Читать книгу The Gargoyle Overhead - Philippa Dowding - Страница 14

The Story Begins

The candles blazed.

Katherine and Cassandra were seated on their lawn chairs, Gargoth was on his cushion looking up at the sky. “Are you ready then?” he asked.

“Yep. Are you ready for Gargoth’s story, Cassandra?” Katherine asked.

Cassandra didn’t even look up from her knitting. “Yes!”

“Here it is then, a long story, about a time long ago,” Gargoth said. And with that simple introduction, he began. “As you know Katherine, I was created in England in 1604. I was made by a master stonemason, a Frenchman. He travelled far and wide through villages and towns, using his skill to make beautiful statues, or to add elegant finishing touches to buildings of stone. His name was Tallus…”

“Oh! That’s why you’re Gargoth of Tallus!” Kath-erine exclaimed.

Gargoth shot her a dark look and said, “That’s correct. Now quiet please, Katherine. This is a long story, and we’ll never get through it if you interrupt me.

“I believe I may have been his final creation. No one ever heard of the master French stonemason Tallus after 1604.

“The little churchyard where I was created was a beautiful place. There was once a brotherhood of monks who lived in the church, and they planted an apple orchard and many beautiful flowers and bushes, but the brothers were all gone by the time I arrived. King Henry VIII didn’t like monasteries and had shut them all down years before.”

“Why?” Katherine asked.

Gargoth shot her another dark look and sighed. “Look, if I go into all the ins-and-outs of English history, we’ll never leave this rooftop. Look it up—it was called the Dissolution of the Monasteries. That ‘net’ on the box you like should be able to tell you about it.” Katherine knew that Gargoth was referring to the Internet and her computer. She made a mental note to learn more about King Henry VIII.

Gargoth took a few puffs of his pipe. “It was a lovely place, but I was completely alone. There was another statue in the churchyard, an ancient stone lion, but I hated it. It wasn’t alive like me, just a lump of cold stone. How I would rage at it! How I wished it were alive, just to have someone to talk to. It reminded me, every day, of how lonely I was.

“I was alone for years, decades. England went through a terrible civil war, and still I hid in the church tower, all alone.

“Then one day, a young boy arrived in the church-yard. He came with his father to pick the apples in the old orchard: people were starving in England at that time and had to eat whatever they could find. They came year after year. Winter would come, and I wouldn’t see him again until late the next summer. Finally, when he was almost a man, I decided I would speak to him.

“His name was Philip, and he was the first friend I ever had.”