The Girl, the Gypsy & the Gargoyle

by Darcy Pattison

  “Will you just look at this before you decide anything?” Master Raymond picked up a package that leaned against his chair.

  Father Goossens sniffed and rolled his eyes. But he waved his hand in permission.

  Smiling to herself, Laurel helped her father unwrap the bundle, unwinding long cloth strips to reveal a drawing that captured her anew. Sketched in red ink—imitating the red stone—was the completed cathedral, including the west tower. Master Raymond had taken over as architect when Master Clavel had died ten years before, but had to continue Master Clavel’s plans for the east tower. In the west towers, Master Raymond finally had the chance to use his own concepts.

  The western transept, or arm of the cathedral, would have an octagonal central tower with two fat rounded turrets rising above the central tower. Laurel adjusted the easel they had brought for the drawing and her father set the drawing in place. Laurel moved it a fraction to the right.

  Ah, perfect lighting. No, it was heavenly lighting.

  She sent up a swift prayer that it would find favor in Father Goossens’s eyes. Truly, only a stone heart could resist this drawing.

  “Come, look,” Master Raymond said.

  Father Goossens heaved himself out of his chair. He was clean-shaven and tonsured, or bald on top, like all clerics here. His steps were heavy, measured. Stopping in front of the drawing, he clasped his hands behind his robe and leaned forward to study it, tilting his head first this way, and then that way. His inky fingers hovered just above the surface, tracing the outlines of the west tower. “Magnificent! The best I have seen.”

  Joy swelled up in Laurel. “Then, you’ll—”

  “But we won’t build this year.”

  Master Raymond repeated dumbly, “Not build?”

  “Have you heard nothing I said?” Father Goossens said. “The Cardinal comes. And the cathedral is officially finished. We will never build this west tower.”

  “Excuse me, Father?” An altar boy dressed in a frayed tunic stood in the doorway. “The new mason has sent ahead a message. He arrives at noon today.”

  “Thank you, my son.”

  “Yes, Father.” The boy backed away.

  “Master Raymond, we’re done,” Father Goossens said. “Come back at lunch to meet Master Gimpel.”

  “The carver of gargoyles?” Master Raymond said. His voice was strained, as if it had been stretched and was about to break.

  Laurel had heard of the strange mason and had been looking forward to meeting him. But with Father Goossens’s news that her father would be the architect of St. Stephen’s Cathedral for just a few more weeks, everything had changed.

  Quietly, Laurel rewrapped the drawing and handed it to her father. He put it under his arm and pulled his cloak over his shoulders. Laurel felt like a dog that had been beaten by its master. Seeing her face, her father patted her shoulder, smiled weakly, and said, “We’ll be fine.”

  But at the door, he turned and tried again. “Surely after the Cardinal’s visit—”

  Father Goossens was just easing his bulk into his chair, but he looked up and cut off the architect’s question. “Master Raymond, the answer is no.”

  THREE

  THE OLD GYPSY AND THE BEAR AND THE DANCE OF DEATH

  Laurel pushed out into the square, trying to think of nothing but a warm bowl of soup for lunch. On the other side of the town square, a noisy crowd roared with laughter.

  Curious, Laurel saw the crowd was around the Gypsy wagon.

  Seeing her glance, Father said, “Go on. It will take your mind off things. I’ll see you at the tavern in a few minutes.”

  Usually such things didn’t interest her, but remembering the boy from that morning, she said, “I won’t be long.”

  Laurel went to stand at the back of the crowd; even on tiptoe, she could see nothing. She was tiny, like a goldfinch among crows, her father always said. She easily squeezed through tight spaces in the throng until she pushed to the front. The colorful wagon formed a backdrop for a peculiar dance: a black bear shambled on hind legs around an old man—Antonio, she guessed. He was stoop-shouldered and balding. The bear’s fur was clean and brushed, and he wore a strip of red leather around his neck, a collar. He looked almost civilized. Except the eyes, which were black and wild.

  Laurel shivered, and, though the crowd protected her from the wind’s blast, she drew her cloak closer. She should have turned away, should have gone home to Father. But the bit of color, the drama—something kept her there, watching.

  A black-haired girl crouched beside the wagon, beating a tambourine and chanting. Antonio stamped and twirled in time to her beat, circling the bear. It swiveled its head from side to side to keep an eye on the old Gypsy, who was surprisingly graceful for an old man.

  Now, he speeded up, stamping and twirling closer and closer to the bear. The tambourine paused suddenly, and in the silence, Antonio darted between the bear’s outstretched arms, patted its chest, and then skipped lightly away.

  Laurel let out her breath. She hadn’t even realized she had been holding it as Antonio had inched closer and closer to the beast. A slight smile, an extra flourish of his hand—the old man was enjoying this, Laurel realized. Even more surprising, she was entranced with the spectacle.

  “Watch the Dance of Death!” The boy who had saved Father was passing his woolen cap to collect coins. His uncovered head was a shaggy tangle.

  Studying the bear, its claws massive and yellow, a shiver ran down Laurel’s spine. The raw animal scent came to her now on the wind and she turned slightly to avoid it.

  Off to the side where she now gazed, the gypsy boy had stopped his slow circuit of the crowd and stood silent. She followed his gaze back to the cathedral and its spires, which shot into the evening sky like solid stone prayers.

  When she turned back, the boy stood beside Laurel. “I am glad I was there to push your father aside. I was studying the cathedral; it’s so majestic.”

  “The most beautiful cathedral in all the land,” she agreed. She didn’t say that she found his fascination strange for a Gypsy.

  “Jassy, the cap!” Antonio hissed.

  Now she remembered that Antonio had called him Jassy that morning. She rolled the name around in her mouth: Jassy. Somehow, the foreign name suited him. But even while she repeated the name, Antonio edged nearer and nearer to the bear. Now, Laurel was holding her breath again.

  Be careful, she wanted to call.

  Jassy shook the cap toward Laurel. “Coins to watch! Watch the Dance of Death.”

  “Why call it that?” She was suddenly angry at this Gypsy band, taking such chances. She’d seen too many accidents in the building of the cathedral, attended too many burials.

  Jassy leaned close and whispered, “The bear is a pet. Don’t worry.” Then he called louder, “Coins to watch!”

  Just as she suspected. Entertainment such as this was always a fraud in some way. Still—she shivered—she was glad it was just a show and not real. And she was enjoying it. She groped under her cloak and found a copper coin in the hidden pocket of her skirt. Her heart beat fast with the sudden thought that maybe soon, she and Father would be begging for coins, too. But she dropped the coin into Jassy’s cap, anyway. She would worry about Father’s work later.

  “Thank you, miss.” Jassy bowed with a flourish of his red cape, and then continued around the circle. “Look at the skill of the dancer! See how he escapes the beast’s embrace.”

  At this cue, Antonio spun around right in front of the bear, while the bear raised and lowered his claw several times. It seemed like the bear was spinning the old man like a top. The tambourine picked up the pace, beating in rhythm to the spinning.

  “Ohhh!” Laurel became mesmerized like the rest of the crowd, laughing now at this bit of nonsense.

  Jassy dodged here and there, catching up coins tossed at Antonio’s feet.

  Across the circle, a fat housewife staggered, and then was shoved aside by a ragged boy. His nose was bright red fro
m the cold. A dozen or so other boys shouldered aside the on-lookers and joined their leader. They wore filthy tunics and patched trousers. Two or three wore boots, but the others had rags wrapped around their feet. Thieves and pickpockets. Just another way to make money from the pious who visited the Cathedral of St. Stephen. The first boy briskly swung his arms to warm up, then jabbed his cold-chapped hands into his armpits and stamped his feet in time to the Gypsy’s dance.

  Without missing a beat, Antonio nodded at Jassy, catching his attention. The old man ran a finger across his neck. Time to stop? he seemed to ask.

  Jassy jingled the coins in the cap, and then shook his head, no.

  At the tinkle of coins, the filthy boy was suddenly alert, like a hound that had caught scent of a prey. Looking at Jassy’s cap, he suddenly grinned.

  Laurel stiffened and tried to call out. But a blast of wind took her words. And then it was too late for a warning.

  The boy picked up a handful of pebbles and lobbed them at the bear.

  The bear whirled and growled. Antonio jumped around to the bear’s face, caught its attention and crooned to it in Gypsy language. The crowd laughed, thinking it was just part of the act. Antonio motioned for the girl to continue her beat and chant. She shook her head and jabbered at him, but he waved again, insistent.

  Laurel gripped her cloak closer against the wind, choking back fear.

  Three other boys scooped up pebbles.

  Jassy dashed toward them: “No! You’ll make the bear mad!”

  He was only one boy, though, against a gang. They flung their pebbles, hitting the bear. It twisted back and forth searching for the source of the aggravation.

  Around her, the crowd exploded with laughter at this new twist.

  Jassy charged the gang’s leader, but they easily knocked him to the ground, Jassy’s cap spraying money onto the cobblestones. Before Jassy even looked up, the boy and his friends had scrambled about grabbing coins and they were pounding away.

  But while Jassy lay sprawled on the ground, the bear bellowed his anger. It lashed out in all directions, forcing Antonio to duck, collapsing to the ground.

  Now the bear dropped to all fours, snarling and baring his teeth. Antonio was back on his feet, but crouching eye-level with the bear, still trying to capture its attention. In one hand, he held a length of rope to tie to the bear’s collar to use as a leash. Antonio’s hand was creeping toward the bear’s face.

  If the dance before had entertained the crowd, it was nothing compared to this pas de deux. The town square was silent, everyone watching the bear, the man, the bear, the man. The slow hand reaching toward the bear’s nose. The lips that rose to bare gleaming teeth. The gentle hand that touched the bear’s nose and stroked it. Calming. Crooning. Tying a rope to its collar.

  Laurel’s heart pounded frighteningly fast. Antonio was almost there. It was almost over.

  From across the square came the sound of the boys laughing. “Dumb Gypsies.”

  And suddenly, the beast clamored in rage and a mighty claw slashed out. Antonio danced aside, nimble, graceful; but his feet tangled in the rope so that he hesitated the barest of moments to keep his balance.

  Laurel cried out, “No!”

  Claws. Slashing at the man’s leg.

  He screamed, a cry of rage. And on his thigh, Laurel saw bright lines of blood.

  FOUR

  WHEREIN A GYPSY VOWS TO REPAY A KINDNESS

  Jassy was there instantly, taking the bear’s rope from the old man’s hand and pulling the bear gently toward the wagon.

  The gypsy girl shouted at the crowd, “Go!”

  And they slunk away.

  Meanwhile, Laurel rushed to the old man and knelt. At the sight of so much blood, she shrugged off her cloak and wadded it up to press against the slashes.

  Jassy was beside her now and raised an eyebrow. “You know how to tend his wounds?”

  She had often tagged along with Dame Frances when the good Dame was called to tend a mason or quarryman and had learned herbs and how to treat an injury. Since Dame Frances had moved last year and the town lacked a proper doctor, Laurel had been asked to do more and more nursing.

  “Yes,” she answered Jassy, “but I need my herbals.”

  The old man groaned and his eyes blinked but stayed shut. Jassy brushed hair from his eyes and murmured, “Stay still.” Then, to Laurel, he said, “I’ll keep his bleeding under control. Hurry.”

  Laurel dashed the few blocks to the tavern, ran upstairs to the room she shared with her father, grabbed her basket and sewing things—without seeing her father anywhere—and ran back to the square.

  Between the gypsy girl and Jassy, they laid the old man inside the Gypsy wagon.

  “I’m Laurel. What’s your name?” Laurel asked the girl.

  “Ana-Maria.”

  “Can you boil water for me?”

  The two girls worked together, trying to make Antonio comfortable, while Jassy went out to care for the bear.

  When the water boiled, Laurel brewed a sleeping potion that they helped the old man drink. It worked quickly and Laurel soon had Antonio’s wounds sewn up and bound.

  “You’ll need to keep this clean,” she warned Ana-Maria.

  “Yes. We need a place to camp until he can travel.”

  Laurel nodded approvingly: Ana-Maria was practical. Laurel said, “There are caves in the foothills just west of here. Good springs for water, too. I’ll come find you tomorrow and look at the leg.”

  Ana-Maria still held the old man’s hand, but she nodded. “Let me wash the blood out of your cloak for you. Where should I leave it?”

  “At the tavern.” Finally able to look around, Laurel gaped at the blur of color in the Gypsy cabin—the first time she had been in one. But she was too tired to focus on the musical instruments hanging on the wall or the smell of strange spices. She needed food, a good hot lunch.

  Outside, Jassy stopped her as she tried to leave. “For this—what do we owe you?”

  She held up a hand. “Nothing, you saved my father.”

  “Still, something for your skill with herb and needle?”

  This time, Laurel answered as Dame Frances had always answered: “Go and give alms, for it is the Lord who heals.”

  He nodded and said gruffly, “Thank you. Still it is our way—if you need anything, just ask. I would repay this debt and will do what I can to help you in any way.”

  “Thank you,” Laurel said solemnly.

  FIVE

  THE ARRIVAL OF THE GARGOYLE MAN

  As hungry as she was, Laurel only had time for a hunk of bread and a quick bowl of broth eaten standing up in the tavern kitchen. Quickly, Laurel straightened her tunic, smoothed back her hair and ran back to the cathedral to meet the new mason. She wondered where her father was. He was probably talking to other clerics, hoping to convince someone they should build this year, so he could keep his position as architect.

  At the cathedral, an altar boy sent Laurel up to the sculpture room to meet Father Goossens. She found him seated on a low wooden table, slightly slumped, eyes closed. Probably napping after a big lunch.

  But she couldn’t sit still, not after the bear dance. Without waking the priest, she started uncovering gargoyles.

  Unheated, frigid in the winter, the room was pleasant in the summer with the windows open, a comfortable, well-lit workroom. To protect the sculptures from the winter’s bitter cold, she had helped bury them in hay last fall, giving the room the look of a stone stable. Now that spring was in the air, it was time to pull the statues out to work on them again.

  She pushed into the hay, pleased to be able to shove something around. At the first mound, she knelt and swept away clumps of musty hay to reveal a gargoyle. Of all the statues, Laurel loved the gargoyles best for their distorted or grotesque features: hunched backs, bloated faces, bulging eyes or claws instead of hands. Most were decorative. But for reasons lost to history, carvers often drilled a hole through the center, and the gargoyles were se
t at the ends of gutters to spew out rainwater.

  When she was only five years old, her father had put a tiny gargoyle—a bird with a long neck and huge, sharp claws—into her hands. “This will protect you always,” he said solemnly.

  Dame Frances had scolded him. “You’ll frighten the child and give her nightmares.”

  But Laurel had turned it over and over in her hand, learning its curves, its sharp edges, taking comfort in the tiny bit of stone. For days, she carried it in her apron pocket, stroking it and talking to it. The gargoyle still sat on the shelf beside her bed, where it now protected her dreams. As she had grown older, the gargoyle statues stopped being scary and became comical with their exaggerated or deformed limbs and features. Now, only the very ugliest seemed scary to her.

  The gargoyle she had just uncovered was so fat that she couldn’t reach all the way around its pink marble waist. Standing about two-feet high, it had coarse, bloated features, a villainous low forehead, a huge belly and a lolling tongue.

  When he had finished it, Master Benoit had said, “This one is Greed. Remind you of anyone?”

  The way the statue folded its arms over the belly—of course, it was Father Goossens. The stonemasons’ sense of humor eventually put every priest into a statue or gargoyle.

  Suddenly, her anger at the decision to end the cathedral construction spilled over: she shoved the fat figure and it toppled, barely missing her foot. Fortunately, the piles of hay softened the fall and dulled the thud. And now her own emotions scared her, they were so intense. Laurel collapsed onto the hay and heaved with unshed tears. Change was coming and coming fast and the slow burn of anger spilled over. Decisions were being made that would change her life, and no one cared if she agreed or not.

  At last, her emotions dribbled away, and Laurel shoved up on one elbow. She was glad to see that Father Goossens still slept.

  She stroked Greed’s hard polished tongue and poked the rigid belly. As usual the hard stone pleased her: she wanted to learn to shape rock like this. Sculptures weren’t just to be gazed upon; they demanded to be touched. In some ways, the cathedral itself was one giant sculpture, and she had examined almost every stone. She knew the feel of the cathedral right down to its smallest statue.