The Last Gargoyle

by Paul Durham

  I compose myself. The images fade away. I ball up my rage and tuck it somewhere far away, until all I’m left with is calm. And the awareness of who I am.

  I am Penhallow. The Night Warden of this Domain. This is my job, and I do it well.

  But no, I’m more than that now. I am the guardian of this entire city.

  Rain drips off my stone chin. I clench and stretch my jaws. Eyes open, shimmering like wet marble. My wings unfold after so many years and I rise from my crouch.

  I feel awake. Alive. Like the falcon that stalks these glass-and-steel canyons.

  The Boneless King rushes forward. I meet him head-on. This time, when we collide he’s the one who buckles backward. I’m now denser and heavier than he is, but he still has the advantage of height and reach.

  He keeps out of range of my powerful claws and jabs from a distance with his limber arms and razor fingers. I tense my powerful haunches and launch myself forward, barreling through his defenses. But his power is still growing and I’m lifted into the air. I see his paper crown and the rooftop swirling under me before he wrenches me downward with all his might.

  The roof buckles and gives way. I crash right through in a rain of bricks and plaster, coming to rest in a heap on the floor of the vacant apartment below.

  I stare up at the hole overhead. I don’t budge as the rain patters down on me and the surrounding debris.

  I can’t move, I repeat silently to myself. I’m stuck here. As if my thoughts might be enough to convince him.

  The Boneless King hovers over the gaping hole in a swirl of dust. He reaches carefully down into the apartment, long black fingers probing. His nails still bite, but they no longer sink in. He’ll have to come closer for that. And to his surprise, I’m going to let him.

  He leaps into the hole, landing hard on top of me. He bores his nails into my granite shoulders until they lodge there—tight. His painted mouth is still fixed in its wicked grin.

  I allow myself to smile too.

  Does this trick sound familiar?

  This time, it’s the Boneless King who has taken my bait.

  “Sticks and stones may break others’ bones,” I sing, then flash a menacing, cracked-tooth smirk. “But I’m a Grotesque, Hannibal Craven.”

  I sink my own stone claws into his fleshy mass.

  My heavy wings beat. They’re out of practice but don’t fail me. The Boneless King is a creature of the underground—of suffocating earth and fallow soil. My Domain is the rooftops—and the sky above them. We explode up out of the apartment, through the hole, and leave the roof below us.

  The Boneless King struggles to free his fingers from my body, but I don’t return the favor, and the talons on my feet clutch his waist even tighter.

  My Domain disappears, the fire trucks and assembled crowd shrinking with every second. I soar high above the buildings, streets whirling far below. I feel the Boneless King’s nails scraping and clawing my back in desperation.

  I remember the falcon again as I look toward her roost atop the glass tower. The electric jack-o’-lantern seems to grin and offers his approval. I pin back my ears and dive. We smash right through his front teeth in a shower of glass.

  Now we’re inside, hurtling through a dark labyrinth of hallways and cubicles. I don’t let us touch the carpet even as our bodies are battered by desks and chairs. File cabinets bounce off us with a rain of paper, but I won’t let go—they do far more damage to the Boneless King than to me.

  I’m a wrecking ball, exploding fluorescent bulbs and shattering an entire glass conference room. I crumble a wall. Out of the corner of my eye, I see two yellow imps pause from nibbling telephone wires. They look up in awe and disbelief.

  Enjoy the show, fellas, you’re not on the menu tonight.

  The Boneless King struggles furiously, but I ignore the pain and beat my wings even harder.

  We burst through the other side of the tower and find ourselves in open air once again. My strength is beginning to wane, but our ride’s almost over. I rear back and we soar vertically, rocketing up past the building’s highest floors until we clear the blinking lights of the radio antennas on the roof. Over the cityscape now, the dense clouds are lifting, and the city’s tallest peaks fan out in a forest of lights. I see the harbor and the islands beyond it.

  The Boneless King’s voice rumbles deep within my core.

  “Enough, monster! Put me down!”

  I stop our ascent, and for a moment we just hover. I stare into his bottomless eye sockets.

  “Funny,” I say. “I was thinking the same thing myself.”

  I retract my claws and let him go.

  He plummets in a spiral of arms and legs, his paper crown flying from his head and sailing away on the breeze.

  His unflinching red smile hurtles past the glass tower and deep into the concrete canyon, until he hits the pavement with the sound of a thunderclap. The impact sends him through the sewers and subway tunnels—beyond the deepest foundations of the city. When the Boneless King finally comes to rest, there’s no evidence left of him at all except for a mysterious crater as wide as a city bus.

  And his little paper hat.

  I watch the lost crown flutter slowly after him until it eventually finds the dark waters of an overflowing storm drain.

  It’s quickly washed out to sea with the rest of the trash.

  I circle once above the buildings, taking one last look at the twinkling city below. The view’s not so bad. I should have tried this flying thing more often.

  I don’t have much energy left in me, but I’m able to catch a draft and glide back to my Domain. The Netherkin who lined the rooftops before have all scattered and disappeared—the shadows quieter than I can ever remember. It’s finally stopped raining, and I see that my wards have closed their umbrellas. To my surprise, most of them still linger on the sidewalk. They’re actually chatting with one another. The Hairy Man is listening to the Korean lady and politely nodding, although I’m quite certain he doesn’t understand a word she says. The Pandeys smile and introduce themselves to Courtney and her practice-adult roommates. Miss Ada circulates among the firefighters, offering Halloween treats.

  A quick peek at the fourth floor finds Hetty at her window. She’s in her pajamas, hanging a new wind chime. The Shadow Catcher’s sea glass shards twinkle blue and bright once again. I see Mamita’s silhouette appear, with Tomás in her arms. She kisses Hetty on the cheek and retires to her own room without the need for any extended nighttime rituals.

  Hetty places her hands on the sill, and I watch her crane her neck up toward the sky. She squints, then smiles. She can’t possibly see me up here, can she? Regardless, I smile back when the room goes dark.

  On this night, Hetty’s not afraid to turn off her lamp.

  I’m ready to sleep too. There’s no telling for how long. When I wake up I’ll take an inventory of my new scars—of which there are plenty. But before I rest, there’s one more person I need to check on. Not a ward, but a friend.

  My wings labor as I pass over my rooftop, but Viola’s no longer there. I check the neighboring roofs and alleyways with no better luck. My eyelids grow heavy and I know I need to get to my perch before it’s too late. But I need to find Viola. I can’t bear to have another friend leave without saying goodbye.

  Finally, I spot her. She’s hurrying through the streets several blocks away. I descend quickly and hit the pavement behind her with a graceless thud. There’s a squeal of rubber as a yellow taxi thumps its brakes. I’m not concerned with who might see my stone form.

  “Viola, wait!” I call, but she doesn’t hear.

  “It’s me! Don’t go!” I try to take flight again, but my wings barely lift me. Viola’s moving with such urgency that something must be wrong.

  I forget about my Domain and my perch and head off in pursuit. Now that Viola’s no longer pretending to be human, she’s as quick as a Netherkin and never once pauses to look back.

  I beat my wings for as long as I’m
able, gliding just above the ground between long strides. But soon my wings lie useless across my back and my heavy footfalls thump against the yellow lines on the pavement.

  Fatigue clouds my senses. I lose track of time. Viola always remains just at the farthest edge of my vision, but before I know it, the glow of the city is far behind me. The road has turned narrow and tree-lined. The Colonial houses all have yards and gardens and split-rail fences, some of the homes mounted with wooden placards that announce construction dates older than my own. Up ahead, two headlights cut through the darkness. I summon my strength and make it into the brush alongside the road before the newspaper delivery truck rumbles past. It eventually disappears the way I came and I’m alone again in this predawn hour. I squint ahead.

  I’ve lost Viola.

  The weight of my body is becoming unbearable. Fallen leaves crackle and branches snap as I trip through the woods. Inside houses, dogs awaken and howl in alarm.

  Viola, where are you? I can’t chase you any farther.

  I’m about to collapse when I spot a low stone wall nestled under a canopy of bare maples. A rusted iron gate is cracked open between two granite pillars. Beyond it, a tiny cemetery beckons.

  It will have to do.

  I stumble through the gate and find myself surrounded by a dozen thin gray headstones. It’s peaceful here. Familiar, even. There are no Netherkin, and yet I don’t feel alone. The ground is lined with a thick bed of fallen leaves. They look so soft and inviting.

  When I fall, they cushion the blow.

  I lie there for a long while. My thoughts come slowly. When they do arrive, they’re fuzzy and hard to grasp.

  Look at that. The sun is just starting to peek up over the horizon. This is the first time it’s cracked the clouds in a week. The light reflects off the ground, and I see that my bed of leaves is a brilliant crimson.

  Dawn arrives with a head of steam, as if making up for lost days. Through its bright glow I see that someone else has joined me in the cemetery. It’s a girl. She wears a woolen newsboy cap and a threadbare pea coat that’s no longer smoldering. Her hands are tucked into its pockets. I’m relieved to see that she again looks the way I remembered her.

  Viola stops when she reaches me and takes a knee by my side.

  “Hello, Goyle,” she says.

  “Please don’t call me Goyle,” I say sleepily, and curl my stone lip into a smirk. “The name’s Penhallow.”

  “I know,” she says, and returns my smile. Her face is porcelain in the morning light. She points to something over me.

  It’s a headstone.

  The engraved words are shallow and faded but still legible.

  PENHALLOW FITCH

  1875–1887

  “This was me?” I ask.

  “Long ago. Penhallow Fitch was a farmer’s son, the youngest of six siblings. He came down with consumption—that’s what they used to call tuberculosis back then. They didn’t have vaccines or medications.”

  My voice is fading. “What do you know about him—or is it me? The boy, Penhallow?”

  “Not much, except what I was able to read in the old journals. Penhallow was described as a kind boy. Curious. Well-read. He had a sarcastic sense of humor.” She raises a knowing eyebrow. “But was always in good spirits. He was very brave, right up until the end.”

  Viola reaches down and her bare fingers touch my cold wing.

  “He was also very much loved…by his father especially. Cyrus Fitch also had a passion for music. He shared his talent with his ailing son whenever he could take a break from the fields. He’d play his violin until his fingers ached, often deep into the night, long after Penhallow fell asleep.”

  I already know this story, even as Viola shares it for the first time. It was the vivid image I saw and felt when I touched the violin string.

  “Where’s your violin case?” I ask.

  “It was never really mine to begin with. The string inside it came from Cyrus’s violin. It’s your Remnant—and it’s now yours to do with as you wish.”

  I blink slowly.

  “I left it with Hetty,” Viola explains. “She’ll hold it for safekeeping until you’re ready to claim it. I also told her about her father’s journals…and where to find them.”

  I glance around the peaceful graveyard with new eyes. I see the name Cyrus Fitch on the headstone next to me, Adele Fitch beside it. John, Henry, Grace, Madeline, Quincy, and others share plots nearby—all with the same surname. It’s a family cemetery.

  “You led me here on purpose,” I say.

  Viola pushes herself up from her crouch and offers a shrug. “Everyone should have the opportunity to know where they came from.”

  A hint of sadness crosses Viola’s face, and I can only wish she had a chance to know the same. Unfortunately, I don’t have the energy to say it.

  “Thank you” is the best I can muster.

  “More people than you can imagine should be thanking you,” she says.

  “Just tell them to keep the pigeons off my head.”

  Viola flashes a little grin. “You need to rest now.”

  She hesitates, and rubs her thumb and forefinger along the crimson streak in her pigtail as if she wants to say more. But instead, she just says, “Goodbye, Penhallow,” and turns to leave.

  I don’t have many words left in me.

  “Do you have to go?” I whisper.

  Viola looks back over her shoulder and replies with a gentle nod.

  “Where?” I ask.

  “I’m on to what’s Next,” she says. “You stay here. For as long as you need to. When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting there to meet you.”

  She offers a final smile, and I watch as she walks deeper into the tiny cemetery. The grounds now seem to stretch on forever, far past the boundaries of the uneven stone walls, until eventually I see Viola no more.

  I blink once.

  This seems like a perfect place to stay for a while.

  I blink twice.

  For the moment, my wards can spare me.

  I blink a third time. A breeze stirs the autumn air, gentle yet strong. It scatters the leaves over my body like a crimson blanket.

  Then I close my eyes.

  It may be a long time before you hear from me again. But don’t worry.

  I’ll be watching.

  Bone Masons: The secret society of stone carvers once tasked with creating the world’s Grotesques. Like postal workers, Bone Masons face an occupation in steep decline. But the carefully guarded secrets of the few remaining practitioners are all that defend the border between the living and the dead.

  bricks: Like %##@, #@*&, and other four-letter words unsuitable for print.

  Domain: Home, sweet home. The structure on which a Grotesque resides.

  gargoyles: Glorified water fountains.

  Grotesques: Guardians, peacekeepers, Night Wardens, and indispensable protectors of all that is good and just in the world. Okay, that last bit may be somewhat of an embellishment.

  hop your perch: Stop sitting around and get off the roof. See also shed your shell.

  imps: Troublesome minor spirits. Like flies, they buzz, bother, and occasionally bite, but they are also easily squashed with a swift swat of the tail.

  Maker: The Bone Mason responsible for creating a Grotesque is referred to as his Maker. Some Makers, like mine, are gifted artists known for rendering Grotesques that are powerful and breathtakingly beautiful. Although, as evidenced by the Twins, even the best Makers have off days.

  Netherkin: Awful, malignant spirits. The only good Netherkin is a well-digested one.

  Next: As in, what comes Next? The afterlife. The great unknown that ultimately lies beyond the grave remains as mysterious to Grotesques as it does to our wards.

  practice-adults: College students. Nocturnal creatures who seem to serve no useful purpose other than to keep taverns and pizza delivery people in business.

  Shadow Men: The vilest of all types of Netherkin. Mysterious shapeshi
fters who visit sleeping children in their beds. More cunning and clever than your typical poltergeist, their specialty is theft and their prize is the most valuable treasure of all. I have a particular distaste for Shadow Men—which doesn’t stop me from devouring them on sight.

  shed your shell: Leave your stone body behind and travel about town as a wisp. A practice highly frowned upon by our European elders; we all do it here in the New World.

  squid: A particularly odd human who can talk to the dead. Soft, fleshy, and awkward—like a squid out of water.

  wards: Inhabitants of our Domains. We serve them dutifully, whether they deserve it or not. You may choose your friends, but you can’t pick your wards.

  wisp: The form we take when we shed our shell. A little-known fact: Grotesques can’t shapeshift indiscriminately as wisps. While we can all assume the form of a human, anything else is a tricky matter. I can’t change into a ferocious dragon or a woolly mammoth. Our choice of forms is limited to those creatures depicted, at least in part, by our stone shells. Sure, I’d make a rather handsome bat or vulture, but flying, well, that takes practice. And who likes practice?

  I lived and studied in Boston for seven years. I didn’t have a car at the time, and like Penhallow, I roamed the streets and subways by foot. It’s a very old city—at least by American standards—one where you might step out of a modern skyscraper only to pass an eighteenth-century meetinghouse. Or look down and find yourself on the historic red-bricked Freedom Trail while walking to the corner store.

  I have tried to evoke that unique sense of place in The Last Gargoyle. Many things in the book are completely real. For example, the Granary Burying Ground, Symphony Hall, and the North End are actual locations you can and should visit. Others, like the Spite House and the hidden concert hall beneath Old Croak’s, are inspired by real places but have been embellished for the sake of the story. And, of course, some things are made up entirely. Remember, I’m a novelist—an unrepentant teller of fibs—and when the facts don’t fit my narrative, I’m inclined to invent new ones.