The Gargoyle Overhead Page 3

  His father never really got angry, but Philip could tell he was displeased as he marched back toward the waiting horse and cart beside the old church gate.

  There would be no apples for lunch tomorrow. There would be fewer dried apples for the winter ahead.

  As Philip bent down to retrieve the empty apple basket and follow his father to their old cart, he heard the most amazing sound.

  It was like a creaky cartwheel groaning uphill under a great weight. Or maybe, just maybe, someone high up in the church tower was laughing.

  Gargoth’s Story, 1664

  The Lion Roars

  It was getting dark. Philip wasn’t really sure he wanted to be there, but despite his complaints, his father had insisted. Since the incident the week before, when an entire basket of apples had been destroyed, Philip had been trying to avoid the churchyard altogether.

  The more he thought about it, the more sure he was. Someone had been laughing at him from the church tower that day. The sound was odd, though, not like a laugh he’d ever heard before. It was chilling and whispery and kind of sad. It left him thinking of spirits. Philip was a very sensible and brave twelve-year-old boy, however, and he was pretty sure that spirits couldn’t pelt you with apple cores. At least, not so accurately.

  Still. Someone was up there, hiding in the church tower, he was sure of that now, which made his current task all the more unpleasant. He had been sent to the abandoned apple orchard to pick a small sack of apples for a sick neighbour, even as the sun was setting.

  He wasn’t going to tell his father that he was too afraid to go. His home wasn’t far away, though, and he was quick on his feet. He could outrun almost anyone who tried to catch him.

  He kept telling himself this as he unlatched the creaky wooden churchyard gate and slowly swung it open. It made a very loud screech which Philip hadn’t noticed by day.

  “Why is everything louder at dusk?” he asked himself, trying to seem casual. The sun was low in the western sky, sending a beautiful orange glow through the small churchyard. The ancient stones still held the warmth of the sun. The only sound was the little river babbling quietly. He stood beside the river for a moment and looked around.

  Philip breathed out. “It’s not so bad,” he thought. He hoisted his small sack and turned toward the apple orchard. He stopped dead in his tracks and gasped.

  The ancient stone lion statue was broken! The lion’s left ear was broken off and lay jagged and smashed in the grass at its feet.

  Philip stared. The lion was the only statue in the village. It had stood in the middle of the churchyard for as long as anyone could remember, proud and fierce on its pedestal of stone. It wasn’t a large statue, but it was very regal.

  “Who would do this?” he wondered, dragging his shirt sleeve across his stinging eyes. He was sure the lion statue had not been broken the previous week when he and his father had last been there.

  He moved toward the broken piece of statue lying in the grass but stopped suddenly. Something had moved in the apple orchard just a few feet away. He stood stock still, barely breathing. His heart started knocking in his chest. He knew someone was behind him.

  “Who…” he cleared his dry throat, “who’s there?” he tried to shout. He wanted to sound brave and big, but unfortunately his voice chose that very moment to break. He sounded like a frightened child, which is exactly what he was.

  There was nothing but silence. Philip turned slowly, too afraid to run, and couldn’t believe his eyes.

  A basket overflowing with apples waited beside the orchard. He couldn’t tell why, but somehow he knew they were for him.

  He gripped his apple sack tightly and slowly app-roached the basket. He jumped across the little river, and in ten strides stood at the edge of the orchard with the overflowing apple basket at his feet. The sun was just about to dip behind the nearby hills for the night.

  Philip took a deep breath. “Who is here?” he asked quietly.

  Nothing moved, not a bird, not a branch, and even the tiny river seemed momentarily silent. So he took another deep breath, and asked again, slightly louder this time. “Who are you? You might as well come out. I know you’re here.”

  But nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.

  A small, squat creature with leathery wings stepped out from behind the tree at his feet and looked up into Philip’s face. Philip wasn’t absolutely sure, but there might have been tears in the creature’s eyes.

  “Hamithin sorken behem. Sorth belamont,” was what the creature said.

  But Philip heard it say in its strange whispery voice, “Do not be afraid. I am alone.”

  Gargoth’s Story, 1664

  Smoke Rings in the Orchard

  Philip stood completely still, barely daring to breathe. The sack for collecting apples had fallen, forgotten, from his hand into the grass. His face held a strange look of bewilderment and dawning comprehension.

  The creature was hunched at his feet, looking at the ground. Eventually Philip was sure the creature was crying, since he heard the plunk plunk of its tears hitting the earth and saw small columns of steam rise from where they fell.

  Philip clenched and unclenched his fists, under-standing now that he was in no immediate danger. He cleared his throat. “What is that language you speak? It is strange and whispery and not my tongue, I think, and yet I understand you.”

  The creature shrugged. “Vox a voxi. Toth audi. Horsa?” it said. Philip heard it say, “I speak as I speak. You hear as you hear. What does it matter?”

  They looked at each other, silent. Philip realized he would have to be content with that answer, such as it was.

  “Well, where did you learn to throw apples like that?” he asked. It was all he could think of. He wasn’t sure what else to say. What do you say to a bizarre creature like this, anyway? Philip wasn’t even entirely sure what the creature was. He didn’t want to appear foolish—perhaps this was a new kind of farm animal recently imported to England? One he’d never heard of, an odd one to be sure. A creature crossed between a small dog and a large bird? Perhaps in the New World, animals spoke like this one? Whatever it was, it clearly wasn’t going to hurt him, not at the moment anyway.

  The creature looked up at him, then used a claw (it looked very sharp) to wipe away the tears coursing down its cheeks.

  “Belo grathen memimi,” it said miserably, but Philip heard it say, “I practice a lot.”

  Philip considered this. “Did you break the ancient stone lion in the churchyard?” he asked gruffly. Now that he was no longer so afraid, he felt he could ask a pointed question.

  He was surprised by the angry answer from the creature (but I’m just going to translate it here, or we’ll be here all day): “Yes! I broke it! It has tormented me for too long! I hate it!” With this the creature snapped and growled and turned to look at the broken lion statue across the small river. “It deserved to be broken!” As if to make the point again, the creature picked up a stone at its feet and threw it at the lion. It glanced off the lion’s tail, falling harmlessly into the grass.

  Philip took a step back, wary of the creature’s sudden burst of anger. It seemed quite capable of hurting him now; its teeth and claws were very sharp, regardless of its small size.

  “Why?” Philip demanded, angry himself now. “Stupid creature! You know that the villagers are going to think that I did it. My father already thinks that I wasted an entire basket of apples in target practice last week when it was really you…” He stopped. “Why have you been throwing apples at me, anyway?”

  The creature sighed. It stayed silent as it stuck a claw into a pouch at its side and pulled out a briarwood pipe and some cured tobacco. With a tinder-pistol (a very old kind of lighter), it struck a spark onto the pipe and lit it. Strong smoke curled up about its head and caught in Philip’s nose. He sneezed.

  “Well?” Philip said, squinting as his eyes watered, determined to get an answer. “Why?”

  The little pipe-s
moker leaned against a tree and blew smoke rings up about its head, eyeing the boy. Philip had never seen anyone (or anything) smoke before, although his father had told him about the new phenomenon. His father had seen a merchant smoking in a nearby village when delivering a carthorse for auction. The wealthy nobles and the people from the great town of London were known to particularly like the curious native plant from across the ocean. But no one in his little village smoked, at least none he knew of. Now that he was so close to it for the first time, he decided it was a strange custom. It smelled awful and burned his eyes and nose. And it made him cough.

  The creature spoke again. “Why did I throw apples at you? Because I wanted you to know I was here. And the river stones would have hurt you—see what they did to the lion.”

  Philip, who was suddenly very thankful that he hadn’t been collecting river stones in the basket the week before, wanted to ask many questions. He wanted to know exactly what the creature was, and how it had come to be in the churchyard. Why did it hate the stone lion?

  And most of all, why did it want Philip to know it was there? As far as Philip was concerned, he would have been just as happy if he’d remained ignorant of that fact.

  Just as he was going to ask one of the many questions on the tip of his tongue, a voice rang out from the church gate.

  “Philip? Philip? Where are you?” It was his father. Philip suddenly realized that it was quite dark. The sun had gone down completely. In his conversation with the creature, he hadn’t noticed.

  “I have to go!” Philip said urgently.

  But the creature was already filling Philip’s forgotten sack with apples from the surrounding trees. “Here, take these, and the basket. Be quick,” it said. Then it vanished into the apple orchard, right before Philip’s eyes.

  But not before Philip heard the whispery voice say, “My name is Gargoth of Tallus. Come again soon, and I will answer all your questions.”

  Chapter Eleven

  More From the Rooftop

  The candles were burning low. Katherine was telling Cassandra everything that Gargoth had told her. Gargoth stood up for a while and walked through the candles, checking that they were all still lit. He took a drink of lemonade and ate a few apples. He was forbidden to throw the apple cores off the roof (there were people walking by on the street down below), but he did do a little target practice with the ladder on the chimney. He was still an excellent shot.

  When he had rested from his storytelling and Kath-erine had translated the story for Cassandra, he took up his spot on the cushion, lit his pipe once again, and continued.

  “Philip and I became great friends. After the shock of our first meeting, he returned to the churchyard as often as he could. We met in the autumn of 1664, and all through that winter, he came to talk to me again and again. I had never had a friend, so there was much for him to teach me. He didn’t, for instance, like being pelted with apple cores. Nor did he like it when I stuck my tongue out at him, or threw river stones better than he did in target practice. He did, however, like to tell me about his world outside the churchyard, and about his father, mother and sister.

  “Soon, though, he began to tell me stories of a different kind. There was a great plague crossing the country. In the towns and villages people were dying, sometimes leaving entire villages empty, but for a lucky few. In the city of London, hundreds of people were dying each day. Philip came to the churchyard one day to tell me that the plague was in his village, and he didn’t know when he would see me again. Many weeks, then months went by, and I was alone.

  “One summer night, I heard the churchyard gate creak open, and someone calling me. Philip had come. But disaster had come too: while he was away with the sheep in the fields, many villagers had died of plague, including his father, mother and sister. He was an orphan, all alone in the world. I was his only friend.

  “He sat mute by the river of the churchyard for many weeks, alone except for me. I tried to encourage him with stories and antics and target practice, and eventually, he did rise from the riverbank and speak once more. Philip’s father had told him of an uncle who lived in a small village in France. Philip was going to France, and I was going with him.

  “One autumn day, we left the only home either of us had ever known. Before we left, I tried my best to fix the stone lion, but it was no use. His broken ear lies in the long grass at his feet even now, no doubt.” Gargoth grew thoughtful.

  “How did you get to France?” Katherine asked, forgetting about the not-interrupting-or-this-was-going-to-take-forever rule.

  Gargoth frowned. “First by horse and cart, then by boat, then on foot. It was a long and difficult journey.” He drew his wings tightly about him. “And I didn’t like it one bit.”

  Gargoth’s Story, 1665

  Cart and Boat

  It was raining again. Gargoth was huddled deep inside an apple sack and was being jarred mercilessly against the baskets of apples all around him. They had hit upon the clever idea of hiding Gargoth in a sack so Philip could carry him about safely hidden. They had even cut eyeholes into the cloth so Gargoth could see a little of what was happening around them.

  But he didn’t really like it. And it was far from dry or comfortable. He was tucked behind Philip, who was driving the horse and cart. Despite his best efforts to keep dry, Gargoth was wet and grouchy. It was raining so hard, he couldn’t even light his pipe.

  “That at least would be some small comfort,” he muttered, clutching his dripping wings tightly to himself.

  “I hope you’re not thinking about your pipe again, Gargoth?” Philip said from the front seat. “I for one am very glad that you can’t light the foul stuff. I can breathe fresh air once again!” he added with a chuckle.

  At that moment mud splashed up into the cart and drenched them from below, almost as much as they were being drenched by rain from above.

  “Was there ever such a muddy country as England?” Gargoth growled, flattening his ears against his head.

  “France is muddier, I hear,” Philip said, laughing. “That’ll make you happy, won’t it, Gargoth?”

  Gargoth stuck his tongue out at Philip’s back but didn’t answer.

  The little horse was plodding very slowly along a dark country lane. Because they only travelled at night, Gargoth and Philip had seen almost no one since they’d set out on their journey, many nights before. Their store of apples was getting low, and Gargoth was sick of the bumpy cart ride. Try as he might, there was no way to avoid being bumped and jostled as the cart travelled south along the paths and open meadows of England.

  But he knew the journey was almost over, for the next day would take them to their destination: the town of Dover.

  As dawn was nearing, they found an old barn to sleep in. It was abandoned and was falling into disrepair, but the two travellers didn’t mind. It was dry and less muddy than the road. They watered and brushed the little horse, leaving her in an empty stall of hay, then made their own meal of dried apples and water. As the sky was just beginning to turn pink in the east, they curled up in the dry haystack of the barn, listening to the lonely hooting of owls as they fell asleep.

  Many hours later, they woke to a bright and sunny afternoon. The weather had changed, and the wind had shifted to the south. As Gargoth roused himself and began gathering sticks for a brief fire, his nose caught the fresh scent of something he did not recognize. The air had a funny tang to it, a bitter taste he couldn’t name.

  As Philip rose and stretched and joined him, plucking loose hay from his blonde hair, he sniffed the air as well.

  “What is that on the air, do you think?” he asked.

  Gargoth struck his tinder-pistol against some bracken he had collected and blew gently on the spark. The little fire caught. He placed a clawful of sticks over the growing fire and pushed back on his haunches. “I cannot say. It smells like autumn nights when it has rained and rained and washed everything clean. But there is something else.”

  The two
travellers had to put their puzzlement aside and ready themselves for the final hours of their weary journey. As the afternoon drew on, they ate a few apples, laced the little horse into the harness and set off to Dover.

  As their horse and cart turned off the cart path, to a larger, sturdier lane, then to a larger road, then to a busy thoroughfare through the noisy town, the scent they could not place grew and grew, until they both understood what it was: the ocean! They could smell salt water.

  They had both heard of the ocean, but neither had ever seen it, nor could really imagine that much water, which looked as though it never ended.

  The smell of the ocean burned Gargoth’s nose as he strained to see the town through the eyeholes of his sack. He couldn’t see much, but what he did see filled him with amazement: many people, busy taverns, horses and carts, endless water, a shoreline of tall white cliffs, and strange birds wheeling and crying in the air above him.

  And what looked like carts floating in the water. He had to ask Philip what the things in the water were, since he had no name for them.

  “They’re called boats, Gargoth. Now shhh,” Philip whispered over his shoulder into the sack behind him. Gargoth could just make out many, many wooden boats, some with tall wooden sticks in the middle and great white cloths hanging on them, flapping in the breeze. Others were much smaller, with small sticks on the sides.

  Gargoth could only stare. He had to be quiet in case someone discovered him hiding in the sack, so he hung silently over Philip’s shoulder through all the events of that long, strange night. They arrived in the town just as the villagers were setting their fires for the evening meal, and Gargoth choked on the heavy smoke which hung in the streets.

  The first thing Philip did was to climb down from the cart and carefully lead the horse through the muddy town to a sign hanging over a doorway. The sign had a horse and cart on it. He knocked hard, and the top part of the wooden door swung outward immediately.