The Gargoyle at the Gates (2 page)

Of Marbles and Apple Cores

Who would take a bite out of an apple and stick it in the gargoyle statue's claw?

Christopher wondered if one of his many-assorted-older-brothers-and-slightly-older-sister was playing a trick on him (a real possibility). He was just about to investigate more closely when he heard loud barking from his house next door. He'd forgotten about his dog! He had to take Marbles for a walk! The dog had spotted him standing at the park gates and was going crazy inside the house at the living room window.

“See you later, gargoyles,” he said as he turned away. Just then a loud streetcar rattled by, which is why he couldn't be positively sure of what happened next. It might have been someone playing a trick, but he was sure he heard a strange, whispery voice say, “Bellatro smethen sawchen.”

Which in itself didn't mean anything.

But Christopher heard the whispery words and a different meaning at the same time, which translated roughly to something like, “DO NOT throw the apple at that boy.”

It sounded like the wind whispering in the long summer grass, or like a language that he was just beginning to forget. But he was sure he caught words there, too.

He whipped around and looked at the gargoyles once again, his eyes wide under his glasses. They were just gargoyles, stone figures staring straight ahead. He peered for a few moments then shook his head. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and looked again, but finally decided he must have imagined it. The barking next door was getting more frantic. He had to go.

A few moments later Christopher opened the front door and was inside his house, trying to keep Marbles from knocking him off his feet.

“Yes, I'm happy to see you too, Marbles. Yes, I
will
take you for a walk, just let me get something to eat.”

At the word “walk,” Marbles started doing a hilarious dance on his front paws. He was a big, spotted dog, so it was a little hazardous to be around him when he was doing his “I'm-going-for-a-walk” dance. Christopher went into the kitchen, grabbed a banana, pocketed Marbles' favourite orange rubber ball, and was about to lift the dog leash off the hook beside the back door, when …

…
whack
!

Something hit the outside of the door, hard, just on the other side of his head. Carefully he opened the door and peered outside.

There was an apple coming to rest at his feet.

And there was a bite out of it!

Christopher looked over at the gargoyles on the park gates. He could just make out the two statues perched dripping wet on the gateposts.

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He peered through the drizzle and scratched his head. He must be imagining things.

He took Marbles for a walk.

But he was beginning to think there might be something a little
odd
about that park.

The English Garden: Septimus

James leaned over the book resting on his knee and pushed his dark, curly hair out of his eyes. He was sitting on a bench under an apple tree loaded with fruit. It was a beautiful summer day, and his grandfather's garden was bursting with life. The daisies, asters, and hollyhocks were all in full bloom and filled with bees. Their droning was making James sleepy, but he didn't want to sleep.

He looked over at his grandfather's little thatched cottage and smiled: he really was in
England!
A few months earlier, no one even knew he HAD a grandfather living in England, not even his mother. She was quite surprised (and puzzled) when the letter came with her name on it, inviting James to visit for the summer.

“But you don't
have
a grandfather living in England,” she had said, scratching her head. “My father was an odd recluse who disappeared when I was little.”

A few phone calls set that straight. Apparently James's grandfather was alive and quite well and wanted to meet his only grandson. (He wanted to meet his only daughter too, but it was going to take some time for James's mother to get used to the idea.)

James had never been anywhere, so after much begging and insisting and reasoning by him and more phone calls and checking by his parents … he was allowed to go.

So James DID have a grandfather. As for the odd recluse part … that was turning out to be just a little bit true.

James turned back to his book. A fountain was bubbling quietly nearby, adding to the drowsy atmosphere. Occasionally a bullfrog croaked sleepily from the pond.

There were a few statues in the garden as well, in various states of completion. In one spot, a half-finished frog statue had big eyes and front legs, but its body and back legs had not yet emerged from its stone cradle. In another shady part of the garden, an enormous apple stood proudly half-formed in a squat block of pink stone.

It was a beautiful, eccentric old garden, with the hand of its creator visible in everything.

And it was a sleepy place. James caught himself falling into a doze and sat up straight. He was a little old to be taking afternoon naps, since he was almost sixteen.

He put his chin in his hand and tried to concentrate on his reading. His grandfather had given him a book to read:
A History of Stonemasons in Europe
. It was an interesting book. Stonemasons worked with knives and hammers and saws and made some really important things out of stone, like churches, bridges, castles, and sometimes artistic carvings, including statues and strange gargoyles.

It was fascinating reading, but for some reason he wasn't able to concentrate. The bees and the flowers and the aroma of apples warming in the sun were making his eyelids very heavy.

Just as he was about to doze off again, an apple tree leaf gently fluttered down from the branch above his head and landed with a loudish
flup
onto the page of his open book. It brought him back to his senses.

He brushed the leaf off the page and continued reading. He flicked a bee away from his ear and scratched his nose. A moment later, another leaf softly floated down from the tree and landed on the page with another
flup
.

He brushed it off, darted a peek into the tree above, and went back to his book.

But not for long.

A few seconds later, four or five leaves gently fluttered down onto his book, then more and more. Finally, a steady torrent of leaves poured down upon him, covering both him and his book in a leafy green coat. He gave up trying to read and sat still as the leaves kept coming. He was slowly being buried in a mountain of green apple tree leaves. In moments, only his head was visible, peeking from the top of the mound. James shook his head to remove leaves from his hair and sighed.

He looked up into the tree, and said patiently, “Septimus, if that's you, you're interrupting my reading.” A loud giggle erupted from the tree, and then silence. James tried not to smile. It was a deliciously naughty giggle.

“Grampa Gregory, the gargoyles are restless! Septimus is dropping leaves on me!” James called from the leaf pile. An old man poked his head around the side of the garden shed and nodded. He was wearing a floppy green velvet hat that wobbled dangerously, huge leather gloves, and giant, bug-like goggles.

“They're easily bored, James. Do you play any instruments?” the old man called.

“No,” James answered, surprised.

His grandfather was holding an enormous chisel and a huge stone hammer. All afternoon James had heard the chisel occasionally hitting stone. His grandfather was working on another half-finished statue (this one looked like it was going to be a spray of wildflowers, asters perhaps).

“Oh, well, try singing to them then,” James's grandfather said matter-of-factly, then turned back to his sculpture.

Singing
? What would he possibly sing? Clearly his grandfather wasn't going to help him with Septimus.

James shook himself from head to toe and sent the leaves scattering, brushing them from his shoulders and hair. He and his friends used to play in piles of autumn leaves at home. The memory made him smile a little as he went back to his reading.

But not for long. Another leaf fluttered down from the tree.…

Park Serenade

That night after dinner (which was always very noisy and interesting at the Canning house), Christopher was sitting in his bedroom at the top of the house.

Bedrooms were important for Christopher. As the youngest of a large family that moved all the time, he never knew what his next bedroom would be like.

Whenever they moved into a new house, bedrooms were chosen by names drawn from a hat. Christopher had never won the best bedroom in his whole life …

… except this time! Christopher had the
best room
he'd ever seen. It was an octagon, an eight-sided turret at the top of the house, and it had an enormous bay window that faced the little park next door. Everyone had wanted the turret bedroom at the top of the house, but HE was the one whose name was picked. HE won it, it was HIS!

The best part of all was that it was quiet. His many-assorted-brothers-and-slightly-older-sister all had bedrooms on the floors below.

He jumped on his bed and stuck his elbows on the windowsill. He pushed the old windows open as wide as he could. The rain had stopped, and the air was sharp and clean. It was a beautiful autumn evening. He looked down into the park, listening to the water bubbling in the seahorse fountain. From the window he could see the entire park surrounded by the fence, with the bushes, apple tree, and benches in the middle. It wasn't a very big park at all.

He picked up his guitar. He was actually getting pretty good.

He played a song called “Piece Ensemble.” It had a nice melody, but it was a bit sad-sounding. When he finished, he laid his guitar against his knee, and looked down into the park.

It was empty.

Then why did he hear someone down there
clapping
?

Christopher Canning at the Gates

Clapping? What the heck was going on down there?

Christopher glanced over at his desk clock: 7:15 p.m. He could take Marbles out for a walk. The sun was just going down behind the big city buildings in the distance, so it wouldn't be completely dark for another half an hour or so.

He dashed downstairs. His family was finishing up the dinner dishes.

“Mom! I'm taking Marbles for a walk!” he called. Marbles did his “I'm-going-for-walk-dance” while Christopher got the leash and pocketed the orange ball (which was very brave, since it was still gooey and dripping with dog slime).

Boy and dog slipped out the back door into the fresh air. Christopher took a moment to listen to the city noises. He could hear the fountain bubbling in the park, a streetcar rattling along the tracks nearby, and a police siren downtown. Marbles listened, too.

Christopher walked quietly across the driveway beside the house and in a few short steps was leaning against the iron railing of the park fence. All was still except the gently bubbling fountain.

“Let's walk around it, boy.” Christopher wasn't sure why, but he was whispering. He and Marbles walked around the park fence in a few moments. It was the smallest park he had ever seen. He was looking for a break in the fence or some easy way into the park, but he didn't find one — the fence was solid all the way around. Someone was smoking a pipe nearby; he could smell strong smoke. He looked, but no one was around.

“Hmm. That's weird. Smell that, boy? Pipe smoke.” As if in answer, Marbles sniffed then sneezed. He always sneezed when someone was smoking.

Christopher stopped on the sidewalk in front of the gates and peered inside. He could see the bubbling seahorse fountain. Bushes. Benches. Apple tree. All quiet. No people. Marbles was sniffing at the gateposts and getting all shivery and excited.

“What is it, Marbles?”

Marbles stood on his hind legs and propped his front legs halfway up the gatepost. His black nose was moving a mile a minute — he could smell something really interesting. He couldn't take his eyes off the gargoyle sitting at the top of the gatepost.

Marbles barked and started jumping on his back legs, staring up at the statue, just like he did when he chased a squirrel up a tree. “Calm down, crazy dog. It's made of stone, see?” Christopher reached up as high as he could and was just able to reach the gargoyle. He knocked on its scaly feet. It sounded rock solid and hurt his knuckles.

Marbles calmed down just a little and sat on the sidewalk looking up at the gargoyle, tense as a bowstring.

“I'm going in, but you have to stay here.” Christopher snapped Marbles' leash to the gate. Marbles started whining.

“Shhh! I'll be right back.” Christopher took a large breath and turned to face the iron railing of the gate. He sucked in his stomach. He turned his head toward the street and eased first his arm, then his leg, then his shoulder through the bars. Moving very slowly and carefully, he squeezed through the iron bars, his head the last thing through. He just made it. He was standing inside the locked park while Marbles whined and shivered outside on the sidewalk.

“Quiet, boy. Keep a lookout for me.” Marbles licked his lips and wiggled his tail.

It was odd, but as soon as Christopher entered the park, he felt like everything went quiet. He could see the street through all the bushes, but any sounds of streetcars or sirens were oddly muffled by them. It was very serene and he suddenly felt sleepy, since the bubbling of the fountain sounded soothing and soft. He walked over to it and looked around.

There were no pennies or anything but water in the bowl at the bottom of the fountain. Obviously, no one ever came in here. He'd been to the Queen Elizabeth fountains in Vancouver, and they were always filled with shiny coins from tourists and visitors. He thought that even small, out-of-the-way fountains usually had money in them.

But this fountain was completely coin-free. No visitors in here then. The gates must be locked most of the time, or maybe all of the time?

Christopher took a few more steps and was standing next to the little apple tree, which was not too much higher than his head. It didn't look like it could have been there very long, and yet it was loaded with apples. It was practically glowing, and the fruit hanging on the branches was heavy and golden and smelled magnificent. They were the best apples he'd ever smelled. He took a deep breath. They smelled absolutely perfect, like apples were supposed to smell if you were going to describe them to someone who had never seen or smelled one before.

The scent of the tree was almost overpowering.

Christopher raised his hand and was just about to pick an apple when he heard a whispery voice say, “Forthen grem sawchen?”

It sounded a lot like a winter wind rustling in the trees, or like a language at the very edge of his memory. But at the same time, he also heard the voice say, “Are you stealing that apple, thief?”

He gasped and whirled around, but there was no one. Christopher wanted to run, but his legs wouldn't move. He was stuck to the spot, his heart beating like a hammer in his chest. He stared into the bushes, but there was nothing to see. Just bushes. He forgot to breathe.

Which is why he was able to hear another, closer, sweeter voice say very clearly, “Bellatro smethen dor.”

Which sounded a lot like, “Let the boy be.”

ZING! Suddenly an apple flew at Christopher out of the bushes. He bolted back to the gates, trying to squeeze through the iron railing as fast as he could.

ZING! ZING! Two more apples narrowly missed his head.

“HEY!” he yelped, but he didn't dare look back.

ZING! Another apple whizzed past his ear. The apple-thrower was toying with him. Christopher could tell that the thrower was very carefully missing him with each shot.

He contorted himself and desperately squeezed through the bars, gasping for air back on the sidewalk. Apples rang loudly against the park side of the gates.

Christopher grabbed his dog's leash and ran. His mother was opening the back door to call him inside just as he reached the house. She had to jump aside to avoid being knocked over by her son as he dashed through the door.

“Christopher, what's wrong?” she called as he ran by her. But he was already at the top of the house, slamming the door to his room.

She looked down at Marbles, who was waiting patiently at her feet, slowly wagging his tail. His leash was still attached, wet and muddy with dank park leaves.