Читать книгу The Gargoyle at the Gates - Philippa Dowding - Страница 8

The English Garden: Septimus

James leaned over the book resting on his knee and pushed his dark, curly hair out of his eyes. He was sitting on a bench under an apple tree loaded with fruit. It was a beautiful summer day, and his grandfather’s garden was bursting with life. The daisies, asters, and hollyhocks were all in full bloom and filled with bees. Their droning was making James sleepy, but he didn’t want to sleep.

He looked over at his grandfather’s little thatched cottage and smiled: he really was in England! A few months earlier, no one even knew he HAD a grandfather living in England, not even his mother. She was quite surprised (and puzzled) when the letter came with her name on it, inviting James to visit for the summer.

“But you don’t have a grandfather living in England,” she had said, scratching her head. “My father was an odd recluse who disappeared when I was little.”

A few phone calls set that straight. Apparently James’s grandfather was alive and quite well and wanted to meet his only grandson. (He wanted to meet his only daughter too, but it was going to take some time for James’s mother to get used to the idea.)

James had never been anywhere, so after much begging and insisting and reasoning by him and more phone calls and checking by his parents … he was allowed to go.

So James DID have a grandfather. As for the odd recluse part … that was turning out to be just a little bit true.

James turned back to his book. A fountain was bubbling quietly nearby, adding to the drowsy atmosphere. Occasionally a bullfrog croaked sleepily from the pond.

There were a few statues in the garden as well, in various states of completion. In one spot, a half-finished frog statue had big eyes and front legs, but its body and back legs had not yet emerged from its stone cradle. In another shady part of the garden, an enormous apple stood proudly half-formed in a squat block of pink stone.

It was a beautiful, eccentric old garden, with the hand of its creator visible in everything.

And it was a sleepy place. James caught himself falling into a doze and sat up straight. He was a little old to be taking afternoon naps, since he was almost sixteen.

He put his chin in his hand and tried to concentrate on his reading. His grandfather had given him a book to read: A History of Stonemasons in Europe. It was an interesting book. Stonemasons worked with knives and hammers and saws and made some really important things out of stone, like churches, bridges, castles, and sometimes artistic carvings, including statues and strange gargoyles.

It was fascinating reading, but for some reason he wasn’t able to concentrate. The bees and the flowers and the aroma of apples warming in the sun were making his eyelids very heavy.

Just as he was about to doze off again, an apple tree leaf gently fluttered down from the branch above his head and landed with a loudish flup onto the page of his open book. It brought him back to his senses.

He brushed the leaf off the page and continued reading. He flicked a bee away from his ear and scratched his nose. A moment later, another leaf softly floated down from the tree and landed on the page with another flup.

He brushed it off, darted a peek into the tree above, and went back to his book.

But not for long.

A few seconds later, four or five leaves gently fluttered down onto his book, then more and more. Finally, a steady torrent of leaves poured down upon him, covering both him and his book in a leafy green coat. He gave up trying to read and sat still as the leaves kept coming. He was slowly being buried in a mountain of green apple tree leaves. In moments, only his head was visible, peeking from the top of the mound. James shook his head to remove leaves from his hair and sighed.

He looked up into the tree, and said patiently, “Septimus, if that’s you, you’re interrupting my reading.” A loud giggle erupted from the tree, and then silence. James tried not to smile. It was a deliciously naughty giggle.

“Grampa Gregory, the gargoyles are restless! Septimus is dropping leaves on me!” James called from the leaf pile. An old man poked his head around the side of the garden shed and nodded. He was wearing a floppy green velvet hat that wobbled dangerously, huge leather gloves, and giant, bug-like goggles.

“They’re easily bored, James. Do you play any instruments?” the old man called.

“No,” James answered, surprised.

His grandfather was holding an enormous chisel and a huge stone hammer. All afternoon James had heard the chisel occasionally hitting stone. His grandfather was working on another half-finished statue (this one looked like it was going to be a spray of wildflowers, asters perhaps).

“Oh, well, try singing to them then,” James’s grandfather said matter-of-factly, then turned back to his sculpture.

Singing? What would he possibly sing? Clearly his grandfather wasn’t going to help him with Septimus.

James shook himself from head to toe and sent the leaves scattering, brushing them from his shoulders and hair. He and his friends used to play in piles of autumn leaves at home. The memory made him smile a little as he went back to his reading.

But not for long. Another leaf fluttered down from the tree.…