March. Weren’t as well-liked, Dan weren’t. Then there’s the weather, of course.”
            “The weather?” Tullus repeated, his attention full on the serving wench.
            “Aye, sir, the weather.” Sally gestured toward the open door. “It looks to be a fine day. That always fetches a crowd. Why, Moor Field will be packed wiv merrymakers. I’d love to go.” Her pretty face briefly turned wistful. “I ’aven’t seen a good ’anging since I were a sniveller.”
            “A sniveller?”
            “Aye, you know—” Sally ran a sleeve over the end of her nose and giggled “—a little ’un.”
            “I see,” Tullus drawled in fascination. “Well, you’re far luckier than me, my girl. I’ve never been to an ’anging in my entire life. What time does it happen?”
            “Oh, an hour past midday, or thereabouts. It depends on the show ol’ Jack puts on.”
            “Hmm.” Tullus glanced at his watch and pulled thoughtfully at his lower lip. “Norman, wanna go see an old-fashioned hanging?”
            “Not really, Tull.”
            Norman was plainly unhappy with the idea, but not nearly as much as Jessica. She tried to convince Tullus that such an event would be repulsive, her thoughts running the spectrum from feelings of outright disgust to plain Do not go!, but she may as well have poured her wishes down a bottomless pit. Tullus sensed her every thought and feeling, and found them all delicious. Each one served only to reinforce his morbid desire to go and see a hanging.

From Chapter 24, ‘The Battle for Tobruk’:

            “I don’t think he made it,” Damon said.
            Shocking as such a thought might have been only days ago, Jessica sighed in relief. “Wulf? Ravi?” she asked.
            Damon turned his eyes to the broken wall on the far side of the farmyard. “Wulf’s stretched out on the ground. Ravi’s bent over on his knees. I think he’s puking.”
            “The control could be anywhere!” Jessica groaned.
            Dobar wasn’t worried yet. “Jake, what does the pen say?”
            “It doesn’t matter,” Jacob replied, his voice jubilant. “I can see it.”
            Jessica turned in time to see her brother streaking through the doorway. As he raced across the yard, she scanned the ground ahead of him. Sure enough, the control unit lay perhaps fifty yards away, a black dot that sat like a bull’s-eye in the centre of a small sea of sand. Jessica stared after her brother, the hair suddenly rising on the nape of her neck. Something was wrong! Dreadfully wrong! A sense of foreboding flooded her mind.
            “Jaaaaake.....”
            Jacob stopped in mid-stride, as if snapped back by a leash. He whirled to face his sister, standing like a deer caught in a headlight. The final shell of the barrage, a late stray, struck the ground several yards ahead of where he stood. It filled the air with dirt, shrapnel and a deafening roar. Something whined and smacked against the edge of the doorway, missing Jessica’s small body by a fraction of an inch. What it was didn’t matter. It could have gone clear through her heart for all she cared. For when the dust finally settled, there was no sign of Jacob.

What's Behind "The Gates"

The novel The Gates of Penseron has been written, revised and edited over the past two and a half years. The idea originated with the stories told to my grandchildren, whenever they are tucked into bed. The tales are made up as we go along, and depending on how long the children are staying over, it might be a two night story, a five night story, or whatever length they demand. The hero and heroine are always called Halo and Pablo, but it is clearly understood by everyone (though not mentioned aloud) that the adventurous pair are really the two oldest kids: Jessica and Jacob.

Because the grandchildren love the stories so much, I tossed the idea about (with my wife) of writing a novel using them as the protagonists. As a result, The Gates of Penseron was created. I decided to use the children’s real first names, if for no other reason than ‘the heck of it’. In the book, though, each one is two years older than they are at present. Jessica is now eleven, Jacob is eight, and Jeremy is six. And Jessica, by the way, really is a ‘little person’, but in size only!

For what it is worth, the book was ‘kid tested’ before publication, on a grade seven class. The teacher made it a class project for those who read a good deal, working from copies of the manuscript. The youngsters loved the idea of ‘being first’, and seemed to really like the story, and its characters. Remarks ranged from ‘Jessica’s scooter is really neat’, to ‘I hate Tullus, I think he’s evil’. Of course, Jessica and Jake loved the story too, but it is taken for granted that more than a slight bias exists.

As to the idea of Penseron itself, I’m not sure exactly how it came about. With no pun intended, it just happened over time. I’ve always been fascinated by the mysteries of the past, and the frustrating impossibility of actually travelling there. The fabulous blue crystal of Penseron, (which eventually proves to be alive), was placed down there by someone, but who? ‘Roodi’ Roodemit is obviously one of ‘them’, but exactly who ‘them’ are, I honestly don’t know. They are obviously anthropologists, and it would appear that they like to study civilization (or is it civilizations?), at their own leisure. And what better way to do that, than through the Gates of Penseron?

Oh, and one other bit of background. I was born in York, lived there for the early part of my life, and have been back there many times. It was on one of those visits, some years ago, that I was wandering down a narrow street called Goodramgate, something I had done countless times before; this time, however, I just happened to notice a tiny alleyway next to one of the shops. Curious, my wife and I walked along it, and were surprised to find a little churchyard hidden away inside, right in the middle of the City. The wall with the vines is there, as is the gravestone by the wall, and of course the old dilapidated church, Holy Trinity, Goodramgate.

It really does look tattered and forlorn! And if that dark, ancient churchyard doesn’t really hold a mysterious gateway to some strange, hidden world, then it should.