Omens
Page 65
Finally, I gave up trying to relax and went out for a walk. By ten, Cainsville had shut down for the night. Main Street was a movie set of a picture-perfect town, the road empty, the sidewalk bathed in soft lamp glow, the wind whispering past. I suppose that could be eerie, too, postapocalyptic even, but I knew where all the people were—at home, snug in their beds, dreaming.
Even the gargoyles weren’t sinister at night. They loomed from rooftops like grumpy old men on a small-town porch, ready to yell at any kid who dropped a candy wrapper, but making sure they stayed safe, too. When one gargoyle seemed to move, I only glanced up. I think if it had spread its wings and flown off, it wouldn’t have fazed me. It was just that kind of night. It was a cluster of bats, though, launching from their stonework perches, to pirouette and swoop across the sky.
When the bats were gone, I continued on. The breeze changed direction, bringing with it the smell of moonflowers from a storefront garden. Planting moonflowers for a place that never stayed open past dark? It seemed a touch of whimsical defiance.
I could smell honeysuckle from the lamppost pots, too, along with the rich scent of damp earth, as if they’d just been watered. One was still dripping. It made no sound, which seemed odd until I realized there were strategically placed sidewalk-level pots under each hanging one. I put out my hand, letting a few drops fall on it. In the glow of the streetlamp, my fingers seemed red and I lifted them for a better look in the light. Then I caught a few more drops. Yes, definitely a red tinge, like the water on the school yard.
If I was being macabre, I could imagine it as blood. But I wasn’t in that kind of mood. It was iron or runoff from clay or red bark or red stone. I wiped my fingers on my jeans and turned to see a face staring at me. A gargoyle face embedded in one of the stone medallions carved around the bank’s thick doors. I must have walked this way a dozen times and had never noticed it. I even ran my fingers across the bulbous nose and hooked chin and curved horns, in case I was seeing wrong.
“I see you found one of our hidden gargoyles.”
I jumped and turned to see Veronica—the old woman who’d helped fight off the raven. She was coming around the corner, tugging a contraption that looked like a mobile watering can with a sprayer hose. It wheeled along silently on rubber tires.
“I hadn’t seen this one before,” I said, touching the gargoyle.
“That’s because it’s a night gargoyle. It only comes out after dark.” She waved to the garden across the road. “Like the moonflowers.”
“Ah.” I smiled. “Well, it was definitely well hidden. Are there any more?”
“Lots. I could tell you how many, but that would be cheating. Only a few select elders know the total number of gargoyles in Cainsville and where to find them. Otherwise it would spoil the May Day contest.”
“May Day contest?”
“Every year, at the festival, the children can submit a list of all the gargoyles they’ve found so far. There are prizes for those who get more than half of them, more than sixty percent, and so on.” She smiled. “It’s quite a competition. The kids jealously guard their lists year after year, and they are forbidden to pass along hints to their own children later.”
“What happens if someone finds them all?”
“We add another gargoyle . . . modeled after the child. Of course, the last time that happened was almost twenty years ago. To the youngest winner ever. He was ten.” She looked at me. “Care to guess who?”
I thought of all the locals who would be about the right age, then shook my head.
“Gabriel Walsh,” she said.
I tried to picture Gabriel as a boy, visiting his aunt, racing through the streets, laughing as he hunted for gargoyles. I couldn’t. But as I peered out, I imagined another little boy, a serious dark-haired child, notepad in hand, searching with a single-minded drive, determined not just to win but to set a new record. Yes, that would be Gabriel.
“So where’s his gargoyle?” I asked.
Veronica’s eyes danced. “You need to find it.” She rubbed her lower back and grimaced.
“Are you okay?”
“Old bones. A sit-down is next on my to-do list.” She waved at a bench near the diner. “I’d love company if you care to chat, but I know you’re a busy young woman.”
“I have time. I want to hear about May Day.”
I knew a bit about the tradition. It was pre-Christian, marking the celebration of Beltane on the first of May, heralding spring. People put on their spring suits and dresses, danced around the maypoles, crowned a May queen, and feasted. As Veronica explained, the town of Cainsville stuck close to the old traditions.
“We have four major festivals every year,” she said. “May Day is the spring one, and always includes a wedding or two, for the young people who come back, set on getting married in Cainsville.”
“You mean if they don’t want to get married in church?”
She stared at me a moment before bursting out laughing. “For a girl who notices so much, sometimes you notice very little. Where are these churches in Cainsville?”
“Where are . . . ?” I thought. “You know, I haven’t seen any . . . Wait. There aren’t any.”
“Correct. So you did notice. You just didn’t process the information. Cainsville has no churches.”
“Why? I mean, it’s big enough, isn’t it?”
“It is. But the gargoyles kept them out.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s true. The gargoyles protected us from organized religion. And as an old pagan, I’m perfectly happy with that.” She gave a sly smile as she stretched her legs, getting comfortable. “Cainsville was settled by immigrants from the British Isles. Hence, May Day. There were a few Anglicans, a few Presbyterians, a few Catholics, a few pagans . . . In other words, the religious background wasn’t cohesive enough to choose a representative church. So everyone worshipped in their own way. As the town grew, people of other faiths joined and that continued. If you wanted services, you’d drive to a neighboring town. A perfectly suitable arrangement that recognized freedom of religion. All very American . . .
“But one of the churches didn’t think so,” she continued. “They sent a letter to the town council saying they wished to build here. The council politely demurred. The church insisted and there was pressure from neighboring towns, who’ve always thought we were a little odd. So the council relented. The church sent a representative. He took one look at the gargoyles and hightailed it from town. Declared we were all terrible heathens. The church demanded we remove some so they could feel comfortable building here. We refused. So we have no churches. Thanks to the gargoyles.”
Even the gargoyles weren’t sinister at night. They loomed from rooftops like grumpy old men on a small-town porch, ready to yell at any kid who dropped a candy wrapper, but making sure they stayed safe, too. When one gargoyle seemed to move, I only glanced up. I think if it had spread its wings and flown off, it wouldn’t have fazed me. It was just that kind of night. It was a cluster of bats, though, launching from their stonework perches, to pirouette and swoop across the sky.
When the bats were gone, I continued on. The breeze changed direction, bringing with it the smell of moonflowers from a storefront garden. Planting moonflowers for a place that never stayed open past dark? It seemed a touch of whimsical defiance.
I could smell honeysuckle from the lamppost pots, too, along with the rich scent of damp earth, as if they’d just been watered. One was still dripping. It made no sound, which seemed odd until I realized there were strategically placed sidewalk-level pots under each hanging one. I put out my hand, letting a few drops fall on it. In the glow of the streetlamp, my fingers seemed red and I lifted them for a better look in the light. Then I caught a few more drops. Yes, definitely a red tinge, like the water on the school yard.
If I was being macabre, I could imagine it as blood. But I wasn’t in that kind of mood. It was iron or runoff from clay or red bark or red stone. I wiped my fingers on my jeans and turned to see a face staring at me. A gargoyle face embedded in one of the stone medallions carved around the bank’s thick doors. I must have walked this way a dozen times and had never noticed it. I even ran my fingers across the bulbous nose and hooked chin and curved horns, in case I was seeing wrong.
“I see you found one of our hidden gargoyles.”
I jumped and turned to see Veronica—the old woman who’d helped fight off the raven. She was coming around the corner, tugging a contraption that looked like a mobile watering can with a sprayer hose. It wheeled along silently on rubber tires.
“I hadn’t seen this one before,” I said, touching the gargoyle.
“That’s because it’s a night gargoyle. It only comes out after dark.” She waved to the garden across the road. “Like the moonflowers.”
“Ah.” I smiled. “Well, it was definitely well hidden. Are there any more?”
“Lots. I could tell you how many, but that would be cheating. Only a few select elders know the total number of gargoyles in Cainsville and where to find them. Otherwise it would spoil the May Day contest.”
“May Day contest?”
“Every year, at the festival, the children can submit a list of all the gargoyles they’ve found so far. There are prizes for those who get more than half of them, more than sixty percent, and so on.” She smiled. “It’s quite a competition. The kids jealously guard their lists year after year, and they are forbidden to pass along hints to their own children later.”
“What happens if someone finds them all?”
“We add another gargoyle . . . modeled after the child. Of course, the last time that happened was almost twenty years ago. To the youngest winner ever. He was ten.” She looked at me. “Care to guess who?”
I thought of all the locals who would be about the right age, then shook my head.
“Gabriel Walsh,” she said.
I tried to picture Gabriel as a boy, visiting his aunt, racing through the streets, laughing as he hunted for gargoyles. I couldn’t. But as I peered out, I imagined another little boy, a serious dark-haired child, notepad in hand, searching with a single-minded drive, determined not just to win but to set a new record. Yes, that would be Gabriel.
“So where’s his gargoyle?” I asked.
Veronica’s eyes danced. “You need to find it.” She rubbed her lower back and grimaced.
“Are you okay?”
“Old bones. A sit-down is next on my to-do list.” She waved at a bench near the diner. “I’d love company if you care to chat, but I know you’re a busy young woman.”
“I have time. I want to hear about May Day.”
I knew a bit about the tradition. It was pre-Christian, marking the celebration of Beltane on the first of May, heralding spring. People put on their spring suits and dresses, danced around the maypoles, crowned a May queen, and feasted. As Veronica explained, the town of Cainsville stuck close to the old traditions.
“We have four major festivals every year,” she said. “May Day is the spring one, and always includes a wedding or two, for the young people who come back, set on getting married in Cainsville.”
“You mean if they don’t want to get married in church?”
She stared at me a moment before bursting out laughing. “For a girl who notices so much, sometimes you notice very little. Where are these churches in Cainsville?”
“Where are . . . ?” I thought. “You know, I haven’t seen any . . . Wait. There aren’t any.”
“Correct. So you did notice. You just didn’t process the information. Cainsville has no churches.”
“Why? I mean, it’s big enough, isn’t it?”
“It is. But the gargoyles kept them out.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s true. The gargoyles protected us from organized religion. And as an old pagan, I’m perfectly happy with that.” She gave a sly smile as she stretched her legs, getting comfortable. “Cainsville was settled by immigrants from the British Isles. Hence, May Day. There were a few Anglicans, a few Presbyterians, a few Catholics, a few pagans . . . In other words, the religious background wasn’t cohesive enough to choose a representative church. So everyone worshipped in their own way. As the town grew, people of other faiths joined and that continued. If you wanted services, you’d drive to a neighboring town. A perfectly suitable arrangement that recognized freedom of religion. All very American . . .
“But one of the churches didn’t think so,” she continued. “They sent a letter to the town council saying they wished to build here. The council politely demurred. The church insisted and there was pressure from neighboring towns, who’ve always thought we were a little odd. So the council relented. The church sent a representative. He took one look at the gargoyles and hightailed it from town. Declared we were all terrible heathens. The church demanded we remove some so they could feel comfortable building here. We refused. So we have no churches. Thanks to the gargoyles.”
