Читать книгу The Gargoyle at the Gates - Philippa Dowding - Страница 4

The year is 1936.

A young boy and an old man are sitting together, side by side, on a rock in a churchyard. It’s a lovely place, with an old apple orchard and a small river running along between the trees and the church courtyard.

An ancient lion statue stands nearby, regal in the gentle summer evening.

The boy and the man are very still, almost as though they are waiting for something. If you listen closely, you can hear the man whispering to the boy:

“They are very shy. You must be extremely quiet, but they will come. They love the apples at this time of year.”

The boy’s eyes are open wide, and he dares not move his head lest he scare their mysterious visitors away. He is staring straight ahead at the stone lion, long enough to realize that its left ear is broken off and is lying in the grass at its feet. The boy’s grandfather gives him a gentle nudge and whispers, “Shhh. See, over there, in the treetops.”

The boy squints, hardly daring to breathe. It is difficult to see much in the gathering darkness. The treetops are still … then suddenly he sees a movement. A leathery claw reaches out from the green leaves of an apple tree and plucks a fruit from the branch. In another tree nearby, a second claw slowly clutches an apple, then in a third tree, a third claw reaches out.

“There are THREE of them?” the boy whispers.

“Here, yes.”

The boy considers this. “There are more, then?”

The old man nods. “There may be more … perhaps.”

“Then where are the others?”

The old man shakes his head and shrugs. “Lost. Gone. No one knows for sure.”

The boy has many, many more questions he’d like to ask, but he is cut short. In the next moment, a half-eaten apple whizzes through the air and lands at his feet. The boy looks at it, amazed, but doesn’t have a chance to say anything, because just then three wondrous creatures emerge from the trees and waddle slowly toward him.

His grandfather has told him they exist, but his grandfather is also known for making up stories.

The boy sits still, barely breathing, until the first creature reaches them and says something in a voice that sounds like gravel, or like pennies swishing in the bottom of a bucket, or maybe like the wind rustling in the winter leaves.

“Snarthen bellatro?” it says, glaring at the boy and his grandfather. It is large and dark, with a ram’s head and curly horns.

But the boy hears the gargoyle say something else in its whispery voice, as well. It sounds quite clearly like, “And who are you?”