In Stone: A Grotesque Faerie Tale

by Jeremy Jordan King

“Me?”

  “The people of the world,” he said, shyly.

  “Oh. Right.” I didn’t really know how to react. On one hand, I was elated because my instincts were correct. He was, in a sense, a superhero. Congrats to me for believing that days ago. On the other hand, he was nothing at all like I’d imagined him to be. Every daydream I’d had about him was crushed under his hefty feet. He definitely wasn’t a knight in shining armor or caped crusader. He was, for all intents and purposes, a monster.

  Part of me wanted to simply turn around, go home, and pretend nothing, oh…completely insane, had ever happened. I’d be bruised for unknown reasons and haunted by stone grimaces for years as I continually denied our encounters. Mental illness ran in my family. My Guardian could expedite the process. My days could be spent lounging in gauzy white hospital robes in a moderately clean institutional setting. Well. At least I could quit catering.

  Even though Discovery Channel taught me he shouldn’t exist, he did. According to fairy tales, humans weren’t supposed to be exposed to that side of life. It supposedly didn’t even exist. But it did, and I’d been exposed to it, touched by it—literally—more than once.

  I felt calm when he was near. Most people would be running for the hills, but I was laughing with him. Surely those were reasons to embrace the situation, right?

  Belief in the impossible shaped our world.

  I decided that the existence of the impossible could shape my life.

  “I want to know more.”

  He cocked his head and looked at me queerly.

  “I want to know all about Guardians and grotesques. About you.”

  “That is not for you to learn.”

  I ignored him. “I mean, are there others like you? Do you have magic powers? Can you read my mind? Do you have family? Friends? Have you always been this way?”

  He turned away, placed his hand on the wall and heaved as if he was choking on a sob.

  I softened my tone. “Can you cry?”

  He shook his head, no.

  “You weren’t always like this, were you?”

  Again, he shook his head.

  It started to fall into place in my head. “So…you’re not supposed to be made of stone, but you are.” I stepped closer to him. “Right? Just like I wasn’t supposed to be a complete failure at everything, working a shitty job, and getting beat up on New Year’s Eve.” I paused. “But that’s exactly what happened.”

  He turned around and his face was dry. He was right, he couldn’t cry.

  “Unexpected things have happened to both of us.”

  “Unexpected things happen to many people,” he said.

  “Yeah, but you’re the only one who knows what’s happened to me,” I snapped. Like him, I wanted to cry but couldn’t. I was more angry than sad. Why had I refrained from sharing my problems with the people in my life? Why were my issues reserved for a stone beast? What could this talking gargoyle do for me that real, hot-bodied, caring humans couldn’t?

  The answer seemed to be everything.

  Friends. Family. Trained professionals. None of them would have any idea how to tackle the eccentricities of my problems, my feelings. I had the irrational sense that the strange creature in front of me would be better at handling my life than even I was. I held up my index and middle fingers. “Two attacks. Both times rescued by you. Doesn’t that just scream fate to you?” I searched his face. “Unless of course you’ve been following me.”

  “That is ridiculous” He coughed. “I have not been following you.”

  “Well maybe you should. Or at least check up on me.”

  He turned, and his laughter mocked me.

  “We’re supposed to know each other,” I insisted. “And frankly I’m afraid of what will happen if we don’t. You said you’re a Guardian.”

  “So?”

  “So, obviously if you don’t guard me, something terrible will happen.”

  That shut him up. He stared me down and then spoke under his breath. “Are you threatening me, human?”

  Was I? I was. “Yes, because everything is a threat to me!” I sounded completely off my rocker, I know. I hoped he didn’t possess a modern enough sensibility of social graces to recognize that I had exactly none.

  The Guardian’s eyes avoided mine. His gaze settled at the dirty place where the floor met the wall. “I do not agree with that. But I understand your fear.”

  “Do you?” I challenged.

  “Yes.” He struggled with his next thought.

  “And yet, you’re just going to leave me here?” I spread my arms and let them drop. “Under the street?”

  “It would be against my nature to leave you feeling so…vulnerable.”

  “Which means what?”

  His recommendation seemed difficult for him to utter. “We can…meet. Once or twice a week. Just to check in.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but he held up one hand to stop me.

  “But you must live your life in the meantime. Like a normal human.”

  “Who says I’m a normal human?” I asked in a flippant tone.

  “You must promise me,” he said, his tone urgent, serious enough to subdue me.

  “I promise.”

  “I will be near if harm comes to you.”

  And there it was. We were bound.

  We stood silently in front of each other, not really knowing how to proceed. The fear that had latched itself to my bones melted away. I stood a little taller knowing he’d officially be on my side. “Do you have a name?” I eventually asked.

  His head tilted to the side, questioning.

  “If we’re going to hang out, I should at least know your name.”

  “Garth,” he said. “The Guardian.”

  “Yes, I’m clear on that last part. Thank you, Garth. I’m—”

  “Jeremy,” he said softly. “I know.”

  2. The Origins of Stone

  Our first scheduled meeting was probably a real exercise in patience for Garth. I did most of the talking, so the majority of what I said wandered into the typical “woe is me” outlook that New Yorkers enjoy falling victim to.

  “Well, if you are so miserable, change things until you are not,” he said.

  I snorted. “Okay, that’ll be so easy.”

  He didn’t take my bait, adding in a soft tone, “Believe me, human life is short. Make something of it.”

  Now, he could’ve drawn that conclusion based on voyeurism and the occasional conversation with (lucky/odd/unsuspecting) people like myself, but I had a feeling it was more personal than that.

  I narrowed my gaze. “I’ve been doing all the talking. You need to tell me your story.”

  “How can you be so certain I have one?”

  “Seriously?” I asked, in a droll tone. “You’re a rock.”

  “Precisely.”

  “You’re a talking rock. Which requires an interesting history.” I leaned back, crossing my arms.

  “You make a good point,” he muttered.

  “So? Start talking.” Hopefully I could pick up a thing or two from him. Isn’t that how life lessons are learned? One must listen to the horrors of the less fortunate to realize how precious existence truly is? Being that Garth was a stone monster, forced to sleep when the sun came out, it was safe to say that he was less fortunate than I.

  His story began much like the beginning of our relationship had, with him waking up in an unexpected place after a less than pleasant experience. From the looks of him, he’d had a lot of unpleasant experiences, but the one I’m talking about was the first. Maybe the worst. In any case, it got the ball rolling for all of the others.

  He was, he told me, born human and lived a normal human life. Well, it was normal for the time, which was very, very long ago.

  “How long?”

  “I can’t remember. Long enough to see man rise and fall time and again.”

  “So, longer than a year?” I joked. I just wanted to keep him talking.

  “
Humans of history were smarter than you know,” he said. “But, being humans, they’ve always found a way to—”

  “Screw things up?” I interjected.

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  He launched into a tale that took hours while I sat mesmerized. War had ruined the great ancient cities—cities whose knowledge rivaled that of today. Memories of their glory faded into legends and legends faded into obscurity as new beliefs swept through the land. Powerful men adopted those beliefs and forced them on their people, settling them into simple lives in simple towns.

  It was a dark time.

  Garth’s village had to join the revolt, part of the Great War that challenged the King’s authority. Even though the little town had barely seen how evil the King was rumored to have been, they fought with their countrymen in opposition to their ruler. A dangerous move but they were confident in their beliefs. As was the law back then, every available man was sent out, including the human Garth…

  “I apologize for crying. It probably is not making you feel any better,” said Garth to his mother. His father had died years before, leaving him to care for her and his sister, Evie. The thought of leaving them alone, potentially forever, tore him apart.

  “Garth, you will not be gone for long. The latest news is good. Our forces are making progress,” said his mother. Her attempt at comforting him didn’t work.

  “They are not our forces,” he said in a bitter tone. “We have no association with the effort. There is no reason for our involvement.”

  She stilled him with a touch. “If your sister or I were victims, would you act?”

  “Of course. You are my family.”

  “Well, think of your countrymen as extended family. If things are bad for one of us, they are bad for all of us,” his mother scolded gently. He was too old to think her right all the time, but she was.

  “I am just…afraid, that is all. What happened to simple times?” he asked.

  “Times were never simple, child. Not for a moment. The former Kings might have wanted you to think their rule was the best, the most simple, but the Way of Things is much more complicated.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.”

  “Life is more interesting when turned upside down. You might find out something about yourself.”

  Garth burst into tears and crawled into her embrace, like he’d done as a child. He was much larger now, but felt just as small. “I will miss you.”

  “I know, love. And we will miss you. You will be back soon. I know it.”

  Evie wandered into the room, carrying Garth’s giant traveling sack on her back. “This bag is huge. I could never carry it! Good thing you’re big,” she said.

  He scooped her up and twirled her in the air. She was a happy girl. Being away from her would hurt.

  All too soon, Garth’s friend, Francis, stood at the door, packed and ready to meet the others in town. He and Francis had grown up together, done everything together, so it was fitting that they should go to war together. The two comrades wobbled down the darkened roads to meet their new family and leave their old ones behind.

  Garth never looked back but he wished he had.

  He was left with no image of his home—the place where he’d never get to grow old, marry a wife, or raise a family…

  “Was that the last you saw of them?” I asked. He said nothing. “Is this too difficult for you?” On that night, we were on top of an apartment complex in the West Village, where things are rather quaint…for Manhattan, at least. He looked through the naked branches of a tree lined street and sighed.

  “It is difficult. But it is good. I have not talked about this in a long time. I used to recall my human life quite often, as a way to hold onto it. I’ve probably forgotten a lot,” he said somberly, almost in a hum. “Yes. That was the last time I saw them.”

  I waited out Garth’s mourning silence for a moment, and before long, he carried on with the tale…

  It had taken several years and countless lives for the war to come to a head. Garth spent much of his deployment performing mundane support tasks, as it turned out he wasn’t much use on the field. Francis was a more capable fighter but did his best to hide those traits to stay with Garth. One of their longest stints was on funeral duty, during which they picked up bodies (what was left of them) and burnt them on a pyre. If Garth wasn’t already afraid of battle, hearing the crackle and hiss of the carcasses of fallen friends made him even more so.

  When the final showdown was at hand, the rebel forces had been badly depleted. Every man needed to be thrust into battle, even scrawny Garth and awkward Francis. The armor they once cleaned was fitted for them after its original owners had been slain. The stench of war and death on the gear sickened them as they walked out onto the field.

  Knowing full well what blades could do, the two friends spent every effort during the battle avoiding them. As their fellow soldiers were annihilated one by one, Garth and Francis hid in trees and played dead.

  Cowards? Yes.

  Stupid? No.

  They were, after all, fighting for freedom. What good was freedom if they were dead? Dreams of victory had been crushed; their only hope was to slip away unharmed.

  Eventually, hiding places grew scarce and fatigue set in. Before long, one of the King’s men was upon them. These brutes were huge in stature, pumped full of secret concoctions to amp up their natural bodies. Francis and Garth were not slain in the ensuing battle, but were certainly immobilized. They lay side-by-side on the frosted plain, atop heaps of dying men, with their consciousness slipping. Sleep came quickly, like it or not.

  After being scraped off the field, Garth woke up with aches far worse than those on harvest mornings, but alive. Relatively well, so far as he could tell. Most of his companions weren’t so lucky. Piled around him in a cage, like bundles of twigs waiting to be tossed into a flame, were abbreviated men: some without limbs and even one without a face. If they weren’t moaning, they were probably dead. Better off. Dirt, rust, and blood painted their twisted bodies brown.

  It came to him all at once. “Francis!” he gasped as he jolted upright.

  “Over here!” replied a little voice.

  Garth scanned the men, each one worse off than the last. He spotted his friend clinging to one of the iron bars of their entrapment. “I’m coming,” he yelled over death’s groans. In the confusion of seeing the once brave men in such a horrific condition, Garth failed to realize his own. His right leg had been completely crushed and folded like an accordion beneath him.

  After some necessary screaming and a sick stomach, Garth pulled himself together and dragged himself over to his friend’s side. Francis’s body was broken so badly he needed to be propped up to keep from suffocating himself.

  “Thank the heavens for these bars. They may enslave us, but they are saving my life,” Francis said. He was always trying to lighten even the darkest of times.

  Garth examined their prison, terror blossoming through him. An enormous cage surrounded them, as if they were animals in a traveling show. This spectacle was set up in the King’s base camp as a type of amusement for his victorious soldiers, who laughed and cursed at their opponents’ misfortune.

  Soon the rowdy men were hushed, and a robed man approached the bars with golden props and bejeweled scepters. He began to pray.

  “That language isn’t ours,” Garth said.

  “It isn’t the King’s either, he just prays in it,” said Francis.

  “Is it true they pray for our souls?”

  “Yes.” His eyes met Garth’s. “It will make them feel better about killing us later.”

  Garth looked once more at the other prisoners clustered together behind the same iron bars. “They did not pray for our men they killed in the field.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want us dead. Maybe we are being recruited,” said Francis.

  “No. I’d rather die.”

  “This is the time for bravery, friend. More so than in battle.” He p
atted Garth’s knee, a small gesture of comfort. “You know, there is humor in this.”

  “I doubt that,” Garth whispered.

  “There is humor in everything. If that King is hoping to recruit the best soldiers, he’s wrong. They are already dead. That’s what happens to the brave.”

  Garth couldn’t help but crack a smile.

  “There was no winning this war,” said Francis, calmer than he should be given the circumstances. “Our only options were to fight and get slaughtered or avoid it and get tortured. That isn’t fair.”

  “Maybe he’ll just whip us and then send us on our way. We’ll go home and scare the town into never revolting again. At least we’ll be alive.”

  He looked at Garth with a raised eyebrow and said, “You have the strangest sense of optimism.”

  A horn blew, commanding everyone’s attention. Torches led a procession through the camp toward the cage. The King’s soldiers bowed their heads as he made his way to the prisoners. It was a sin to look upon him, as he claimed to be of divine lineage.

  “I bet none of them have ever seen his face,” whispered Garth.

  “They could be fighting for a scarecrow for all they know,” replied Francis. One of the thugs nearby glared in their direction, demanding silence.

  “Traitors!” screamed the King, toward the caged soldiers.

  “Traitors!” echoed his men, before settling into a seething, charged silence.

  “As inhabitants of my kingdom, you are my people. Your rallying against me is a sign of ungratefulness for the fruits I bestow upon you.”

  Would that be it, then? Garth wondered. A lecture?

  “You are a monster!” exclaimed one of the caged men. “They obey you out of fear, not loyalty.”

  Garth cringed. What kind of fool would insult the man who decided their fate?

  The King approached the confine and grasped two of its bars. “I…am a monster?” he asked. His voice crept into Garth’s ears and rung his spine. “You offend me.” He turned to his men. “He offends me. He offends God!” The men roared in agreement. “These traitors think that I am unjust. They do not believe in my appointment to the throne. Shall I prove them wrong?”

  Clubs beat against the ground and shields met helmets, rattling the cage.