Glory Alley and the Star Riders (The Glory Alley Series) Read online

  Book One of the Glory Alley Series

  Glory Alley and the Star Riders

  By: C. Deanna Verhoff

  Glory Alley and the Star Riders©

  Copyright 2012 C. Deanna Verhoff

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Name, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by C. Deanna Verhoff. All rights reserved. Glory Alley and the Star Riders©, (originally titled as Glory Alley’s Cosmic Dilemma©), and the Glory Alley Series©, are trademarks of the author. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission. For permission requests, send an email to this address: http://[email protected], include in subject line: “Attention: Permissions Coordinator”. This book is also available in paperback at select online retailers.

  Visit the author on the web at: http://cdeannaverhoff.blogspot.com/

  Or on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/C-Deanna-Verhoff-Author/106424996172224

  1. The main category of the book —Fantasy. 2. Another subject category—Science Fiction. 3. More categories — Christian, Family Drama, Young Adult, Adventure.

  Cover Art © C. Deanna Verhoff

  SPECIAL THANKS to my editor, Frankie Sutton—for her sage advice; To Emily Parish—for her attention to detail. To the founder of Litopia and its members—they have taught me so much. To Matthew Cohn, John Hudspith, and Rebekah Moser—their camaraderie kept me going. To my children—my joy and inspiration. To Ginny Eltzroth—her continued support has been an important source of encouragement. To my family and friends—they have been there for me through thick and thin; and to Jesus Christ, my light and my rock.

  In loving memory of Mom and Dad.

  GLORY ALLEY AND THE STAR RIDERS

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Welcome to Wybb – Part 2

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Tullah and Earth were different, yet very much alike in appearance and human development. Their inhabitants knew similar hardships, hopes and dreams. Separated by space and time, the planetary sisters never met, yet marched to the beat of a single universal drummer toward the same inevitable end, until one fateful morning a girl with a stone fetish set Tullah on a strange new course.

  Chapter 1

  Somewhere on Tullah...

  Glory Alley and her best friend Clash, a freckly faced boy she’d known since pre-school, huddled over a blue handheld data device called a Sliver. A map of Queen’s Mesa filled the screen. She studied it carefully, barely noticing the roar of the bus engine under her feet, or the rows of winter wheat flickering past the window, and the girls a few seats back laughing at her ratty sweater. Planning tomorrow’s secret spelunking expedition was too important for petty distractions.

  Clash tapped an image of a crudely drawn circle on the Sliver’s screen. “Here’s where we stopped last time.”

  Remembering the place made her stomach do somersaults. Glory’s voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “The pool.” She and Clash knew each other so well she didn’t have to say what was on her mind, but expressing the words made it somehow seem real, like it was finally going to happen. “If we’re ever gonna find the mother lode, this’ll be the place.”

  Clash’s real name was Besnik Gundisalv. The nickname, Glory theorized, had to do with the way his white-tipped hair stood up as if he’d been struck by lightning. Glory didn’t have a nickname, but as an Alley she was automatically labeled a loser. All of Cloverdale thought she’d never amount to anything, but they were wrong. With the help of Queen’s Mesa, she’d prove the Alley name deserved respect.

  The last trip had dangled the hope of success ever closer. She and Clash had pushed deeper than they had ever dared before. They were rewarded with a virgin cavern untouched by human hands. Creamy stalactites had icicled the ceiling. Shallow water lingered over a rocky bed sprinkled with glittering crystals. Wouldn’t you know it, their batteries ran low. They had barely arrived when they had to leave. The place existed beyond their comfort zone. Steep drop-offs and tight tunnels pushed their spelunking skills to the limit, but the urge to return grew stronger every day. Dare they press their luck?

  “We should make the pool our goal for tomorrow,” Clash suggested.

  “Definitely.”

  The two of them shared a zeal for Queen’s Mesa, but for different reasons. Someday they’d travel beyond the mesa, to exotic places across the globe. As she dug for rare rocky specimens, Clash would catch all the excitement on video.

  Queen’s Mesa was practically in their own backyard, the very place where they had started their future together. Just as friends, of course. Clash had spunk, but it didn’t make up for him being the shortest boy in their grade. She felt like a big cow around the skinny little booger.

  “Lighting’s always an issue,” Clash said, folding his hand-held computer once, then twice, until its rubbery blue case returned to the shape of a paperback. “I wonder if I can sneak the tripod lights out of the garage without anybody noticing.” He drummed his chin with an index finger. “Too bad there’s no reception below ground. A live feed would be good practice for when we have our own reality show.”

  “And who’s going to carry the extra equipment all that way?” Glory’s brow furrowed, knowing the answer already. Numerous trips had proved Clash to be quick on his feet—whereas feats of strength were Glory’s domain. Her sturdy figure was used to heavy farm work. “I’m not a pack mule, you know.”

  “Admit it—you’re scared to go back because of the skeleton we found.”

  Glory’s back stiffened at the insinuation. “Scared? I don’t know the meaning of that word.”

  “Puh-leez.”

  “I just think we ought to start in the left tunnel for a change. We’re never going to get the mesa mapped out if we keep exploring the same old places. Besides, those bones weren’t human. It was just an animal.”

  “An animal with a femur this honkin’ big!” Clash spread his arms. “What if your grandpa knows what he’s talking about?” He nudged Glory with an elbow, teasing. “Maybe the red-eyed Hoogula is for real.”

  “If such a creature roamed the tunnels we’d have met it by now.”

  “Some say the tunnels go on into forever, so I wouldn’t be so sure.” Clash said. “We can’t deny something big died down there, which means something bigger killed it.” He spread his bony arms even wider. “This honkin’ b
ig!”

  “I think it’s more likely it got lost down there and died of natural causes.”

  “Hoogula or not, those bones need to see the daylight. Up top, we can charge people to look at ‘em.”

  “I like that idea,” Glory said. “But it’s probably just a dead bear. I do want to return to that pool though, but on a day we can take our time.”

  The screech of brakes signaled the bus was about to stop in front of the long gravel lane in front of Glory’s house. Her family’s old farmhouse with the crooked front porch waited at the end looking gray and forlorn.

  Glory gathered her backpack and stood. “See ya tomorrow.”

  “Thirteen hundred hours—sharp.”

  Glory stepped off the bus. Gravel crunched under her feet as she walked. A huge red barn stood off in the distance from a two-story farmhouse. The property had been in her mother’s side of the family for five generations…and it showed.

  Curled and torn shingles barely clung to the home’s sagging roof. Peeling white paint exposed gray wood. She hop scotched across the front porch over missing floor boards, stopping in front of the screen door, which hung crooked on only one hinge.

  Mom’s dream had been to restore the house to its former glory. Dad had never been able to refuse her anything, but when Mom left the world Dad stopped caring, and the home improvements stopped too.

  Now everything was slowly dying for lack of her. Sometimes Glory missed her so much it made her stomach hurt. When Mom was alive, everything smelled of bread and ginger. Now the house reeked of booze and urine...but wait, do I smell popcorn?

  Glory peered into the living room where Dad slept in a pair of holey jeans and a stained T-shirt. His mood could shift from day to night without explanation.

  She took off her hikers at the door and tiptoed in her socks toward the kitchen.

  The place was unusually quiet.

  Nana and Grandpa Kracker had moved in with the Alleys two years ago, but they’d left this morning to celebrate the holiday weekend with Aunt Martha in the city. So where was everybody else?

  Mom’s presence was strongest here. The simple decor reminded Glory of the way home used to be—nothing fancy, but orderly and reliable. She sighed. Those days were gone forever.

  Faint holiday music drifted down the hallway getting louder when she entered the kitchen. Patrice must have come home from school early to work on the Harvest Day feast. In her batter-splattered flannel shirt, frizzled yellow hair standing every which way, she looked small standing behind the counter where Mom was supposed to be, peeling apples.

  An old Father Winter’s Day song drifted from the streamer. On this night, on this most wonderful of nights, children’s wishes all come true. Glory hummed along with the words. On this night, on this most wonderful of nights, hearts and spirits are renewed. Three-year-old George perched on a stool, trying to string white puffs of popcorn. Face streaked with jam, he sat there in a diaper and nothing else. Glory knew from experience that her little brother defied all clothing. He had a stubborn streak, but she liked that about him. His messy hair was in need of a trim and looked like delicate threads of gold when it caught the light. Glory paused in the doorway quietly singing his name.

  “Georg-eee.”

  He jerked to attention. “Gwo-wee?” A smile of recognition spread across his face until he forgot the task at hand and stabbed his finger with the needle. “Ow!” He held out his injury for her to see. “Gwo-wee!”

  Glory carried him to the sink, washing the dot of blood under the faucet. He cried, offering his wounded finger. “Kiss.”

  Glory kissed it. “Better?”

  “Uh-huh.” He nodded, giving thanks with a runny-nosed peck on the cheek. Glory let him go and scowled at Patrice.

  “What’s the matter with you—giving a little kid a needle?”

  “I told him a thousand times to leave it be,” Patrice replied. “Serves the brat right.” She slapped a dirty little hand digging into a bowl of cookie dough. “Quit that, George.”

  More tears formed in George’s eyes and he clung to Glory. “Gwo-wee. Love.” he said as if the words were soothing ointment.

  Patrice handed her the peeler. “Make yourself useful,” she said before rolling more dough between her palms. “Why is it that I get stuck doing everything around here? Did you clean the toilets?”

  Glory refused to acknowledge her sister’s testy frown, focusing on Patrice’s shiny gold necklace instead. A large opal-like pendant caught her eye.

  “Whoa,” Glory said reaching for it. “Is that thing real?”

  Patrice fumbled for it and quickly slid it beneath her shirt. “Did you clean the coop yet?”

  “Why can’t the twins do it when they get back?”

  The twins, Randy and Danny, were a grade ahead of Glory. They had been sent away earlier in the year to opportunity school, a program for students with chronic discipline problems. Apparently, they had learned their lesson and they were ready to return to regular school.

  “Dad says they’re going to be digging fence holes all week, so quit your whining.”

  “Er, what’s with the popcorn garland?” Glory inquired as she spied a partially eaten muffin on the countertop. She pointed. “Yours?”

  “No. You can have it.”

  Glory shoved the whole thing in her mouth.

  “Disgusting,” Patrice said with a curled lip. “You’ll never snag a guy that way.”

  “Like you’re the expert, Miss Never-Had-A-Date.” Glory’s voice was muffled by the muffin. “Besides I’d rather have jewels than a guy.”

  “Play your cards right, lose a little weight, and in time I’m sure you can have both,” Patrice winked. “You could be pretty if you tried.”

  “I want to be a geologist,” Glory reminded. “Don’t need looks for that.”

  “But you need money to become a geologist and lots of it.”

  “Don’t worry.” Glory held an index finger in the air. “I have a plan.”

  “It won’t work unless you learn to play the game: beauty attracts money, money attracts beauty, and poor unattractive people never get ahead.”

  “Are there any more muffins?” Glory’s eyes scoured the kitchen until resting on a blueberry delight hidden behind the flour bag on the island. She snatched it up and took a huge bite, savoring its wonderful sweet moistness against her tongue. “Mmmm.” She chewed and talked at the same time. “Remember how Mom used to talk about opening a bakery?”

  “Listen up,” Patrice said, taking her annoyance out on the cookie dough with a big spoon. “Once you get a certain reputation in school…or uptown…it’s nearly impossible to shed. Time to stop acting like a backward hick before it’s too late. And, ew, eat with your mouth closed.”

  “If people don’t like the way I act—” Glory paused to flick muffin crumbs off her chest, “—or eat, that’s their problem.”

  “You’re hopeless,” Patrice shook her head in exasperation. “Speaking of problems,” She leaned over the counter. “Brandon’s in the woods chopping down a tree.”

  “Why?” Glory gulped, already knowing the answer.

  “Don’t be stupid—Father Winter’s Day is only a few weeks away.”

  “But Dad said…”

  “The tree is free, so maybe he won't get mad."

  Glory swallowed. “Nice Dad today?” she asked hopefully, trying to determine if Dad was drunk or sober.

  Patrice shook her head. “No, it’s the Mean One.”

  Glory set down the peeler and made for the back door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “When Dad wakes up and sees a tree in the house, I want to be as far away as possible.”

  “Get your butt back in the chair and keep peeling.”

  “You’re such a witch,” Glory said, sitting back down.

  A few minutes later George curled up in the corner with his favorite blanket to take a nap. The phone rang. Patrice answered. Glory tried to figure out who it mig
ht be. Patrice glared in her direction and took the phone call to another room.

  Glory set the peeler on the counter, inhaling deeply. Ahh—the aroma of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves blended like fine perfume in a plain bottle labeled Allspice. She remembered the first Harvest Day after Mom’s funeral. The cupboards offered only dried noodles and spices. The fridge held nothing but condiments. The day after the funeral Glory had taken the bottle of Allspice to Queen’s Mesa. Once there she had sat alone in a rocky tunnel sniffing it like an addict huffing paint thinner. Occasionally, she still had the urge. The Allspice remained in her backpack, but like everything else around here, it had lost most of its flavor, but Nana and Grandpa moving in had been a huge relief in so many ways.

  They had been with them ever since social services had threatened to split up the family. Even though Nana was half-blind, and Grandpa had memory problems, they kept the house running more than anyone did. The way that they ditched them today to celebrate the holiday somewhere else really stung. What was that about anyway? Maybe it had to do with the way Nana had looked lately…extra old and tired. There were long stretches of time where she didn’t cook at all.

  With Nana slowing down, her eyesight failing, and Patrice’s plans to move out of the house, Glory would be the lone girl holding the bag. The mere thought of it made her head hurt.

  The oven buzzed.

  She looked inside. The center of the cookies looked pale and doughy, but the edges were crispy brown. Better ask Patrice what to do. She found her down the hall in Nana and Grandpa’s bedroom.

  Patrice sat on the edge of the bed facing the window, not noticing Glory in the doorway. Her voice sounded soft and syrupy—phony—must be a guy on the other end.

  “The timer went off,” Glory announced. “But I can’t decide if they’re done.”