The Last Gargoyle

by Paul Durham

  It’s a dog, with wide bulging eyes, perky ears, and a squashed nose. It’s mostly black, with white along its belly and a little scar over one eye. I’m flattered to have made it into her journal, although I’d like to think I look a bit more ferocious in person.

  Another sketch fills the opposite page. This one is more curious.

  It’s of a boy.

  He wears a black ski vest and a coal-colored sweatshirt over slouched shoulders, hands thrust in his pockets. His face and head are obscured under a hood as if he’s trying to disappear, but two intense eyes peer out from under the shadows of its folds.

  Watching.

  I return to my roof once Hetty and her family have left the apartment. They aren’t the only ones who haven’t slept, and I’d really like to crawl into my shell for some much-needed rest. But that’s not why I’m here. Someone else is also on my mind.

  Unfortunately, Viola doesn’t come to see me.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, I’m the one who told her to run and not look back. She’s not my ward, and yet I worry for her almost as much as I do for Hetty and the residents of my Domain. I sit for a while under the overcast sky. Even more rain is on the way, I can smell it brewing out at sea. I watch the distant flight of the mother falcon as she stalks our glass-and-steel canyons, hunting pigeons for her chicks.

  I hear a patter on the roof and perk up in anticipation. But it’s not Viola. Just the first drops of rain. The patter becomes a steady drumbeat, then a pounding cascade as the skies open.

  I try to formulate my plan. For tonight. And the next. Who knows what else the Boneless King has planned? The Netherkin will keep coming, and I’ve no choice but to match their pace. I should rest, regain my strength for tonight’s troubles. But I can’t. I need to see Viola—make sure she’s safe. Once I do that, maybe I can focus on my real job. The threat to my Domain.

  I venture into the storm as a wisp, navigating the puddles. The wind attacks umbrellas, turning them inside out. The water spills off the buildings in torrents, clapping at the pavement and rattling street signs. The roads are mostly deserted, a lost day for one and all.

  Except for the gargoyles, that is. I pass a large fountain. Oh, how they preen, joyfully gargling the rain and whistling it through their silly puckered lips. Enjoy your moment of glory, you twits. Don’t mind me, it’s not like I could use any help fending off, what was it? Oh, yeah, an army of undead.

  I reach Old Croak’s and slip through the gap in the plywood sheeting. I feel a jitter of nerves in my stomach as I call for Viola—or maybe it’s just the Black Rabbit slowly digesting in my gut. No reply comes as I step through the mounds of ash.

  Descending the narrow back stairway, I feel my jitters increase. I expect to find her in the underground theater. On a day like this, she’s unlikely to be outside. I creep into the Grotesque graveyard.

  The theater smells mustier today, and I can hear drips of water from unseen cracks in the stucco ceiling. The broken bodies on the floor may never have become true Grotesques, but I show respect by carefully stepping over each one.

  “Viola,” I call. “Viola? It’s me…Goyle.”

  Oh, bricks, she’s even got me using that name now.

  But there’s still no reply. I check behind the crumbling pillars and make my way up to the balcony. I don’t find her curled up sleeping in some abandoned seat. Perplexed, I sigh and rest my elbows on the railing as I stare down at the theater. Where else could she have gone? Perhaps, for once, she actually followed my instructions. Maybe she’ll never return here or to my Domain again.

  But below, on the stage, hidden behind some unused boxes, I spot the familiar object resting like a little black coffin. I rush back down to the main level and hurdle onto the stage, skipping the steps. I blink to make sure I’m not mistaken.

  Viola’s violin case. Alone. Abandoned.

  I anxiously cast my eyes over the shadows. Maybe she’s hiding, afraid that I’m upset at her for following me into the Spite House last night.

  “Viola! If you’re here, come on out. I’m not mad. Really. I just want to see you. I’ve come to make sure you’re all right.”

  I’m answered by silence.

  “Viola!” I bellow this time, my concern rising. Of course, my voice doesn’t echo. If anyone else were present, it might sound like the faint rustle of old sheet music.

  Never once have I seen Viola without her case. What possibly could have possessed her to leave it behind now? Suddenly I’m afraid. Did one of the Netherkin slip past me outside the Spite House? Could they have followed her here?

  I crouch down, the case’s brass fasteners just inches from my touch. I’ve come to accept that there’s no violin in there. I’m quite certain that this is where Viola keeps her belongings. A blanket, maybe. Some spare change. A toothbrush, I hope. But also maybe a clue as to where she might have gone?

  I undo the clasps and the case falls open. Nothing but a worn felt lining greets me. The case is entirely empty.

  Except, that is, for a single, silky string.

  Not fishing line. Certainly not dental floss. It shines clear and strong.

  Probably, it’s nothing. And yet I’m overwhelmed by the urge to touch it. I carefully extend a finger and press it against the fiber.

  The jolt is like lightning, and I’m overwhelmed by a surge of memories stronger and more vivid than I’ve ever experienced before.

  I’m in a bed, warm and comforting. It’s not my Domain—I don’t hear the sounds of the city. I smell animals. Livestock. Grain and lavender. The room is dark, the shutters drawn, but a sliver of bright sunlight peeks under the sill. There’s a pail of water beside the bed. A moist sponge on the mahogany nightstand.

  Around me there is music. Gorgeous, beautiful music. Just one instrument. A violin. I look up and see a man seated on a stool by the bed. His face is lined and tired, skin bronzed from the sun and his hair flecked gray. He doesn’t wear the tuxedo or tails of a concert performer. There’s soil under his nails, his thick hands callused from labor. His eyes are shut as he plays.

  My body is small and weak. I’m aware of pain from head to foot, but at the moment any discomfort is dull and far away. This memory is no nightmare. All I feel is relief, basking in this precious little moment of happiness.

  The notes soar, carrying me with them on their ebb and flow. When the violinist finishes the song, he opens his eyes and sees me watching. He smiles.

  In this tired man’s face I feel an emotion. One that’s powerful, steadfast, and raw. It’s foreign to me, and yet I somehow know what it is.

  In that moment, I know that I am loved.

  A roar jars me from my vision. I’m in the underground theater again, a subway car rumbling through some nearby tunnel.

  Disoriented, I lift my finger from the string. It’s like I’ve been yanked away forever from some wonderful journey. I don’t know how long I was gone—it could have been minutes or hours. It takes me a moment to regain my senses, and as much as I would like to return and linger there, I know I need to get back to my Domain. These days, night comes all too quickly.

  Reluctantly, I close the violin case and fasten the clasps. I want to take it with me but feel I should leave it for Viola in case she returns. Only she can explain what it is—and what it means. If I don’t find her by tomorrow, I’ll come get it myself.

  I return to my Domain under wet, gloomy skies. When I arrive at the entrance I look up and see a glow in Hetty’s bedroom window. She’s home from school and it’s the type of dark afternoon that calls for lamplight. I head upstairs to check on her but stop before shifting into Clover. The apartment door is cracked open again. I feel a familiar hum in the air. Not as intense as recent nights, but ominous nonetheless.

  Not again! What sort of Netherkin dares to walk by day?

  I tear through the apartment and burst into Hetty’s room. She’s in her bed, lying peacefully on her side, closed eyelids fluttering gently.

  And sitting
next to her on the edge of the bed is…someone.

  Her hands are folded neatly in her lap over striped leggings. She’s leaning close to Hetty’s ear, whispering—her lips so pale they’re almost transparent. The words are more of a ripple in the air than an actual voice. I recognize the newsboy cap and the crimson-streaked pigtail tucked behind an ear.

  But now I recognize even more—the most obvious feature, which I’ve somehow overlooked.

  An uncontrollable fury rises up inside me. I step forward before she realizes I’m there. I reach out and clutch Viola by the neck. Her body stiffens in my grip.

  And now I know for certain. I’m such a stupid block of stone.

  I can’t touch or be touched by the living, but she’s not alive.

  Viola is a Netherkin.

  I press Viola against the wall by her throat. I’m so angry I’m speechless, not that I don’t give it a try.

  “You!” I bark. “You lied to me!”

  “Goyle, please,” she gasps. “Let me explain.” Her fingerless gloves desperately grab at my hands.

  “Has this been your plan all along? Fool me so you can get to Hetty?”

  “Yes,” she says, and coughs as my grip tightens. “I mean, yes and no. Not for the reasons you’re thinking.”

  “I’ve had more than my fill of Netherkin this week, Viola. They’re practically bursting out my ears. But I’ve got room for one more.”

  “Then do it, Goyle!” she shouts, her eyes flashing. “I’ve done what I needed to, so go ahead and swallow me if that will make you happy!”

  “It doesn’t make me happy at all,” I protest. “I thought you were my friend.”

  “I am your friend,” she chokes. “I came here to help Hetty. And if you can get past your blind hatred and listen to me for five minutes, I think I can help you too.”

  I loosen my fingers but don’t let go. “Another tall tale from the violin-playing Netherkin?”

  Viola’s eyes flare. “It’s not a tall tale. If I wanted to hurt Hetty I would have done it when I got here an hour ago.”

  I open my hand and Viola falls to the floor.

  How could I have been so blind? No wonder she can see and speak with me. And now that I think about it, I’ve never actually seen her talk to a living person at all. All the clues have been staring me right in the face. Viola’s mysterious appearance on my roof. Her miraculous escape in the subway. The hands on my back under the Copper Dragon? They were hers, I was just too lost in rage to realize it.

  “You and Onesimus are exactly the same,” I fume. “All you Netherkin are—what do they call it these days?—phony bolognas.”

  “No, we’re not all the same.” She pushes herself up from the floor. “And nobody uses that expression, by the way.”

  I sputter my lips at her. It comes out as a growl.

  “It’s true, Goyle. I don’t blame you for thinking otherwise—you were made to believe that way.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I ask. “I’m warning you, Viola. Your next insult will be your last.”

  “The Bone Masons made you despise all Netherkin because they didn’t know if they could trust you. It’s the same reason you can’t touch the living or enter your wards’ dwellings without being invited.”

  “Why wouldn’t they trust us? We’re dedicated, loyal, brave—” I could go on and on, but Viola interrupts me.

  “Yes, yes, I know all that, Mr. Humble. But once your stone form is set, you’re on your own. The Masons can’t communicate with you. They don’t know what you’re thinking. Every Grotesque is going to outlive his Maker many times over. What happens if your mind-set changes over time? How are they supposed to know that you won’t harm those you were built to protect?”

  “I’d never do that,” I scoff. “I can’t even imagine it.”

  “Exactly,” Viola says. “Because they infused you with these absolute beliefs and values. But the Bone Masons aren’t all-knowing. Times change. Some rules that make sense most of the time, or made sense long ago, don’t always apply.”

  My mind is reeling. Was I so lonely, so desperate for a friend—any friend—that I only saw what I wanted to?

  “Why didn’t I sense you before?” I waggle my fingers at her. “Where’s all your static and nasty Netherkin vibrations? Are you covering it up with some sort of black magic?”

  “I’m not here to harm your wards. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You didn’t sense me because I’m not a threat.”

  I glare at her. In the short time I’ve known her, Viola’s shown herself to be as guarded as a keystone and as unbending as a pillar. But in truth, she’s never been dangerous to anyone but herself.

  “Think about it,” she implores. “If I came here to hurt your wards, why would I help Tomás outside the playground? Why would I push you to get inside this apartment and find out what was going on with Hetty?”

  Admittedly, I can’t come up with any easy answers to those questions.

  “Don’t you get it yet?” she asks, throwing her hands in the air. “You don’t sense Netherkin because they’re dead. You sense them if they’re bad. And not all Netherkin are bad, Goyle.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but hesitate. I never really thought about it that way before. I always just assumed…I mean, it made perfect sense that…

  I shake my head at the muddied thoughts.

  “Then why deceive me?” I say. “How was that helpful?”

  “I lied so you would give me a chance. If I’d told you what I was that very first night, would you ever have let me off your roof?”

  Probably not, although I don’t admit it. “You could have told me later,” I grumble.

  “I tried to tell you yesterday!” she says. “I tried to tell you everything at Old Croak’s and again outside your friends’ chapel, but you cut me off. You were so busy cursing Netherkin I didn’t know what you might do.”

  My boil has eased to a simmer, but I’m not ready to let her off the hook just yet.

  “Did you even really help out around the shop?” I scoff. “Or is that just part of your made-up story? Maybe you were one of the Netherkin who started that fire.”

  It’s a halfhearted accusation that I don’t really believe myself, but Viola’s porcelain face goes hard. She’s quiet for a long while. Her gaze drops to Hetty’s colorful throw rug, then moves back to me. When her eyes meet mine, I see they’ve gone wet.

  “I died in that fire, Goyle,” she says. “Right alongside Hetty’s father.”

  I stop. Her words hit me like a hammer and chisel. For the first time, it occurs to me that Viola has lost something precious too.

  This time, my words are the ones that come slowly.

  “Can you move on to what’s Next?”

  She nods.

  “Then why are you still here?” I ask. “Why choose to stay?”

  “Because Samuel was there to help me when nobody else would. Now it’s my turn to return that kindness. Who else can help Hetty, other than me…and you?” Viola glances at Hetty, then back again. “I’m no Grotesque, Goyle. But maybe I’m just trying to give new purpose to a life cut far too short.”

  We’re interrupted by a wavering, dreamy voice.

  “Excuse me?”

  Viola and I both turn to the bed in surprise.

  Hetty is sitting up in her blankets, studying me with a look of recognition. Her eyes are open, but far away and unfocused. “You,” she says. “You’re the boy who helped me and Tomás last night.”

  I shake my head, dumbfounded. Holy bricks, is Hetty a Netherkin too?

  “Of course not, silly,” Hetty says, stunning me even further.

  She can hear my thoughts?

  “I can see and hear people like you in my dreams,” she explains sleepily. “I’ve been able to ever since I was a little kid.”

  I look back at Viola in disbelief.

  “Why are you trying to hurt that nice girl?” Hetty asks.

  “I…I wasn’t,” I mumble. “I mean,
it was just a misunderstanding.”

  “Oh, that’s good,” Hetty says. She yawns and folds her hands in her lap. “Do you think you guys could keep it down while you sort it out? I’m trying to take a little nap. I haven’t been sleeping well, and tonight’s Halloween, you know.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I say. “I’d nearly forgotten. Sure, we’ll try to be quieter.”

  “Thank you.” Hetty lies back down, tucking her hands under her cheek and settling onto her pillow. “Oh, by the way,” she says. “If you happen to see a little black-and-white dog around, could you send him this way? It’s a big city out there and I’m worried about him.”

  I give her a nod. “Sure, I’ll do that. Sorry for waking you.”

  “No problem.” She settles in and closes her eyes. “I’ll hardly remember any of this when I wake up, anyway.”

  The sun has barely set on this late afternoon. The lights in the glass tower on Boylston Street cut through the foggy sky. They’ve lit the windows in a pattern that forms a giant jack-o’-lantern in celebration of Halloween. Its jolly, snaggletoothed smile greets the city.

  The sidewalks below are already lined with tiny monsters and demons. Fairies and princesses too. The youngest tricksters have taken to the streets, accompanied by their umbrella-toting parents. Viola and I watch them stumble in their oversized costumes, on their way to kiddie parties or to trick-or-treat in the safety of a neighbor’s familiar building. We dangle our legs over the edge of the roof.

  “Did you ever dress up for Halloween?” I ask. “I mean, before…”

  “Of course, when I was small.”

  “As what?” I ask.

  “Different things. My favorite was a witch.”

  I look at her crossed arms, striped leggings, and knee-high, no-nonsense boots. The cocked cap shadows her eyes.

  “Didn’t take too much effort, I bet,” I offer. The frost between us has thawed—slightly.

  She narrows an eye. “Yeah, well, it was a long time ago.”

  “It’s strange seeing you without your violin case.”

  She just nods.