Gargoyle Rising

by Meraki P. Lyhne

  The workshop was chilly when Meino entered his private end of the garage. He hadn’t expected anything else that far into the fall, and especially not at two in the morning. That he was tired and groggy from lack of sleep didn’t help to keep the cold at bay. He lit the gas furnace and rolled it closer to the back of the old sixty-nine Dodge Charger. The car was propped up on the lift for working on the brakes, and Meino once again gave a quick thought to what color he wanted to paint it once he’d restored it.

  That end of the garage was his sanctuary. Fixing up that old car was the closest he could come to being with his dad, who had bought the car eleven years earlier and promised Meino they would rebuild her together. Two weeks later, something happened, and his dad never came home. The police came to get Meino from school and to tell him that his dad was dead.

  Meino had since then become a mechanic with his own garage, albeit small, and the tools and knowledge to fix the classic car up himself. He’d always wanted to take over his dad’s garage, but that had been impossible. His own was on the outskirts of Hamburg on a solitary lot surrounded by townhouses, lots of kids, and a grocery store within walking distance. He’d bought it with the insurance money.

  Sitting on the stool, he picked up the cobber break pipe he’d been fitting last time.

  But the dream that had stirred him so early lingered in his mind. How could he have the same dream every month? It was like clockwork. Once a month for the past eleven years, he’d had a dream of a huge Gargoyle crying out his name in pain from being separated from Meino. It wouldn’t always be enough to wake him up, but once a year he’d wake up in tears from the agony he heard, crying out, too. The wailing and begging would transport him through the dream as if he was flying out of control, and he would end up in the crypt under that old church again.

  The dream once a year was so much more real than the monthly ones. Each year, the Gargoyle begged him to finish the spell. Everything in the dream was as he remembered it—the church, the statues, even the smell of the dusty crypt with its somewhat stale air. It all seemed so real.

  He didn’t believe in magic, but the idea of losing his mind had been discarded long ago. If he had to choose between the two, he’d go with the existence of magic. He tried to remember if he had believed that night—the night he had taken his dad’s book about Gargoyles and brought it to the crypt.

  It had been the week after the death of his dad...

  Sorrow and a young boy’s need for his parents tore through him as he ran for the crypt under the old church a mile from his home in Möhrenbach. The rain and cold wind bit his cheeks, but he didn’t care. There were only two places in the world he loved coming—his dad’s garage and that crypt. The first seemed too soulless a place for comfort without the big man in overalls there to smile at him and encourage him to keep trying when he got it wrong.

  Reaching the church, Meino made his way to the stairs and descended into the darkness of the crypt that held five grand Gargoyles. He’d come prepared as always, because those ventures were his and his dad’s quality time outside of the workshop, and their special kit was always stocked.

  His mother had requested that they do other things than hanging in the garage. Dad had promised to someday. Two weeks later she died. The day after the funeral, his dad had packed a bag, smiled his best, and reached for Meino’s hand. They were going to go explore the world. They had found the crypt on their third weekly exploration of their neighborhood and the landscape around the small town of Möhrenbach. They had talked about all the places they’d go when Meino grew older, and they’d made up fantasy worlds. They had a map hidden away in the crypt with destinations they’d go in the Dodge Charger once it was fixed up.

  Lighting the candles with matches before putting them back in their secret hiding spot with the map, Meino looked around the crypt. It was as lifeless as the garage, but the Gargoyles made it feel less soulless.

  In two days, Meino would be going to Hamburg to live with his mother’s sister, Gitta. His aunt was staying with him in Möhrenbach until they had the last affairs in order so he could move. But he didn’t want to go. Being promised new friends and a bigger room held no appeal. He wanted the garage and the Dodge Charger. He wanted the stories of strange worlds and magic, and he wanted to plan where he and his dad would go when he grew older. He wanted all the stories told in the crypt while eating snacks. He wanted to keep those magnificent stone creatures close, too, but if they had trouble letting him keep the Charger, then there was no way in hell they’d let him bring five Gargoyles from the crypt of a closed off church.

  He felt so alone, but he was going to change that. In the many stories his dad had told him, one in particular stood out to him—the tale of the Gargoyle being brought to life just like Pinocchio had. Meino had studied the book since the news of his dad’s death. He had read and re-read the incantations and was certain he had the pronunciation of the phrases close to correct. The book was in German, handwritten. He hadn’t known the language of the spell back then—only that it wasn’t in German.

  He laid out the book on the altar and picked up the small vials he’d prepared. The book had said to make the Gargoyle shed shared tears in need of what you wanted. So he’d sat in his room as often as he could, focused on wanting to not be alone anymore, and cried into the vials.

  He pocketed the vials and walked to the Gargoyle he wanted to awaken. He’d loved that one in particular since their first time there. Presents from the Angels. That’s what his dad called them. Presents to look over those in most need of them. Meino was certain he was in need. He was an orphaned child. Who could need to be watched over more than an orphaned child?

  He had no idea how tall the Gargoyle was, because it sat crouching with a vigilant look on his face and his enormous bat-like wings folded close to the back. It looked remarkably human compared to many of the others, who were a lot more demon-like. Some even had strong animal features like paws or pointy ears. Apart from the slightly pointed ears, his Gargoyle didn’t share many animal features. Maybe he liked it because it looked so human? Because it looked friendly? He wanted a friend. One that would never leave him like his parents had.

  A sob broke the silence of the crypt and reminded him of why he was there. He placed the candles in a circle around the Gargoyle, evoking the specified names as he did. Once finished, he lit each candle, once again evoking the names as specified in the book. Then he faced the Gargoyle and took out the vials. Summing up the feelings of longing to no longer be alone, he felt the first tears spill down his cheeks, and as he did he held the two vials to the Gargoyle’s eyes and said the incantation while his tears dripped from the vial into the Gargoyle’s eyes to spill down its cheeks.

  Meino huffed at the memory of his childish needs back then and found the tool to fasten the brake pipe.

  Was his memory wrong that all the candles in the crypt had extinguished simultaneously? That he had jumped in shock of it and dropped the vials? Had he really heard them hit the floor? He hadn’t brought them home, he knew that much, because he’d looked for them since.

  Had he heard the voice? That deep baritone one utter his name?

  But nothing had happened. He’d sat in that crypt, staring at the Gargoyle, until hunger had forced him to leave. By then, Aunt Gitta had called half the population of the small town, and they were out looking for him. She was furious. A few days later, when sitting on the bed in his new room in Hamburg, she’d said she understood, and that she’d merely been afraid that he’d gotten hurt.

  But he got the Dodge Charger and his dad’s tools. And he’d kept a few of the books his dad had taken to the crypt, too. The rest were still in storage, because his one-room apartment above the new garage didn’t have much room. All he needed while getting his business up and running was a place to eat and sleep. The rest of his time was spent in the garage working mostly on other people’s cars.

  Meino sighed and got up, cleaned off his tools, and shut off t
he heat. The thoughts of the Gargoyle wouldn’t leave him, but he hadn’t thought about the incantation for many years. Just that hollow feeling of being alone. Sometimes, he even thought it was unfair that he felt like that, because Gitta and Heinz had been excellent parental figures. He’d grown up with his two cousins as if they were his own brothers, but they had nothing in common even though they had been roughly the same age. Now he mostly saw them when they needed their car fixed and didn’t want to pay a garage full price to do it. He didn’t mind.

  Leaving the garage, he went upstairs to his apartment, washed his hands, and brought the old books to the kitchen table. He made a cup of tea and hopped up to sit on the counter top. He hadn’t looked in the book since that night. The overwhelming disappointment had kept him from it. Maybe it was that disappointment that caused the reoccurring dreams. Maybe he hadn’t dealt with the death of his parents, and the crying Gargoyle was merely a symbol of it.

  He sipped from his mug and opened the book. He could still somewhat remember the wording, but new details caught his attention. The book was handwritten and in German, but his vocabulary back then hadn’t been extensive enough to understand it. Neither had his ability to read the beautifully slanted letters. Having had to decipher the scribbles of his boss when he’d been an apprentice made all the difference, because that guy looked like he stamped every piece of paper haphazardly with a crow’s foot dipped in ink.

  Most probably wouldn’t expect a guy like Meino—with calloused hands, dried oil under his fingernails, and worn work clothes—to know many of those words, but he was addicted to books. Since he’d moved to Hamburg, he’d tried to keep his dad alive by reading stories and envisioning his dad’s voice as the narrator’s. It had helped grow his vocabulary enough to understand the majority of the book, and enough to notice the fact that he back then had only uttered half the spell.

  He shook his head, smiling, and drank from his cup again. The ludicrous idea of finishing it came to mind, but he discarded it immediately, closing the book and putting it down beside him. But as soon as his mind didn’t focus on something, the wailing and lonely cries and mental images of the Gargoyle spilling his tears came back.

  “Fuck it,” he grumbled and slid off the counter, bringing the book to the space that doubled as a living room and bedroom. If it could make the dreams stop, he’d give it a go. It was probably the most elaborate way he’d ever heard of dealing with someone’s death, but so be it, a lot of those methods were symbolic as well.

  It took some work making space on the floor for the candles, the book, and a center big enough for him to sit in. Before lighting the candles, he read the instructions again and again. Finally, he placed the candles and evoked the names as he had eleven years earlier. He then lit the candles, evoking them again. As he knelt, his stomach fluttered. He had no idea why. It was just something childish he had to finish, but the air around him felt almost electric, and he finally chalked it up to his imagination trying to take him into one of the many fantasy worlds parked on the shelves in his bookcase.

  He began the incantation and remembered the feelings he’d spilled on both his and the Gargoyle’s cheeks exactly eleven years earlier. Well, not exactly, because the dreams followed the turning of the moon, not the dates of the Gregorian calendar. That he still felt alone was nothing new to him, but just how much he still wanted someone who never left him almost took his breath away, and tears ran down his cheek while repeating the incantation.

  A surge made him gasp and open his eyes. The room was dark. All the candles had extinguished.

  “Creepy,” he muttered, thinking he might not have remembered so wrong after all. He finally felt sleepy again and crawled into bed, leaving the book, the candles, and a cooling cup of tea on the kitchen counter.

  His last thought was wondering whether the stories of Gargoyles being watchmen came from their never blinking eyes.

  If you never blinked, you’d never miss a beat.

  Chapter Three

  Being back in England was both a relief and a pain. A few of the classes Rebecca had to take were so boring that she could barely stay with them. At least she had her assignment.

  A knock on the door made her leave the homework. Her brother stood outside with a somber expression.

  “Hello, Tavi.”

  “Rebecca. How did it go?”

  “Come on in.” She stepped aside to let him pass before closing the door. “It’s not like I can get close in just one day. I mean, he’s not even any of the people we suspected, so it’s like starting from scratch.”

  “What do we know about him so far?”

  “He’s rich, and he likes backpacking. The danger of it.”

  “Chances are he likes his women that way, too.”

  “His... you’re not implying I—”

  “No, of course not, dear sister. I would never suggest you do that. Father called, by the way. He’s flying in to see us. You, especially. The Grand Masters are not pleased that it’s taken us two years and not found the link to the Collectors.”

  Rebecca signed and took a seat at the table. “I’m making tea.”

  “Thank you.” Tavi took a seat opposite, looking thoughtful.

  “What is it? What’s on your mind?”

  “The fact that we could overlook him for so long.”

  “He’s not exactly the most social person here,” she pointed out.

  “Neither are you.”

  “No, Tavi, but you are. You’ve had to have heard rumors of him.”

  “I have, but nothing that indicates he’s connected to the Collectors. And neither of us has found indications he uses magic at all.”

  Rebecca sighed and turned in her chair to grab her tea cup, remembering she had to make a cup for her brother, too. “When did you say Father would be here?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t even tell us where to meet him.” Tavi took the mug with hot water and picked a flavor from the offered box of selections. “Have you thought about how to get close?”

  “I could think of no other way than flirting.”

  Tavi scrunched his nose and nodded.

  “Why the scrunch?”

  “Because you’re a pure woman, and the level of the profaners is one I wished you could stay above.”

  “Thought you just said you’d never imply that I had sex with him!”

  “I didn’t, Rebecca, just... using your body to induce lust in a man to get close is...”

  “Being a harlot.”

  “Well... yeah. And there are a lot of those here. Me being the social one, I meet a lot of them. And I feel sorry for them. Their lack of trust and faith in God, and what trust and faith He has in them.”

  “Yeah, well. I don’t see any other way in, because the guy doesn’t exactly need a tutor.”

  “No, he certainly proves our Father’s theory about the Collectors being well educated. The ones we’ve plucked off were probably nothing more than foot soldiers or hired muscle.”

  Rebecca nodded, drinking from her tea. They had come so far, and she’d been so proud when Father had asked her to his office and trusted her with such an important assignment. At first she’d been surprised he’d paired her with Tavi—the brother she had worked with least during her training—but he was an excellent actor. Many people had commented on how different they were. He laughed and partied and wooed whole crowds of women. He was so different from her, so of course, his task was very different from her task there. She was the silent spectator. The one moving along the walls, watching everything he stirred up.

  She had come to understand Father’s decision, even though she at first had a difficult time keeping faith in God’s ways. Tavi was a good man, gentle and thoughtful when allowed to be himself.

  “Do you think there are more here? Than just him, I mean,” Tavi asked.

  “Considering we have no idea how many they are, yeah. I mean, we’ve been here for two years because we knew for sure th
ere was someone here, and it’s taken us this long to find him.”

  “It’s taken this long because we don’t know anything,” Tavi said, shaking his head. “I have at least two notebooks full of irrelevant details I’ve picked up to hopefully put together, and I don’t think Alex Rhoden has made it to my notes more than twice. One was for something he mentioned in class once.”

  “What did he mention?”

  “I don’t remember. I’d have to go through all the notes again.”

  “Maybe we should.”

  Tavi groaned and slumped in his chair.

  “To see what else we’ve missed,” she explained. “I mean, now we know a bit more about the Collectors. We know they’re rich—”

  “We knew that from the get-go.”

  “Not how rich! Mr. Henry is a name known all over the world of art. Maybe we should go through your notes and pick out names with that kind of connection. They’re well organized, we know that now.”

  “We’ve been told that now.”

  Rebecca shrugged. “Same thing.”

  Tavi sipped his tea, staring out the window with a contemplative frown. “Wonder how they found out it was him.”

  “Doesn’t matter, now we know.”

  “I was merely thinking that it could be nice to know what they connected if we’re to try to replicate the formula and find more here at the school.”

  “We’ll just have to focus on what they find for us and do what they ask of us.”

  Tavi shrugged and nodded. “Well, I should get back. I have a lot to read up on if I’m to be able to go to that party on Thursday.”

  “No reason for that if we found him.”

  “Getting close to him is your assignment. And if we think there are others, then I need to stay out there. Alex Rhoden rarely socializes, so if there are other Collectors here, then they don’t see each other publicly,” Tavi said, sat his mug on the table, and got up.

  “Good night, brother.”