Gargoyles are carved stone figures on Gothic churches. In architecture, they were made to convey water away from roofs. In myths, it is believed that these creatures come to life at night to scare evil spirits off.
I wrote this over the last few weeks. I guess a lot of us feel a certain emptiness coming to a stage where everyone you know has to drift apart. I filled the emptiness writing this.
I guess my ‘24 hour rule’ doesn't really work. I need a
little more to be over her. I take a seat in the study room. Most of my books
are now packed in huge wooden boxes. Except one, that is. It’s on the table.
Her memory lingers on like the scent of a crushed rose. A
part of me knew this was coming. A part of me never wanted to believe it. I've
been living in dreams. I guess I always have. And so I know I’ll be fine. No, I
hope I’ll be fine. I really do.
Part of me knows that by tomorrow I’ll be gone,
far away from this. A part of me is sure I’ll never leave.
My phone buzzes but I don’t want to pick it up. Its two
buzzes so it’s probably a message. But I don’t want to see it. I leave the
study. My bag’s all packed. I've already checked it twice. Almost as if I've
forgotten something. Like I've left something out. But I know it’s not something
that will fit in this bag.
I walk into the kitchen and grab an apple. I don’t have the
heart to eat it. I walk back to the study. My phone buzzes again. It’s probably
one of the friends. I know I should meet them before I leave. And as much as I
want to leave this place, rather what it’s become, it’s almost as if I can’t.
And so I don’t want any more memories anchoring me down. I couldn't take it.
The aforementioned book lies solitary on the table. It’s titled ‘The Gargoyle
and The Angel’. It’s a thin book that caught my attention at a book fair about
two years ago. There’s something really
intriguing about it.
I've read it around a hundred times. The story never changes.
Years ago there dwelled a gargoyle atop a famous cathedral. He wasn't the only gargoyle on the cathedral,
but certainly the loneliest there ever was. For his perch was the highest and
his body the most stained by the wind and the rain. And at night, as the legend
has it, all the gargoyles came alive and lollygagged around, for the town was
free of the evil spirits they were made to fend off; he would be alone atop the
cathedral staring at the stars. For the whole town bored him, and the cathedral
seemed to remain ever unchanged. The only thing that did change was the sky.
And so he’d spend all his nights staring at the sky above, looking at the stars
that shined so bright. And in those stars he’d see shapes. Figures. A flower. A
cloud. A fruit. A human. Beasts of all sizes and kinds. Even winged ones like
he was. But never a gargoyle. Never. For gargoyles are a mix of all those
creatures, but seen a little too differently.
This made the gargoyle sadder. For even in the night sky he
loved so much he couldn't see himself. He had never heard tales about
gargoyles. The ones he did from the old gargoyles of the northern wall of the
cathedral showed his kind as antagonists. Never a poem was written about them.
Never a song was sung. And famously St.
Bernard of Clairvaux spoke out against them. The old gargoyles had long gone
now. Taken down because they had worn out. So, there were no tales for him.
But as it happened one day, the gargoyle on his perch was
woken up by this bright luminous light. It was a creature he had never seen but
only heard about from the old gargoyles of the North wall. A bright face with
the most beautiful eyes, skin as clear as the sky on moonlit nights, hair
covering the face like the clouds would hover over the moon sometimes, and
wings beautifully shining unlike his leathery stained ones. Surely this
creature before him was an ‘angel’. The last time these creatures were seen was
about a hundred years ago, when the Plague broke out on the town. They appeared
as a sign of blessing to the land as God’s messengers, even before St. Romain
had cursed the gargoyles to protect the churches of towns across the very land.
He looked at the angel before him, sitting there holding her
knees. Her eyes gazing at him in surprise, as he rose dusting himself off,
staring back in amazement. He could see a speck of fear in her eyes. She asked
him if he was one of the gargoyles she had heard about. Very shamefully the
gargoyle told her he was. He didn't ask her if she was an angel, because he was
very sure she was.
Somewhere inside, the gargoyle felt she’d leave. They all
do. Even the occasional bird atop the cathedral would leave at the sight of
him. But somehow she did not. He asked him if he scared her. She said he
didn't.
And so the angel would come to the gargoyle every fortnight.
They’d talk about the view from up there. They’d talk about the sky. She’d tell
him stories of distant lands and magnificent creatures. He told her whatever
little tales he had inherited and the ones he conjured up from what he
observed. Never had the gargoyles felt the way he felt waiting for the angel every
time. Expectations would ache his soul in the sweetest way possible.
And one night, while gazing at the sky like they always did,
the angel showed the gargoyle a shape in the stars. A shape that looked just
like a gargoyle. Just like him. And the gargoyle wondered how he had ever
missed it. But he also knew that angels did live in the skies above.
Although, the angel told him all the tales she could and all
that she felt, he couldn't as much in return. For his heart was made of stone;
and angels are creatures too majestic and too divine. More divine than
gargoyles would ever be. And although a few experts will tell you that
gargoyles too are known as the ‘Angels of the Dark’; a lot of them will also
tell you that they were made to keep water away from the roofs of churches, and
that that was there only duty as their kind.
And so as much as he hated it, the gargoyle remained just
enough still and cold, for he feared what he thought he might get for his
stone-cold stone heart, warmed almost prematurely by a tiny ember.
One night he waited for the angel but she never came. He
waited until the morning rays of the sun turned him to stone. He waited the
next and many nights ahead, but he didn't see her again.
Unfortunately, the story doesn't have an end. The last few
conclusive pages of the book were torn away, leaving any reader clueless about
what happened to the poor old gargoyle.
I feel the left-over pieces of the pages torn away, stapled
and bound firmly to the book as if wanting to never let go until the story was complete.
I felt for the pieces. I guess nobody wishes to leave until there is an ending
to a story. But maybe sometimes there are no endings. Maybe sometimes getting
used to abruptness is like that lukewarm glass of water that you have to quench
your thirst with.
I want to believe that some terrible sadistic tore away the
happy ending of the book for twisted pleasures, and there really was a happy
ending to the story. I want to believe that the angel came back. I want to
believe that the stars grew brighter for our gargoyle. I want to believe that
his heart wasn't just a cold stone no more. I want to believe.
The phone buzzes. I keep the book down on the table. I pick
up the phone up and walk outside the door. I’ll go meet a few of those who I
call my own. And although I don’t have the slightest clue what tomorrow brings,
better or worse, I’ll believe that angels do return; I’ll believe that things
will turn out to be just fine and there’s a chance that there will be happy endings.
