The Girl, the Gypsy & the Gargoyle Page 4

  “Give him sips of this mandrake wine when he wakes. It will ease the pain.”

  “You’re wrong. He won’t die, you know.” Ana-Maria bit her lower lip and her eyes filled with tears. “Can he eat anything?”

  Laurel patted her shoulder, awkward, aware that anything she did was inadequate. “If you can get him to eat, it could help. Who knows?”

  Ana-Maria’s dark eyes flashed and her jaw clenched in a stubbornness that was Antonio’s only chance. She set the mandrake wine beside the fire and said, “Rabbit stew. Some good thick broth, that’s what he needs. It will make him stronger.” She put on her cloak and picked up their biggest pot. “I’ll get water and be right back, Jassy.”

  She left, leaving Laurel and Jassy.

  “And I must get back,” Laurel said.

  “Thank you again for your help,” Jassy said. He walked her out to the cave’s entrance.

  Jassy gestured to the cathedral that was silhouetted in the eastern sky.

  “Will they need extra workers this year? A bear-baiter’s assistant is the only life I’ve ever known, but with Antonio sick—” He cleared his throat. “—if Antonio can’t travel for a while, I will need work. I’d like to work on something like that, something that will still be here in a hundred years.”

  Laurel leaned against the cave wall and studied the strange young man. She guessed he was fourteen or fifteen. Dark bushy eyebrows shadowed a long nose. He wore a cream linen shirt, dark grey breeches with long woolen stockings, a wide black belt and comfortable black boots. Most travelers wore comfortable-looking boots; masons wore sturdy boots to protect their feet from construction accidents. Would he like switching boots?

  It surprised her that they had so much in common. While she had the security of the cathedral all her life, she now faced losing that. He just wanted what she had always had. What would she do this year if they didn’t build? Would she ever become a stone carver?

  Father Goossens tolerated her constant presence only because of her father. If the construction didn’t start, he would banish her except for the mass.

  “No apprentices this year. Unless the Lord works a miracle,”—she raised her hands to the heavens in an appeal—“Father Goossens has decided there is no reason to build the west tower. Not this year, not ever.” She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice.

  Like her, Jassy still stared at the cathedral’s shape on the horizon. “I don’t understand. It’s a magnificent cathedral. The best I’ve seen, and we’ve traveled far. I’ve seen grey, brown or yellow stones before, but never red. Nothing so beautiful as this.”

  She shrugged. “If you like, I can introduce you to Master Gimpel, the new carver. Perhaps he needs an assistant.”

  “Yes!”

  “Come tomorrow, then. Ask an altar boy to find me. Now, I must get back.”

  “Again, I am in your debt,” Jassy said. “If you ever need me, I will not hesitate to help.”

  Jassy’s offer was comforting, somehow. She didn’t know what a Gypsy boy would ever be able to do to help her, but it was more than she got from some of the town folk. “Thank you, Jassy. Your offer is kind and I will remember it.”

  And then, Laurel waved and wound down the hill, through the forest and back to the cathedral for the day’s work.

  EIGHT

  WHEREIN THE GARGOYLE MAN OFFERS A MIRACLE

  Laurel spent the afternoon carrying statues and gargoyles down from the east tower. They should have worked on them in the upstairs workshop, but Master Gimpel decided he liked working on the ground floor of the cathedral, and with so few masons, her father and Father Goossens were inclined to oblige the Master’s whims. Moving one statue wasn’t bad; moving the thirty-four statues that Master Gimpel wanted to work on first was a bone-weary task. She was glad he hadn’t wanted all fifty-seven moved today.

  Now, at dusk, Laurel shoved the wheelbarrow out of a muddy rut. The gargoyle inside bounced, but the straw pile cushioned it nicely. She stopped in front of the workshop and let the wheelbarrow handles drop. She shook out her arms, loosening up her muscles. She was tired but she bent and slipped her arms around the statue and staggered over the threshold into the shop. Looking around, she was pleased with the statues lined up neatly on the worktables. Master Gimpel should be happy with her work, and maybe he would let her do some small pieces of carving. She put up the wheelbarrow and trudged back to the tavern for supper with Father.

  The next morning, the cock’s crow woke Laurel, and she found that her father was already gone for the day. Propped on one shelf was Father’s drawing of the cathedral. Quickly she wrapped it with cloths again and carried it with her to the cathedral.

  But Master Gimpel was in the workroom already.

  Entering, Laurel barely glanced at the Gargoyle Man. Already his ugliness was becoming familiar and comfortable; even the eye patch seemed commonplace.

  Without looking up from a chunk of grey marble, he said, “Thank you for bringing down the statues. Are they all in good shape?”

  “All but one,” Laurel said, pleased that he had noticed her work. “St. Francis has a chip on his robe. Small, but you should look at it.”

  The Gargoyle Man yawned and stretched and walked over to the statue of the Saint. She set Father’s picture on her chosen worktable, and then joined him to look at the statue.

  In this marble version of St Francis, he held a bird on his outstretched hand while a deer slept at his feet. Master Gimpel ran a hand over the sculpted face and down the stone robe. “Overall, good workmanship.”

  Of course, it was good craftsmanship, she thought. Master Benoit and her father would allow nothing shoddy in their workshops.

  “You’re right, his robe needs work,” Master Gimpel said. “It’s a small flaw, though. I can rework it and no one will know.”

  Laurel found his confidence aggravating, but she simply said, “Good.”

  “Go over the other statues again for any flaws,” Master Gimpel said. He wiped his hands on his leatherwork apron, and then picked up the statue of St. Francis, carried it around to his worktable and set it beside his grey marble. He pulled a stool up to his workbench and eased onto the seat, favoring his bad leg. His thumb rubbed across the small flaw on St. Francis’ robe, and he picked up a fine-grain rasp.

  Without looking at Laurel, he asked. “What’s that bundle you brought in? I run a tidy workshop; no trash lying about.”

  Laurel looked up from the statue she was inspecting for flaws. “Oh, I’ll put it up.” She scooted down the aisle to her corner where she had her own petite-sized tools, her own projects. Picking up Father’s painting, she started to hide it under her bench.

  “I didn’t ask you to move it,” Master Gimpel said. “I asked, ‘What is it?’”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Humph. Which means it’s important.” He hesitated, his forehead wrinkled, then said, “Ah. It’s your father’s drawing for the west tower. I understand that Father Goossens saw it yesterday, but it failed to change his mind.” He limped around to her corner. “Show me.”

  Laurel had no choice. With trembling hands, she unwrapped the framed picture.

  Eagerly, the Gargoyle Man almost snatched the picture from her hands and carried it to where the workshop window was propped open letting in the soft spring day. He studied it for a full five minutes, while Laurel studied the emotions crossing his face and tried to guess his thoughts, something she could easily do for most of the townspeople. But his scarred face made it impossible to read him at all.

  “This design is the work of a master!” He looked up and his surprisingly normal smile made Laurel blink. “And better than that, the turrets are perfect for gargoyles and statues. I will become the most famous gargoyle sculptor of all time, and your father will be the most famous architect. He’s a genius.”

  Laurel’s face flushed, like she had just been complimented instead of her father. Here was another ally, another who loved her cathedral. She didn’t trust herself to
speak.

  “In spite of this–” He tapped the picture frame. “–they won’t start building this year?”

  His question loosed a flurry of anger. “No. And if we don’t buy stone this year, there may not be stone left when we need it. Do you know who offers to buy our stone? The friars of St. Assisi. How could they do this?”

  “Chapters change all the time,” he continued. “It may take a year or two, but you’ll be building here again soon. I’ve seen it happen many times.”

  “But my father—” She forced her voice to steady. “Father isn’t a young man. If they wait, another architect may get to design the west tower. I pray for a miracle.”

  “You mean money?”

  “Yes, money. But something to change Father Goossens’s mind, too. Even with the money, he might decide to spend it elsewhere.”

  “Hmm. Difficult.” The Gargoyle Man shook his head and went back to his own worktable. He sat. He turned the St. Francis statue around, and then around again. He looked over at Laurel.

  Refusing to cry, Laurel reached for her herb basket that she carried everywhere. “Money to build isn’t your problem. I shouldn’t worry you. Do you mind if I sprinkle the workshop with herbs to make it smell better?”

  “Go on,” he waved a hand.

  The strewing herbs weren’t medicinal, so she had plenty left this spring. She liked a sweet smell to rooms she had to use often. She scattered the herbs on the rush floor and around her worktable where they would be stepped on and their odor released. Moving quietly so she wouldn’t disturb him, she scattered more herbs around the Gargoyle Man’s bench.

  He was still turning St. Francis in a slow pirouette. Suddenly—“I know where you can get the money.”

  Laurel breathed deeply, the herbs filling the workshop with sweet incense. “A miracle?”

  He laughed shortly. “Who knows? A miracle or a curse.” Then his face pinched, tight with control. His scarred hands reached and flipped up his eye patch.

  Like it was a mask he wanted to take off, Laurel thought. She shivered, suddenly scared. She stepped back, “No—”

  But it was too late, the Gargoyle Man pried open his eyelid.

  Despite herself, Laurel couldn’t look away. Inside his eye socket was an eye. No, not an eye, for what lay inside was glittering.

  He tugged at the thing and it came out with a soft sucking sound. Now his eyelid hung slack over the empty socket.

  Her hand flew to her mouth and she gasped. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t find the breath.

  But the Gargoyle Man was smiling now and holding out his palm. A ruby. Blood red. His voice gruff, he asked, “Have you ever seen a Troll’s Eye?”

  NINE

  WHEREIN THE GIRL IS TEMPTED

  “Go on, take it.” The Gargoyle Man cupped the red stone—the Troll’s Eye—in his hand and held it out to Laurel.

  She shuddered, feeling like a mouse trapped in the gaze of a snake.

  “Take it,” he commanded.

  “It’s a jewel?” Laurel gingerly took it between her thumb and forefinger–it was warm with the heat of his body–and held it at arm’s length. Just the thought of it was repulsive. Yet the red stone gleamed invitingly. It was a large oval, about one inch long and three quarters of an inch wide. The deep ruby red was broken by a red-black slit in the center, like the pupil of a cat’s eye.

  “It is beautiful. In—in a way,” Laurel stuttered. “B-but one jewel won’t pay for the building.”

  The Gargoyle Man’s arms were crossed over his chest. “I won’t part with it anyway. But it can lead you to a treasure cave that has enough jewels to finance a hundred west towers.”

  “What?”

  “This isn’t a plain gemstone. It’s a Troll’s Eye, a doorway into secret lands. Trolls are creatures of the mountains and have more understanding of stone than even we masons. After my apprenticeship with Giselbertus, I spent a year searching out stone lore of the trolls. I traveled far, far north and found many tales of their ways with stone. They have found a way to enter the worlds that are within stone. Each block in this cathedral has a world within in. The trolls call these worlds the Djuber, which means The Deep. It is in these lands that trolls hide their treasure. Look!” He took the jewel from her and held it against the blood-red stone they had unloaded the day before. He reminded Laurel of a child showing off a prize.

  A jewel as a doorway? A treasure cave? He wasn’t just ugly, he was moonstruck, a lunatic. She shook her head and took another step backward, making sure she could dash out the doorway if needed.

  “Ah, I see. You talk of miracles, but you don’t believe.”

  Laurel frowned. She tilted her head and watched the jewel twinkle in the light. Something wasn’t right here. “Why are you so anxious for me to look through it?”

  “It won’t hurt,” he shrugged. “I promise.”

  Laurel bent over, glancing at the Gargoyle Man as she did so. He was quite still, waiting, almost as if he was afraid he would spoil the moment if he moved. And her suspicion overcame her curiosity. She straightened. “No.”

  Master Gimpel straightened up and took the Troll’s Eye away from the red stone. Casually, he tossed the jewel up and down while he studied her. “When you are willing to look for a miracle, talk to me again. Meanwhile—Child—take the drawing back to your father. There’s a good little girl.”

  Laurel gritted her teeth, angry at this ugly monster of a mason who thought he could come in and take over the workshops and force her to trudge up the eastern tower steps and then down again, carrying statues that weighed as much as she did. Thirty-four trips she had made yesterday afternoon, while he just sat and sharpened chisels. Thirty-four heavy stone statues she had carried. She had worked hard to get this workshop in order. And now, he was treating her like a child. No!

  As the jewel fell toward his hand, she snatched it.

  She would look through his Troll’s Eye.

  “Laurel!” Ana-Maria bustled through the open doorway. She shaded her eyes, trying to adjust to the dim interior. “You must come. Antonio is worse. He needs something to calm him.”

  Master Gimpel flipped his eye patch into place, and then gripped Laurel’s hand and squeezed, forcing her to drop the jewel into his hand. He clutched it, hiding it from view, and stepped back toward the deeper shadows.

  “Ana-Maria!” Laurel was confused, turning back and forth between the man and girl. “Um. This is the new mason, Master Gimpel. Master, may I go? We have no doctor in our town, so I do what I can with herbs. Her master’s leg is infected.”

  With a soft, gentle voice, he said, “Of course, you must go and help.” To Ana-Maria, he said, “Wait outside a moment and she will come.”

  She nodded and stepped outside.

  Waiting until the Gypsy girl was looking away from the workshop, the Gargoyle Man gripped Laurel’s shoulders and whispered fiercely: “The Troll’s Eye is a secret. You must tell no one.”

  Laurel chewed on her inner cheek.

  “No one,” he insisted.

  She shrugged off his hands and glared.

  The Gargoyle Man lifted the eye patch, opened his palm and slid the Troll’s Eye back into the eye socket. He blinked.

  Laurel recoiled, stumbling backward. The stone twinkled, like it was a real eye, an evil eye. She couldn’t tell if he could see through it or not. He adjusted the eye patch and it disappeared, leaving just his scarred face, now smiling at her.

  How silly of her. Of course, he couldn’t see anything through a stone. He took her cloak off the peg by the doorway, draped it over her shoulders and motioned outside.

  As she passed him, he laid a finger on his lips. “Remember, no one.”

  TEN

  WHEREIN THE GYPSY GIRL TELLS A CHILLING STORY

  Laurel and Ana-Maria hurried through the town. The snow was slushy from the warm weather and their skirt hems were muddy. Laurel stopped by her lodgings to search for any remnants of herbs that she might have overlooked. Of twelve di
fferent herbs, she was out of ten. Of the other two, she had only pinches left. After a moment’s hesitation, she added a bottle of mandrake wine to her basket.

  The warm weather had brought everyone outside, crowding the streets with jovial throngs. The two girls wove through the marketplace as quickly as they could and on to the town gates.

  “How is the old Gypsy?” called Edgar, the gatekeeper.

  “Not good,” Laurel answered.

  “Be careful of those Gypsies!” the gatekeeper called.

  Laurel glanced at Ana-Maria, but she seemed to not hear the gatekeeper, or else she chose not to hear him.

  The girls walked swiftly through the woods toward the cave. Sunlight glittered off the snow, almost blinding Laurel. She had almost looked through the Troll’s Eye because the Gargoyle Man had tantalized her with the promise of a treasure. No, he had charmed her, like a magician doing tricks so that she had almost looked through his jewel. In fact, a jewel that allowed you to enter a stone world had—for a moment—seemed the most reasonable thing in the world. Only Ana-Maria’s arrival had saved her.

  At the cave entrance, Laurel turned for a last look at the cathedral guarding the town. “Father’s tower turrets do need to be built, though. And I do need a miracle,” she whispered to herself. If Master Gimpel offered another chance to look through the Troll’s Eye, would she risk it in hopes of finding a treasure?

  She entered the cave, and for a moment, she thought she had entered the cathedral: there was a high dome ceiling, dim light, deep quiet, and stone enveloping her. But elegant cut stone was replaced by crude untutored stone. Cathedral incense was supplanted by the stale cave air and smoke from the cook fire.

  A moan cut through her confusion.

  Jassy rubbed bleary eyes and ran a hand through tangled hair. “He’s worse.”

  Laurel touched his shoulder. “Go rest. I’ll take care of Antonio.”

  “Later. First, tell us how he is doing.”

  Ana-Maria said hopefully, “We’ve been bathing him in spring water and the herb water you left.”