Gargoyle in Love

Ricky the Gargoyle

He was a Gargoyle in love.

He saw her every day, sitting across from him. She was so beautiful, ethereal really, in her cold and imperious way. She never looked his way but he knew she knew he was watching. Sometimes he could swear there was almost a coy look that would pass over her face, or maybe it was just shadows. So many times he longed to call out a greeting, or make a witty quip, to make her glance his way. But he never did.

His name was Rickix. His friends, who resided on either side of him, called him Ricky if they spoke to him at all. All in all, being a gargoyle was pretty boring with nothing to do but sit and stare forebodingly into the distance. If you were lucky, a human might look up and meet your stony stare, until they shuddered and hurried on their way. Ricky had no idea how long he had existed, but he knew his job was very important; at least it used to be.

Back in England, before the cities had become metal, he lived on top of a stone and straw castle. His purpose was to expel excess rainwater through his mouth. He carried on contentedly for a few centuries like this until the humans had another of their innumerable fights and the castle burned down around him. All was quiet for another few centuries. Eventually, his column crumbled to the ground floor and left him resting at an awkward angle against an opposing wall still standing. Sometimes people would stumble on the ruins, each thinking they had made a brand new discovery, until the site of the rubble became a well known resting place for these “hikers”. Very often Ricky was looked at in awe and sometimes affection. Some even gifted him with writings on his side, which he wished they would have at least had the courtesy to read to him. He reveled in these moments of connection as sometimes months or even years went on without a visitor.

A different kind of traveler showed up and they were not dressed for the country, but rather in unsuitable shiny black shoes, and clothes that did not go well with dirt. They landed and came tripping out of a metal bird, heading straight for Ricky. There were “oooh” and “ahhh” and “hmmm” sounds, and something straight was held beside him along his base, then upwards from hoof to the horn. The strange men left as abruptly as they came without even waving as some travelers were wont to do.

The next day, or maybe it was a year, Ricky was contemplating the intrinsic conflict of the butterfly. What prompted them to put themselves in a cocoon in the first place? How did they know they would come out pretty in their winged glory, and what was wrong with being a caterpillar anyway? They were cute and fuzzy and the coordination of their little legs working in harmony was aesthetically satisfying.

A thunderous whirring broke into his thoughts above his head. Humans swarmed him with belts and buckles and after much creaking and a big snap, Ricky was airborne sailing over the land. He was quite terrified. He looked down and saw a large body of water and thought it must be the mythical ocean the birds used to twitter about! It glistened and shined at him, seeming to beckon him for a nap and some gentle musings. It was inspiring.

A very short time later, he realized he had mistaken the lake. Here was the ocean in its vicious glory, with waves, and sand and shells winking at him. The steel bird set him down and he was rolled into a metal bucket, which again lifted up into the air. A much longer time later, the ocean was gone and the city was introduced. Loud, squalling, shrieking, life which assaulted and overwhelmed him. Rickix was placed with ceremony on his new home and unveiled to the world at large.

So much to feast his eyes on, so bright, new and shiny.

But then she caught his eyes and the only thing he could see in front of him was Her. All else faded into nothing as he contemplated the wonder of her existence. She must have been carved from marble, her lines were exquisite. She had wings as he had, except hers expanded out as if in flight, just like the majestic swan he had seen sailing over his castle a thousand years ago. Her head was that of a lioness with a hint of a snarl, so delicately blending with her dragon body. Eyes ever knowing, looking forward and down in contempt. She was deliciously feminine in a ferocious way and Ricky delighted in the terrible beauty she presented.

He could only see her right side but if the left was half as beautiful, he'd love her anyway if not more. He could tell from the tilt of her head so many things about her. Proud, stubborn, aware of her power but not much interested in it. Boredom was printed on her stare, mixed with wry humor, longing for something more. Lonely.

Ricky remembered the time when bees had nested in his ears. The sound had created a vibration that started in his head and spread down to his toes and for a solid week, he buzzed along with those busy bees. That's what it felt like when he looked at her, a vibration through his whole stony body, and when he looked down his nose at his feet, he could swear he saw little striations in his claws as a result.

In all his long years, Ricky had never longed for movement, content to watch the world in front of him. Picking out a single blade of grass and watching with abject fascination, the minuscule movement of growth every day. For two hundred and thirty-four years he had been lost in contemplation of the sky, counting the stars, naming his own constellations and noting the movement of the heavens. He watched the passing of families of animals from birth to death, their dramas of survival, their triumphs, sometimes their slaughter. So closely did he watch, he learned the language they spoke, though not with words. Birds often came to roost on, or beside him, their chatter becoming as distinct and specific and expressive as his own thoughts. Ricky had no concept of spoken language, between the animals and people, they all made different sounds from each other. The real story was in their tones, the way they stood, crouched, or flew, and how they looked at each other. The people that had lived beneath him, the army who destroyed the castle, and the visitors that came after, all had different words to use, but Ricky understood their meaning and intent simply with his millennia of honed observation.

Then there was now. With all his might he wished to call out, to speak to her, to use a language to express his devotion and lavish affectionate endearments. Ricky wanted to tell her the story of the ladybug that crawled on his nose, of when the fox mother adopted an orphaned mountain lion cub, or the time when the sky lit with a thousand falling stars, a show, it seemed, just for him and if he could, he would have wept.

He could not even tremble with the desire he felt, to leap across the ravine that separated them, but he envisioned it over and over again until he had crossed that chasm a thousand times. He never knew what happened when he got there, lost in the extraordinary idea of being able to move at all.


Part II

He decided to name the object of his fascination. After a few months of contemplation, it came to him. She was Norra. Ricky didn’t know why names were important, but it was the one thing he owned. The one who made him, named him by carving it into the ledge he rested on. He had felt the love from this human, had been spoken to affectionately, and Ricky remembered. He didn’t know if she had been named, but certainly, he could give her the same kindness given him, as a sign of his devotion.

Time passed again. There was so much going on beneath him he was often startled at the onset of evening. Humanity had exceeded their castles and he was so high up it was easy to draw comparisons to ant colonies from his perspective. The only people he could see up close were the ones in the building across from him, where Norra resided. They held up black squares to their faces or looked into them intently, perhaps trying to scry the future. They sat at tables and shuffled white leaves and moved very quickly. There were no farms or markets as far as he could see, but they did not seem to be hungry.

The birds that came to roost beside him were less interesting, as their discoveries and trials were much the same each day. They ate in the park, they found delectable scraps where the humans left their trash, miniature clumsy people chased them, and sometimes they pooped on someone for a chirpy chuckle. Occasionally, the rats would keep him company and sit slyly on his head, sniffing the air for the scent of garbage or enemies. He didn’t much like them and they didn’t stay long as it was cold and windy and without food. Even so, he would miss their presence after too long alone with his quieter gargoyle companions.

One night, a room across the way blinked out and never came back on. Then a few days later another one. Over the next month, more and more lights refused to come back on, in the day, or ever again. Soon, Ricky was faced with a wall of dark windows and no one to look at. This did not concern him however, it was the nature of change and he was used to it.

Eventually, different humans arrived and these did concern Ricky. He recognized their intent. It was the same intent of the barbarians who had burned down his castle so long ago; Destruction. He could tell them apart from others by the orange helmets and yellow vests of armor they wore. With alert and wary expectation, he watched the arrival of huge metal beasts which he identified as similar to the catapults that had ripped through his castle’s gate. Each day brought a greater agitation as they circled the building where Norra resided. He could see her watching the proceedings below and knew she did not like them one bit.

His companions had settled into permanent silence. They knew what was coming and had seen it many times before. Their refusal to answer his queries made him more and more nervous. His watchfulness over his Savage Beauty became beseeching, begging her to tell him what was to happen. No answers came.

He began to develop a Plan. He would save Norra. Her castle might crumble but he would defy the stone he was made of and spring across the metal valley that separated them. He would take her in his arms and fly her away to a place where castles could never crumble. It was all a matter of the mind; if he truly loved her, then anything was possible of course. He had witnessed thousands of miracles in nature, butterflies, steel birds, snowflakes; why could it not happen?

The moment would be when the building fell from beneath her, he would leap the crevasse and catch Norra. If his wings did not prevail he would at least die with her. Ricky practiced the moment in his head continuously. He urged his claws to grip, his hind legs to tense for a leap, his wings to spread. He remained still, not even a talon twitched, and yet he believed.

Ricky had not seen the sunrise in years, as he faced west, but he knew by the slight lightening of the dark, it had arrived. It was time. After a short burst of activity, presumably in preparation for battle, the streets below had emptied of any life and it was unnaturally quiet. The destruction beasts sat still and remained in their place surrounding her home. Ricky kept waiting for the moment they would fling fire, or stone and cause Norra’s home to come down around her.

The quieter it became the more agitated Ricky was, if only he could, his brow would have sweat, his feet would stamp, a clawed fist would rage, and he would scream defiance at those below. He sat immobile.

Suddenly a cracking sound and pops deafened around him, this must be the moment and with all his might he willed himself into action. His whole being devoted itself to movement and at the height of his effort, he finally managed to whisper her name softer than the sweeping wings of a butterfly. To his joy, the stone beneath him trembled. He was doing it! Frantic he looked at Norra and to his panicked astonishment, she was looking back at him! For the first time, their eyes met and in an instant, he knew she loved him and accepted his name for her. Dust swirled up and around him and the tremble became chaotic shaking.

To his horror and dismay, he realized it was not Norra’s castle but once again his own, that had been attacked and brought down. His two roofmates called their goodbyes as they toppled off and fell into the street below. Gargoyles did not usually care much if they lived or died. A surge of relief settled onto him. At least it was him, and she was safe. He looked over to see Norra one more time, but the dust and debris obscured his vision and he was denied this.

He fell. Time slowed. He had tilted sideways and ended up falling headfirst allowing him a view upwards. There was nothing to see except dirt, so he recounted the most pleasant parts of his memories. He was grateful for the things he knew, the things he had learned. The short time he had known Norra and the joy he had in the discovery of her, their unspoken rapport of loneliness and untamed joy in their existence. Part of him mourned that he couldn’t share the beauty of the world with her; he knew she had her own stories and they could have learned so much from each other. He sent her a silent goodbye and accepted his fate, and he fell.

...

...

A white claw reached out of the maelstrom and gripped his own. If he could, his eyes would have widened in astonishment. He was looking into Norra’s face, her whole face. Her terrible beauty was just as fierce and wonderful as he knew it would be. The sound of her wings spreading snapped against the air and their fall together was slowed. Leaning close and looking directly into his eyes, filled with both the warmth of love and vehement determination, she whispered, “Rickix.”

Suddenly he could feel the sharp prick of the claws that gripped him with an iron strength. Sensations like cold water pouring down his back flooded him, and he saw his claws grip hers back. The cold rushed almost painfully through his arms, to his wings, and for the first time he opened them in triumph. The two gargoyles came even with each other, still gripping one another, face to face. In unison, they gave a great downsweep, then two more, as the ground rose up to meet them. Feeling came to his hind legs, and they scrabbled in the air as he resisted the downward momentum.

Hissing in effort, Norra demanded, “Fly!”

He could do no less for her and with a monumental flap of his wings, Ricky flew upward, this time carrying her a little, skimming just over a
traffic light. Norra quickly matched his pace and rubbed her head against his, in affection and approval. They turned towards the sunrise, in search of a new castle, together.