The Chalice and the Gargoyles
by Drew Alexander Ross
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
“Why didn’t the alarm go off?”
“We failed. It doesn’t matter.”
Bartholomew had protected the church for over a thousand years. For over a thousand years, he had never failed in his mission of guarding the sacred building. Not even to be aware of failure until after it happened was a shock that even the coldest rainfall and loudest thunder couldn’t penetrate. Bartholomew’s head hung with a grating crack in the downpour of rain.
“What do we do, Bartholomew?”
Bartholomew turned to his brother and fellow protector. Thomas was missing one ear, and his left wing was chipped. Another reminder of their only other brush with failure was the empty pedestal where their sister used to keep watch. Rain pattered against that bare slate of space between them.
Anah had been destroyed two centuries ago, but they avenged her. Thomas broke the back of the man who did it, and Bartholomew tore out his throat for good measure. Their actions that night created lore around the church for the next few hundred years. They were the easiest nights of their lives.
“We have to get it back.” Thomas slammed his stone fists down against the roof. His good wing and his bad lifted toward the dark clouds. He faced Bartholomew and roared.
* * *
The church door was open, and rain pooled by the entrance. The thieves hadn’t bothered to disguise their actions. Bartholomew entered the House of God and bowed his head. His spurs pointed to the ground as he passed under the arch. He tucked his wings back tight against his body while he walked between the scattered pews on his powerful hind legs and muscular arms. Thomas followed with a limp, struggling to close his wings.
Bartholomew cursed the carelessness and disrespect of the people in these times. Humans were always mischievous and always would be, but for centuries they had a reverence for holy grounds... Not anymore.
“Where were you two?” A high-pitched screech accosted them.
Bartholomew scowled at the animated figurine of the friar. He and Thomas crossed themselves as they walked past the cross behind the podium at the front of the church. Above the now broken tabernacle, the small friar frowned in judgment. Bartholomew watched his Savior on the cross but knew there would be no movement. The Lord hadn’t returned to the land in over two thousand years. He wouldn’t for this.
However, the angel deemed it worthy of a response. “Philip, it is not their fault.”
Arael looked down on them from the sky above a flock of sheep. His face betrayed no emotion in the extravagant painting dominating the back wall behind the communion table. The painting was the only thing that appeared glorious in the dilapidated church.
On his pedestal above the tabernacle, the friar switched his focus from the gargoyles to the image of the angel. “It is their job! They’ve been in charge of protecting the church for a thousand years.”
“And what are you supposed to do, monk?” Thomas growled.
“I am a friar, as you well know, of the Carmelite order. And our spiritual focus is contemplation. Something you two should be doing right now.”
Thomas turned to Bartholomew and grumbled. “The man wasn’t even here when the church was built.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” the friar squeaked back.
“Enough!” Arael stared at Bartholomew when he said this.
Thomas and Friar Philip glared at each other for a few moments longer before scowling and turning away. Bartholomew had to hand it to the friar; not many people could stare at Thomas and not flinch. He imagined pompousness wasn’t a virtue of the order, but the friar put it to good use.
“Did either of you see anything that could help us find the thief?” Bartholomew asked. He stared at the broken tabernacle.
Philip was above the box and set his gaze upon the heavens, closed his eyes, and shook his head. The angel Arael lowered his gaze. Even the bleating of the sheep was solemn. Thomas walked up to the box and inspected its emptiness. Bartholomew waited for a response from the others.
“There was nothing,” Arael stated. “It was a man in a cloak. He came in and went straight for the tabernacle.”
“Not without kicking and tossing a few pews first,” Philip moaned.
“Indeed,” Arael continued. “He had a sack with him and took everything. Then he left.”
“Sacrilegious, blasphemous bastard!” Philip screeched.
The sheep beneath the angel bleated loudly. They stamped in the field with bells around their necks, clanking and adding to their ruckus. Bartholomew, Thomas, and Philip winced at the noise and raised their hands to their ears.
A lovely harmony permeated through the cacophony: “Be not afraid. I go before you always. Come, follow me, and I will give you rest.”
Bartholomew watched as the sheep calmed. The angel finished the verse with a small smile. Bartholomew noticed that even Thomas had difficulty not betraying a sense of endearment.
Friar Philip stifled a yawn. “My apologies,” the friar offered. “But, with the chalice gone—”
“The alarm didn’t go off,” Thomas stated.
“Does that have any significance?” Arael asked.
“Whoever broke in had the security code,” Bartholomew said.
“An outrage!” Philip started up again but cooled when he saw the flock staring wide-eyed at him. “It couldn’t have been Father Dooley, could it?”
“What about one of the altar boys?” Arael asked.
“We’ll start with the priest,” said Bartholomew.
The church was cold in the silence that followed. Bartholomew looked around. It was never a large church, and in the past fifty years, it had started to become rundown. The stone wept in the cold and was clammy underfoot. The pews, now tossed aside and tipped, had wood that needed varnishing. Tattered bibles lay on the floor or were stuffed in the backs of the pews. Even the stained glass windows had a dull and gloomy look with their layer of grime.
The chalice had kept the parishioners coming to the services. Now, the chalice was gone. They failed their holy mission. That was all Bartholomew could think as he and Thomas plodded back down the aisle toward the door.
The voice of Arael rang out behind them: “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.”
The angel stared across the church at Bartholomew. “Say that when you find the man that did this.”
* * *
The rain eased to a soft drizzle as Thomas and Bartholomew walked across the grounds. The church’s property was in a small corner of the English town of Stevonshire, a forgotten village that had once been a market town and a destination for holy pilgrimages. Now, the grass was patchy with dirt, but not from overuse. Bartholomew remembered all the years on duty looking over the church green and seeing the village grow.
A fountain with no water sat in the middle of the green. There was no artifact or ornament to the fountain. Much like the church, it was plain. The priests that built the church said it should be a shelter for God’s children; it didn’t need to do anything else.
Bartholomew peered across the grounds at the old rectory. A health center had replaced it forty years ago even though the older generation in the village still preferred a doctor to come to the house. The refurbished building was falling apart, much like the church and the town.
“Things used to be much brighter,” Thomas said, looking at the old rectory.
“Darkness has a way of creeping in over time when maintenance is neglected,” Bartholomew responded.
A silence passed between the two, and the rain stopped.
“How should we go about finding the priest?” Thomas asked. “We can’t go barging around. It’s not like the old days, where two gargoyles would be dismissed as nightmares and warnings for the children.”
“Let’s ask one of the locals if they know anything.”
* * *
The stars are infinite.
Trent arched his back on a bench in the central town park. It wasn’t much of a centerpiece anymore, with trash and graffiti strewn about, but Trent’s mind was far away from the clutter of his surroundings. School was a week away, enough time to take a trip before the term started.
He shifted his shoulders with his hands behind his head, looking past the statue in the middle of the square: a knight from some crusade. As he watched the night sky, his awed expression changed to perplexity when two dark figures streamed down. Trent tried to process what was happening. He couldn’t be sure in his current state. It looked like two flying turds were falling from the sky. But there was an intense aura emanating from the ugly pieces of...
* * *
Bartholomew and Thomas landed with a crunch on the cobblestones. The boy startled and stared with his mouth open wider than his pupils. Droplets of water speckled his kinked black hair.
“I thought you said he had passed out.” Thomas glanced from the boy to Bartholomew.
“Not to worry! The lad won’t remember come morning.” The statue of the knight sprang to life. “What are two holy protectors doing out in times like these?”
Bartholomew bowed his head to the statue of the knight. “The church was broken into, Sir Gregory.”
“Scitte!” Sir Gregory drew his sword and scowled. “Did they take the chalice, good sirs?”
“They did,” Thomas answered.
“I spent years in that unholy war! That holy relic was the one good thing from it all.”
Sir Gregory trembled. He brought his sword up to his face and pressed his forehead against the flat side of the blade. The knight let out a sharp yell that he cut short and turned into a prayer.
Thomas and Bartholomew tucked their wings and sat back on their haunches. Sir Gregory’s lips continued to move as his prayers became muted.
“Was that old cup at the church the Holy Grail?”
Bartholomew and Thomas shifted sharply to the boy on the bench. His face paled upon looking at them. A dry tongue swept across his lips.
“Not the Holy Grail, young sir.” Sir Gregory brought his sword down by his side. “But it was a cup used at the Last Supper.”
The boy nodded. He slumped back and breathed heavily through his nose.
Sir Gregory spun around to Bartholomew and Thomas. “Do ye know who stole the chalice?”
“We need to see the priest,” Thomas said.
“The priest!” the knight exclaimed, his sword arm falling limp at his side. “What is this world coming to?” Sir Gregory hung his head.
Bartholomew observed the trash littered around park. The knight’s pedestal had black and red graffiti tags, and the surrounding cracked cobblestones were a minefield for big toes. He sighed. “Do you know where he lives, Sir Gregory?”
“No” — the knight lifted his head — “I don’t, but I will search with ye until we find him.”
“We can’t allow that,” Bartholomew replied. “There is enough of the old world out tonight. Your company, though much appreciated, would not be wise.”
“You’re right.” The knight settled down. “I wish I could help ye.”
Bartholomew and Thomas exchanged a glance with lips pressed tight, then broke eye contact. The three stone creatures became lost in their own world of thoughts. Stillness filled the square.
The boy watched, alternating between rubbing his eyes and staring at the statues of stone come to life. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth. “Father Dooley? I know where he lives.”
* * *
Bartholomew glided through the night sky. Thomas labored to keep pace and had to twist his body to regain balance every time he hit a pocket of wind. His broken wing made for a bumpy ride, but his gnarled face displayed an intense focus without conscious regard for his disadvantage. He and Bartholomew flew over rows of identical box houses in a more residential area of the village.
The gargoyles banked toward the outskirts of the neighborhood where bigger and more unique houses decorated the area. A Gothic cottage loomed over the surrounding houses from the top of a small hill. The town shops were off in the distance, and the surrounding houses by the cottage were in much better keep than the residential area below.
A small light emanated from a second-floor window. Bartholomew took the lead and swooped toward the light.
* * *
Father Dooley was bowed in prayer before a small altar by his bed. A candle lay atop the altar, and a cross looked down from the wall. Flickers of light danced across the Lord’s face. Shadows cast by the light created deep hollows of disapproval under His eyes.
CRASH!
An explosion of glass and wood erupted behind the priest. Father Dooley clutched his chest and swiveled on his knees to see a massive figure of rock stumble over the glass and broken window frame of his bedroom. He felt naked in his nightgown. With one hand he clutched his chest, and with the other he pulled down his gown and pinned it under his knees.
THUMP!
A second boulder flew through the window and landed next to the first. Each giant wing was the size of the small priest, even the one with a chunk missing from it. Father Dooley cowered. Demons have finally come to claim me for my sins!. He avoided their gaze as the second figure tucked its wings and joined the first.
* * *
Copyright © 2021 by Drew Alexander Ross
