Read Mercy, A Gargoyle Story Online
Authors: Misty Provencher
Mercy, A Gargoyle Story (2 page)
I stay quiet then, sprawled in the clutches of the winged monster.
It is better than being dropped down on whatever is a mile below us.
The ground, as the sun streams over it, goes from green to brown and then back to green again.
The gargoyle's wings steady to a crusty beat.
"Soon enough, soon enough,” It rasps.
"You will see, Stupid.
Sure as I'm ugly, you will see."
Silent again, I let myself rise and fall, inside the gargoyle's clutches, with the altitude for hours.
I feel my body returning, becoming only partly mine.
Enough to feel the ache of my ribs and my stomach flattening against my spine.
The land below is a lumpy garden of trees.
The gargoyle drops down and we glide across the canopy, close to the branches.
"We're...here?"
"Here, Stupid.
Yes.
Among the here, we are.
But where?
Where do we, my darling Slip?"
He cackles again, dipping into the trees so the sticks and branches break my skin and spear me through.
I don't leak out, but I feel every puncture.
"Stop!”
I shriek.
The gargoyle jerks us up, out of the canopy, with a snicker.
"So better, Stupid.
So much uglier, so close and maybe we’ve gone far enough."
The uneven stones of a castle wall fall into view.
I know this castle.
I’ve memorized the stories that were passed around with beer bottles and creepy whispers, inside the falling down walls.
I remember how we threw all our garbage on the bonfires to snuff the flames at the end of the night.
To call the place a castle makes it sound regal, majestic, or beautiful.
It's none of that.
Half of it has crumbled into the grass and there are burns striping the walls inside from the college kids building bonfire for their parties.
It is the perfect place to swear the worst swears, right out in the open, to share illegal substances, to plot against frats and employers and government, to pledge, to fight, to make love.
And the story of the castle is told at every bonfire, oddly accurate from one telling to the next, so that I believe this tale is as well preserved as an Egyptian tomb.
The story says that this castle was built, although no one remembers exactly when, by a man with less sanity than money.
The men, who were contracted to build the castle, were not masters of their trade and one of the two turrets fell within a year of completion.
The other still stands, although it crumbles like stale cake.
The owner, even after his castle began to deteriorate, still insisted on living within the broken walls of his drafty shelter.
He was a hermit and suffered his loneliness with insanity, eventually proclaiming himself The King of Nowhere.
The authorities tried to remove the King, but he beat them to it, removing himself with a bullet to his loneliness, just outside his own castle walls.
His last stand.
People constantly claim to see the King's ghost, traipsing through the forest, searching out the animals that had tugged away his bones before the authorities had a chance to clear the paper work and retrieve them.
I am considering all of this, when the claws of the gargoyle, without any warning at all, release me.
***
I land on the bricks of the decomposing turret with a sickening
flomp
.
The shadow of the gargoyle circles over me, before the thing swoops down and lands soundlessly on the crumbling roof.
"Get up, Slip.
Don't lie about."
"My bones...you broke everything inside me."
"Oh how ugly!”
The gargoyle gasps, pacing around me in a circle.
"Get up anyway.
There is nothing broken about you, my darling."
The thing reaches out its spiny finger and I roll away, like a repelled magnet.
It leaps forward and I roll away again.
The third time, we are nearly to the broken steps that wind up the side of the turret, when the thing twists its face with rage.
"Get up!”
The gargoyle roars.
"Moaguza!”
A different voice roars even louder from the dissolving rock steps behind me.
I am on my feet before I realize I can actually stand at all.
My broken limbs leave me stooped shorter on one side than the other.
The bones nag my brain to ache.
I'm caught between the gargoyle and the voice.
I spin, expecting the voice to belong to an even bigger monster.
But it is only a man, in a tattered crimson cape, standing near the crumbling steps.
I never heard even one foot step.
The edges of his cape don’t match his looks or demeanor at all.
He is the kind of man that would have intimidated me in life; the kind whose details are all so carefully executed that he is more a piece of art, than a generic selection of the species.
He has a noble cut to his jaw, a straight back, and a chin that looks as though it has never rested on his chest, even once, in all his life.
His gaze connects me to him and holds me still in a way that stirs something inside me—a living feeling that struggles to break the surface of my now dead life.
"Madeline,”
he smiles.
"welcome."
I take a step back toward the gargoyle and squint at the man, although he does not move toward me.
Instead, he stands quite still, as if he would like me to inspect him, and I do.
His fingertips, each encased in ornate, silver jewelry, catch my eye.
Each sports a different, twinkling piece and each finger is extended at least four inches by the silver.
The ends are tapered to sharp points.
Silver wings, jeweled horns, and diamonds are set in curling tails of filigree.
Each piece, when I blink, seems to move.
The beauty of them is tempered by how pointed and deadly sharp each one appears.
Just looking at them makes me quiver.
"Who are you?
How do you know me?"
My voice scales away, down the walls.
"I died!
How do you know my name?"
The gargoyle leaps toward me.
"Truce!”
It hisses.
"That's what we call him!
We call him Your Majesty!"
"Settle.”
The man holds up a glinting hand and the gargoyle takes a step back from me, its adrenaline breath forced from its nostrils.
"Of course I know you, Madeline.
In fact, I owe you an enormous apology.
I've failed you.
You're correct, you know, you are indeed, deceased.
The water released you, thanks to Moag, but it was all too late.
If you would have hung on, even one more moment, things would be so different.
But, as it is, here we are."
My mind stutters.
"Where is here?"
"My castle,” Truce says, taking a step back so I can look beyond him.
"Let me introduce myself properly.
I am the King of Nowhere.
And this," he waves a sparkling hand over the corroding brick and past the ledge, to the empty trees beyond,
"is my kingdom."
"King of the Gargoyles,” Moag says.
"King of Nothing,"
Truce corrects him.
"Moag is my only servant and the only creature I ever see here, aside from those called to be gargoyles and the very, very occasional Slip, like yourself.
"I had Moag bring you, although I realized you'd passed.
Unfortunately, your very Slipness was due to a grave miscalculation on my part.
Much worse than I expected.
You see, I sent Moag to save you from drowning.
It is an ancient duty of the gargoyles.
"Fate indicated that Moag would do just that, so no angels were sent for retrieval.
But you fooled us all, Madeline.
Everyone assumed you would continue to fight your own death until Moag arrived, but then, when you gave up so quickly, Moag was left in quite a pickle.
He can not leave behind anyone that he's come for, and yet, we are not in the business of ferrying the dead about."
Truce sighs, sweeping his stringy red cape behind him as he strolls toward me.
"It is my personal failure that you are now a Slip, Madeline, so I asked Moag to bring you here, as you now have a choice that neither of us expected."
"What does that mean?"
I say.
"It means, my darling, that you have essentially become
my problem
."
CHAPTER TWO
"Nothing to do,” the gargoyle grumbles, as if he's already heard the answer a thousand times before.
"Crack it open on a rock.
Make it look like it was not dead, and then it is.
Oops the darling, so that fate can come wanting."
"You are always practical, but rarely anticipatory,” Truce says, tapping a thoughtful silver-tipped finger on his chin.
If he applied even the slightest pressure, I believe he would slice his neck open.
"We cannot tempt fate.
What's done is done.
She is a Slip.
We cannot make her more than that, but...” Truce's eyes narrow as he tips his head with a grin.
"Could she be made less?"
The gargoyle springs from its haunches.
It paces the half roof on it’s grasshopper legs.
"Too pretty for ugly,"
Moag sneers, as if what he is saying is not the answer he truly wants to give.
"And it is entirely stupid.
This is not to be learned!
This Slip is no Gargoyle Queen."
The last word is spit, a tangible glob of it landing on one of the stones, in front of my mangled feet.
Broken and dead, I am still repulsed by the implication of what Moag has said.
Then Truce drifts closer.
"And what do you think, Madeline?"
He peers at me, tapping his chin again with one silver-winged finger.
The tiny motion sends Moag pacing furiously, but Truce persists.
"A Queen?
I see Moag's concern, I do.
Even with your damaged body and waterlogged face, there is still some sort of attraction about you.
Something that tempts even me."
"Let her become it!"
Moag shrieks, his words finally seeming to be his own.
"She will see to your destruction, if you will not have it yourself.
This is the curtain's closing.
Let it seal you in your shrine."
Truce flips back his cape with one arm, raising his palm to the gargoyle, but the King's eyes are on mine.
"The pie on a windowsill," the King whispers to the gargoyle, "can be even more tantalizing than the bite of it on your tongue.
But even a girl so lovely as this cannot overcome my disease.
I am
the only
Gargoyle King and you should not doubt me so, my friend.
You should not excite yourself.
"You see, Madeline,” Truce says as he turns back to me.
“Moaguza is tired.
I've run him ragged with the longest rein ever served by a Gargoyle King.
He cannot retire, however, as there is a synergy between humans and gargoyles that anchors Moag to me.
Let me try to explain.
"Gargoyles have a gift,” Truce points carefully to the place where his human heart should be suspended.
"They own a gift of mercy.
Forgiveness.
This tremendous gift can heal anything a human body can manifest.
All diseases, all ailments.
With mercy and forgiveness, the gargoyle's gift completely heals and restores.
An individual's need draws the gargoyle most fit to supply the proper healing.
It is a very personal, very specific bond.
It is a second chance for both, if you will, and anyone who receives a gargoyle’s gift is truly blessed.
"I am Moaguza's human recipient, however, I can not allow Moaguza to heal me.
Our job is one in the same on this Earth.
It is my calling to be the King of the Gargoyles.
Those who needed creation, created my kingdom.
"Some of those, who have not absorbed what they came to learn in their human life span, are allotted a short continuance of time after their death to learn their lessons.
These entities take on the gargoyle form.
In exchange for this continuance, they are also given a gift of mercy and forgiveness that they must bestow on their human recipient.
My gargoyles need a King who appreciates them and will create them, you understand?
This is my job and I am the only one fit to do it.
"Likewise, every king needs a court of faithful servants.
The world's need requires my existence and in return, I require a henchman, a knight who will labor under my same vision.
This is how Moaguza came to me.
We do not know the details of how we came to be paired, but we are here nonetheless, locked together.
We are defined as much by our need of one another as by the gifts we cannot give to each other.
That time, that choice, has passed."
Moag grunts.
"Not taken.
Not passed."
"Moaguza offered me his gift long ago," The King says with a fleeting glance at Moag.
"We could have ended the gargoyle kingdom quite easily, as there were no successors at that time, but we both understood the value of our sacrifices by then."
When he pauses to look at the hideous gargoyle, the King's brow melts in the center and the core of his back tightens, pulling him much straighter.
His body reflects a distance between sadness and pride, mirrored in the gargoyle that is hunkered down only steps away.
"We are required to work together in our suffering.
Something in me must never be healed and, likewise, Moaguza's gift must never be accepted.
Should either of us reach those destinies, the gargoyle empire would be destroyed."
Moag grunts.
"Not if the King..."
"Hush!”
Truce bellows.
When he turns back to me, he snaps out his cape and breathes deeply before continuing.
"Those who have not learned would be trapped in the void.
The Earth could do nothing but absorb the sadness; the depression of the damned, and the light of the human race would dwindle, smothered by the merciless ghosts of error.
The only hope for the human race is hope.
Second chances, you see.
"It is our burden and our joy that Moaguza and I have been chosen for such dark greatness."
The King sighs at his crumbling turrets.
"Please,” I whisper.
I am afraid to move one step, as I am balanced so precariously on my broken limbs.
Falling to my knees may or may not have the impact I desire, and I doubt I'll be able to get back on my feet.
My voice is all that is left, as any instrument of influence.
"I don't want this."
"You don't?" he asks softly.
He steps closer and peers into my eyes with his head tipped to one side.
"How can that be?
It is an entire kingdom, my dear.
A vast domain of choices and power, all waiting for you to control it."
"I only want to die.
I don't want to control anything."
"You don't..." he says wistfully, part question, part confusion, and part relief.
Then he spins, snapping the edge of his cape so it twirls away, the silver jewels on his fingers shining in the half-moon.
This time, with a sure voice, he adds, "No, you don't."
Moag growls, a deep and guttural growl that hobbles in an echo along the edge of the turret wall.
"It was a clear decline, Moaguza,” Truce says, but the gargoyle growls again.
"Let the darling steep," the gargoyle hisses.
"Have it’s chances against your tongue.
Time to choose once it knows it’s choices.
And if the choice does not want what I need, then I will labor on, my King, in your perilous fate."
"Fair enough, but of the temptation," Truce says,
"we may be able to have this temptation, without change to our path.”
“That is not a choice.
You do not want what you need," the gargoyle whines.
“You must give the choices.”
“With one concession, then.
Let's see what becomes of it in good form, shall we?”
"It can not bring wanting.
Unfair.
Unfair!”
"I continue to disagree, yet there is nothing we can do, to prove which of us is right, aside from testing the theory.
I cannot remove the desire, but we shall test the wanting.
Get to your wings, Moag."
The gargoyle groans, but it stands.
The thing spreads its emaciated bat wings against the sky, until the entire, eroding turret is eclipsed in its shadow.
"Ready?" the King asks, but his tone leaves no room for dispute.
"Yes," the gargoyle grumbles.
Truce holds both hands toward me, palms out, and the underside of his silver-ensconced fingers wink and slither.
He keeps his head down.
"Rot!" he roars, and at the same moment, the gargoyle's fierce wings give a hard downbeat, as its claws snatch me off the castle top and carry me away once more.
