The Last Gargoyle

by Paul Durham

  I’m surprised by an unpleasant tingle—like a small electric shock. I pull my hand away but the sensation lingers, all around me now.

  “Bunny rabbit!” a tiny voice cries out.

  My eyes follow the source and I see one of the children pointing to the leaves of an ugly shrub growing along the fence. Like a swarm of moths, the rest of the children head in that direction, followed by Mamita and a few curious parents.

  For heaven’s sake, don’t touch it. I haven’t seen a rabbit in the city in recent memory. It’s probably a rabid squirrel.

  I turn back to Hetty and find that she has now looked up too. But instead of watching the wildlife, she seems to be staring at me. Or through me, more likely. She blinks her dark eyes, then pushes herself up, setting her white molding clay down on the seat before heading off in the direction of the younger children.

  I’m inclined to follow but first take a quick glance at her creation. After all, I’m a bit of an expert when it comes to fine sculpture. But my eyes narrow and linger on what she’s left behind on the seesaw. Why would she make that?

  The clay’s been molded into the general shape of a long, gangly man. His face is featureless, but Hetty has topped his head with a foil hat made from a gum wrapper. It’s bent into the shape of a tiny crown.

  I lean in for a closer look.

  A rubbery, boneless…king?

  I’m jolted by a harsh cry.

  “Tomás!”

  The words are shrill. Panicked. They come from Mamita.

  Tomás has climbed out of the sandbox, but instead of chasing rodents through the bushes, he’s toddled across the grounds on uneasy legs and is heading for—Who opened that gate?

  The ominous black gate is flung wide like a hungry mouth.

  I’m after him in a flash. Mamita’s even faster, streaking past me. Don’t believe all those statistics about cheetahs—protective mothers are the fastest creatures on this earth or any other.

  But in this case, we’re both too late.

  Tomás clears the gate and bobbles out onto the sidewalk, just one step from the busy street and rushing traffic.

  His sneaker clears the curb. There’s a blaring horn. A screech of rubber.

  To my relief, there’s no thud of impact. A passerby steps in front of Tomás at the last moment. It’s an older child who has blocked his path.

  She crouches on one knee, leans in, and seems to whisper something in his ear. Tomás pivots on his heels. Blinking wildly in confusion, he rushes back inside the safety of the fence and stumbles into the arms of his racing mother. Hetty is right behind them.

  The good Samaritan pushes herself up from her knee and adjusts her wool cap. Hetty and Mamita are too shaken to either notice or thank her. I know how that feels. A rescuer’s work is often thankless.

  I hurry past my jittery wards to meet her.

  “Viola?”

  “Voilà,” she says with a theatrical bow and a flourish of her fingerless gloves.

  Viola smiles broadly from under the brim of her newsboy cap. She still wears her pea coat and carries the battered violin case in her hands.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Sorry,” she says, and her shoulders slump.

  My tone was more accusatory than intended. I don’t have much practice with this sort of thing.

  “I mean, are you coming from rehearsal or something?” I try.

  She nods and shrugs. The other pedestrians continue right on by, oblivious to the tragedy that was just so narrowly avoided.

  “Well, I guess I’m glad you showed up,” I say. “You kept Captain Poopy—I mean, Tomás—from getting flattened by a bus.”

  “Someone had to do it,” she says with another shrug, the instrument case bouncing in her hand.

  “I was right behind him,” I clarify quickly, stealing a glance back into the playground. Someone has wisely relatched the gate. Mamita and Hetty are packing up the stroller, still trying to compose themselves.

  “But I suppose it never hurts to have an extra set of eyes,” I add.

  “You’re welcome, then,” Viola says.

  I turn back to her.

  “So you can still see me?” I ask suspiciously.

  “Yes. Well…barely, under that hood. You look like you’re on your way to knock off a convenience store.” She narrows her eyes. “You’re not, are you?”

  “Of course not,” I scoff. “What happened to you last night? I told you to stay on the roof.”

  “You didn’t seem all that thrilled to find me there to begin with,” Viola points out. “Now it sounds like you’re disappointed I left.” She purses her lips and studies me curiously. “You’re a funny gargoyle.”

  “Grotesque,” I correct gruffly. “It’s just that—it could have been dangerous.”

  “Because of that Netherkin business?” she asks.

  “That’s right,” I say. “You can never be too cautious with them.”

  “So what is a Netherkin, anyway?”

  I bristle at the thought of them. “Only the vilest, most noxious vermin to crawl the earth.”

  Viola shakes her head slowly. “Yeah…that doesn’t really help.”

  I sigh. Where to begin?

  “Look, I’m on my way somewhere,” I say, noticing the people hustling past us on the street. “I don’t have time to explain right now, but thanks again for, you know, the Tomás thing.”

  I start to go.

  “Where?” she asks.

  I pause. “Out. To find somebody.” My eyes flick toward the playground, where Hetty’s crowned clay figure sits ominously on the seesaw.

  “Are they missing?”

  “No, not find like that. I don’t know who he—or it—actually is.”

  “Oh, like a scavenger hunt for people,” she says cheerfully. “That sounds like fun.”

  I purse my lips. “It’s something to pass the time, anyway,” I say. “And I should really get on with it.”

  “Can I come?”

  I almost choke in reply. “With me?”

  “Would that be so bad?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

  It sure seems like a bad idea. “Uh, I don’t know,” I say.

  She frowns at my response but remains undeterred.

  “Come on, I can help,” she says. “I’ll be your extra set of eyes.” She bats them widely at me to demonstrate. “To help you find your missing person.”

  “I mean, maybe it won’t be awful,” I say reluctantly, and sigh to convey what a painful chore it will be. I don’t let on that, in truth, some company wouldn’t hurt right now.

  “Great,” she says, brightening. “You can tell me all about the Netherkin on the way.”

  I take that back. Small talk is painful.

  “Let’s get going,” I urge. “People will think you’re crazy if you stand here talking to yourself much longer.”

  A city dweller can pass hundreds of people in a day without uttering a single greeting to another living soul. My wards are the same way. They practically live on top of one another but do their best to avoid eye contact in the hallway. It wasn’t always that way. It used to be that everyone in the neighborhood knew everybody else. But today, despite my warning to Viola, nobody gives a second glance to the girl with the violin case who mutters to herself while marching down the street. In fact, most of those we pass prefer to carry on their own conversations through the little wires dangling from their ears.

  We make a quick check of the Fens but, no surprise, there’s no sign of the Boneless King or any Netherkin under the stone bridge or elsewhere. I set off for a more fertile hunting ground.

  “So Netherkin are basically ghosts?” Viola asks as we cross an intersection.

  Her question is a tricky one. I’m doing my best to indulge her, but describing Netherkin in human words is like painting a portrait without a brush. I’ve never had to explain any of this before.

  “No,” I answer. “At least, not like the kind you’re thinking of. Ghosts are in
transition—finding their way from one place to another. Some do it quickly. Others get lost along the way. Netherkin are what become of the dead who choose to stay.”

  “Stay where?”

  “Here. Before moving on to what’s Next.”

  “What’s next?” she repeats.

  “That’s right.”

  “No, I’m asking—what’s next?”

  I shrug. “Beats me. Whatever happens to you people after you die.”

  Viola stops when we reach the curb and furrows her porcelain brow at me. “You don’t know?” she asks.

  I pause to face her. “How would I? I’ve never been.”

  I think about the Twins. And the dozens of Grotesque friends who’ve moved on before them. Whatever’s Next for us, none of them have ever come back to tell me about it.

  “But you seem to play an important role in all of it,” Viola says. “Guarding against ghosts…or Netherkin or…whatever. I assumed you knew how all this works.”

  I stand a little taller at the sound of her compliment. Why, yes, I am an important part of—wait a minute. Is she calling me clueless?

  “Well, I do have my own suspicions,” I add defensively. “But I doubt they’re more accurate than anyone else’s. Why? Do you know what comes Next?”

  Viola bites her lip in thought, running her thumb and forefinger along the crimson streak in her pigtail. “I know what people have told me. Some of them are a bit more insistent about it than others. But I don’t know anyone who’s ever been there either.” She casts a glance toward the passersby who navigate around us on the sidewalk. “And, somehow, I think whatever’s waiting will be entirely…unexpected.”

  I have plenty of my own questions for this peculiar girl with the curiosity about dead things, but this hardly seems the time or place. People with such interests often find what they’re looking for prematurely. If Viola sticks around long enough, maybe I’ll get around to asking those questions.

  “Well, whatever’s Next, no good comes from putting it off,” I say. “Netherkin upset the natural balance of things…and my wards. I’ve got no patience for that sort of monkey business in my Domain.”

  I gesture for her to follow me. Our destination isn’t far. She’s quiet for much of the rest of our walk.

  “Goyle,” Viola finally says. “Why would the Netherkin stay here? What makes them linger?”

  “Rotten in life, rotten in death, I suppose.” I wave a dismissive hand. “I’ve stopped trying to figure them out. Their brains are long since worm-eaten.”

  Viola frowns.

  “Whatever their reasons, the only good Netherkin is a well-digested one. Have I mentioned that already?”

  Viola shakes her head.

  “Keep it in mind. It could save you a lot of trouble.” I stop and cross my arms when we reach a corner at the edge of the Common. “But you seem to have a knack for chatting with things you aren’t supposed to. If you’re really that curious about what the Netherkin are thinking, maybe you can ask one yourself.”

  Viola narrows an eye. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I point to a drab, boxlike building sitting just outside an old burial ground like a crypt. From beneath my hood, I flash a little grin that reveals my chipped tooth.

  “Come on, I’m about to introduce you.”

  The Boylston Street subway station isn’t an actual crypt, but its tunnels are indeed a tomb of sorts—the last resting place of ten souls who died in a gas explosion in 1897.

  We descend the dingy tile steps with a few commuters, and before we reach the inbound platform I ask Viola if she has money for the fare. I don’t need any, of course, but I’d hate to get her arrested for fare-jumping. Viola waves me off and expertly ducks under the turnstile when no one else is looking.

  The platform is unusually narrow. Carcasses of hulking antique trolleys, long out of service, are displayed in an enormous iron cage alongside the tracks. It’s always eerily quiet here, except when a subway car rolls in, like now, announcing its arrival with a shrieking squeal as it navigates a sharp right turn.

  The car’s green doors slide open, but we don’t get on. Instead, we wait for all the passengers to board and disembark, leaving us temporarily alone as its wheels screech and it rumbles away, disappearing into the darkness.

  “Now,” I say, and leap down onto the tracks. Viola hesitates.

  “It’s okay,” I reassure her. “Just don’t touch that rail right there.” I gesture toward the one that’s alive with enough electricity to incinerate her.

  She carefully climbs down onto the gravel and joins me. I coax her to follow me into the dark tunnel where the trolley has disappeared.

  “Down there?” she says in disbelief.

  “You’re the one who wanted to come,” I remind her, but I can appreciate her hesitation. “Look, you don’t need to worry. You’re with me. As long as you stick close, the Netherkin won’t bother you.”

  I don’t think she’s entirely convinced, but she seems to trust me enough to follow anyway.

  I lead her down a narrow corridor that runs alongside the track, slipping from one cobwebbed nook to the next. Utility bulbs are strung overhead to light the way for subway workers, although they do little except cast monstrous, spidery shadows across the ground. We step over loose mortar and puddles. A decomposing leather belt does its best snake impression and startles us momentarily.

  Yes, I admit it—even I get skittish around those slithery things.

  We creep around a bend where the tunnel narrows even further. I pause and take note of some graffiti sprayed on the tunnel wall. It’s no masterpiece, but the features are striking—and becoming all too familiar. The crude white stick figure looms, its face blank except for hollow black eyes. On its head? The sharp points of a crown. Boneless King…it seems you’ve been getting around.

  “Eww, Goyle,” Viola groans behind me. She pinches her nose. “Was that you?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “It’s just a sewage leak. Now shush, or they’ll hear us coming.”

  I lead Viola past the unpleasant portrait. I raise a finger and signal for her to stop, then ready myself.

  “They should be right about…here!”

  With a growl, I pounce around the corner, arms raised and my most fearsome grimace plastered across my face. I always love the look in Netherkin’s beady little eyes when I catch them by surprise. But this time, I’m the one caught off guard. My shoulders slump. There’s nothing here.

  “Are you okay?” Viola asks, coming up behind me.

  “Fine,” I grumble.

  “The way you jumped, I thought you stepped on a mouse or something.”

  “I was going to scare some Netherkin for you. But there aren’t any here,” I mumble in disbelief. I wander around our tight surroundings, examining the walls, kicking over a large rock that has settled on the tracks. “There’s always at least one or two around.”

  “Maybe they stepped out for lunch?” Viola offers unhelpfully.

  This is strange indeed. The subway Netherkin are usually anchored to this tunnel like barnacles. They’ve dwelled here for as long as I can remember. I find myself wandering farther down the track.

  “Goyle, maybe we should be heading back?” I hear Viola saying behind me.

  But I’m hardly listening. I’m pushing forward with purpose, peering through the shadows. They must be here somewhere. Overhead, a utility bulb flickers.

  “Goyle!” Viola says, catching up to me with a scuffle of her boots. “You told me to stay close.”

  We both stop short at a fork in the tunnel, where the branching track is now shrouded in darkness. The string of overhead lights has gone black. Something stares at us from the gloom.

  The eyes are red—the kind you might find on a frightened albino lab rabbit.

  Viola leans forward. “Is that…?” she whispers, and pauses.

  These eyes aren’t frightened. And the rabbit they belong to stands on hind legs as long as a human’s. He’s
hunched over, like an old man suffering from a crippling disease, and his patchy black fur is slick with oil and grease. The wretched thing looks like he’s been run over by a train, chewed up, and spit back out. One of his long ears twitches as he listens to us; the cartilage in the other ear is broken, leaving it dangling over his face like a snapped tree branch.

  But I have no pity for this creature. He flashes a nasty grin, and a jagged row of oversized human teeth present themselves to me.

  I don’t hesitate, and rush toward him. This Netherkin is as quick as a hare in a meadow, and he darts deeper into the tunnel.

  “Goyle!” I hear Viola shout. “Wait for me!”

  But I don’t stop. I’m on the hunt now. I’ve never seen a Netherkin quite like this one. I hear the pad of his claws as he hurries over gravel, the sickly wheeze of his breath choking out a malevolent chuckle.

  My pursuit takes me deeper into the subway than I’ve ever ventured before. The Black Rabbit is quick, but I keep pace. I can hear his breathing begin to labor; I can now sense his fear as he scrambles for an escape. Hop all you want, Netherkin. You can’t outrun me forever.

  I’m closing in. I smell mildew and wet fur as the Black Rabbit turns a corner into an alcove up ahead. I rush in right behind him and find his back pressed against a wall just steps away. We’ve reached a dead end. The Black Rabbit’s red eyes flicker, not nearly as defiant as they were a moment ago.

  “Not so smiley now, are you?” I say. “Answer my questions and I’ll make this as painless as possible.”

  I lower my hood and crack my knuckles. The Black Rabbit raises his long, fingerlike claws to defend himself. But my victory is interrupted by a piercing sound. The Netherkin hears it too.

  The shriek of wheels on metal. A trolley is distant but closing fast.

  I look over my shoulder but don’t see Viola. Of course I don’t. In my haste, I left her alone on the tracks.

  “Oh, bricks.”

  I glance back at the Black Rabbit. His scarred nose twitches, bloodshot eyes watching for my next move. Surely, if I leave him, he’ll disappear into the tunnels for good. But if I stay…