Curse of the Gargoyle Abbot Kevin Lane Curse of the Gargoyle Abbot © 2012 by Kevin Lane Smashwords Edition All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the copyright owner. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this work is copyrighted material, it is distributed as a ‘free sample’ of the author. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. Enjoy. Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Notice Curse of the Gargoyle Abbot Something hidden in the walls… At night I dream… In the morning… I strum my brother’s lute… In a busy market… The northern lands… I stake my claim… The western yard… It is the deep of night… Other Works by Kevin Lane Curse of the Gargoyle Abbot Something hidden in the walls has died. That close, fishy smell fills the room. The chamber girl does not notice. I say nothing. It could be more tricks of the mind. “Priv’s down the hall, and meal’s on just after sundown. Be out by noon on th’morrow or he’ll charge you ‘nother day.” She leaves without a glance my way. I am alone with the scent of death. I set my gear on the bed of the rented room. At the window I lean out to escape the funk. The air on my face is fresh, cool, the sky a cold, impassive grey. A storm is coming. I don’t know why my brother loves this land. Death stares at every turn. Grave markers dot the hillsides like weeds, in the orchards, in the gardens, at times even in the middle of the road. Back home we collect the dead and bury them in neat rows. ‘Graveyards’ we call them. Here they bury you right where you drop. All those bodies, one- two- three! Doesn’t anyone die in their sleep around here? Natural causes? Old age? No, that would be too dull. A waste. There are plenty of reasons to die on your feet in this perilous realm. Sprits of rain brush my cheek and focus me back on the present. The storm has come. I retreat, leaving the window open in my wake. The smell of death lingers. Perhaps people do die in their sleep after all- and they just stick you under the bed. * * * At night I dream of my missing brother. “Why do you come to this land?” I ask him. He pillows his head against a tombstone marker. His eyes are closed and his tone sleepy. “It is restful here. No one knows me. I can concentrate.” Alas, my dreams provide no clues. There are no headstones in this land. The grave markers are temporary, old sticks driven into the ground and bent together to form an arch. My brother is lost to me. * * * In the morning the smell is gone. Or have I merely gotten used to it? That’s the trick with death- when a part of your life withers away you have to accept it. No compromises. No bargaining. We the living get no say in the matter. A cold morning meal by the darkened hearth sets me on my way. I am a bumbling, stumbling rummage sale on spindle legs. My gear and kit hang from my hips and shoulders. Loafers and idlers pin me a wary eye. No no, I am not a peddler here to sell. I am looking for someone- my brother. I pull the locket from where it hangs concealed over my heart. It opens, a cameo portrait revealed in each diamond-shaped half. Some eyes droop with disinterest, others narrow with scorn: “Tis the same person!” cries one suspicious ruff. Watch him teach me a lesson for trying to make him look the fool! “Naw,” says his companion, a woman trapped with a pinched face and a wiry mat of red hair. She waves a pock-marked arm. “Twins it be! Blessed by the gods, two of a kind.” The ruffian remains suspicious. My drubbing, however, is postponed for the moment. “The same, but different,” I say, closing the locket. “My brother, he is a success! At everything he tries his hand, I tell you. He cannot miss. A genius! Shoot an arrow into the air and always it lands on the mark! A hero! Me, well… Me… Well…” The ruff snorts a porcine laugh. “Not so alike, are ye then! Or-or-rnt-t!” I duck my head in a sheepish gesture. “I try… I’m trying to find him. My brother. Have you seen him?” No. No, they have not seen him. No one ever has. * * * I strum my brother’s lute. It is one of the many things I am bringing to him. He will be happy to have it again. One of his songs moves my tongue: Forgotten the times of wonder and youth. This rust in my blood was once steel. Ground down the wheel of living my life. None of these reflections seem real. Who am I was? Was I am now? The jester, the lover, the fool? * * * In a busy market I catch my first rumor of the Cursed Abbot. An outraged patron in the next stall rails: “A pox upon you! You’ve the heart of the Gargoyle Abbot- dead stone!” The next day at a public well I hear a second reference: “I have the cursed luck of the Abbot! A grueling penance to pay…” My inquiries lead me to a small library. Details are few concerning the gargoyle legend. It is a myth handed down by the people of the northern lands. The old librarian does not know the Cursed Abbot’s crime nor the penalty. But he does go on to say that the gods are fickle, capricious like children. With the curse comes a blessing. The Gargoyle Abbot has been granted clear-sight, true-vision. He is outside the kin of men, outside the constraints of time and dreams. He is an Oracle. I head north. The curse of the Gargoyle Abbot beckons. Perhaps he can locate my brother. * * * The northern lands are a punished place. Harsh lash marks from godly whips crisscross your path for leagues at a stretch. Steam and sulfur p-s-s-s-t and whisper from the gaping wounds, enticing you to approach, to gaze therein, to gape at the molten blood of the world. The glowing magma moves in sluggish currents. There are few trees in this desolate realm, little scrub, just a vast rolling expanse of shattered rock. The glassy shards clack and slip beneath your boots like black ice. Yet the heat is unbearable, a skeletal fist in your throat. Overhead the sun hides- or has been banished- from this kingdom of gloomy twilight. Orange flames burst and flare across smoke-torn skies. Dragons. Cinders ride the hot wind, stinging like a swarm. I rub my irritated eyes. Only a man of stone could live in such a place. The more mythic the landscape, the more real becomes the myth- until at last the abbey of the Cursed Abbot appears on the horizon. She is the only landmark for leagues, listing like a ship adrift upon that obsidian ocean. As I approach details become clearer. The crumbling steeple that beckons from afar is really a withered tree- the first I have seen in days. The abbey and the tree fight over this small plot of arable ground. Both seem to have lost. Dead roots and a brittle trunk have cracked the face of the ancient edifice. Loneliness and desolation cast a pall. Some tombs were built to be forgotten. Desperate pilgrims trek through hardship and mishap so that they may ask the Oracle their burning questions. Eavesdropping I learn more about the Cursed Abbot. His penance is markedly material- dare I say mortal?- in kind. The Cursed Abbot must cover his abbey in silver, only then will the gods revert him back to flesh and blood. Not surprisingly, the Cursed Abbot’s price for divination is two silver bits. Payment has to be silver, not copper, not gold, not bronze. Silver. I climb the sunken steps. The Cursed Abbot has yet to begin his penance. The abbey is a near ruin, a jumble of stones beneath a layer of mortar crust. Nary a coin do I see. Where does all that silver go then? My mind turns to plots of a sinister mien. Here is a scoundrel. A rake. A schemer… Yet… And yet… A small part of me warns: Who am I to pretend to know the Universe? Who am I now? And so I reserve judgment of the Cursed Gargoyle Abbot. Besides, two bits of silver is a small swindle to pay if I am reunited with my brother. The grand doors of the abbey have been removed or torn down. I pass under the voided arch and step into the main chapel hall. A low fence at the far end divides the hollow shell of the abbey. The protocol is simple. Supplicants approach the rail, place their coins, and await the Cursed Abbot. The rail is markedly open. Small groups of pilgrims hold back, hunched in gloomy shadows. Their voices drone a muddy mix. They have come all this way only to find their confidence has failed them. The Cursed Abbot keeps a mysterious schedule known only to his whim. He is as big as a bear, and equally reluctant to leave his hibernation den. As he ducks under the low archway his cassock draws tight about his massive frame. The rough sackcloth creaks and sighs like ropes under tension. A low hood falls forward and hides his face. His hands are tucked into opposite sleeves. Only when he takes the silver from the rail is he exposed: a stone-grey hand with thick yellow nails reaching out. The room goes hush. A supplicant has approached the rail. His question is a low, reverent murmur. Details do not reach my ear. Little does it matter for the Oracle snarls his revelation before the question has run its course: “…FOR YOU CLOAK WEAKNESS IN THE GUISE OF CHARITY AND CALL IT JUST!” The supplicant shuffles from the rail a pale specter of his former self. Such is the nature of Truth. * * * I stake my claim at the rail. The Cursed Abbot pretends not to notice me. I have an outsider’s look that he does not like. He suspects I will unravel this ploy of his, expose his dubious enterprise. He saves me for last after all the others have gone. My feet hurt and my legs cramp. I force myself to stand tall before his approach. The Cursed Abbot radiates a pent-up fury, an aura of hot rage. Verily, here stands a great lion! And I am but a lowly man- with only this railing to keep me from being devoured! The grey hand with the yellow-claws reaches out and takes my coins: ras-s-sp! The Gargoyle Abbot says nothing. His eyes stare at me, veined drops of cracked amber. Despite my resolve I hear myself stammer, “I- I seek my brother.” I hold out my locket. “Can you tell me where he is?” The Gargoyle Abbot barks a powerful reply. The scent of wine adds an edge to his proclamation: “YOU HAVE NO BROTHER!” He crushes the locket in his stony grip and throws it to the floor. * * * The western yard of the abbey is a zigzagging maze of grapevines, leafy twists and turns that crawl along uneven trestles. The grapes are large, the size of plums. They radiate a faint yellow-green light. As darkness falls the glow of the vineyard swells like a sunrise buried in a shallow grave. I find myself sitting on the low wall of stones that fence the vineyard. I have nothing to do but contemplate the quagmire of my quest. I have no brother? Such rubbish! A swindle indeed! Hrmp! Demanding my coins back is folly, I know. I do not care. It is the temerity that galls me. I have no brother? I have met my fair share of charlatans- from poets to prophets, mountebanks to monarchs- but this Abbot character possesses a staggering lack of originality. For two bits of silver he could have come up with some clever invention. But nay. I have been robbed of time, coinage, and hope- to say nothing of the ruination of my locket. For a moment I reconsider. (What else is there for me to do?) Perhaps this is the Cursed Abbot’s way of saying my brother is dead, gone, undone. Oracles do speak in riddles, cryptic puzzles. If that is the case then I am lost. I do not know where to turn. What next? Return home? No! No, my brother cannot be dead to me! I would know. Twins are connected, linked on a higher plane. He is a part of me, and I him. We know these things. We can tell. My brother is still alive, I know it deep down inside. He is out there, just over the next hill, in the next town, across the next kingdom… There must be a spark of life left to him. Otherwise… I would know he is gone. And then give up my quest. His lute lies in my lap. I pluck muted chords and hum: A maze is the way I’ve plodded along. Who is really to blame? Who am I was? Was I am now? The jester, the lover, the fool. If only my brother were here! He would go right up to that gargoyle sham and turn him out on his ear. Robbing people of their silver with this phony fable of curses- no sir! A drunken hoaxer- out with you! Cast down! Tried and punished before gods and men for all the world to spit upon! A creeping chill cools my marrow. Across the vineyard arrives a shadowy hulk that can only be the Cursed Abbot! The cowl of his cassock is thrown back. A bare, crusty scalp bobs and ducks in search of something. In one hand a bottle swishes and gurgles. The dull glass glows like a lantern- the press and ferment of his luminous vineyard! His cheeks glow at each swallow. His throat pulses and burns a meaty red-grey as the wine is pushed down his gullet. My brother would know what to do! He is perfect! He would know the answer. I can imagine his reaction- exactly. Justice! He would not sit idly by and let this odious drunkard enjoy one more moment of smug success! I have no brother? Indeed! I will show you a taste of my brother, dear Abbot! Carefully I set down the lute. I draw the dagger from my belt. I creep forward. I shall rid the land of this menace! I- the great illuminator- shall get the people their silver back, all of it, wherever the rogue has gone and hidden it away! The winding rows of grapevine lead to the Abbot’s exposed back. The closer I approach, the taller- and taller- the Gargoyle rises ahead of my tiny blade. His stature is truly that of a monster! Yet I have the advantage. He does not see me. He cannot imagine my approach. I am invisible. He sets his bottle on a nearby stone. It takes several attempts. The glassy bottom clinks and grates dangerously. The beast stands to his full height and surveys the abbey wall. I close in for the kill. I watch his yellow claws flex once, twice, then scratch at the abbey wall like a cat at the door. The brittle mortar snaps and crumbles. The detritus falls into the cup of his other hand. I halt in my tracks, stupefied, when he tosses the grit into this mouth- and chews! The grate of teeth on stone makes my jaw ache. The Gargoyle Abbot spits the wet, gritty mess into his palm. He slaps it to the abbey wall, smoothing out the lumps of reconstituted mortar. From his cassock he pulls silver coins one at a time. Edge to edge he sets them into the cement, large coins, small coins, round ones, square ones. He presses them, wedges them, slaps them flat with the broad palm of his hand. Mortar oozes and sags and occludes the silvery faces. He scratches another section of crust and sets to chewing again. His purse clinks and rustles with more coins to come. Mine are there too, I suppose. “You’ve swindled your last rustic!” I announce. He does not turn. A grumbled reply comes over one shoulder. “Be off.” Teeth grind on stone. The Cursed Abbot does not see my dagger. He does not know the peril that stalks him. “Turn around, so that you may know your judge and executioner! Scoundrel!” The Gargoyle Abbot ignores me. He spits out his paste and slathers the stony wall. More coins are pressed into the mash. “You take my coins and tell me lies. You take their coins and tell them lies! They may believe your rubbish! I do not! I am here to put an end to your scheme! In the name of liberation-!” I lunge, my dagger held high for the point between his shoulders. He barely turns- yet my arm lands in the grip of his massive fist. The grit of his palm needles my flesh. For an instant we are motionless, statues in the garden. Then he draws my dagger down to complete the attack! Full onto his chest my blade strikes: Scr-i-i-i-i-itch! Sparks fly. The gargoyle raises my arm, lifting me entirely off the ground. Again the blade descends- and my body- rise and fall, rise and fall! Scr-i-i-i-i-itch! Scr-i-i-i-i-itch! Scr-i-i-i-i-itch! My shoulder creaks, my arm goes numb. A spasm of pain springs my fingers apart. The blade spins through the air like a bolt of lightning. The breast of heaving stone bears no mark, not the slightest mar. The Gargoyle Abbot holds me up like a fish on the line. Those eyes of cracked agate see right through me. His gaze is as poisonous as his breath as he snarls: “Easier to say good bye, eh- than to make the devil see the light!” He tosses me through the air, a husk flung away without thought or care. I land amid a yelp of pain and a crashing wave of darkness. * * * It is the deep of night when my senses return to me. Two of the moons are high in the sky. The third has run over the horizon during my senselessness. I lay flat on my back in a jumble of broken trestle work and crushed grapes. The glowing pulp soaks the ground. So many parts of me hurt… I cannot count them. It is best I remain still. The moons stare down through breaks in the smoky sky. In the larger disc I see the profile of my wife. She is cold, indifferent. I have hurt her, I know. The smaller moon holds the rambunctious smile of my daughter. Father, where have you run? The Cursed Gargoyle Abbot has spoken truthfully: I have no brother. I have fled my old life in search of my twin, my double, that man who is exactly like me- except that he is a success. My laborer’s life I have traded for the dream of my childhood- the Grand Troubadour! I will return to my family, in time. I shall be a success. A moment’s reprieve, escape from myself. Where is that boy who dreamed? Who am I was? Was I am now? The jester, the lover, the fool. No longer do I crack my back to the beck of another. No! I am master of my own fate! I compose great songs for royal kings and grand ladies! Or at least, I shall. Someday. Courts of every kingdom shall demand performances- they will! My name shall be known the world over! I will return home the great success that I know I am deep down inside. This abandonment is temporary, a necessary departure so that I may hone my craft. I shall apply myself and rise to such lofty pinnacles! It only takes time. Time and dedication. Silver moonbeams waver through layers of smog. The abbey is illuminated, a living, breathing thing. Her sides heave and swell. Countless pinpoints wink and gleam. The silver coins are there, peeking from the drooling mortar spit. I was wrong- about so many things. The roof gleams beneath a layer of ice. The tower to the north shimmers with a wintry frost. The Cursed Abbot is nearly finished with his task, his penance, his dream of returning to flesh and blood. The fellow has striven for some years- many years! He is close to success! So close! He must feel just as I do- that last little step. So close to success! Just one more day! I too shall become the man of flesh and blood I once was. And how proud they will be of me! The husband, the father, the brother, the son- a true success! All shall be forgiven. These paltry years upon the road shall be washed away like dust. A trifle. A scuffle douses the fervor of my mind. Outsiders are clambering over the vineyard wall. Two voices: “Shhhh! He might be awake!” “Nay, it be too late. He’s sleeping it off by now!” From my crippled heap I cannot see the interlopers. Yet my ears tell me a pair of young bucks has come to raid the poor Abbot’s vineyard. In my mind’s eye I envision them capering without a care. They move down the rows popping fruit into their mouths so that their cheeks glow. They hold grapes to their eyes like the soul-stealing gazes of ghosts. To be young and free again… To go back and start anew. A second chance. Alas… My nostalgia is misplaced. The youths dash immediately for the abbey. I can see them now. Their hands run covetously over the coin-encrusted wall. Small poniards scrape and pry, flashing in the moonlight. Silvery discs spring from the chiseled mortar. A wail arises in the northern tower: E-e-e-e-o-o-o-o-w-w-w-w-W-W-W! “He’s awake!” hiss the thieves. They clutch their stolen coins and bolt across the vineyard, nearly trampling my face in their haste. The howl continues from the tower. Its decrescendo fades into a wrenching sob. My tears mingle with the piteous lament of the Gargoyle Abbot- for now I share his bane. The Universe is revealed to me. I see clearly all that there is, all that has been, all that shall be. I am an Oracle. No longer can I deny, no longer can I turn a blind eye. I see that I will return to my beloved wife, to my darling daughter. I must return- return as a failure… and a fraud. Chasing my dreams contrary it seems to a pantheon of gods who scheme. Who plucks my strings? Who knots my strings? And cuts my strings? And burns my strings? Who am I was? Was I am now? The jester, the lover, the… fool? Other Works by Kevin Lane www.KevinLaneMythos.com Novels * Lodestone * Glammenport * Mud Puppet Archmoor Series (e-book Kindle) * Mangrove * The Lost City of Elb * Tryst Novellas * Wicker Weave Serials * perPetuata * Chronicles of Sister Joleen Movies * Prisoner of Archmoor