The Gargoyle at the Gates Page 10

  “Quiet, monster.” He’d never called her that before.

  Ambergine: “Monster? You’re the one keeping me in a cage.”

  He was calmer this evening, and not to be baited. “You’re a creature that shouldn’t be, a mis-creation. Quite simply, a monster.” He sipped his drink and turned to leave the kitchen.

  Ambergine couldn’t stop herself. “You’re the monster. Didn’t your mother love you, monster?” She said these last words so sweetly, so gently. She knew this was risky. Gargoth had told her that the Collector had lost his mother long ago, as a young boy.

  With a sudden snarl, the old man smashed his cup on the floor. Ambergine drew back in her cage, frightened at the look on his face.

  “How DARE YOU speak of her to me!” he whispered in the lowest, angriest hiss that Ambergine could ever imagine. He looked like a demon, with the half-light glinting off his thick glasses and his mouth curled in a wicked snarl. He stormed forward, threw open the window, and grabbed her cage. He gave it such a violent shake that she rattled inside it like a toy, and he drew his face up close to her.

  “You will never see your precious Gargoth of Tallus, ever again!” he screamed. Then he tossed the cage out the window, where it pinwheeled through the air, end over end over end, landing with a thump in the snow. He slammed the window shut.

  In the days to come, as other families in this story enjoyed holiday parties, delicious dinners, and companionship with loved ones, Ambergine lay cramped in her cage in the cold and dark of the snowy backyard.

  Days passed, more snow fell, and she weakened.

  Then everything went dark.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  A Candle Glows

  Toronto was frozen under a cold January night sky, and the hard snow lay on the ground in trampled, icy mounds.

  Katherine was sitting in Christopher’s bedroom, looking down into the park.

  A single candle was shining in the dark, in the spot where the apple tree once stood. It threw a weak, shimmery circle of light into the snow.

  They were calling the Collector.

  As the days drew into weeks, Christopher got more and more creepy notes in his mailbox. He noticed that with every new note, Cassandra grew somehow quiet and impatient at the same time. Finally, the day before, when he received yet another letter, Cassandra grew very quiet and said almost in a whisper, “Enough is enough. Here are some candles, go and stick them in the snow in the park tonight. It’s time.”

  It was risky. But they really couldn’t wait any longer — they had to do something.

  The creepy notes were bad enough, but Gargoth was acting very odd as well. His wing was in tatters and he was still holding it up with Claire’s flowery scarf (which was looking almost as dirty and bedraggled as his wing). He had also taken to hiding beneath Christopher’s bed, which wasn’t exactly the cleanest spot in the world. Gargoth seldom spoke, he barely crawled out from under the bed, and he had stopped eating. Occasionally, Claire could coax him out when she visited Christopher’s room, but whenever she left he crawled back to his hiding spot.

  And of course everyone was worried about Ambergine, but no one dared breathe her name in case Gargoth heard them and started to weep or gag or howl (all real possibilities). And poor Christopher flinched or broke into a sweat every time anyone mentioned her, too.

  Everyone agreed that they had to call the Collector.

  But how many nights did they have to leave the lit candle in the park? When was the Collector going to show up? What were they going to do when he did?

  The two friends looked at the candle burning softly below them in the park. Normally Christopher would pick up his guitar and play his nightly serenade, but lately he didn’t have the heart.

  The park was too empty now.

  Christopher had noticed that people came and went in the park, though. Since the vandalism, the city had often left the gates open, and with each passing day more and more people had slowly discovered the park. Neighbours sat on the benches by the fountain, eating their lunch. One older lady came by every afternoon with a basket of bread crumbs and fed the ever-present pigeons (Christopher wondered why anyone would want to feed such nasty birds). Two men played chess in the weak winter afternoon sun, the board propped between them on the bench. Parents pushed strollers with sleeping babies and sat for a few quiet moments by the seahorse fountain, which still bubbled away softly.

  One regular visitor was a teenage boy with dark, curly hair.

  Christopher had seen him again and again from his window as the winter days passed, sitting quietly by the fountain. He held something in his hand, a little figure, a statue maybe, which he rubbed absently with this thumb. Occasionally the teenager searched for something, looking into the skies or around the base of the bushes. Christopher was eventually curious enough about him to want to talk to him, and one day he went into the park to start a conversation (he’d been taking lessons from Claire). But by the time he got downstairs and through the gates, the teenager was gone.

  The little seahorse fountain was still there. The bushes were still there. The park benches and flagstones were still there.

  But it was just empty space to Christopher and Katherine.

  For an entire week, the candle flickered in the snow of the park each night. Before he fell asleep, Christopher snuck down and put it out, sometimes with Claire or Cassandra’s help.

  Christopher had also noticed that Cassandra was working awfully hard on something with Stern-the-reporter. He was often in Candles by Daye with loads of papers and neighbours coming and going.

  The adults were clearly up to something of their own.

  So the candle was lit and doused night after night, until one day Christopher found another handwritten envelope in the mailbox, with his name on it.

  Inside was a letter which read: “TOMORROW NIGHT, BRING THE CREATURE. NO TRICKS, OR ELSE.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Of Statues and Trees

  James was lying on his bed staring at the snowy sky, the little gargoyle statue in the window casting a shadow on the floor of his bedroom. His window was open a crack; he needed some fresh air to think clearly.

  He had been back to the park again and again but saw nothing else. It was puzzling. He was sure he had discovered a gargoyle print in the snow by the fence on that first visit … but all he had found there were broken statues and nothing since.

  He was holding a letter from his grandfather. James had sent him photos of the park and the clipping from The East End Crier as soon as he discovered the gargoyle footprint weeks before, but his grandfather must not have received it yet; his letter didn’t mention it. And James couldn’t reach him by email, since his grandfather refused to use a computer. His grandfather’s letter also said that he was leaving to go on holiday in Spain, and no one would be able to reach him for several months. So there was no point in phoning him, either.

  James sighed. His grandfather had written to tell him about how the gargoyles were surviving the winter (their least favourite season).

  Theodorus had decided to lie in a bathtub of warm water all winter long, his long arms drooping onto the tiled bathroom floor.

  Septimus had taken to smoking his pipe by the fireplace for hours on end, telling stories to anyone who would listen (and often to those who didn’t particularly want to hear).

  Arabella was quiet and withdrawn and lived under the thatched eaves of the old cottage all winter long. She flew off as soon as night fell, then returned each morning.

  James missed the gargoyles terribly. He missed his grandfather, too.

  He went to close the window, brushed against Theodorus’ gargoyle statue on the windowsill…

  … and the statue fell out the window!

  James gasped and grabbed for it, but missed. He watched in horror as the statue arced and spun through the air, landing in the deep snow of his backyard.

  He dashed down the stairs and swung on his coat. He burst out the front door and
banged into the garage, searching frantically for a snow shovel. In a few moments, he cleared off the snow along the walkway at the side of the house and made a path through the snow and to the backyard gate. He shovelled the snow non-stop until the gate was clear. Then he strode into the backyard to the spot where he’d seen the statue fall.

  He didn’t have to look too hard. The statue was resting in the soft snow, just below the surface. He found it quickly and was pocketing it when he heard a faint gravelly whisper at the very edge of his hearing: “Bellatro, groshen sawchen.”

  At the same time, he also heard the far-off whisperer say, “Boy … an apple.”

  It sounded like the wind in the summer grass. It was an odd voice, a gravelly voice. And he had heard it before.

  It was a gargoyle’s voice!

  He swivelled around, suddenly searching everywhere. His backyard was just his backyard. “Who … who are you? Where are you?” he called. He had a short moment of panic as he wondered if he was hallucinating, hoping that his gargoyle statue wasn’t talking to him from his pocket. He took it out and looked at it. No, it was just a statue.

  “Who are you?” he called again.

  There was silence. James grew frantic. He was sure he had heard a gargoyle’s voice! He ran around the entire fence of his backyard. There was nothing there, just a few bushes. He stuck his head over the fence and peered into his neighbour’s yard. He came face-to-face with an old dog tied up to a post, which wagged its tail at him.

  “I don’t think the dog is talking to me, unless I’m completely losing it,” he said out loud.

  “No. Here,” said the soft voice again from far away, and weaker this time.

  James whipped around. It came from several yards away, near the end of his street. He sprinted to the fence, placed a hand on it and vaulted over, landing in the soft snow on the other side with a thud. He vaulted fences, yard after yard, calling “Where are you?” as he went.

  Suddenly he landed in a yard and came face-to-face with an apple tree, tall as a man, bursting out of the snow. It was bearing tiny apples.

  It was very familiar.

  “Where have I seen that apple tree before?” he said out loud. He ran toward it, then he remembered: it was the same kind of tree that he had seen in the little park with the gargoyle footprint in the snow. It was just like the tree that had been cut down!

  James’ heart started to pound. He looked frantically all around, but there was nothing to see, just snow …

  … then he saw it. There was a lump at the base of the tree, something partially covered with snow.

  He ran over and fell on his knees, brushing madly at the snowy lump. He brushed until he uncovered a heavy iron cage, its door locked with an ancient padlock.

  And inside was a gargoyle.

  It looked like his carving, only softer. It looked a little like Theodorus and Septimus. It looked a lot like Arabella.

  James stared in disbelief.

  The gargoyle slowly opened its eyes and smiled weakly at him. It spoke in its whispery voice like the wind in the summer grass, but James understood it perfectly. “Your statue … in the window … I saw it fall….” The gargoyle paused and drew a slow, difficult breath.

  “My statue? Yes!” James breathed. “You could see it?!”

  “A gargoyle …” it said gently again. Then the creature closed its eyes and slumped inside the cage, just as though it had died.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The Big Event

  Christopher’s heart was thumping wildly. He didn’t think he could find enough saliva in his mouth to speak, even if he wanted to.

  He was standing knee deep in the snowy park, in the spot where the apple tree once stood. A lit candle wavered in the cold night air at his feet, which were slowly turning to blocks of ice. Katherine and Claire were hiding in the bushes with a cell phone, ready to call the police and tell them the vandal was in the park again. They had to leave Marbles in the house, since he couldn’t be trusted to stay quiet in the bushes.

  Cassandra was keeping a close eye on the park from her store across the street, waiting to join them as soon as the Collector arrived (there weren’t THAT many bushes to hide behind in the park, and Cassandra was awfully tall to hide easily).

  Christopher wished he had Cassandra and his big dog with him now.

  Instead, beside him in the snow stood Gargoth, his head bowed, cradling his damaged wing in Claire’s scarf. He was thin and grey and shivered as tears fell and froze in the snow at his taloned feet.

  An eerie breeze blew by the two friends, embracing them both in dreary cold.

  Christopher felt his heart squeeze. He couldn’t bear to look at Gargoth. It seemed that he had watched his friend nearly vanish in the past few weeks. Without Ambergine, the little creature seemed completely lost and disinterested in the world around him.

  Perhaps tonight they would set that right.

  The sky was pitch black, the city quiet and too far away. He’d never felt so isolated, even though he was in the middle of a busy metropolis with thousands of people safe in their homes, all around him. His own home, his own family, was just steps away, but they might as well still be in Vancouver, he felt so far away from them.

  “You okay, Gargoth?” Christopher finally mumbled. “When is he coming, do you think?”

  The gargoyle stayed silent. He hadn’t spoken much for many days. He seemed weary of everything.

  The Collector was coming, for good or ill.

  Just as Christopher thought he would scream with the tension of waiting, a man walked into the park. He appeared on the sidewalk and walked through the open gates. His feet crunched through the snow, and then there he was standing before them. He looked around then doused the light of the candle with one swift kick of snow.

  Christopher and Gargoth stood before the Collector.

  The little gargoyle made a strange noise in his throat, and Christopher wasn’t sure if it was a growl or a whimper. Christopher felt that tiny lick of anger that had been surprising him lately. Oh, there was fear, but there was that little red hot point of rage, too.

  “You’ve brought my property, I see. Good.” The Collector reached out to grab Gargoth, but Christopher stepped between them.

  “Where’s Ambergine?” he demanded, surprising himself with his loud, steady voice.

  The Collector sighed. “You’re a fool, Christopher Canning. Did you really think I’d bring the other gargoyle along just for you to steal her from me, too?”

  Christopher’s eyes narrowed. Claire had said the Collector wouldn’t bring Ambergine, and that they’d have to save her themselves. He couldn’t loathe the man before him any more than he did at that moment. He actually felt his skin crawl, but he had to focus. He had a job to do. He could not fail his friend now.

  Christopher drew a deep breath. “Okay. I can’t stop you from taking him. But Gargoth has something to say to you, first.”

  The Collector laughed — he actually laughed — and said, “What could the creature possibly want to say to me? Go ahead, Gargoth. Do your little song and dance. Soon you’ll be back where you belong in my mansion, and we’ll put an end to all this escaping. I broke the statues. I cut down the tree. Now I’m here to get you. You have no choice.”

  He said this in a slimy, heartless voice that made Christopher want to break his neck.

  Gargoth lifted his weary face and looked the Collector in the eye. A thousand indignant, angry words sprang into Christopher’s head, and he was about to shout them in the Collector’s smug face … when Gargoth spoke.

  “You couldn’t be more wrong. I do have a choice,” the gargoyle said quietly, but in a voice growing steady as a warming wind. The little creature raised his chin and his voice grew stronger.

  “You may have stolen Ambergine, but she is not yours. You have tried to own me, but you do not. We will resist you always, at every turn, together and apart. And this is why you have lost: I choose not to be afraid of you anymore.”


  With that, many interesting things happened.

  Suddenly the spotlight snapped on in Christopher’s bedroom above them, brightly lighting the spot where they stood. Claire waved down at them from the window as the Collector snarled and whirled around to run. Christopher looked up at his window, bewildered. He had thought his sister was nearby in the bushes, calling for help. She must have snuck upstairs to his room during the long, cold wait.

  But that’s not all. At the moment the spotlight hit the snow, a loud bark came from the back door of Christopher’s house and three large teenage boys burst outside, accompanied by a giant, bounding dog. Marc, Nathan, Adam, and Marbles tumbled and sprinted through the snow to the park gate, with much laughter and barking. The boys waved up at Claire in the window.

  “Here, Claire?” Marc shouted up at her. She waved back and called, “That’s perfect, right there!” No one in their right mind would try to run past those three, especially with Marbles leaping and whining as though he recognized the Collector and was eager for another shot at his pant leg.

  Christopher heard a little bell tinkle, and saw the door of Candles by Daye fly open and then bang shut as Cassandra and Stern burst across the street to the park at a run. A moment later a police car pulled up to the park gates, siren wailing.

  Then two more grown-ups walked into the park and waited quietly behind the teenage boys. They waved at Katherine, who stepped out from the bushes closing her cell phone. She had called her parents and they had arrived just in time to help. Gargoth’s oldest Toronto friends, the Newberrys, were standing steadfast at the gates, too.

  Katherine was also holding Stern’s digital recorder, which she clicked off. She had just recorded everything the Collector had said, including the part where he admitted that he broke the statues and cut down the tree.

  The Collector was trapped.