Mercy, A Gargoyle Story

by Misty Provencher

  Backward Baseball lowers his voice, like he’s standing over my grave. “You’d do it all different now if you could.”

  “Hope so,” The Boy says, wiping his cheek with the heel of his hand. “If I could do it all over, I would’ve never even talked to her that first time at the coffee shop. I’d just erase the whole damn thing.”

  ***

  I am back on my own rooftop, sunken down in a corner, struggling under the weight of it all.

  What a stupid thing to ever want. A boy that is alive, a boy that still doesn’t, and never did, love me. Deep inside, I’ve always known he was just an exciting static at the end of my fingertips, just a little too far beyond my best stretch. But even with these arms I have now, easily twice the length they once were, I see he is even more unreachable than ever.

  He’s never.

  When I look at him now, I see him so differently. Sickeningly thin, with pothole cheeks and hair that hangs like thread. He’s just a boy with lumpy, kabob knuckles and a voice so low that it rumbles in my stomach and makes me ache like I am starving. It’s only worse because nothing has changed, although everything has.

  I peek over the edge of the roof and see that The Boy has left his phone on the counter. He’s sitting on his couch, his gaze tractor-beamed by the light of his TV.

  He was never handsome. I knew that. It’s even more obvious now.

  And it can’t matter anymore that I had found other things in him that I believed were more important than his looks. He never found any of those things in me. Everything that has led me to this corner of the rooftop has something to do with believing that The Boy loved me, while also ignoring every sign that he didn’t.

  The itch of wanting fades slowly inside me, scabbing over into a memory I don’t want to scratch open again. But I feel hollow without wanting him.

  I think of climbing down to Ayla’s window and looking in, just to remember the comfort she used to bring me. On days when I would complain about my hair or my boobs or The Boy, she would tell me, "You're beautiful, Madeline. And smart. You can have anyone. Hear me? Anyone." She'd lower her lashes and give me her sly, teasing smile. "Or everyone, if you play your cards right. Look around the coffee shop and tell me. Which one do you want?"

  Maybe Ayla wanted me to be happy and knew I couldn't be that with a boy who never brought me flowers or cancelled everything with me in order to spend time with his friends. Or maybe she knew I could never be happy with a boy who was really supposed to love her.

  But the more I think on it, the more my thoughts churn around what The Boy told Backwards Baseball. Ayla’s got brains, he said. It is only worse because I always agreed. Ayla was always the brilliant one, the assured, and strong one – the one I wasn’t.

  I never knew, never saw, what I was.

  I fold my arms beneath my heavy face and tip my head back to see further up, beyond The Boy’s window, and beyond his entire building. What I see are the stars, little aluminum shavings drifting in the deep blue of the midnight sky, sparkling like all they want in the world is for me to see them.

  And I do.

  I finally do.

  ***

  Three nights pass before Moag returns, landing on the rooftop like an earthquake. I cling to the brick ledge beside Trickle, but the lion remains as immobile as ever. He retains the cup of water I’ve poured into his mouth, until he addresses the other gargoyle.

  "Good evening, Moag," Trickle says. Each syllable is measured, dull, as if a visit from Moag is nothing. But in the spreading tentacles of light, Moag appears even more frightening than I remember. He is three times my size, with wings that seem like they can blot out the sky.

  "Have you seen?" Moag asks. He tips his wide head slightly to the side, squinting at the back of Trickle's head. Even without having to look at Moag, Trickle's calm demeanor breaks.

  "How can I see? I've heard 561 different voices. Every day has similar patterns in the sound of the cars. They come and go at certain times. And I believe there are 12 new potholes."

  Trickle lists his observances so quickly, the water depletes, and he gulps as I fill him again. It’s pointless. Each thing he mentions, Moag only gives the tiniest shake of his head and a disapproving grunt. I sit and listen, drizzling water to keep Trickle in words.

  Moag rocks back on his heels. His expression sinks from curiosity to boredom. He shakes his head again, but his grunt is an angry rumble.

  "You do not see! Nothing but the same,” Moag says. Trickle goes silent, but even with his mouth gushing water; he looks as inanimate as he does during the dry days and nights.

  Moag turns to me and I cringe. I drop the cup away from Trickle’s head.

  "Have you learned to fly?" he asks. He takes a menacing step forward and the rooftop vibrates beneath him. I dig my talons into the brick and hear it fleck away. Moag takes another step. Moag's broad, flat nose sniffs. "Have you, Slip? It looks to me you have not. Looks to me you have not moved an inch from where you were left."

  My wings go flat and tight against my back, their roots sprouted so deep inside me they feel like they curl around my heart. I wish I could make myself airborne now more than ever, but it is beyond my control.

  "Not an inch," he grumbles when I don't reply. He turns away. The indignation of it mounts inside me. His King has turned me into this awful thing and he's dumped me on a roof where I either broil under a tarp all day or stare at The Boy and my best friend, who break my heart all over again. I have only the company of a lion who can barely talk and a threat of suitors. I am hideous and flaking. I have useless wings that only weigh me down, and this hideous beast continues to insult me about a task that is, as far as I can tell, impossible to accomplish.

  "I tried!" I jump from the ledge toward his retreating back, the anger welling up inside me. I imagine it crashing against him, slapping him like a heavy wave. He turns on me and I wonder if I am imagining the impact or not. Trickle’s eyeballs grit as if they are trying to see me.

  "Ah ha,” Moag grumbles, without turning to face me. "Correct. Standing, Pretty, is first."

  “I don’t think you care if I fly anyway.”

  “How much I care, you don’t know.”

  “I think you stuck me here, because you wanted to trap me.”

  Moag hesitates a moment, as if thinking it over, before he nods.

  “Very likely,” he agrees.

  “But I won’t choose them. I don’t feel anything for any of them.”

  “Nothing, Slip?” Moag’s sneer is like a heavy stone of guilt dropping inside me. It is a lie, I know it is. But having feelings for a King who has already killed his Queen is insane. Moag watches me carefully, seeming to register the battle going on in my head.

  “Do you know what you feel? Surely? Do you?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I say, my tone cold and lifeless. “You were the one sending suitors then, weren’t you?”

  The gargoyle snaps his jaws closed.

  “You aren’t even allowed to reveal your plans!” I gape at him. “This is part of your duty to Truce, isn’t it? You can’t end your own servitude by telling me. But you can point me in different directions. You can only give me diversions, like flying on useless wings, am I right?”

  “Nothing,” Moag says. “That’s what I do. That’s what I say.”

  “So I’m right. Are there limits I can cross with careful questions? Can you tell me if Truce is planning to kill me?”

  “To my Queen, I would be bound to tell my truths.”

  “But I am not your Queen,” I say, and Moag bows his head in agreement. I take a deep look into Moag’s eyes and see the rippling well in the bottom of his soul. “What you want is your freedom. To go on. To die. I understand that. Completely. I wanted it once too.”

  “But no more?” Moag asks. I don’t answer. I’m not sure what my answer is anymore.

  “If I choose Truce as a King, you still can’t move on, is that right?” I ask instead.

  “I am bound to my recip
ient as long as I still possess my gift,” Moag answers. His eyes narrow thoughtfully. “And now, my darling Slip, I’ve said and not said, so what can you tell me?”

  I realize that instant that I’m still unsure. What I do know is that whatever I decide to do, lives will be lost, whether they’re wanted or not.

  “I can’t fly,” I finally tell Moag. “That is all I can tell you.”

  Moag grunts as if he has more to say, but then he takes one step backward and launches himself into the air with his dark wings fanning out against the thinning clouds.

  ***

  The sun sneaks up as I am sitting on the ledge beside Trickle. As I peer down over the edge, I notice that the sunlight doesn’t shine on this side of the building, the side with Ayla’s window on it. Maybe this is how the Gargoyles do it, the ones that don’t want the sun to turn them to stone.

  Nothing could be more soothing to me, than to escape being petrified by the sunlight, while hanging around outside Ayla’s window. It is just like it used to be, when I’d perch on the edge of my seat at the coffee shop and wait for her to show up. The minute she walked in the door, everything in me kind of calmed and I’d get this excited bubbling instead, because I knew the good time was about to start.

  But as I reach her window, I hear the hard line of an angry voice. It’s Ayla, and the bubbling goes to sickening foam that clings to my insides. I cling to the space outside the window frame, but don’t dare peek in.

  “I don’t care if you don’t like him,” Ayla snaps. “He asked me to move in and I’m going.”

  The groan is recognizable. Weak, pained, not enough breath to even finish the sound. Selene.

  “You’re selling yourself short!” she puffs. “Look at what he did with your friend. Look at what happened. You’re not a stupid girl, Ayla. Use your brain!”

  “It’s not like I’ve got a bunch of options, you know. I don’t have a job or anything. He might be able to get me in at the grocery store. He said he’d sleep on the couch.”

  “He said,” Selene’s tone sneers. “Does that mean you’re not in love with him?”

  Ayla’s voice is small. “Not anymore. I tried to be, but I just don’t feel it.”

  “Then that makes it even worse.”

  “I don’t have options! I have nowhere else to go!” Ayla shrieks.

  Selene’s breathing becomes labored, loud. There is a small commotion and something knocked over crashes on the floor.

  “Are you alright?” Ayla asks. No answer. “Mom, are you okay?”

  Finally, Selene puffs, “Fine...I’m fine.”

  I can’t stand it anymore. I poke my head over the windowsill and peer inside. Ayla is standing beside Selene, hunched over on the edge of the bed, nodding and trying to catch her breath. A knock comes from the other side of Ayla’s closed bedroom door.

  “What’s going on in there?” Freckle’s muffled voice asks.

  “Nothing, Cletus!” Ayla shouts back. “Me and Mom are just talking. Git outta here and leave us alone.”

  “You guys stink,” comes the reply, but I hear him shuffle away. Ayla kneels down beside Selene.

  “What is wrong with you? Why won’t you just tell me? You’re so pale,” she says. Selene finally meets her gaze, the tears obvious in both of them.

  “I wanted to finish my job for you. To raise you up right. I wanted to get you out on your own before anything happened,” Selene says. She hangs her head, ashamed. “It’s cancer. I refused treatment. There isn’t any point in prolonging it.”

  “What are you talking about? Cancer? You have to get treatment! You’ve got to try!”

  “No,” Selene says. “Once you’re moved out, the boys will be moving to other foster families. That’s the way I want it.”

  Ayla stands up straight. She shakes her head and juts her jaw.

  “And you’re just going to stay here and die? Who’s going to take care of you?” she asks. Selene doesn’t answer and Ayla shakes her head. “You don’t have anyone, besides us.”

  “That’s not your problem. This will take care of itself,” Selene says.

  “How long have you known?”

  “A while.”

  “And you didn’t tell me.”

  “I was going to,” Selene’s voice breaks at the end and she has to clear her throat and sniffle in a breath to go on. “But I thought I could get you raised and out before it happened.”

  “You didn’t think I’d come back? You don’t think I’d be here every day, even if I didn’t live here? You’re my mother!”

  Selene tips her head up and holds out her arms, and Ayla falls into them. The two of them sob as the ash inside me buries my heart. I hope it is enough. I reach between the bars of my ribs to free my heart, but it won’t budge. I drop my head against the brick and curse the gift that can’t be given.

  “I want you to have a good life,” Selene finally says. They break apart and wipe their eyes.

  “And I want to be here with you. You’re my mom and I want to stay and take care of you.”

  “But what about that boy?”

  “What about him?”

  “Does he love you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Of course he does,” Selene says, opening her arms again. “And you don’t love him. That makes it even worse.”

  ***

  Trickle’s eyes no longer move to find me, even when I come back up at night, clinging to the ledge beside him. I mean to ask him about Selene, but I’m still reeling from what I heard. Ayla doesn’t love The Boy anymore. But he loves her.

  It takes me a while to get up the nerve to ask what I need to know.

  “I have something to ask you, Trickle, but I don’t want you to be mad,” I say. There is no way to know what his mood is, or if he’s even listening now. “Selene, the one who beat you, is she your recipient? She is dying, and her daughter was my best friend. I’m sorry for asking, but I really need to know if you can help her.”

  I use the boot from the door to scoop water from the rain bucket and pour it into the lion’s head. He licks his chops as the water runs through him, but his eyes don’t move.

  “No,” he says.

  “Do you mean you can’t heal her or that she’s not your recipient?”

  With another boot full of water, Trickle groans and says, “Neither, if you must know. You have horrible manners, but you are lucky, as I find myself at your mercy. Another bit of water, please.”

  I pour until there is only one shoe full of water left. I don’t use the last of it because he is only wasting it, moaning through each drop, “What good now? What good? I cannot see to see what I must. I am ruined.”

  I toss down the boot. I’ve had it, with how nothing is going the way it should. Something has to change, and if the circumstances aren’t going to, well, then it will have to be us that do the changing.

  “Stop,” I tell him. I have no way of knowing if it is his lack of water or my tone that renders him silent. “You took a risk. Now you’ve got to deal with losing. You’re going to just have to figure out how to make it work for yourself.”

  Trickle’s face remains immobile. I hear one last wheeze from him, but that is all. I move away, the sadness of his problem leaking into me as I try to ignore it. Over my shoulder, I say, “There must be a way, Trickle. You can still do what you have to do, just not the way you thought you would.”

  There isn’t a sound of disagreement across the entire rooftop. Tires squeal a short distance away and a horn blasts its disapproval, but nothing else. Not until I hear the wings.

  My second suitor floats up, his wings nearly sputtering to hold him, over the edge of the building.

  “Why, hello, my Queen,” he says the moment his bulbous eyes find me. I can’t even remember his name, but he supplies it for me. “Kervus, at your service.”

  “What are you doing here?” I hope he can see the curdled frown beneath my mask, but if he does, he doesn’t comment.

  “I’ve come to offer
an incentive,” he says. “A sweeter pot of choose me that should stimulate your decision to make me your king.”

  His enormous eyes run over me. Ugh. Everything about him is gross. He bobs in front of me and I think of how easy it could be to bat him across the rooftop with one arm, one swish.

  “I’ve already made my decision,” I say. “I told you that.”

  “But your final decision, the one that truly counts, can not be made until all your suitors have assembled to hear. When you hear what I have to tell you, I am positive that you will want to choose me as your king.”

  “Doubtful,” I mutter. Kervus flutters down to my feet and grins up at me with his stacked-fish lips.

  “Your son…did you even know, my sweet, that you had a son?” he asks and everything freezes. My thoughts, my body, my existence. Kervus giggles. “It is a son. Was a son. Is a son again.”

  I dive down on the grotesque little man and pin his neck beneath my claw.

  “What do you know?” I growl, giving him a shake that skittles his eyes like baby rattles. “Tell me!”

  “Your son is alive,” Kervus says, grinning although it looks uncomfortable. “And I know where he is, my love, my Queen. He is a gargoyle.”

  “Impossible. You are a liar. He died before his birth. He had nothing more to learn.”

  “The first breath of air is not the first moment of education about life,” Kervus’s voice is pulled tight, strangled as I push harder on his neck. “Kill me if you must, but this is the truth. We begin learning, gathering data, the moment of conception. Your son must have incorrectly absorbed some of his data, as he is most certainly here. A gargoyle.”

  I stand, dragging Kervus up with me, cinched between my talons. I carry him to Trickle, scooping up the last of the water in the boot and holding it over the hole in the lion’s head.

  “I’ve only got this much water left, Trickle and I need answers. And I swear, I will push you from this ledge myself if you waste it moaning about your eyesight. I’m sure you’ve heard everything Kervus has told me and I need to know if this is true. Is there a way my son could be a gargoyle?”