“But that’s why the twins killed off the Prince,” interrupted Garth. “So that they would be next in line.”
The Guardians looked at him with puzzled faces. “Garth, what are you talking about?”
One more Guardian pounced into the conversation. “Who said anything about the Prince? We speak of the King’s nephews. They were found dead this morning,” it said.
“I know,” said Garth, “But the Prince was found dead, also. Yes?”
Garth had always been the smartest of the lot, but it seemed as if his fellow grotesques were beginning to doubt that.
“Don’t you think we’d know if the heir to the throne had been murdered?” one asked, laughing.
“Well, maybe not that Prince. He hasn’t been out of the palace in years. I almost forgot he even existed!” They cackled in Garth’s face.
At that point he began to filter out their antagonizing remarks. Was the Prince still alive? A body hadn’t been found, forcing him to doubt the Queen’s story. But there’d been so much blood near the pond. Where did it come from? He suddenly felt in the middle of something very complicated. He had to tell someone. Francis would surely be with Helena, so he darted to the town square to meet them.
They sat giggling at the fountain, unaware of the conspiracies swirling around them. Francis played the usual role of storyteller. He was recounting a time in their youth when they’d stolen a boat from the boathouse and rowed into the middle of a lake for no particular reason.
“A boat?” she asked. “I’ve never seen one of those.”
“You wouldn’t have. They float in water, like the leaves that fall in your fountain. Only larger and made for people to sit in,” Francis explained.
“And you took this…boat and just…floated around?” she inquired.
“Yes. We were looking for something to do one night and it seemed easy enough. Only when we finally got in, we realized we had nowhere to go. We just paddled in circles and enjoyed being burglars.”
Garth leapt up from behind. “Yes. I recall being very nervous that we’d be spotted. Of course, Francis had no fear. My stomach was in knots the entire time.”
Helena’s eyes widened and a smile grew across her smooth face. “Oh, that sounds so exciting,” she squealed. “I can’t imagine what that feels like.”
“It would be like wandering around in broad daylight,” Francis suggested.
“Maybe not that extreme,” Garth said. He turned to Helena. “Maybe it’d be like stepping off your fountain for a while and into someone’s bed chamber.”
They laughed a bit and then Garth turned the subject to a more serious note. He told them about the scream and venturing into the garden and all of the other subsequent gory events. The whole time Helena stood silently, listening in horror. When he was finished she asked, “Does it hurt when you die?”
“I don’t know,” Garth said. “ Some people die on their own, like in their sleep. Others meet more unnatural ends. What the Queen did to those men probably hurt.”
She nodded her head, trying to understand.
“But what they did to the Prince must have hurt,” she replied, beginning to comprehend.
Francis paid no mind to their conversation and instead sat thinking on Garth’s story. “Well, I don’t think we should say anything unless we’re asked,” he eventually said. “We swore to protect the town from outside forces. If that family wants to tear itself apart, that’s fine with me. That old King deserves whatever tragedies befall him. I hope they all kill one another. Then maybe we’d be free.”
The grotesques swore allegiance to the King out of fear, but resentment ran deep. Francis was always more outspoken about his distain than the rest of the Guardians.
“What about that statue in the garden? Do you think she’s a threat?” Garth asked.
“Maybe she killed the Prince, too!” Helena interjected.
“Perhaps she’ll get the King next,” Francis said, gleefully.
“Oh! What if she was lying to you? Maybe the whole palace is at risk. Maybe the Prince isn’t dead, at all,” proposed Helena, excited by her ability to connect the pieces.
“That passed through my mind, also,” Garth said.
“Do you really believe a filthy garden statue is systematically taking out the entire royal bloodline? For what? To usurp the throne? Something tells me the people of this kingdom won’t take to a block of stone as their monarch,” said Francis in the most sarcastic tone possible.
“Maybe I’m right. There could be an evil spirit trapped inside her,” Helena said. “I’ve heard that spirits can haunt practically anything.”
Francis was tired of the conversation. He jumped from the fountain and onto the dusty ground. “Then I’d like to meet her. Evil or not, we stone things need to stick together.”
“It might be nice to have another woman around,” Helena sighed.
With that, Francis looked at Garth as if to say, “That one can be yours.”
*
On one Friday night, I was bored. Garth had left the city to pursue something secretive. I assumed that he needed to go bash another gay basher. Or he was at a conference of griffins or participating in an alien investigation workshop. I was at the point where nothing fazed me, especially from my enchanted stone superhero. Robbie was busy, too. He was being couple-y with Nick. Even though I had other friends to choose from, I found myself restless for Garth’s and Robbie’s company. I missed them…but they were such odd people to be missing. Why did I yearn to be with them, the two men who made my life stranger than it already was?
I began meeting up with Garth out of necessity. I actually couldn’t function without him. He hung around because he was concerned I could end up in a sewer or cooked medium-well on the subway track, from someone else’s—or my own—doing. Knowing he was invested in my life made me feel safe. As he told me more about the Way, the scary stuff my mind concocted began to disappear. What went bump in the night was common knowledge to me, so I didn’t have to make it up anymore. His stories were becoming as addictive as his watchful eyes. To think I was the first one to hear him out since Helena was both intimidating and incredible. I was like a therapists specializing in faerie, and like all shrinks are to their patients, I became important. Never had I been so frank with someone. Never had another been so trusting of me. It was a nice feeling…a foreign one. Our meetings were brief, so each date left me wanting more. That’s what they were I suppose…dates. Of course my goal wasn’t to get him in the sack, but that wasn’t my goal with Robbie, either.
I genuinely enjoyed being around Robbie. An intensely intellectual brain inside a person who could talk for hours about peak oil and twentieth century Berlin contrasted his childlike interest in finger puppets and dinosaurs. He was unconcerned with what people thought of him, unafraid of being himself. He often got flack for having dropped out of college to which he’d say, “I don’t know what I want to be yet. Why would I waste all of that money until I know?” His carefree approach to life was addicting. It was exactly what I needed. In a way, he had the same effect on me that Garth did. Both of them were able to make the same keen observation: I needed to chill out. I could hear them congruently say, “Try living your life instead of worrying about it.”
So why, out of the millions of people in New York, was I constantly thinking about two unattainable someones? Why did fate have to be such a bitch and make one of them in a relationship and the other a vengeful stone monster? I didn’t love Garth. He was a fucking gargoyle. But maybe I was able to see into him, into the human part. I didn’t know if I loved Robbie, either. Could I have been confusing our friendship for romance?
When we worked a shift together, we were inseparable. There was always a joke to be laughed at, an idea to be discussed. If we went out, typically with a larger group, we’d let our drunkenness be an excuse to be touchier than usual. My hand would lie on his shoulder for a beat too long. My lips would graze his ear on accident when leaning in to speak at a loud b
ar. On more than one occasion a friend would lean in and whisper, “You know he has a boyfriend, right?” Embarrassed by my blatant display of attempted adultery, I would then sink into a quiet depression for the rest of the evening.
Things got complicated on an early March day when I went over to Robbie’s place to watch some TV with friends. The friends ended up bailing and we were left alone.
Both of our heads were turned in the direction of the television but I wasn’t watching it. I was looking at him. I became absorbed in the angles of his face, the slope of his nose, the oiliness of his forehead, and the slightly chapped pink on his lips. I imagined myself a blind person, only able to see him with my fingers. How would they feel while grazing over such differing territories? Because I had sight, I would never find out. They were sensations that only his lover would know.
“What?” he asked.
He’d caught me.
“Nothing,” I said. My head went back in the direction of American Idol. I felt his eyes on me. “What?”
He shook his head. Nothing.
“Do you ever feel like—” I started to say. It just sort of drooled out of my mouth. I couldn’t bring myself to finish the thought. I turned back to the TV.
His breathing was deep and quivery. I hoped that he was trying to find a cute way to complete my sentence. Instead he’d probe and prompt me to be the bigger man. “Ever feel like what?” he asked.
I couldn’t acknowledge him. If I acknowledged him, I’d inadvertently speak. Words would spew from my mouth and I’d have no control over their meanings. I think that’s what he was looking for, though. I had to be the one to monologue about my love for him. That way he didn’t look like a cheater. In college, I was stuck in a similar situation with a now-ex-friend. I confessed my feelings and it blew up in my face. I didn’t want to take the same risk with Robbie. With tightly closed eyes, my mouth searched for something in my empty word closet.
“Look at me,” he said.
Fine. I did. Magnetism locked all four of our eyes on one another. We became caught in a pre-kiss moment, the kind where each party silently negotiates who will make the first move. I’d been there with plenty of men, but my time with Robbie was a standstill. A face off. We were stuck. Attraction’s tractor beam pulled us together but we resisted.
I broke free. “I should go,” I said as I got up from the couch and began the hunt for my cell phone, keys, and jacket. I cursed under my breath for allowing myself to get that close to Loverdom with him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Asshole, stupid, stupid, asshole…”
Just as I was about to reach for the door, he caught my arm. “Wait!”
Crushes come and go but once a kiss is placed on lips, a chapter is written. Three feet from the front door, in the blue light of the television, we opened the floodgates, exchanged pheromones, and set our story into motion.
“But what about Nick?” I asked when I finally pulled away.
He got frazzled. “I don’t know. Things haven’t been great. He was supposed to come over tonight but I haven’t heard from him.”
“So I’m the rebound? The second string?”
His hand grasped mine. “No. You’re not. Getting to know you has made me realize that I don’t like him. It made me realize that—”
“That you deserve to be with someone who is crazy about you.”
His eyes lit up and the corners of his mouth rose. “Are you crazy about me?”
“Yeah. I think I am.”
His phone lit up on the coffee table. Nick had been sending texts but silent mode had kept Robbie from hearing them. I’m sure the lip smacking contributed to his deaf ears, too.
“He’s coming over. Maybe you should—”
“Yeah, I know.”
On my way out of his apartment I felt like slamming my head into the broken tiled floor. How did I get myself into situations like this? It was irresponsible of me to be around him. I’d already been beaten unconscious on the street once. I didn’t need another enemy in his boyfriend. I should have just placed myself in solitary confinement until I was too old to date or until some decent hate crime legislation was passed.
While muttering obscenities to myself, I ran into just the person I’d been thinking of. All I managed to say to Nick was a quick, “Excuse me,” as I slipped by him in the hallway. I hoped he couldn’t put the pieces together. But dating in the twenty-first century not only involves two people; it includes a network of friends on websites that display a person’s every move. Nick had looked me up when he heard murmurs of Robbie’s new “buddy.” He knew my face, my sign, my favorite movies and what I’d dressed up as on Halloween for the past three years.
*
“I think spring is finally on its way,” I said to Garth. We were back in Central Park, perched on a rock overlooking the water. The air had lost its icy bite and was replaced with a chill-less breeze.
“Did you skip down the street like you’d hoped?” he asked.
“I did, I did.” I took in a deep breath through my nose. “I can even smell it. I don’t know how people can live in places with only one season. The changes mark time. Each season gives us a chance to start again.”
Garth smiled at me then looked back out at the water. “I do miss seeing the vibrant colors of spring. They are much different against the moon. Duller. Those treetops must be stunning midday.”
I told him of my dream about exploding trees. It had come to me on several occasions. I began to fear that it had meaning, like the dreams in a Shakespearean heroine’s soliloquy. When those ladies dream something, shit goes down.
Garth explained that my dreams shouldn’t be taken lightly. “Often, dreams are the only communication we have with our subconscious. They bring secrets to the surface. Some believe dreams are like letters between mortals and the souls of mortals passed. Do you have a dead relative who may be trying to speak to you?”
I couldn’t think of a soul. The only close relatives I’d lost were my grandparents. Surely there was no unfinished business between us because I was only a child when they passed away. “Shouldn’t those souls be speaking to you, anyway? Isn’t that breaking the chain of command? You’re my Guardian, not my Papa,” I argued.
Garth laughed. For a second he looked human. “That is true but sometimes they can’t help stepping in. After all, they loved you long before we did,” he said. The reference to love made him slightly uncomfortable the moment it settled.
*
When Garth arrived back at the tower, the General was quietly leaning over a wall, keeping watch. As a human, he’d been a big, brute of a man and his stone form reflected that. His features were severe, much more fear-inducing than the other grotesques. He’d been the leader of the Guardians since their transformation and was the only liaison between them and the King.
The General seemed to sense a visitor and whipped around. “Garth,” he grumbled.
“I apologize for sneaking up on you, sir,” Garth said nervously.
“No matter. I heard you caused quite a stir with the others this evening. Something about the Prince?”
Garth told him everything.
The General was attentive without letting a single word register on his face. He was as stoic as ever. Garth supposed it was an old army trick. By the end of his account, he waited for a “congratulations” or a “well done, my boy.”
“I’m going to condense and repeat what you just told me. You let me know if it sounds a bit…well, just listen,” said the General, condescendingly. “You heard suspicious activity below and, instead of reporting it, wandered into the garden alone. A decorative statue told you that the Prince was dead. Without proof, I’ll add. Then you watched said statue slaughter members of the royal family and didn’t even try to stop it. Now you wait until nearly morning to say anything. Is that right?”
Garth immediately regretted going to him. Looking back, it was naive. “But I didn’t know, sir. There was blood everywhere. I believed her when she said it was the Princ
e’s.”
“Exactly what she wanted.”
“Well, is the Prince alive?”
“That’s not the issue here, Garth.”
“It’s not?”
“No. The issue is that you were an accomplice in the murder of the King’s nephews, the heirs to the throne.”
“The Prince is the heir. Where is he?”
“You are a criminal, Garth.”
“You’re not listening. Why would the Queen kill in cold blood? You need to go speak to her. Or find the Prince. If he’s alive, she was lying. If not—”
“That statue is possessed,” roared the General. “It is a demon, killing without reason, attempting to infiltrate the palace, tearing it apart with death, sorrow, and fear. And now it’s trapped you in its web.”
Garth felt as if he were talking to a wall. Yes, his actions had been stupid. He should have stopped the Queen and taken things up with the law, but half of his story was being completely brushed aside. The General was difficult under normal circumstances, but he was being uncharacteristically so when faced with Garth’s questions.
“You’re not acting like yourself, Brogan. What are you hiding?” Garth asked.
The General lunged at him, pinning him down against the wooden slats of the floor. “You will address me as your superior, Guardian. Is that clear?”
“I’ll address you as a superior when you act like one. You can’t get angry about my lack of protocol when you are ignoring all of the facts. What is happening in the palace?” They may not have liked one another, but their experiences bound all of the Guardians as family. It was no longer a matter of codes and procedures, but of friends and trust.
Brogan bore down on him. His massive hand pressed onto Garth’s chest. The floor let out a crackle. “I hope that you aren’t suggesting I had anything to do with the incidents in the garden.”
“Incidents?” Garth asked with an emphasis on the plural. The Queen was right. Something else happened there, something that would prompt her to seek vengeance. “What else has happened? Sir.”
In Stone: A Grotesque Faerie Tale Page 9