Guardians of a Giant's Treasure

by M. D. Grimm

  Tucker sighed, his chest suddenly heavy. He swallowed the lump in his throat and slowly attempted to extract himself from Ronan’s arms. But Ronan awoke at the movement and held him tighter.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Tucker smiled. “To pee?”

  “Oh.” Ronan let go but watched him out of sleepy eyes.

  Tucker chuckled and reluctantly left the bed to keep his word. But he returned quickly, almost hoping Ronan was asleep again. But no. Ronan held out a hand and Tucker grabbed it, letting Ronan pull him back. Ronan snuggled against him. Tucker wrapped his arms around Ronan’s slim body. They were silent for a time before Ronan lifted his head.

  “There’s no rush to drop me somewhere, is there?”

  Tucker blinked. “Um. No? I don’t—I don’t see any rush. But don’t you have somewhere you need to be?”

  “No.” Ronan pressed his head against Tucker’s chest. “I ran away from home. My only goal was to escape and to find someplace far, far away.”

  “Why?” Tucker fairly burst with curiosity.

  Ronan was quiet for so long that Tucker wondered if he’d fallen asleep again. But then Ronan stirred and sighed. He sat up. “Wait here.”

  Tucker nodded. Ronan walked away, naked, and Tucker admired his body. Ronan soon returned, with the glowing ball in his hand. Tucker frowned as Ronan sat on the bed, his eyes serious and tired. He suddenly looked very young.

  “This is the reason I ran away. If this falls into the wrong hands...” He shook his head.

  “What is it?” Tucker asked.

  Ronan considered him, calculation evident. Then he spoke. “My full name is Juard Ronan Phillandro CarSarvos.”

  Tucker’s mouth dropped open. “Y-you’re royalty!”

  Ronan nodded. “I’m a prince, actually. My mother is Queen Phillandra CarSarvos.”

  Tucker suddenly felt ill. “Stars and planets.”

  Ronan looked at the ball in his hand. “This globe was hidden in my grandmother’s—my father’s mother’s—vault. It was hidden safely there until she died. Before my mother could claim it, I managed to steal it away. I stole that hunk of junk ship and left home.”

  Tucker managed to push past the fact that he’d just fucked royalty and focused on Ronan’s words. “So what is it? A weapon?”

  “Not really. It’s...it’s a means to create another universe.” Ronan stared into Tucker’s eyes. “Whoever claims this globe can make their own universe, where they become God.”

  Tucker’s mouth dropped open again. “That’s—that’s—”

  Ronan nodded.

  Tucker ran his hand through his hair, messing it up more. “Fuck me.”

  More silence followed. Then Ronan lowered his hand and had a strange, defeated look about him. “Maybe you do wish to get rid of me now.”

  Tucker blinked several times as his mind raced. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Ronan, the prince, was sad at the prospect of leaving.

  He spoke before he really knew what he wanted to say. “You don’t—”

  “Call waiting. Call waiting,” Tucker’s computer signaled in its mechanical voice, interrupting.

  Cursing, Tucker crawled out of bed and yanked on his trousers. “Just wait, okay? Just...wait.” Then he sprinted to the bridge. As he entered, he stopped short in shock as he viewed the megaship currently taking up the entire view his windows offered. Dread settling in his gut, Tucker sat in the pilot’s seat and flicked on the comm.

  “This is Trash Collector A-019. Who is this?”

  “This is Empire 26A. Have you encountered a model 001-34A Short Flight recently?”

  That model was the exact same one Ronan had been traveling in. Oh, fucking stars and planets!

  Tucker cleared his throat. “I have not, Empire 26A. I haven’t seen another ship for about half a cycle and the Short Flight is a model I wouldn’t mistake.”

  “Would you object to opening your cargo hold for inspection?”

  It wasn’t so much a question as a command. Heart racing in fear, Tucker mentally scrambled to try and find a way out of this.

  “Just give me up.”

  Tucker swung around to see Ronan standing in the doorway, pale, his eyes far too dark.

  “I won’t have you imprisoned.” Despite the paleness, Ronan’s voice was strong.

  “Stay out of view!” Tucker waved his hand violently. “They don’t know you’re here, yet.”

  “They soon will if—”

  “Let me handle this!” With a surge of unexpected courage and spite, and an overwhelming determination to protect, Tucker turned back to the comm. “Empire 26A, I would object to such an inspection. Law 1988 subsection 74A clearly states that without valid reason or evidence and lacking aggressive altercation, there are no grounds to inspect a trash collector’s booty, as it is considered private property, and therefore falls under private property laws. To put it plainly and with due respect, show me the warrant and I’ll show you my cargo.”

  Sweating profusely, Tucker waited, wondering if his attempt to call their bluff would backfire horribly in his face.

  “You stand in the way of the Queen’s will?” The voice on the other end sounded astonished.

  “No, sir. I stand in the way of anyone who wishes to violate my rights. It’s law that keeps the known universe spinning. Without those laws we’d have anarchy. You know that as well as I do. This is my sector of collecting, and I tell you I haven’t seen that model of ship outside a museum.”

  Tucker was rather surprised at his firm and authoritative voice.

  There was some more blustering on the part of Empire 26A, but in the end, they had no law on which to stand. Tucker watched them zoom away. Silence fell on the bridge. Tucker realized he’d just stood up to the Empire to protect a man he barely knew, yet one who had captured his heart.

  Before his boldness left him, without turning, he spoke. “I want you to stay, if you’ll have me. At least, I’d like us to see if...if there can be anything.”

  He heard Ronan approach. He waited. Then he got his answer—not in words, but in the way Ronan wrapped his arms around Tucker’s neck, and the way Ronan nuzzled him. Tucker smiled and dared to hope this meant he wouldn’t be alone for the rest of his life. But he had to remember this was more of a trial period. They had to see if there was more than just what they had in the bedroom.

  Tucker stood and Ronan hugged him.

  “Thank you, darling,” Ronan whispered.

  Tucker stroked his hair, heart sighing in pleasure. “Yeah, well. Thank you for giving me something to fight for.”

  Thank you for being my unexpected treasure in a sea of trash.

  Ronan looked up at him with the most unguarded smile Tucker had seen on him yet. It was beautiful and honest.

  “Well, you saved me from my mother,” Ronan said. “What now?”

  Tucker thought a moment, then he pulled back. An imp of mischief provoked him again and he poked Ronan’s shoulder. “Tag, you’re it.”

  Then he ran off with a laugh. It took a moment, but then he heard Ronan’s boisterous laughter echoing through the ship as his lover gave chase.

  ###

  Night Guardians

  William was a soldier until an IED severely wounded and scarred his body. Now he lives a quiet life in a small village in the Black Forest and is the caretaker of the church and caregiver to the local priest. He’s grown fond of the two stone gargoyles on the bell tower and often speaks to them, reminding himself of Quasimodo. But on his thirty-seventh birthday he learns a stunning secret—the gargoyles aren’t what they seem.

  ***

  This story was originally published in “Harvest Moon” anthology by Torquere Press, now defunct. One major requirement was the story had to involve a supernatural creature. I decided there weren’t enough stories about gargoyles, so I decided to center my story on them.

  It didn’t seem to go over well with readers, which always puzzled me. I loved it the way it unfold
ed but after reading some reviews, I decided to expand it a bit and add a couple of elements not present in the original. But much like “Trash and Treasures,” to add too much more would be to turn the story into a novella or novel, and it was always mean to be a short story. It might not be a story for everyone and that’s all right. I can’t please everyone, and I don’t set out to try. Short stories are always hard because, well, they’re short. I endeavored to focus on the romance and let the rest unfold.

  I hope you enjoy it, or at least appreciate it for what it is: a sweet love story about finding acceptance in the most unlikely of places.

  I race through the forest, pursued by the mob. My leg seizes and I have to grab the nearest tree to stop the fall. Knives scrape my throat as I draw in ragged breaths. Sweat stings my eyes, soaking my clothes. The mob drew ever closer, and I had to set off again, now limping heavily, tucking my damaged arm close to my side. Despite knowing I won’t make it to the church, my sanctuary, I won’t stop. I can’t. The only ones who love me are there. The only ones who accept me.

  A protruding root catches my boot as the church comes into view. I can’t stop the fall, this time, and the air is knocked out of me. The mob catches up. Shouts and accusations of witchcraft bombard my ears as they roll me over. Flames blind me as the villagers hold up their torches, peering down at me with fear and disgust and hatred.

  They aren’t wrong. Their accusations are true. But I’ve never done them any harm with my sorcery. I’ve never harmed a single soul. I suddenly hear the priest of the church running toward us, and he shouts for reason and mercy. A good friend. But his efforts are wasted.

  I can only bare my teeth in a snarl, knowing my end is near. I turn my face away and lean back my head. I can just make out the faint outlines of the church, and the perching gargoyles glaring down at those below. Tears well in my eyes as the villagers bind me. Then they drag me off, and with one last look at the gargoyles I close my eyes. I chant a spell. I need my precious ones to be the last things I ever set eyes upon.

  William jerked awake, gasping and shaking as phantom pain and sorrow quickly faded like water through a strainer. He closed his eyes and shook his head. The dreams were becoming more frequent, more vivid. He felt all the pain and emotions as if he himself were the one pursued and lynched.

  He sat up in bed and grunted at the stiffness in his leg and arm. Rubbing his fingers over his facial stubble, he looked around the modest bedroom and waited for the images to fade. They always did. But this wasn’t the first time he couldn’t shake the feeling that it had all happened.

  “You’re just projecting,” he murmured in the dark. It didn’t take a trained psychiatrist to figure the whys and hows of it. For one thing, the gargoyles from his dream were the spitting image of the ones perched on the church where he worked. In fact, the church itself had made a cameo in his dream. Then there was the journal.

  William looked at the nightstand by his bed and reached over to slide open the top drawer. A battered, torn, and slightly charred journal sat there. Sheets of paper lay underneath it, his own sloppy translations. He was proficient in modern German, both speaking, reading, and writing, but the German in that journal was something else. A strange fusion between Middle High German and Early New High German. No one knew about the journal but him so he didn’t know its age. Or who wrote it. The narrator never recorded years and never identified himself, though William was fairly certain it was a man.

  He’d found the journal while organizing the small church archive. He wasn’t a thief but... he’d had the oddest sense of possession as soon as he handled the journal. In his gut, he’d felt like it was his to take, to protect. It wasn’t a sensation he could shake or ignore. So he’d taken it and, when weeks passed without Father Adler mentioning its loss, William swallowed his guilt and began to translate.

  The journal spoke of a man’s life. And a hard life it was. Every little bit William translated spoke of a lonely man who just wanted acceptance and love. It hit painfully close to home.

  Becoming more awake by the moment, William looked at the clock to see it was nearly five a.m. About time to get up. Flipping the blankets back, he staggered to his feet and winced at the stiffness in his leg. After slowly stretching for a few minutes, he made his way to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

  ***

  All things considered, William liked his life. Some might see it as pitiful or stagnant. That didn’t matter to him. He was content, and after years spent in war, he deserved some contentment. His parents didn’t understand, and neither did his sister. That was fine. They had their lives and he had his. After being stationed in Germany for a couple of years, then nearly getting blown apart by an IED, and seeing many of his comrades die in agony, a little routine and dullness did the body and spirit good.

  Scarred by fire all along his left side, from his face to his knee, William knew he wasn’t someone others wanted to look at. Hell, he wasn’t someone he wanted to look at. Thankfully, though, his eye was spared and he had 20/20 vision. When he realized his family would be better off without him—he’d just never quite fit in—he moved back to Germany. He’d had a crazy great uncle who lived in a small village in the Black Forest and when that odd fellow died, he’d left everything he owned to William. That had shocked the hell out of William and made him wish he’d appreciated his uncle more.

  His family occasionally called and e-mailed but that was the extent of their relationship. It was more of a check up to see if he was still breathing. He didn’t much miss them. He mostly missed what they could—and should—have had. He’d moved into his great uncle’s little cottage in a small village in the Black Forest and found a job at the modest church. He became the caretaker of the property, and the caregiver to the old priest, Father Adler, who still lived and preached there. Father Adler was nearly blind, so their relationship was mutually beneficial.

  But it was at night William enjoyed the church and its grounds the most. It was his own personal sanctuary. He had the entire place to himself. His favorite spot was the bell tower, sitting on the short railing along the balcony with the two most magnificent things about the church—the two stone gargoyles overlooking the courtyard.

  They were truly the works of a master sculptor who somehow infused personality and intent in each. The two had wildly different poses, with the one on the left more at an alert, restful stance. He was crouched with one hand barely lifted, as if considering whether to touch something. His mouth was shut, and his wings folded behind his back. Two elegant horns jutted out just above his pointy ears and struck back away from his narrow face, and his long tail wrapped around his muscled leg. In stark contrast, the one on the right looked ready to attack—determined to chew off someone’s face. He stood with feet braced apart, his mouth wide open, and his eyes narrowed in frozen fury. His wings were widely unfurled, caught eternally in an almost-flight motion. His horns were set high on his head, jutting up from above his ears and thrusting out in front of his face. William admired the craftsmanship and time the sculptor must have spent giving both such distinctive looks and personalities. But it was obvious the creator meant them to look like brothers, and William suspected they would look identical if their poses had been the same.

  The nearly full moon moved over the sky as William sat on the railing between the two gargoyles. The crisp autumn air glided over his skin and relaxed him. He leaned against the left gargoyle while his crossed feet nearly touched the right one. They’d become his friends during the last two years. His confidants, his silent companions. He kept them clean of spider webs and birds’ nests. He cared for the stone, smiling every time he had to wash their impressive, muscled frames. He always felt like he should apologize or something when he had to clean their crotches or behinds, not that it mattered since they lacked genitals. It was stupid, but no one knew about his musings except for himself, so where was the harm? If he talked to them, whose business was it but his own?

  William closed his eyes. His bi
rthday was in two days. He would be thirty-seven. He’d already received a couple of e-mails from a few family members and from a couple of friends who still kept in touch. But it felt more like duty than affection on their part.

  He sighed. “It shouldn’t bother me,” he said quietly. “It really shouldn’t, not after two freaking years. I mean, I understand their reluctance. I’m like Quasimodo without the hump. I even hang out in a bell tower. And talk to gargoyles.”

  He snickered even as a pang jabbed his heart. He curled his left hand as far as he could. It was always stiff, no matter how many times he exercised it. Same with his leg. The healed skin wasn’t as elastic as the rest of his skin, and he constantly had to put medicated lotion on it to make sure it didn’t crack and bleed. It was disgusting but it was his reality.

  Yes, he was content with his life. He was happy with where he was. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t get lonely now and then.

  William shook his head before glancing at his watch. Wincing, he stood and brushed off his pants. “Dammit. Five-thirty is going to come all too soon.”

  Despite his age, Father Adler got up every single freaking morning at six sharp no matter what. Rain or shine, sickness or health. William was expected to be up at that time as well, and with breakfast ready. William was fine with that but only when he got a solid four hours himself.

  “’Night,” he said to the gargoyles as he did every night. He patted them both before slowly making his way down the rickety, creaking stairs of the bell tower to the main floor. The village was small and intimate, and it didn’t take him long to return to his home. He liked the simplicity of his living space. He’d never been one for clutter or material possessions. After stripping, he walked into the little bathroom and slowly put lotion on his scarred skin. He didn’t have a mirror on the cabinet above the sink. The only mirror he owned was for shaving, and it was kept in a drawer until needed. He’d looked at himself enough after getting out of the hospital.