The Gargoyle at the Gates

by Philippa Dowding

  “Stone! Just gargoyle statues with water-spouts. I remove them when the real gargoyles want to sit there,” she said, then she vanished into her store with a little tinkle of the bell.

  Christopher didn’t say a word at dinner. He was too busy mulling over the facts.

  Fact number one: there were two gargoyles living in the park next door to his house.

  Fact number two: it was likely going to be quite interesting.

  Chapter Twelve

  The English Garden: Arabella

  James was lying on the grass, looking up into the autumn sky. The days were already shorter, the nights just a little cooler than they had been, and he was going home, back to Toronto in a few days time. His summer visit with his grandfather was coming to an end.

  He listened to bees still busy in the flowers and the sound of the fountain in the pond, spouting water onto the dark lily pads and lurking frogs. He was going to miss the place. It was nothing like his busy life back in Toronto.

  He knew he was going to miss his grandfather, too, even with his odd wardrobe and his obsession with statues.

  They had spent all summer scanning newspapers and books from all over the globe, from Italy and England, Canada and Japan, searching for “what’s lost.” It seemed like an impossible task, especially since his grandfather wasn’t all that entirely clear about WHAT was lost, exactly.

  James heard a noise and sat up.

  WHIZZ! He ducked just in time: an apple shot right past his head and crashed into the garden seat, spraying shattered apple pieces all over him.

  “Hey! Cut it out, whoever you are!” He scrambled on all fours across the grass, and dove for cover behind a half-finished statue of flowers. Apple after apple smashed into the statue above his head. He peeked out and caught a glimpse of a leathery arm and a horned head.

  “Arabella! I’m leaving soon, don’t you want to make friends with me before I go?”

  The apples stopped. A sweet, whispery gargoyle voice called back, “Mashrad bellatro!” but James heard it say, “Defend yourself, boy!”

  James gulped. He knew what was coming. Still hiding, he scooped all the apples he could, lobbing them back in the direction of the thrower in the trees. The garden rang with the sound of apples, apples everywhere! The apple war raged until James thought his arms would give out.

  But finally the apples stopped coming (there weren’t any more in easy reach). He heard a strange, raspy sound then, which took him a moment to understand: the gargoyle Arabella was laughing!

  Have you ever heard a gargoyle laugh? Imagine a sound something between a small, barking dog and a rattling bag of bones. James lay exhausted among the apples listening to laughing Arabella, and found that he was laughing, too.

  They might be naughty. They could be surprising. They might bury you in leaves, drench you with water, and wing apples at you when you weren’t looking.

  But James was NOT expecting that a gargoyle could make you laugh.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Candles by Daye, in the Afternoon

  The next day at school, Christopher avoided Katherine. He didn’t know if she knew he’d been in the park again, and he really didn’t want to find out. He did his best to stay out of her sight.

  After school though, it was obvious he wasn’t going to be able to avoid Katherine any longer. He was late leaving his classroom and when he got to the streetcar stop, Katherine was standing there.

  He didn’t have any choice, he had to wait with her.

  “Hi,” he mumbled.

  She looked at him, and looked away. “Hi,” she said quietly.

  They waited in total silence. Katherine read a book, ignoring him. Christopher looked at the sky. Looked at his shoes. Was very interested in the dirt under his fingernail. Stared straight ahead. And sighed with relief when the streetcar finally came.

  Katherine went to the back of the streetcar. Christopher sat right behind the driver, as far from her as he could.

  He could see a problem arising.

  Cassandra had invited him for tea this afternoon after school. Last night, she’d very clearly said, “Come by my store tomorrow after school for tea.” He didn’t want to disappoint her if she was waiting for him. He didn’t want to appear rude, and he DID want to know more about the gargoyles. He’d been thinking about them all day. He couldn’t STOP thinking about them. The whole class had laughed their heads off when the teacher asked him a question in math class and he answered, “Gargoyle.” He wasn’t paying attention, and when he opened his mouth to answer, that’s what popped out. Luckily, Katherine wasn’t in class at that moment.

  He was invited to Candles by Daye for tea, and he wanted to go. But Katherine was obviously visiting Cassandra’s store today, too. They would both be there …

  … and he was pretty sure Katherine would disapprove.

  He bit his lip and glanced down the streetcar, which was empty except for the two of them. Katherine was busy reading.

  His heart was pounding when he got off the streetcar. He let Katherine go first, and she zipped ahead of him along the sidewalk, then darted through the green door of Candles by Daye. Christopher heard the doorbell tinkle, caught the scent of cinnamon, then watched the door slam behind her.

  What was he going to do?

  He stood for a while on the sidewalk in front of the store, fiddling with his backpack strap and scratching the top of his foot against his calf. He pushed his glasses up his nose. He glanced across the street at his house, but no one was home. Claire came home and walked the dog at lunch every day now, so Marbles was taken care of, at least for the moment.

  Christopher took a deep breath, reached for the door handle … then heard a crash inside the store. Suddenly someone was shouting.

  “You’re the thief!” someone yelled. “Now get out!” The door burst open and a man with thick glasses, a white straw hat, and a large brown coat barrelled onto the sidewalk, banged into Christopher and stormed off down the street muttering. He seemed very angry.

  Christopher was astonished.

  “Come in, Christopher!” Cassandra said pleasantly from the doorway. She was quite calm for someone who was just yelling at a customer.

  “Who … who was that?” Christopher croaked.

  “Don’t worry about him, he’s just a nasty person who drops by from time to time. Tea?”

  She seemed so nice that Christopher could only smile and nod. He really couldn’t believe such angry words had come out of this pleasant, calm lady. Maybe yelling at the customers was just another thing that he’d have to get used to about Toronto? As Cassandra poured the tea, Christopher looked around.

  It was a strange store, filled with statues, incense, candles, and books about yoga. There were healing chime balls (whatever those were) and strings of beads and crystals hanging from the ceiling, along with dream catchers, bandanas, and Toronto tourist postcards. It was like an antique store, but with more stuff in it. He could tell it was really, really old.

  He reached forward to take a sip of tea … and froze.

  Someone was coming down the stairs at the back of the store. The stairs must have gone up to the roof, because a few September leaves blew down into the store with the walker.

  It was Katherine.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Stone Lion Stands

  It was James’s last day in England, and his grandfather had woken that morning determined to go on a road trip. James was delighted! He hadn’t seen much of England at all since he’d been there, nothing really except London on the day he landed and his grandfather’s beautiful old garden and thatched cottage ever since. He wanted to see at least some of the country before leaving for home.

  He was excited at the thought of going for a drive through the countryside, but grew a little worried. He hadn’t seen a car anywhere on his grandfather’s property, and he hoped they weren’t travelling across the countryside by balloon, or penny-farthing bicycle or something (with his grampa, you just never knew)
. James followed his grandfather into an old shed and gasped when the old man pulled a huge sheet off an antique 1920s road car. Thick dust filled the shed and made James cough and rub his eyes.

  “Grampa Gregory! Is THAT your car? We’re going for a drive in THAT?” But his grandfather didn’t answer him. Instead he opened the trunk and pulled out a box, which looked just as dusty as the sheet. It creaked open, and James tried not to look too worried at what he saw inside: two leather caps and two pairs of giant goggles. His grandfather took one leather cap out of the box, blew thick dust off it, and handed it to James. Then he picked up the other cap and started fiddling with the leather strap under his chin.

  James recognized these caps: they were the kind of caps that flying aces wore in their bi-planes in the First World War. So today his grandfather was going to look like a flying ace?

  James gingerly lifted the leather cap to his head but heaved a silent sigh of relief when it didn’t fit. It was much too big. He looked up at his grandfather and nearly jumped out of his skin. His grandfather was wearing his leather cap and the giant goggles, which made his eyes look enormous.

  “Okay, no hat, but you’ll need the goggles,” his grandfather said, passing them to him. Unfortunately, the goggles fit, and James had no choice but to wear them as he and his grandfather pulled slowly out of the cottage driveway then cruised through the English countryside. His grandfather drove the old-fashioned car with big headlights and leather seats and footrails along roads beside fields of ripe wheat and barley.

  They passed cows and sheep dotting the slopes and valleys of the rolling green English hills. There were beautiful farmhouses and tractors travelling along slowly, hauling huge mounds of fresh hay. Occasionally they passed through a small town, with giggling children and adults waving at their antique car. James’s grandfather always beeped the horn, which made a loud, deep honk, drawing more shrieks and giggles and waves from the people of the town.

  James’s grandfather was right: he DID need the goggles. The old car barely had a windshield, and by the time they drove through a tiny country village and parked on the main street, the goggles were covered with bugs. And not all of them were dead.

  His grandfather pulled a picnic basket out of the trunk and led James to the edge of the town, to an old abandoned church. The churchyard gate creaked open very loudly, and as James stepped into the church courtyard, he gasped.

  It was the most beautiful place he’d ever seen. The church walls were golden, still warm in the afternoon sun. A little stream ran along beside the church and an ancient, overgrown apple orchard looked as though it hadn’t been tended in years. In the distance, green hills and chestnut trees rolled away as far as he could see.

  He breathed deep. It was quiet except for the bubbling of the little stream, and the air was sweet with the scent of the tiny, wild apples.

  But what drew James’s attention most was a statue sitting all alone on a pedestal in the middle of the courtyard. It was made of stone, and it must have been hundreds of years old.

  It was a lion, regal and proud, facing west. James moved over to the statue and ran his hand along its golden stone back, which was warm and glowing in the afternoon sun. His hand hovered over the lion’s left ear, which was broken off. James realized something was underfoot: he was standing on a piece of stone, which he picked up and rolled in his hand. He slowly fit the piece of broken stone back onto the lion’s ear. It fit perfectly; the left ear was whole again.

  “Do you come to life and roar at night?” James whispered in the lion’s ear. It stared into the distance with fierce stone eyes. James felt a strange kinship with the lion and lingered a long time, looking into the distance with it, listening to the bubbling stream nearby. It made him wonder who else had lived there? What had the lion seen in its long, long life in this tiny, tucked-away place?

  Who had broken its left ear?

  Finally he joined his grandfather beside the apple orchard. “I love this place,” he said as the old man was laying out a picnic lunch on the grass beside the stream.

  His grandfather chuckled. “It’s a special place for me, too,” he said.

  The pair sat on the autumn grass with the smell of apples heavy all around them. They ate sandwiches and drank warm mint tea from a flask. And they talked.

  “This churchyard is over four hundred years old, and it’s seen a lot of history, James. That empty field right over there is filled with the remains of hundreds of villagers who died of the plague in 1665,” Grampa Gregory said, waving his hand casually over his shoulder. James looked but saw only sun shining on waving green grass. England was a mysterious and very old place indeed.

  Suddenly, something landed in the grass at James’s feet. He brushed bread crumbs off his hands and stood up. An apple core was lying in the grass. James shaded his eyes and looked up into the church high above him.

  “Who’s up there?” he called, but his grandfather whispered at him to be quiet.

  “Look carefully, James. We have a visitor,” he said quietly. James screwed up his eyes and peered as hard as he could. He could just make out a tiny horned head and wings at the top of the church parapet, hiding in the ivy.

  “Arabella? Is that Arabella up there, Grampa?” James whispered.

  “Yes. She loves it here, too. She flies here at night and often stays for days. I was a little boy and sitting right here the first time I met Theodorus, Septimus, and Arabella. They threw apples at me then, too.” Grampa Gregory smiled as he remembered that long-ago day.

  Another apple landed at James’s feet.

  “Don’t worry, James, she doesn’t want an apple war, not today. She’s just saying hello.”

  James craned his head back and looked up to the top of the church, straining to see the little gargoyle again, but she was too well hidden. A trill of gargoyle laughter floated down to him.

  It was strange, but suddenly he could imagine another boy, in another time, doing exactly what he was doing: staring up into the ivy, listening to a whispery, haunting, gargoyle laugh, and wondering how to make friends.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Watching Man

  Katherine put her hands on her hips. “Christopher, what are you doing here?” she demanded. She didn’t seem very happy. Christopher tried not to look worried.

  Cassandra came to his rescue. “I invited him, Katherine. He was in the park last night and met the gargoyles by accident. I invited him to come today for tea.”

  Katherine walked over to Christopher. She stood before him and looked him steadily in the eye, crossing her arms. He tried not to flinch.

  “Well, Christopher Canning, it seems we have no choice but to be friends. How are you with keeping secrets?” she asked.

  Christopher thought about all the times his older brothers had kept secrets from him (but never his sister, who didn’t care much for secrets). He was never allowed in on any of them. It would be a pleasure to have a secret of his own, a big one, which he wouldn’t share. It would be just his.

  “Okay, I guess. I don’t usually have anything to keep secret.”

  Katherine looked at him a long while and finally said, “Come up to the roof.” Christopher followed her up the small staircase to the top of the store. She pushed open a squeaky door, and the two of them stepped out onto the rooftop.

  Christopher thought the view from his bedroom window was good, but this view was incredible. The city was bright and sparkling off to the west, the huge towers glinting in the afternoon sun. The shining lake at the foot of the city was a bright green pool, disappearing into the distance as far as he could see. The CN Tower was like a huge sentinel, standing watch over everything.

  On the rooftop there were tiny trees in buckets, apple trees like the one across the street in the park, bearing ripe fruit. There was a rain barrel brimming with fresh rainwater, a tin cup attached to the side. Pillows and blankets and comfortable chairs waited in a circle under an awning, so you could sit and talk there any time, rain or
shine. There was a propane heater to warm up the space.

  A small garden gnome statue stood off by itself in a corner against the chimney. It looked badly battered, and Christopher noticed apples smashed at its feet and on the wall behind it. Someone was a good shot.

  The rooftop was a friendly place. Katherine sat in one of the comfortable wooden chairs and pulled a blanket over herself. She beckoned Christopher to a chair beside her.

  “Sit,” she said.

  He perched on a lawn chair, but he couldn’t relax. He really just wanted to run away.

  “It’s okay, Christopher. I don’t bite,” she smiled then added, “The gargoyles might, though, you should probably watch out for that.”

  “Uh, yeah, okay,” he stammered. The thought of explaining to his mother that he had a gargoyle bite made his head swim. He had the sudden horrible desire to giggle madly. Instead, he forced himself to say something. “What do you call the gargoyles?”

  “Their names are Gargoth and Ambergine.”

  “Have they always lived in the park across the street?”

  “Oh, no! They’re over four hundred years old, they’ve lived a lot of places. They want to live here in Toronto now, near Cassandra and me. The park is perfect for them … but I don’t think they can stay.” She paused, suddenly quiet.

  “Why not?”

  She sighed. “They have an enemy, Christopher. An obsessed old man who wants to steal them and lock them away … he’s done it before. He locked Gargoth up for seventy years.”

  “An enemy? Locked him up?”

  “Yes. He’s called the Collector. He’s sitting right over there,” Katherine said nonchalantly. She waved over her shoulder in the direction of the library, a few rooftops away.

  It was getting dark, but Christopher squinted and could make out a figure sitting on the library rooftop garden bench. It was an old man wearing thick glasses, a hat, and a heavy brown coat. And he was staring straight at them.