by T C Shelley
Beth screamed.
The ogre pushed at the door again and the imp boy’s legs slipped away, jarring his arm. He shrieked.
‘Oh come on, little prince. I ain’t got much time! You don’t want to be here no more.’
Just as the imp boy felt he could hold on no longer, the claw let go of his arm. The brute outside swore and its yell rumbled like a fleet of cars. He thought he could hear the clinking and chinking of stones rolling, then feet thudding away like fading cannon fire.
The group looked around, dazed, and sagged to the floor. They sat there groaning.
‘What was that?’ Ben asked.
The imp boy looked at his mangled and twisted arm and sat against Wheedle, wondering if he’d ever use it again.
Beth rocked Henry.
‘I’m all right, I’m all right,’ Henry said between sobs. ‘I forget myself sometimes. I am three hundred years old. I am three hundred years old.’ The baby controlled his hitching breath.
With a soft gentle prod, a touch of gold shone under the door.
‘Sunrise!’ Wheedle said, and jumped up, letting the imp boy collapse on the marble. Ben opened the door and stepped outside, the gargoyle right behind, yelling, ‘Bladder, Bladder!’
Beth helped the imp boy stand and he staggered after Wheedle and Spigot. His heart raced as he held his shattered arm, and the quick pain in his shoulder seeped into the rest of his body, stretching to his neck and his back.
The sun crawled over the eastern sky. The street was empty. No broken pieces of gargoyle lay on the road.
‘That brute took Bladder,’ Wheedle said forlornly. ‘Collected him up in bits and took him. Why? What good is he to him? He broke him so good I doubt he could ever be put back together. We’ll never see him again.’
They all looked at the sad bull face and no one answered.
Spigot put a wing over Wheedle’s back.
Beth copied the action with the imp boy. ‘You’ll be all right. He can’t hurt you now,’ she said. ‘What happened?’
Spigot ruffled his stone feathers, folded in his wings and warbled.
‘He knew where we were.’ Wheedle rocked side to side. ‘Poor Bladder. His broken face staring at us.’
‘He killed Bladder to find me.’ The imp boy felt cold. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Wheedle wheezed and said, ‘Bladder broke brave. Gargoyles are loyal to their own. It’s not your fault, Imp, but we all gotta get somewhere else.’
Beth peeled hair off the imp boy’s sweating face. ‘Not now you can’t! Look at him. He’s the colour of dying grass. And it’s daytime, and sunny. None of those monsters will come looking for you now. Give yourself time to make a plan.’
The imp boy was glad of a reason to rest. The scream in his shoulder built. He lay down on the cold marble and let the voices of the others fade.
‘Wait until Daniel gets here at least,’ Ben said.
Spigot sobbed and squawked. Muddy water smelling like drains dripped from his grey eyes.
The imp boy tried to stand, but made it two paces before falling flat on to his backpack. He howled. Beth plumped the sleeping bag under his head in the shadow of the church, while the imp boy shivered and groaned.
The imp boy had no idea how long they waited for Daniel to arrive. It felt like hours, but the sun’s glow through the stained glass suggested it hadn’t been long at all. Beth and Ben watched up and down the street for human movement, rushing back in when they saw anyone and pointing at flowers and birds. Despite the drama, they were outside.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked as Daniel lifted his head, and Yonah peered from the angel’s shoulder.
‘You tell me.’ Daniel reached to take the imp boy by his deformed shoulder and elbow, putting shining hands on the pain. The imp boy prepared to scream, but instead the agony drained and disappeared. He twisted his arm and wrist and marvelled at how strong they felt, how straight they were again.
Wheedle related everything that happened.
‘So sorry about Bladder, but there’s no time for delay. We need to get you away from here, my friend,’ Daniel told the imp boy. ‘Have you got all your things?’
‘Where you taking him?’ Wheedle asked. ‘No, don’t answer. Best we don’t know.’
Spigot peeped a small chick sound.
Wheedle nodded. ‘We won’t forget you, Imp, we’re long livers. Who knows when we’ll see you again. It may be ten or twenty years, but we’ll know you. By your smell at least.’
‘Ten or twenty years?’ the imp boy asked. He was a day old and yesterday had been a long day. Where was he going without Wheedle and Spigot? And poor, poor Bladder.
The imp boy looked at the stone faces, Ben, Beth and Henry too. Everyone looked so solemn, waiting.
‘There are many hours of light. It gives me time to find a safe place for you two later,’ Daniel said to the gargoyles. ‘But this boy has to go. Stay here for now. The cathedral offers some protection. If it gets overcast again, the pixies may come, but you should be able to handle them. Yonah, stay here as lookout.’
The imp boy’s backpack was still twisted around his body, the sleeping bag humped on top. He took off the bag and shoved everything inside it before straightening his clothes. The ogre had mangled the arm of the T-shirt.
The angel grabbed the imp boy around the waist and flew. Far below them the gargoyles, the statues and the cathedral grew smaller. He waved at them, and they waved back, until the imp boy could no longer see anything familiar.
CHAPTER 9
Daniel landed far in the garden, next to a bush flowering in purple buds. The yard filled with noise, and person after person wandered in through the back door, carrying plates and flowers.
The imp boy retreated, hiding in the flowers and watching the crowd of people. Some ferried babies. Women wore black dresses, while men sported white shirts with black armbands. He recognised Nick, his face reddening as he pulled at his collar.
‘I didn’t think they’d be so many people here,’ the imp boy said.
‘Me neither,’ Daniel agreed. ‘Maybe it’s … Oh.’
‘What?’
‘It’s the old man’s wake. That’s why everyone’s here.’
‘The old man?’
‘Samuel Kavanagh. The one on the paper. Your sigher.’
The other end of the garden heaved with children: they played ball, poked sticks into a pond, drank from colourful cups and sat in the shade of a willow dominating the flower beds.
‘We don’t have time to find a different place. And the gargoyles need to be moved since the cathedral is the last place Thunderguts’s messenger saw you. The statues too.’ Daniel shook his head. ‘Perhaps this could work to our advantage. Just stay back here in the bushes and, if you do get found, there are dozens of Kavanaghs here and you look like all of them.’ Daniel surveyed the children playing. ‘This crowd of humans will offer you some protection. There’s lots of light here, enjoy it. Yonah will research a better place, and we’ll figure it out once everyone’s far from ogres. Right now, the gargoyles are more of a concern. Where can you put gargoyles where they’re safe and can’t cause too much damage?’
Daniel left without looking back down at him.
The imp boy stood in the garden staring.
A little girl with soft blonde hair came over. She stood a head shorter than the imp boy. ‘What did you do to your hair?’ she asked. ‘Look at your clothes.’
The imp boy blushed at the state of his T-shirt; it was ripped and stained. ‘I don’t have anything else to wear.’
‘You can clean your face in the wash house. You better change too. I just did; I’m not allowed to play ball any more. My mummy does baking at these things.’
‘These things?’
‘You know, family fusses. That’s what my dad calls them. Who did you come with?’
‘I came with Daniel.’
‘Who’s that?’ A ball hit the back of her head, and she turned on the throwers. ‘Stop it, will ya!’<
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While she was distracted, the imp boy wiggled further behind the bush, but she turned, grabbed his hand and led him to the kitchen. Adults stalked around gathering plates and talking about ‘taking it in the sitting room’.
‘My name’s Henri,’ the girl said.
‘I have a friend called Henry.’ He hoped they were safe. He wondered if Daniel was already back at the cathedral, and what Spigot and Wheedle were doing.
‘It’s short for Henrietta. After Auntie Henrietta. You know, she always wears lots of mascara?’
He had no idea what mascara was.
‘You all right, Seamus?’ a woman with great arms and a fleshy neck asked a young man who was staring at the tiles, before turning to the imp boy and Henri. ‘Come on, you two, hurry up and into the living room. Oh my goodness, you need a clean-up first, my lad.’
The woman grabbed the imp boy’s once-injured wrist, dragged him into the laundry, and ran a flannel under the tap. She scrubbed at his face until he felt his skin burn. Henrietta watched with a terrified grin.
‘You got proper clothes in that pack?’ the woman demanded.
‘No, sorry.’
‘Forgot them, did you? I hope you don’t do this all the time? Henrietta, grab James’s spares. He’ll need socks at the very least.’
‘Yes, Mummy.’ Henrietta scarpered and came back with a flushed face and the clothes.
The woman yanked at his backpack, then had the imp boy’s T-shirt off to scrub at his neck.
‘You Moira’s boy?’ Before he could answer, she started on another question. ‘Is there any part of you that’s clean?’
When she seemed satisfied the imp boy looked pink enough, she loaded him into a starched white shirt. She handed him a pair of grey trousers and shoved him into a small room with a large bowl set into the floor.
The imp boy swapped his shorts for the trousers, fiddling with the metal teeth at the front. He shook his hips to see if they would come apart again. He put the lid on the bowl down and tried to sit. It was big enough for a chair, but he hit a button of sorts and the loud noise of water gushing echoed from inside the bowl. It made him jump and he backed out of the room, staring at the bellowing porcelain.
‘There you are. Thank goodness, Henrietta’s managed to stay clean this time. No chocolate cake, all right, Henri?’
‘Yes, Mummy.’ The girl stared at her feet.
The fleshy-chinned woman assessed him once more. ‘So, who’s your mother? You look like Seamus. Except his hair is neater than yours and he’d never let himself get as grubby as you. Oh, look at the time! Come on, best behaviour now.’
Henri led the imp boy out of the door as other children came in from the garden.
‘You’re all in the same clothes.’
‘Course we are,’ Henrietta said. ‘It’s a wake. We’re supposed to wear this; that’s what Mummy says. I bet Granny will drink too much and wanna kiss us.’
From Henri’s tone, this was not a desirable thing.
The imp boy studied people’s faces as Henri dragged him along. Some had gold hair, some had blue or grey eyes, but most looked like him: dark-haired, dark-eyed and all in dark clothes.
The group pressed him along with them and squashed into the sitting room until the walls strained with people. Pictures plastered the wallpaper and the side table had been covered in a hundred or more photos. An object hung next to the window with a black cloth over it. A clock on the mantelpiece stood with a solemn face, its hands stuck pointing up. All the furniture had been pushed out except a long, low table everyone stood back from, and the chair, the one thing the imp boy remembered the mother saying she would move. An old lady sat in it. She was wearing a voluminous, time-faded black dress, large sweat patches soaking into the armpits. Her head rested on her cane.
She didn’t look up but spoke to the floor. ‘Shall we bring him in, then?’
Four men left the room as another man’s voice rose above the conversation. His voice crooned warm and ponderous as he told a story about someone called Paddy Reilly. The imp boy liked the sound of it, liked the way his body moved to it. Although when he looked at the faces around him, he found their smiles and tears coming together made no sense. They were kind faces though, like Wheedle’s, and the man’s voice made it something warm and welcoming. Except for the arm pulling, he decided he liked the Kavanagh family. Anyone would love to belong in it, he thought.
Then the men returned and pushed a large wooden box on to the table.
In the box lay an old man dressed in white, with hands folded on his stomach. His pale face smiled, and he had a thick swag of white hair.
The old lady in the chair stood, a flurry of hands helping her up. She leaned on the box.
‘We are all here today to say goodbye to one of this family’s great men, Samuel Kavanagh.’ She patted the arm of the resting man and her eyes with a grey handkerchief. ‘Samuel, you’ll be sorely missed; that’s the truth. There’s so many love you here.’
The room resounded with a dozen yeas. ‘Paddy Reilly’ carried on over the top of them.
‘Shall we let the children pay their respects and then they can get back to playing,’ a woman’s voice suggested.
‘That’s the way, Meaghan,’ the old lady said. ‘Sing for the babbies, Terry.’
The man’s voice filled the air again. Sing? the imp boy thought. Singing, like Beth had said? No wonder people gave food to hear it.
This time, the voice sang about a shawl from Galway. The imp boy swayed with the song, wondering if he could learn to sing. He breathed deep, smelt rich, warm odours; they were part of the walls, as if the old man had incensed them into the house. Maybe the leather polish and tobacco Nick mentioned. The house was full of such wonderful humanness.
‘Come on,’ Henri said, and pushed towards the coffin. The other children filed past it. They shoved and heaved each other, half interested in fleeing and half interested in seeing a dead body in a box. The children Henrietta’s age scurried for the door; the imp boy heard their brays of heroic escape resound in the corridor. The older ones wept for the man and stooped down to kiss his forehead.
The imp boy considered the old man. He seemed peaceful enough. The uneven smile on his soft, loose face suggested a lingering kindness. He wondered what regrets the old man had to sigh about. Henri tried to pull the imp boy away, but he wanted to have a long look. This was the man whose sigh had made him. His sigher, Daniel had said. He could also smell Nick and his mother behind him. He couldn’t turn around.
The old lady smiled. ‘Samuel, look at both of us, all these babbies and grandbabbies, even one or two great-grands.’ She winked. ‘We’ve done well, Samuel; there’s no doubting it. There’s not a bouzzie in the lot, ’cepting maybe your Nicholas, and he’ll come good soon.’
‘Hey!’ Nick yelled. The room laughed.
‘Look at them all.’ The old lady gave a tear-bleary smile. ‘Look, a couple of the younger ones remained. Here’s Henrietta, my darling. You doing right by your ma?’
‘Yes, Granny.’
‘And who are you, young fella? I can’t see you through all that hair. Stand up and greet Great-Aunt Colleen.’
A murmur of query travelled the room. No one could place him.
‘Ethan’s first?’
‘Haven’t seen him since the christening.’
‘Mum, it’s the boy from the …’ Nick began, but he was drowned out by a man’s booming voice.
‘Not mine,’ the man said.
‘Oh?’ Nick’s mother whispered.
Then the imp boy found himself eye to eye with Great-Aunt Colleen. She stopped, her yellowed eyes growing moon-like as she stared. Her skin had greyed beneath her peach rouge.
‘Samuel?’ the old lady gasped. ‘Is that you, Samuel?’
The imp boy said nothing.
‘Someone here tell me this boy’s yours. Please.’ Colleen choked her handkerchief to her neck as the papery skin on her hands tightened.
Nick raised his v
oice. ‘He was at the chocolate shop.’
The imp boy turned and looked at Nick and his mum. A man stood with them, an older Nick with a beard. Nick’s mum was pointing and the man stared at him too, then closed his eyes and opened them into another stare.
‘You can all see him?’ Great-Aunt Colleen asked.
Assent buzzed.
‘Give me the piccy of me and Samuel, when we was young.’ She turned, and it showed effort. ‘The one over there. By the vase.’
The picture passed from hand to hand, not on a direct route to Great-Aunt Colleen but in a circle to any set of hands and eyes wanting it. The few children left in the room did not hide their surprise.
‘It’s him.’
‘Can’t be.’
‘The spit of Grandad.’
‘Could be twins.’
‘When was this taken, Ma?’
‘The year of the great gale. When we lost the boat. I was ten. Your grandfather twelve.’ She turned back to the imp boy. ‘Don’t leave us, spirit, we can all see you. You are most welcome. Is it you want to be buried in Irish soil? Is that why you’re here to haunt us? You were mischief itself till the very end, Samuel.’
The room hushed as it waited for him to answer.
He heard Nick whispering, ‘It’s OK, Mum.’
Henrietta grabbed the imp boy’s hand. ‘No, Granny, he’s not a ghost.’
‘It’s true, Ma, I changed him myself. He showed up all mucky, so I put him into some of Jimmy’s clean clothes. I assumed he was one of ours, and there’s so many …’
The room chatted again. ‘Certainly looks like a Kavanagh,’ a voice said.
‘Where’d he come from?’
‘Good question.’
The imp boy could hear Nick’s mother crying. Hard.
Great-Aunt Colleen’s frail hand quietened the mob, her pink and raw knuckles trembled. ‘Hush now.’ She turned to the imp boy. ‘Do you have a name?’
He wondered what to say. The one she’d given him – it felt good. It wasn’t like the names the gargoyles had suggested for him, and it was nothing like imp boy.
‘Samuel.’ It felt right to say it.