Читать книгу The Gargoyle at the Gates - Philippa Dowding - Страница 10

Christopher Canning at the Gates

Clapping? What the heck was going on down there?

Christopher glanced over at his desk clock: 7:15 p.m. He could take Marbles out for a walk. The sun was just going down behind the big city buildings in the distance, so it wouldn’t be completely dark for another half an hour or so.

He dashed downstairs. His family was finishing up the dinner dishes.

“Mom! I’m taking Marbles for a walk!” he called. Marbles did his “I’m-going-for-walk-dance” while Christopher got the leash and pocketed the orange ball (which was very brave, since it was still gooey and dripping with dog slime).

Boy and dog slipped out the back door into the fresh air. Christopher took a moment to listen to the city noises. He could hear the fountain bubbling in the park, a streetcar rattling along the tracks nearby, and a police siren downtown. Marbles listened, too.

Christopher walked quietly across the driveway beside the house and in a few short steps was leaning against the iron railing of the park fence. All was still except the gently bubbling fountain.

“Let’s walk around it, boy.” Christopher wasn’t sure why, but he was whispering. He and Marbles walked around the park fence in a few moments. It was the smallest park he had ever seen. He was looking for a break in the fence or some easy way into the park, but he didn’t find one — the fence was solid all the way around. Someone was smoking a pipe nearby; he could smell strong smoke. He looked, but no one was around.

“Hmm. That’s weird. Smell that, boy? Pipe smoke.” As if in answer, Marbles sniffed then sneezed. He always sneezed when someone was smoking.

Christopher stopped on the sidewalk in front of the gates and peered inside. He could see the bubbling seahorse fountain. Bushes. Benches. Apple tree. All quiet. No people. Marbles was sniffing at the gateposts and getting all shivery and excited.

“What is it, Marbles?”

Marbles stood on his hind legs and propped his front legs halfway up the gatepost. His black nose was moving a mile a minute — he could smell something really interesting. He couldn’t take his eyes off the gargoyle sitting at the top of the gatepost.

Marbles barked and started jumping on his back legs, staring up at the statue, just like he did when he chased a squirrel up a tree. “Calm down, crazy dog. It’s made of stone, see?” Christopher reached up as high as he could and was just able to reach the gargoyle. He knocked on its scaly feet. It sounded rock solid and hurt his knuckles.

Marbles calmed down just a little and sat on the sidewalk looking up at the gargoyle, tense as a bowstring.

“I’m going in, but you have to stay here.” Christopher snapped Marbles’ leash to the gate. Marbles started whining.

“Shhh! I’ll be right back.” Christopher took a large breath and turned to face the iron railing of the gate. He sucked in his stomach. He turned his head toward the street and eased first his arm, then his leg, then his shoulder through the bars. Moving very slowly and carefully, he squeezed through the iron bars, his head the last thing through. He just made it. He was standing inside the locked park while Marbles whined and shivered outside on the sidewalk.

“Quiet, boy. Keep a lookout for me.” Marbles licked his lips and wiggled his tail.

It was odd, but as soon as Christopher entered the park, he felt like everything went quiet. He could see the street through all the bushes, but any sounds of streetcars or sirens were oddly muffled by them. It was very serene and he suddenly felt sleepy, since the bubbling of the fountain sounded soothing and soft. He walked over to it and looked around.

There were no pennies or anything but water in the bowl at the bottom of the fountain. Obviously, no one ever came in here. He’d been to the Queen Elizabeth fountains in Vancouver, and they were always filled with shiny coins from tourists and visitors. He thought that even small, out-of-the-way fountains usually had money in them.

But this fountain was completely coin-free. No visitors in here then. The gates must be locked most of the time, or maybe all of the time?

Christopher took a few more steps and was standing next to the little apple tree, which was not too much higher than his head. It didn’t look like it could have been there very long, and yet it was loaded with apples. It was practically glowing, and the fruit hanging on the branches was heavy and golden and smelled magnificent. They were the best apples he’d ever smelled. He took a deep breath. They smelled absolutely perfect, like apples were supposed to smell if you were going to describe them to someone who had never seen or smelled one before.

The scent of the tree was almost overpowering.

Christopher raised his hand and was just about to pick an apple when he heard a whispery voice say, “Forthen grem sawchen?”

It sounded a lot like a winter wind rustling in the trees, or like a language at the very edge of his memory. But at the same time, he also heard the voice say, “Are you stealing that apple, thief?”

He gasped and whirled around, but there was no one. Christopher wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t move. He was stuck to the spot, his heart beating like a hammer in his chest. He stared into the bushes, but there was nothing to see. Just bushes. He forgot to breathe.

Which is why he was able to hear another, closer, sweeter voice say very clearly, “Bellatro smethen dor.”

Which sounded a lot like, “Let the boy be.”

ZING! Suddenly an apple flew at Christopher out of the bushes. He bolted back to the gates, trying to squeeze through the iron railing as fast as he could.

ZING! ZING! Two more apples narrowly missed his head.

“HEY!” he yelped, but he didn’t dare look back.

ZING! Another apple whizzed past his ear. The apple-thrower was toying with him. Christopher could tell that the thrower was very carefully missing him with each shot.

He contorted himself and desperately squeezed through the bars, gasping for air back on the sidewalk. Apples rang loudly against the park side of the gates.

Christopher grabbed his dog’s leash and ran. His mother was opening the back door to call him inside just as he reached the house. She had to jump aside to avoid being knocked over by her son as he dashed through the door.

“Christopher, what’s wrong?” she called as he ran by her. But he was already at the top of the house, slamming the door to his room.

She looked down at Marbles, who was waiting patiently at her feet, slowly wagging his tail. His leash was still attached, wet and muddy with dank park leaves.