As it was, the boys saw only confused flashes and jumbled images: a carved stone slab hit the pavement and broke in two; a man threw a skull at the marble pulpit—the skull broke into many pieces with a sound like a light bulb popping—over her head, an old woman with yellow snaggly teeth and black stringy hair carried a brown and crumbling skull that still wore a rusty iron crown.
Little boys dueled with long bones or used them to beat drums and two men put a noose around the neck of a skeleton, dragging it up the main aisle to a hook that hung down from the ceiling. When they had hoisted it by the neck to a point high above them, they took turns kneeling to the thing and bowing. They laughed all the while. Elsewhere in the church, statues came crashing down from niches, heavy tapestries the color of dark-brown sherry were slashed with knives, and beautifully carved choir seats were kicked to pieces. Men pretending to be monks lit long yellow candles and chanted mournfully as some of their friends tossed clattering bones in a blanket. The scene faded out.
Now the boys saw something that might have taken place days, weeks, or years later. It was raining on the Basilica of St. Denis, the rain coming down in long blowing gray sheets. But no long, heaving spews of water shot from the mouths of the dirty and weathered gargoyles, because the lead roof had been ripped off—bullets were needed for some war being fought far away on the borders of France. Though most of the rain fell on the paving stones inside the church, a little of it landed in the stone gutters under the eaves, so the unhappy-looking eagle, monkey, dog, man, and monster faces occasionally drizzled a little cold water from their puckered or sneering or screeching mouths. The boys’ gargoyle—the one we are concerned with—had a gulletful of muddy leaves. A statue of St. Denis, who had once been the bishop of Paris, stood near him. The saint’s miter-crowned head was not between his shoulders, where it should have been, but in front of him, in his hands.
The distinguished-looking head spoke: “Well, things could be worse.”
The gargoyle spat out a muddy ball of leaves and answered in a voice like that of a man who has just spat out a muddy ball of leaves. “Really? I don’t see how.”
“You will in a minute.”
A narrow wooden door in the side of the steeple opened, and a workman stepped out onto the long railed walk that ran above the row of gargoyles. He carried grappling hooks and other tools, and had several coils of rope slung over his shoulder. He walked along until he came to the gargoyle.
“Ah. This will do nicely. Now, monsieur le gargoyle, do you have any last words before the guillotine has her will of you?”
The gargoyle thought of several things to say, but he stayed silent as the man drove iron wedges into the place where his neck was attached to the cathedral wall. Several heavy millet blows made him shudder. Soon, he was being lowered by ropes into a rickety wagon below. From a bouncing and crunching bed of straw, the gargoyle saw his church disappear into the rainy distance. And again the fire-lit screen went dark, this time for good. The boys watched until they were sure that they would not see more, and then they crept quietly back to their beds.
At six o’clock the next morning, the gargoyle woke up the whole house by whistling “Reveille” through his nose. This proved to be a mistake, because it brought Mr. Taliaferro (pronounced “Tol-liver”), the boys’ father, stumbling into their room in his rose damask bathrobe, his eyes still more or less sealed by mucus.
“All right, now, give me the bugle and—WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?”
“It comes from a church in France?” said Michael, uncertainly. “Did you go to France while we were fishing,” asked Mr. Taliaferro, “or did it arrive by mail?”
“We got it in a dump,” said Fonsy. “Free.”
On the odd chance that the thing might be made of plaster or papier-mâché, Mr. Taliaferro went over to the gargoyle and tried to lift it. He did not have much luck. Oh, well, he thought, there are closets all around this room that go way back under the eaves, and we’ve never really explored them. That was as far as he was willing to pursue the matter until he had eaten breakfast and drunk six cups of coffee.
Later that day, when Mrs. Taliaferro saw the gargoyle, she decided that it would make a beautiful lawn ornament, a real “conversation piece,” as she put it. The boys did not like this idea much, but they were just happy that their parents had not decided to throw the thing into the lake. On Tuesday, four workmen went up to the bedroom and picked up the gargoyle, who made it as hard for them as possible by thinking of piles of old National Geographics and pools of molten rock near the center of the earth. Nevertheless, the men managed to lug the heavy stone object down the stairs and out onto the back lawn, where they made it into the waterspout of an ivy-covered brick fountain built into the garden wall that ran from the road down to the beach. One of the men twiddled a copper valve, and an insipid stream of musty well water ran from the gargoyle’s mouth into the little basin. He felt like a drooling idiot, and half wished that he was back on Cypher Uglum’s mansion, where he had been in the middle of the nineteenth century.
The gargoyle still talked to the boys when no one else was around, but, despite their efforts to keep him happy by sailing little paper boats in the fountain, he was simply not amused. He did brighten up, however, when Michael told him that the A. Fred Burgys were coming over for a bridge game.
“Michael,” said the gargoyle, looking as shifty-eyed as he could, “can you make sure that the card table is set up over here, near me?”
“Sure,” said Michael, who could tell that something was up. Later that afternoon, the Burgys stopped by. The umbrella-topped metal table was set up near the fountain and drinks were served. All the adults were drinking Gonzaga’s Non-Fat Dietary Beer and eating salt-free pretzels. Before they sat down to play cards, they all gathered around the fountain and made remarks about the gargoyle. Mrs. Burgy, who was wearing a dress that looked as though it was made out of straw and a hat that looked like the roof from a silo, patted the gargoyle and said that it was interesting, though she secretly thought it was not as good as the 300-pound lead cupid in her own yard.
Everyone sat down to play cards, and to the gargoyle’s great delight, Mrs. Burgy sat with her back almost up against the rim of the fountain. She was a dummy that round, which meant she wouldn’t get to play. Slowly, the gargoyle wriggled forward through the ivy, and though he was plastered to the wall, he got quite a ways out. He began to blow softly through his nostrils, tickling Mrs. Burgy behind the ear. She reached up and tried to brush away whatever it was that was bothering her. After a while, he stopped tickling her and, leaning even farther forward, whispered softly in her ear: “What would you do if a hideous gargoyle was leering at you from behind the bushes and laughing at the stupid plays your husband is making?”
Mrs. Burgy sat dead still for a few seconds, and then she slowly turned around. Everyone else went on playing cards. When she had turned her head all the way around, the gargoyle, whose nose was now about an inch from hers, made his Chinese Temple Guardian face, an awful thing to see.
Mrs. Burgy said “YAAAAAAAHH!” and fell over sideways out of her chair. Mrs. Taliaferro rushed over to feel her pulse, Mr. Taliaferro ran into the house for some brandy, and Mr. Burgy, a nasty scowl on his face, reached across the table, grabbed Mrs. Burgy’s can of Gonzaga’s Non-Fat Dietary Beer, sniffed it, and took it down to the lake, where he emptied it. Michael, David, and Fonsy were watching all this from the screened-in porch, and they were stuffing davenport pillows into their mouths to keep from laughing. Not long after this, the Burgys went home.
One night later that week, Michael dreamed that he had built his galleon, the Infanta Maria Teresa Fortuna y Grandiosa, 126 guns.
He, in a miracle of navigation, had steered her through the reedy narrows into Upper Brace, where he now searched for Cluytens van Burgy, merciless commander of the Dutch lateen-rigged brigand Maisie Sue. On the pitching quarterdeck, his spyglass scanning the ho
rizon, Michael spotted the hated ship beating hastily downwind.
“Put the helm over, Mr. David,” he shouted. “Clew up the mainbraces and shake out the foretopgallants! My compliments to the crew. Sixty Dutch guilders for each of you if you overtake her!”
Slowly, he drew near. Soon the Maisie Sue and the Infanta Maria were only a cable’s length from one another. Michael gave the order to run out the guns, and there was a long, steady clatter of chains. One hundred and twenty-six gargoyle-shaped cannon barrels gleamed in the moonlight.
“Well, what’ll it be, Captain Burgy?” shouted Michael through his huge Red Cross megaphone. “The bottom of the sea or the white flag on your mizzen?”
“Fire away!” yelled Cluytens van Burgy with a sneer, waving his notched cutlass. “We’ll give you ball for ball! A plague on your Spanish popguns!”
“As you wish,” said Michael grimly.
Broadside after broadside roared. The air was full of sharp-smelling smoke, and Michael could hear the whine of Dutch canister shot overhead. He went below and personally aimed another broadside at the reeling enemy. Back up on deck, he was ready to give the order to board when he saw that the Maisie Sue was going down by the head. His crew cheered wildly.
Captain Burgy clung to his splintered taffrail. “Your father will hear from me in the morning!” he roared. “A pox on all gargoyle-guns!”
“Thus ever to tyrants!” shouted Michael. He slid his sword back into its scabbard, set a course for Cadiz, and woke up.
It was two o’clock in the morning and a wet, fresh-smelling breeze was blowing through the willow trees in the front yard. He got up, tiptoed downstairs, opened the screen door, and walked out into the backyard. The crickets were chirping loudly, the stars were shining very brightly, and a worn-out yellow half-moon was sinking behind the oak grove on the far side of the lake. Michael could not hear the fountain, and he thought of going over to wake up the gargoyle, but he decided that the gargoyle would be crabby. Besides, he needed his rest after all the excitement. Smiling quietly, Michael walked down the white sand path to the beach. There was the green wooden rowboat with the oars still in the locks. And there was the gargoyle, grinning from the bow. Don’t ask me how he got there, but there he was. Michael was so happy that he almost shouted.
“Come on,” said the gargoyle. “The word is that the Burgys are out on the lake.”
Michael gripped the worn gunwales of the boat and shoved. It was hard work, because the gargoyle made the bow heavy. But he got the boat out into the water, and rowed toward the middle of the lake. Normally, he was a pretty good rower, but tonight he was so excited that the oars skipped and splashed water a lot.
Once or twice, he completely missed the water with his stroke and fell off the seat. By the time he got to the middle of the lake, the moon was gone, the little wet breeze had stiffened into a wind, and rushing black clouds had begun to cover the stars.
The Burgys were out there, all right, in their red plastic rowboat, trying to do some fishing. Mr. Burgy did not usually let Mrs. Burgy go out with him at night, but she said that her nerves were bad, and so he took her along. Michael saw their flashlight, shining green through the raincoat that covered it. He wondered if he could sneak up on them.
On another night, the Burgys might have heard him coming.
But the wind was blowing hard tonight, little waves were lapping against the sides of their boat, and they both had transistor radios plugged into their ears. Michael gave one hard pull on the oars and coasted in for the kill.
He was much less than a cable’s length away when the gargoyle shot a long spout of purple-blue flame across their bow.
Mr. and Mrs. Burgy looked up to see a red-eyed, fire-toothed monster bearing down on them. The gargoyle began to sing in a gritty voice:
Then haul in your topsail and brail up your mizzen
And bow yourself under my lee
Or I will take from you your rich merchant goods, merchant goods, merchant goods,
And your dear bodies drown in the salt sea!
Mr. and Mrs. Burgy did not have any rich merchant goods with them, unless you counted their transistor radios. Mr. Burgy threw his at the gargoyle and Mrs. Burgy accidentally turned hers up full blast, so that the whole lake was soon echoing with the sound of “The Electric Prune.” With a terrified lunge, Mr. Burgy shoved past his wife and began pulling the starter cord on the outboard motor wildly. One way or another, he got the thing started and the red plastic boat raced two full circles around Michael’s gargoyle ship before it shot off in the general direction of The Ageless Elms, still blaring “The Electric Prune” and Mrs. Burgy’s loud screams.
Michael watched them go, and then he threw himself down on the floor of the rowboat and laughed. And laughed and laughed. He was still laughing, his mouth open and his eyes closed, when a raindrop splashed on his tongue. He heard thunder, loud overhead, and great spreading branches of lightning shot across the sky, sizzling pale-blue bolts leaping from cloud to cloud. He sat up and felt very scared, very lonely.
“Turn her around!” shouted the gargoyle. His voice was louder than the wind. “That’s right. You’re pointed for home. NOW ROW!” And then, in a softer voice, “Don’t be scared. You can’t sink a rowboat.”
But you can fall out of one, and Michael knew it. He rowed frantically into the wind, missing about every second stroke.
With the gargoyle’s weight in the bow, water sloshed in at every slash of the oar. And now the rain, falling in a steady sheet, was making the boat heavy. Michael felt water around his ankles. The boat tipped dangerously to one side as he dug one oar deep into the water and flailed the other in the air. The gargoyle began to mutter to himself. “Well, as I’ve said before, there’s nothing for it but the deep six. Greater love hath no et cetera. GOODBYE MICHAEL!”
He rolled over the side like a heavy log and splashed into the water. But Michael did not hear him. He was rowing with his eyes closed and praying out loud.
In a cold rainy dawn, Michael dragged the waterlogged boat ashore. He saw that the Burgys’ boat had been run halfway up the beach with the motor still on, so that a deep muddy channel had been gouged in the sand. He was not amused by this, or by anything. For about half an hour, he sat on the end of the slatted gray dock and cried with his head in his hands. All of a sudden, his feet felt something rough in the water. A log was bouncing against the pier.
“Well,” it grumbled, “so much for piracy on the high seas.”
“Gargoyle!” shouted Michael. He slid off the end of the dock and stood there in the cold water, hugging the long stone creature. “I didn’t know you could swim!” said Michael.
“Neither did I. Just shows what you can do. Cats don’t know they can swim, either, until they have to. And they probably enjoy it about as much as I do.”
Michael helped the gargoyle ashore, which was easy, because he floated. But as soon as he was on land, and the emergency was over, his old stony weight returned. Besides, he was tired. He lay there with his snout in the sand and watched the water pour out of his hammered-copper drainpipe.
“Go on back to bed, Michael. Change into some dry pajamas. I shall lie here meditating on the fortunes of those who go down to the sea in rowboats.”
Michael kissed the gargoyle between the eyes and ran up the path.
The next morning, Mr. Taliaferro went down to look at the damage. The rowboat was full, but he had expected that. He had not expected to see the gargoyle lying there on the beach, but he decided that vandals were to blame. Mighty determined vandals, too, going out on a night like last night. He noticed that the Burgys’ car was gone. He hoped that they were in it when it went. Not that he minded the screaming fit Mrs. Burgy had had at their card party. It actually made her more interesting.
Epilogue
The Burgys did not come back to their cottage that summer, and the Taliaferros never d
id find out what had happened that one stormy night. There was a little item in the Tekonsha Patriot-Chronicle, with the headline GARGOYLE TERRORIZES BRACE LAKE COUPLE, but no one paid much attention to it. Michael wheedled his mother and father into not putting the gargoyle back in the fountain, and four confused workmen carted the large stone ornament back up the stairs to the boys’ bedroom, where he stayed—more or less—the rest of the summer. He lived at the lake for many more summers, and resisted all Fonsy’s efforts to sell him and all David’s attempts to play checkers with him. Michael later became an archaeologist at Harvard and he took the gargoyle with him. He rests on Michael’s mantel between a Middle Kingdom hippopotamus and a Sumerian hog goddess, with whom he carries on noisy disputes that sometimes awaken Michael, who sleeps in the next room. And sometimes the gargoyle talks in his sleep.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by the Estate of John Bellairs
Cover design by Connie Gabbert
978-1-5040-1664-3
Published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
The Gargoyle in the Dump Page 2
