The Gargoyle at the Gates

For my brother Christopher,

who created the tin foil fairy

The year is 1936.

A young boy and an old man are sitting together, side by side, on a rock in a churchyard. It's a lovely place, with an old apple orchard and a small river running along between the trees and the church courtyard.

An ancient lion statue stands nearby, regal in the gentle summer evening.

The boy and the man are very still, almost as though they are waiting for something. If you listen closely, you can hear the man whispering to the boy:

“They are very shy. You must be extremely quiet, but they will come. They love the apples at this time of year.”

The boy's eyes are open wide, and he dares not move his head lest he scare their mysterious visitors away. He is staring straight ahead at the stone lion, long enough to realize that its left ear is broken off and is lying in the grass at its feet. The boy's grandfather gives him a gentle nudge and whispers, “Shhh. See, over there, in the treetops.”

The boy squints, hardly daring to breathe. It is difficult to see much in the gathering darkness. The treetops are still … then suddenly he sees a movement. A leathery claw reaches out from the green leaves of an apple tree and plucks a fruit from the branch. In another tree nearby, a second claw slowly clutches an apple, then in a third tree, a third claw reaches out.

“There are THREE of them?” the boy whispers.

“Here, yes.”

The boy considers this. “There are more, then?”

The old man nods. “There may be more … perhaps.”

“Then where are the others?”

The old man shakes his head and shrugs. “Lost. Gone. No one knows for sure.”

The boy has many, many more questions he'd like to ask, but he is cut short. In the next moment, a half-eaten apple whizzes through the air and lands at his feet. The boy looks at it, amazed, but doesn't have a chance to say anything, because just then three wondrous creatures emerge from the trees and waddle slowly toward him.

His grandfather has told him they exist, but his grandfather is also known for making up stories.

The boy sits still, barely breathing, until the first creature reaches them and says something in a voice that sounds like gravel, or like pennies swishing in the bottom of a bucket, or maybe like the wind rustling in the winter leaves.

“Snarthen bellatro?” it says, glaring at the boy and his grandfather. It is large and dark, with a ram's head and curly horns.

But the boy hears the gargoyle say something else in its whispery voice, as well. It sounds quite clearly like, “And who are
you
?”

On the Way to School

It was raining. Again.

Christopher Canning pulled on his muddy rain boots and waited at the door for his many-assorted-older-brothers and his slightly-older-sister to get ready for school. Marbles, the family's large dog, bumped gently into Christopher's leg.

He patted Marbles slowly.

Christopher leaned against the cool door frame and looked across the driveway. Next door to their house, a spiky iron fence surrounded a little park that had gateposts and a locked gate.

He had noticed the park but hadn't examined it. He and his family had just moved into this house a few weeks earlier. He hadn't looked around yet, not on his own, not without his many-assorted-older-brothers-and-slightly-older-sister tagging along.

It was an interesting-looking park. It had a stone fountain, and the water made a gentle bubbling sound. In the centre of the fountain were two entwined seahorses, perched on their tails. The water sprayed out of their horns and splashed into the stone bowl beneath them.

There was a small apple tree, too, but apart from that and a few benches and bushes, not much else. It was odd, not a park for playing in, since there were no swings or slides or any playground equipment.

No, not for playing in. But for what then?

Christopher decided it might be for sitting quietly in. That would be the most special thing of all, as far as he was concerned. Somewhere quiet to sit and think, alone. As if on cue, and to remind him of their constant existence, his many-assorted-older-brothers-and-slightly-older-sister (there were five Canning children in all) entered the hallway and started jostling for their raincoats and boots.

“Move it, C.C.,” Marc (his oldest brother) said as he gently pushed Christopher aside to get at the boots.

“Here's your lunch, C.C.,” said Claire (his slightly-older-sister), handing him a lumpy paper bag. He slipped it into his backpack and stepped out of the crowded hallway onto the front porch of the house.

He leaned against the porch railing and again stared at the little park. A red-and-yellow streetcar rattled by, filled with people going downtown to work and school.

He and his brothers and sister were all walking to their new schools. The eldest Cannings were going to the high school, and he was going to the junior school. He was used to new schools, since he and his family moved all the time. His dad and mom worked for different parts of the government — he wasn't sure which parts exactly — so they moved a lot.

His loud family came out of the house and joined him on the porch, popping open umbrellas and stepping out into the rain like one brightly-coloured, many-headed monster. His sister grasped him firmly by the hand and popped her umbrella open over their heads.

“Claire, honestly, I'm twelve years old! I'm too old to hold your hand!” Christopher wailed, trying to pull his hand free, but it was no use. Claire had a vice-like grip and didn't care about mortifying her little brother.

“Come on C.C., it's not that bad!” she said, almost happily. “Great rainy weather for your third awful day at school!” His sister was altogether too happy, most of the time. So downright chipper, it really wasn't natural for a teenager. She pulled him much too cheerfully along the rainy street. As the youngest, he was used to being dragged along by someone at the back of the crowd of many-assorted-older-brothers-and-slightly-older-sister.

But Christopher had noticed that being at the back often had its advantages. You got to see things that people at the front didn't, for instance.

That's why, as Claire dragged him much too happily through the rain to school and past the little park next to their house, he was the only one to notice the gargoyles at the park gates. There were two gateposts with a smallish gargoyle perched on each one. The gargoyles looked very wet and dark. Rainwater was pouring down their leathery backs and shiny wings, and steam was curling off them in little wisps.

As he passed the gargoyles, he looked up. They had leathery faces and intriguing pouches at their sides. They were perched on the gateposts like cats, with their claws in front of them. They didn't look exactly alike, either, which was interesting. He would have liked to look at them longer, but his sister said, “Hurry up, C.C., honestly, you're such a dawdler.”

He liked the look of the gargoyles, so he smiled at them before Claire yanked him away.

That was why he didn't see the first gargoyle stick its tongue out at him.

Or the second gargoyle smile back.

The Apple Bitten

Christopher made it through day three at his new school. The teacher was assigning their math homework for the evening. “Be sure to practise your multiplication up to the fifteen times tables.”

A girl two desks down groaned and slammed her book shut. Her friend, a girl named Kathleen or something, looked gloomy.

The teacher dismissed the class and they all filed out into the hallway. Christopher grabbed his backpack then headed down the old marble stairs and out the front door. As he stood at the streetcar stop, one of his classmates joined him. It was the girl named Kathleen, or something.

They were the only two people at the stop. He looked up at the sky and started rocking back and forth on his feet. He did that whenever he was nervous. Christopher was good at new schools, he'd been to so many. Making new friends, though? Well, that was something different.

The girl turned toward him, clearly trying to think of something to say. Finally she said, “You're … Christopher, right?”

“Uh-huh. Christopher Canning. My family calls me C.C. for short.” He said this so quickly he wasn't sure the girl understood him. Christopher rubbed the top of his shoe against his calf then pushed his glasses up his nose. The girl could see he wasn't going to say anything else.

“I'm Katherine. Newberry,” she said, smiling a little. “Nobody calls me K.N., though. Just Katherine.”

“Oh. Hi,” Christopher said. It was all he could think of. He vowed then and there to start paying more attention to how his sister Claire started such easy conversations with strangers.

The streetcar rattled to a stop and opened its doors. They got on and found seats near the back. The streetcar rattled on its way again.

Katherine got out her notebook and started doing math. Christopher stared out the window. Katherine was saying quietly to herself, “Fifteen times eight. Fifteen times eight,” and tapping the pencil on her chin.

“One hundred and twenty,” Christopher blurted out.

“What?” she said, surprised.

“One hundred and twenty. Fifteen times eight, it's one hundred and twenty,” he said, pointing to her math book. “Oh!” She gave a little smile and wrote down the number in her book. “Okay, what's fifteen times nine? Quick!”

“One hundred and thirty-five,” Christopher answered immediately. Katherine scribbled.

“Fifteen times ten?”

“One hundred and fifty.” Katherine scribbled again.

“Fifteen times eleven?”

“One hundred and sixty-five.” Another scribble.

“And fifteen times twelve?”

“One hundred and eighty.”

Katherine wrote down the last answer, slammed her math book shut, and jammed it back into her backpack. “Thanks!”

They were nearing his stop. It was just past an old pub and a tiny library, in front of a bright-red store with a green door, called “Candles by Daye.” There was an extra “e” on “Daye,” which was kind of funny, but he wasn't quite sure why.

“Well, see you,” he said, getting to his feet.

Katherine got up and swung her backpack onto her shoulder. “It's my stop, too. See you later,” she said, then pushed open the streetcar doors and stepped onto the sidewalk. She walked ahead of him then disappeared into Candles by Daye. As the store door opened, he heard a little bell ring, and for a second he caught the heavy scent of cinnamon. The door shut and it was quiet again. He stared for a moment at the shop window filled with candles shaped like skulls, dragon statues, and yoga books, but he caught Katherine looking at him through the glass, and he quickly looked away.

Christopher was alone. He looked across the street. His huge old house was waiting, but everyone was still at work or school. His parents' car wasn't in the driveway, and there were no brothers or slightly-older-sister reading on the front porch. He crossed the street at the crosswalk and found himself standing in front of the locked iron gates of the little park. There was no one around, not even cars passing by, and he was alone except for an old man with a dark coat, a hat, and thick glasses sitting on a bench way down the sidewalk.

The gargoyles were perched on the gateposts above the locked gate. He studied them for a moment. He looked into the locked park, at the stone seahorse fountain bubbling away, and the inviting benches just out of his reach, then back up at the gargoyles. They were dripping wet and very dark and shiny looking. There were little wisps of steam coming off them.

Then he realized that one of the gargoyles was clutching an apple in its claw.

And someone had taken a
bite
.