The Girl, the Gypsy & the Gargoyle Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  THE GIRL, THE GYPSY & THE GARGOYLE

  Wherein the Girl, the Gypsy and a Gargoyle run into each other

  Wherein a Priest is shown to have a heart of stone

  The Old Gypsy and the Bear and the Dance of Death

  Wherein a gypsy Vows to Repay a Kindness

  The Arrival of the Gargoyle Man

  In Which a Father and Daughter Speak of Hope and Miracles

  The Girl In the Gypsy Cave

  Wherein the Gargoyle Man Offers a Miracle

  Wherein the Girl is Tempted

  Wherein the Gypsy Girl Tells a Chilling Story

  The Girl, the Gypsy and the Gargoyle Man

  A Sad, but Common Tale of Stone Dust

  Wherein the Girl Seeks Courage

  And so, Begins the Journey

  In Which a Gargoyle Comes to Life

  In Which the Girl and the Gypsy Speak of Sweet Berries and Dreams of Treasure

  Of Squirrels and Skunks

  Wherein the Dark becomes Darker

  In Which the Girl and the Gypsy Find the treasure and Meet the Guardian

  The Troll’s Eye: crude is fine, ugly is beautiful, and bad is good

  In Which The Girl and the Gypsy Run

  In Which the Girl and the Gypsy Take a Mighty Leap

  The Coming of the Guardian

  In Which the Girl and the Gypsy Argue

  The Girl, the Gypsy and the Gargoyle

  In Which the Girl and the Gypsy Rejoice in Two Miracles

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  THE GIRL, THE GYPSY & THE

  GARGOYLE

  DESCRIPTION

  “Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.”

  —Michelangelo

  But what if an unscrupulous sculptor could trap someone inside a block of stone, just so he could carve them?

  Master Gimpel, a deformed stone carver, intrigues Laurel and Jassy, her gypsy friend, when he offers a path to untold riches. Master Gimpel explains that his Troll’s Eye, a red jewel, is a doorway into the stone world where a treasure cave awaits. From the moment Laurel looks through the Troll’s Eye, she and her gypsy companion enter a dangerous race for their lives. Two go in, two must come out.

  DARCY PATTISON

  Mims House

  Little Rock, AR

  Other Books by Darcy Pattison

  The Journey of Oliver K. Woodman

  Searching for Oliver K. Woodman

  19 Girls and Me

  11 Ways to Ruin a Photograph

  Wisdom, the Midway Albatross

  Desert Baths

  Prairie Storms

  The Wayfinder

  The River Dragon

  Scary Slopes

  “Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.”

  ― MICHELANGELO

  ONE

  WHEREIN THE GIRL, THE GYPSY AND A GARGOYLE RUN INTO EACH OTHER

  When Laurel disappeared, her father and the villagers and the priests of the Cathedral of St. Stephens searched and lit candles in prayer and pleaded with the heavens for news of her, but they never thought to look up.

  It began on a brisk spring morning. Laurel groped for Sloth’s cold cheek and caressed the polished stone. From her perch atop a twenty-foot ladder, Laurel looked across the rooftops of the Cathedral at the graceful lines and the gargoyles that capped many gutters. Behind the gargoyles, where the sun couldn’t reach, there were still patches of icy snow.

  Sloth, named for one of the seven deadly sins, sat in a niche above the main entrance.

  Below, Father steadied the ladder and fussed, “How’s it look?”

  Laurel had scampered up the ladder to check the gargoyle, despite the fact that her father usually insisted that she should stay off ladders with her skirt. “It’s not safe,” he said. “You’ll get tangled up.”

  But she had helped him carry the ladder and then before he could start up, she grasped the rungs and started climbing. He had sighed, but said nothing.

  “He is too indulgent,” Dame Frances, her old nurse, had always said.

  And when Laurel asked what that meant, Dame Frances sniffed and said, “He lets you do whatever you want. And that’s not any way to raise a proper lady.”

  Laurel liked the word, indulgent. She liked what it meant.

  Beside her, Sloth grimaced in sleep and she mimicked his contorted face. She had always liked this gargoyle, with its grotesque expression. Maybe she liked him because he was wrapped around the smaller gargoyle and it seemed to her that their sleep was peaceful, even tender, the older protecting the younger.

  Her hand went to the large gargoyle’s broken wing. The wind grew fiercer, picking up bits of old leaves and blowing them around her face, trying to loosen her hair from her hood.

  She called to her father, “You’re right. It’s badly broken.”

  Master Raymond, the architect of the cathedral and her father, cursed softly. He hated spending construction money on repairs and there could be a lot of repairs after the severe winter.

  “Come down,” he ordered.

  But she didn’t want to go down just yet; she was enjoying the view. Below her, the city of Montague lay quiet, sheltered by the cathedral’s shadows like chicks protected by a mother hen. A ten-foot wall surrounded the city and inside, stone houses with thatched roofs crammed together in a jumble of streets.

  “Laurel. Come now.” Father shook the ladder gently.

  With a sigh, she balanced by holding onto the gargoyle’s leg with one hand and the ladder with the other. She stepped down to the next rung. But the rung gave way with a crack and she flailed, almost falling. Her weight, though, pulled the gargoyle forward and it tumbled, scraping out of its niche and plummeting toward her father. Laurel swayed and screamed and somehow her foot found the next rung, and both hands found the ladder.

  Stone crashed onto the cobblestones below.

  Someone cried out.

  Then, silence.

  Twisting around, she saw a splotch of red spread across the ground, surrounded by broken chunks of stone. “Father!”

  Laurel scrambled down the ladder, her breath catching a couple times at how shaky it was without Father holding it. At the bottom, she spun around and—

  “Ooomph!” Something smacked into Laurel.

  Hands grabbed at her, kept her from falling. A voice yelled, “Hey! Watch out!”

  She blinked uncertainly at a scrawny boy, a Gypsy from the look of his tall boots and that wide leather belt.

  Abruptly, the boy turned her loose and held up his hands in a gesture of apology.

  Laurel looked around wildly. Where was Father?

  “I’m here, Laurel. This boy pushed me aside just in time.”

  “I’m sorry I fell on you, sir.”

  “No, no,” Father said. “You saved me. Thank you.”

  She wanted to run to her father, to embrace him, to make sure he was all right. But
she controlled her panic and merely nodded at him.

  Still flustered, she turned her attention to the boy. It was his red cape she had seen spread out on the ground.

  Now, the boy’s feet were widely planted, braced against the wind, which had grown even fiercer. He wore a wool-knit cap, but curly dark locks escaped and whipped about.

  It wasn’t an uncommon sight; traveling entertainers often stopped in the town of Montague. The Cathedral of St. Stephen drew many pilgrims and the pilgrims drew those who made money from the pious. But this was the first Gypsy of the spring.

  Laurel swayed in the wind and the boy clutched her cloak again to steady her. “Hey! Don’t blow away.”

  “Turn me loose.” Her voice was tight.

  He dropped his hands and stepped away, but then stopped to tip his head back and back, staring straight up, perhaps all the way to the top of the cathedral’s spires. Because of the cathedral, devotion to the church was common here in Montague. But this was different. Emotions swept across the boy’s face: wonder, a straining to see better. Then a peace smoothed his features.

  Laurel tilted her head and studied the boy. Her father’s face went through a similar change every morning. Father loved his cathedral and not just because he was the architect. He loved it for its beauty, for its soaring towers that pointed toward “our gracious Lord who sits enthroned in the heavens.” A Gypsy boy interested in a cathedral, though, was as out of place as a saint in a rowdy tavern.

  On the other side of the town square, someone yelled, “Jassy!”

  The boy startled. “Oh, I forgot! Antonio! He needs—” And without finishing, he loped away.

  Curious now, Laurel stared at the brightly painted Gypsy wagon that sat under a bare-limbed linden tree, a gaudy splash of color in the dreary landscape. Two other people—Gypsies, she supposed from their bright capes—stood near the wagon, perhaps an older man and a girl.

  Laurel sighed. They would do some sort of show later, probably during lunch when the square and market were the busiest. She’d hear all about it later at the tavern.

  Turning back to her father, Laurel said, “I’ll put up the ladder and clean up this stone.”

  He held a chunk of the broken statue, a nose. Sighing deeply, he tossed it aside and pulled her into a hug. “Are you hurt?”

  “I just climbed down the ladder. You dodged Sloth. Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine. That’s just another statue we have to replace,” he said. “But right now—” He stopped to cover his mouth and cough, then continued, “—we have an appointment to talk with Father Goossens in an hour. I’ll go back to the tavern and pick up what I need and meet you at the Father’s chamber.”

  Laurel nodded. She usually attended all the meetings with the cathedral chapter, the priests and clerics who oversaw the building of the cathedral. Her mother had died in childbirth, leaving Father to care for her. Her nursemaid, Dame Frances, took care of her until she was three, but since then, she had tagged along everywhere with Father. Dame Frances had been her Sometimes-Mother until last year when her husband had moved the family to Chantelle, some thirty miles away. Now, at twelve, almost thirteen, Father depended on her sharp memory when he met with the priests.

  She went to the work shed, trundled back a wheelbarrow and started throwing broken stone into it. Sometimes she paused to turn over a broken bit: a crooked finger, a twisted smile, or a bulging eye. She ran a finger across the polished stone eyelids and closed her own eyes, trying to memorize its feel. When something was intact enough to study, she put it aside to take back to her worktable to try to copy. Laurel wanted to be a stone carver and already had a set of small tools. Whenever she had a chance, she was working at the stone. It had taken her a long time just to learn to make a smooth, flat surface. She secretly honed the stone until it pleased her, and when she had finally shown her father the flat stone, he had swelled with pride. He showed it to Master Benoit and the other masons and carvers. After that, she had dozens of teachers, everyone eager to help the architect’s odd daughter.

  Laurel knew what they said behind her back, that this wasn’t a woman’s work, that she would give it up soon. But meanwhile, she learned whatever they would teach. After all, she had grown up with the cathedral and the masons; it was the family business. She heaved up the wheelbarrow handles and shoved it toward the rubble pile near the west end of the cathedral. She would dump the broken stone there, to be used later as fill between the cathedral’s inner and outer walls.

  Maybe Father would let her carve the new Sloth herself. No, she wasn’t ready. But soon—soon!—she would be carving statues for the Cathedral of St. Stephens by herself.

  TWO

  WHEREIN A PRIEST IS SHOWN TO HAVE A HEART OF STONE

  Half an hour later, Laurel heaved on the heavy oak door of St. Stephen’s Cathedral and squeezed through the crack before—Clang!—the wind slammed it behind her.

  Instantly, it was silent, but welcoming. She threw back her hood, took off her cloak, and then paced beneath a row of arches along the north side of the cathedral. Her father would be waiting, but as usual, Laurel took the time to marvel at the paintings of the twelve apostles in the choir area, six on either side. Streaming in from the stained glass above, colored light played across the apostle’s features. She didn’t know which she loved best, the stone carver’s workshop with its swirl of noise and dust, or the comfort of this odd family of twelve. Doubting Thomas’s worried eyes, Judas Iscariot’s blazing eyes, and the Big Fisherman, Peter’s kind eyes—she had grown up with these men watching over her. She nodded to them, and then turned to curtsy to the painting of Mother Mary and baby Jesus that hung above the door to the priest’s hallway. She had never met her own mother, but always pictured her like this, soft and warm.

  Laurel opened the door to the priest’s hallway and heard her father’s voice. The door to the Father’s room was open and she entered. Father Goossens was seated behind his desk, drumming his long ink-stained fingers on his ledger. Her father, Master Raymond, was seated across from him, his cloak flung back over the chair.

  Master Raymond was saying, “—must start the west tower this year. It is madness to delay.”

  “No, there’s no money,” Father Goossens said.

  “No money? Pah!”

  Laurel edged into a chair at the side of the conversation and listened, trying to watch both men so she could discuss this with her father later. But the argument was familiar. Clerics always complained of a shortage of funds during the winter, but come spring, they found money to build; all the masons said so. Cathedrals took decades to build, already forty-eight years for the Cathedral of St. Stephens. Only the west tower remained, a project of a mere eight-to-ten years.

  Now, Father Goossens clasped his arms across his broad stomach. “The Cardinal himself—the Cardinal!—is coming here to offer mass. Think what that means. For our town, for our priests.”

  “An honor, of course, your Grace,” said Master Raymond.

  “Much more than that,” Father Goossens said. “This year, our money will go toward making his visit something that no one will soon forget.”

  Laurel studied Father Goossens, trying to understand. Five years ago, he had moved from a southern town to take over at St. Stephen’s Cathedral. At first, his lingua d’oc, or southern dialect, was a problem, but he quickly learned the local dialect and put his own stamp on the construction. With the east tower finished, though, he could claim his job was done, and, if he wanted, he could move on to bigger cities, bigger cathedrals. And he deserved it, she decided. His leadership had made a difference in the building project, keeping it organized and on track.

  But he didn’t need to move on; St. Stephens could offer him even more. The new tower, her father’s design—it was a work such that would bring glory to the Lord. And what priest would want for more than that? Smiling, she said, “The Cardinal’s visit will be good for Montague and the Cathedral.”

  Master Raymond added, “The east tower
will be ready for the Cardinal’s visit on mid-summer’s eve. A couple of stone carvers can be assigned to finish detail work. We’ll be ready.”

  “Good.” Father Goossens looked down at his ledger, “And after the Cardinal’s visit, you must follow the stone and find other work.”

  Father jerked like he’d been slapped. And Laurel could do nothing but stare at the priest. In fact, she realized she was still smiling. Was Father Goossens telling Master Raymond he had to find a new building project?

  “But—” Master Raymond tried to speak.

  Looking up, the priest stared directly at the architect. “And, of course, we will continue to pay for your room at the tavern. Until midsummer’s eve. After that, you’re on your own.”

  “You can’t—” He sucked in a breath, and it came out as a hacking cough. Quickly he covered his mouth and coughed again.

  Father Goossens leaned away from Master Raymond and crossed himself. “That’s a nasty cough. Laurel, have you been giving him herbs for that?”

  Numbly, she nodded. Like many other town folk, Father had gotten sick about mid-winter. But his cough was still lingering. She dosed him regularly with herbal teas and with the coming of spring, he should be rid of it for good.

  Recovered from his coughing, Father said, “Are you telling me that after ten years, I must move on?”

  “Yes. Get the cathedral ready for the Cardinal,” Father Goossens said, “You’ve been a faithful and skilled architect. Finish your job with the same care to details and I will provide you references to other cathedral projects.”

  Unable to sit still, Laurel jumped up and stepped to the window. Father Goossens’s audience chamber was in the east tower of the cathedral; from here, the bulk of the red-stone cathedral was visible. She had watched her father direct the construction of the east tower for her entire life. As the height of the walls grew, Laurel had grown, too. Her childhood was entwined with those red stones: scampering up and down scaffolds, sliding down ramps, listening to masons argue about the quality of a certain stone, or trading chisels, or arguing about every part of the construction. She knew as much about the east tower as her father—but she loved it more.