The Chalice and the Gargoyles
By Drew Alexander Ross
(Originally published by Bewildering Stories)
“Why didn’t the alarm go off?”
“We failed. It doesn’t matter.”
Bartholomew protected the church for over a thousand years. For over a thousand years, he 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.
* * *
Bartholomew and Thomas walked on their four limbs over to the trembling priest in the corner of the room. His inability to look them in the eyes betrayed the fear that his faith and position were supposed to dispel from the masses. The lack of courage from this man of the cloth culminated in a pitiful, sour stench of urine.
Bartholomew stepped across the trickle on the floor that puddled in front of the priest.
“Unfit for the position he holds,” Thomas spat. “How can you fear when you have God?”
“He’s lost his faith,” Bartholomew stated.
The priest glanced up at the gargoyles. It was a brief glance, like a child peeking behind his hands at a monster in the dark. His eyes blinked rapidly, turning gears in his head in an attempt to process what they saw. A spark of realization stilled his body. It was the shock of recognition. Father Dooley lowered his hands. “You’re the gargoyles from the church,” the priest gasped.
“We are the gargoyles that guard the church,” Thomas replied.
“I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?” Bartholomew asked.
The priest looked around the room. His bedroom had a simple layout but with rich designs. The bed was kingsized with a canopy and silk sheets. A tall dresser that was as old as the Gothic house itself was near the window. Antiques, including bedsides tables and rugs, decorated the room to round out the homey feel.
Father Dooley took in all of this and then turned back to the gargoyles. He shifted on his knees and felt the damp nightgown drag across his lap. A flush crept up his cheeks. “Why are you here?” the priest asked. “Am I dreaming? May I get a change of clothes?”
“You stay where you belong. Sitting in your own cowardice,” Thomas snapped.
Father Dooley recoiled and raised his hands halfway to his face. He regained some composure and folded his hands over his lap. “What do you want?”
“The chalice,” Bartholomew responded.
The gargoyles stepped forward, closing the gap on the priest and giving him nowhere to run. Father Dooley’s dumbstruck face looked more surprised than if a cross had fallen out of the sky and smacked his face. He stared palely at the gargoyles.
Bartholomew knew then that they had come to the wrong place. “You didn’t steal it.”
“Steal… Steal the chalice?” Father Dooley gasped. “No! Never.”
Thomas met Bartholomew’s gaze. “He’s stolen something.”
“I… I… steal from the offering basket.” Father Dooley cast his gaze down on the floor at his own puddle of piss.
“Are you going to stop?” Thomas asked.
“Yes,” Father Dooley stifled a sob.
“Who else could get into the church without breaking in?” Bartholomew asked before the priest lost his composure.
“I don’t know who would steal from a church, but…” Father Dooley stopped mid-sentence, realizing what he said. He coughed before he continued. “But most thieves these days would be able to break in without raising the alarm. It could be anyone.”
Thomas scowled. Bartholomew glanced at his brother before turning back to the priest. “Does anyone else have a key to the church?”
“Yes,” Father Dooley responded, “the janitor. But he seems like the type that wouldn’t see the difference between the chalice and a pint glass.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
The priest shook his head. “He’s a drunken slob, but he does the minimum to keep his job. He gave a P.O. box instead of an address.”
“Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”
The priest’s gaze fell. Bartholomew and Thomas turned to leave. They prowled across the floor toward the hole in the house where the window used to be.
“Wait!”
The gargoyles stopped.
“I’m sorry for what I did,” Father Dooley said. “Do you think God will forgive me?”
“If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just; He forgives us our sins and cleanses us from all unrighteousness,” Thomas stated.
“Thank you.”
“Remember, priest,” Bartholomew added, “the kingdom of heaven is within. You let yourself down as much as you disappointed God. Do better.”
Bartholomew and Thomas unfurled their wings and took off into the dark sky.
* * *
The town below was still. In a village of around five thousand inhabitants, things could be quiet in the early hours of a Monday morning. Maybe one window out of every twenty houses had a light on inside. The small High Street of the town had a few shop windows with dimmed lights and signs in their doors proclaiming they were closed for business and would open again in the morning.
Bartholomew and Thomas descended toward the string of shops in the center of town. They landed on the roof of one of the biggest buildings in the village. A bronze rooster on the chimney of the Cock and Bull Pub cocked its head at the gigantic gargoyles that swooped down and clambered to a stop on the roof. It let out a loud crow of distress.
“Oh, be quiet, you disgrace of a bird!” Thomas spat at the rooster.
It clucked twice and brought its head back to face the road.
“Wish it were a bull. Maybe it would have something more intelligent to say.”
Bartholomew cocked a stone eyebrow at Thomas.
“Maybe not,” Thomas conceded. “Do you think anyone could help us find the janitor?”
“I don’t know anymore,” Bartholomew answered.
Thomas stared at his oldest friend and furrowed his brow.
Bartholomew trudged over to the side of the pub and looked out at High Street. It used to be the main road, where they held the Stevonshire market every year. The village bustled from sun up to sundown. People exchanged news, gossip, and tidings from afar. The silence that stretched over the nights now didn’t change much during the day. Automobiles and the occasional transaction between humans permeated the atmosphere, but there weren’t many other signs of life.
“What’s on your mind, Bartholomew?”
“Everything has changed, Thomas,” Bartholomew appealed to the other gargoyle. “Where do we go from here? I failed to protect the church once. Anah’s base and your injuries are a reminder of that failing. I don’t want to see what another failure looks like.”
“You didn’t fail the church then. And you didn’t fail me,” Thomas stated. “All this dwelling in the past won’t get us anywhere right now.”
“We don’t know this village anymore. It isn’t like it used to be. Even a hundred years ago, we could go out at night without worry of being destroyed. All we need now is a young man to come to the church with his friends and finish what those other boys started all those years ago.” Bartholomew, his face contorted in pain, pointed at Thomas’s wing.
“Worrying about a future that hasn’t happened, too?” Thomas chided.
“Gahhh!” Bartholomew roared and stalked away from Thomas. He walked over to the edge of the pub and let out another air-shattering roar.
“Don’t even want to wait till morning, do you?”
Bartholomew swung back around to face Thomas. “Why should I? I should just wait here for the morning light to freeze me. I can watch and laugh inside while the stupid humans try to figure out how I got here.”
“That won’t help us find the chalice, will it?”
“There’s nothing we can do, Thomas! Can’t you see that?” Bartholomew raged. “The Almighty should strike our kind down in one almighty flash of lightning. We’re no use to him anymore. Our life’s purpose was replaced by a gadget at the door.”
“One that didn’t work.”
“And neither do we.”
“Not going on like this, we don’t.”
“Gahhh! Curse you and your never-ending optimism. You were always the grouchy one!”
“We balance each other out quite nicely when we need to, brother.”
“Where is that getting us, eh?” Bartholomew asked. “What good is continuing when you have no purpose anymore?”
“Have faith, brother.”
“We failed, Thomas!” Bartholomew shouted. “We don’t deserve to have faith!”
“Will you lot shut your gobs!”
Bartholomew and Thomas stared at each other wide-eyed. It was still a few hours until daylight, but the shout came from the street below. They had definitely been loud, but the residential streets were a few blocks away. Who would be up on High Street at this time? The gargoyles walked over to the edge of the roof to find out.
A grungy man stood up on a bench outside the pub. He wore a heavy, patched coat and dirty navy-blue khakis. His eyes were the bloodshot red of a dying sun. A stream of spittle congealed on the crease of his chin as he wavered on the bench and squinted at Bartholomew and Thomas on the roof of the pub.
“Who’s that?” The man stumbled.
He brought a hand up as if to shield his vision from the sun to get a clearer sight of what he was looking at. His raised hand clutched a wooden cup.
Bartholomew and Thomas stared down at the man. Fangs were on full display with both of their mouths completely open in surprise.
“Whaz this?”
The man stared at the cup and furrowed his brow. He stared at it for a moment, not sure what he was looking at. He gazed at the cup, then peered up at the gargoyles. He didn’t bring his hand up to shield his vision this time. Bartholomew and Thomas regained their senses as well. They raised their wings and swooped to the ground.
“Eeeeeeeeekk!” The man threw his hands up for cover, and the chalice went flying.
Thomas lunged to retrieve the chalice and broke the pavement as he landed. His outstretched fingers were inches short of the falling chalice. The wooden cup bounced once on the pavement and settled with a dead, hollow note. A long crack split the chalice in two.
“No…” Thomas’s word fell flat in the night.
Bartholomew stared at the chalice. The drunken man sobered briefly as his eyes sharpened in awareness of what happened. The stillness of the night permeated the street, and none of the three figures present made a sound. A breeze swept past the shops and rattled the remains of the chalice.
“What did you do?” Bartholomew towered over the man.
“Nuthin’,” the man replied. “You were the ones tha’ made me drop da thing.”
Thomas slowly got to his feet and collected the two pieces of the chalice. He locked eyes with the man and let out a ROAR.
The drunk cowered. After the echoes of the roar faded into the night, the man glanced at the two gargoyles.
“Are you the janitor at the church?” Bartholomew asked.
“How’d you know tha’?”
Silence permeated the air while Bartholomew and Thomas met each other’s gaze. Thomas let out a deep sigh, and they turned away from the janitor. “Don’t come back unless you’re looking for absolution.”
Bartholomew beckoned to Thomas, and the two crouched in preparation of taking flight.
“Don’t need it.”
Thomas twisted his head back to the janitor. “What did you say?”
“Said I don’t need it.”
Thomas took a step forward toward the drunken janitor. Bartholomew’s eyes went blank for a moment, but he was able to reach out an arm in time to stop Thomas from confronting the man. Bartholomew turned his attention to the janitor after he felt the fight fade from his brother.
“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.”
“Exactly,” the janitor stated. “Now bugger off.”
Thomas made another move toward the janitor, but Bartholomew shook his head. Thomas met Bartholomew’s eyes and let the tension subside. Bartholomew beckoned his brother, and the two took to the sky.
* * *
“What happened back there, Bartholomew?”
Thomas and Bartholomew worked their wings powerfully to gain elevation before straightening them out and gliding through the night. Thomas wobbled in the air occasionally, but Bartholomew slowed his pace to stay even with his brother.
“Would you say that man was surprised to see us?”
“Initially, yes,” Thomas replied, “but he seemed to accept the situation fairly quickly, even given his state… What does that mean?”
“It means he was expecting us,” Bartholomew said. “Maybe he didn’t know exactly what would happen, but he was prepared.”
“He didn’t seem to be a spiritual man,” Thomas mused. “Or a knowledgable one.”
Bartholomew continued in silence. The darkness was starting to lift. A slight shimmer on the skyline changed the blackness of the night into a dark navy blue. The sun would be up in less than an hour. They didn’t have much time.
“We failed, Bartholomew…”
Bartholomew twisted his neck and saw his brother’s labored flight. Thomas didn’t look over at Bartholomew. His gaze was fixed ahead. They flew over the residential buildings as they made their way back across the village.
“I thought you said don’t worry about the past.”
“I told you that because you were moping about something that wasn’t your fault,” Thomas stated. “We didn’t fail then, but I failed this time. I should have caught the chalice.”
Thomas’s head bowed and stared at the pieces of the chalice clutched in his hands.
“I don’t think it’s that simple, Thomas.”
“What do you mean?”
“Wait,” Bartholomew replied. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
* * *
Bartholomew and Thomas approached the church grounds. The sunrise was still a ways off, but a dim light crept over the horizon like the ocean waves moving up the shore.
The two gargoyles landed with thumps that made deep imprints on the ground. Bartholomew took the lead and walked to the entrance of the church. They passed under the archway into the nave with bowed heads.
“Ahh, the prodigal sons return.”
“It was one son in the Bible, monk,” Thomas called.
“You think I don’t know that?” Friar Philip bit back.
“Enough,” the angel Arael said with a sigh.
The gargoyles walked down the aisle. The pews were still in disarray, along with the Bibles. Bartholomew’s gaze was fierce as they approached the altar. Thomas walked up and put the pieces of the chalice on the communion table.
“What’s this!” Friar Philip erupted. “What happened to the sacred chalice?”
Arael’s cast his gaze down with the corners of his mouth twitching.
“We found the janitor with the chalice,” Thomas said. “He was drunk and tossed the chalice when we confronted him. It cracked on the pavement.”
“Cracked!” The Friar choked. “It’s broken in two.”
Philip stifled sobs and brought his robe up to wipe his eyes. A grating rub echoed as the robe brushed his face. Thomas stared at the ground with eyes that didn’t see.
“It’s not your fault,” Arael said.
Bartholomew set his gaze on the angel in his painting. Arael rose above the sheep and looked down at the gargoyles with a soft glow around him.
“It’s yours,” Bartholomew stated.
Friar Philip and Thomas turned to see Bartholomew staring at Arael. The angel stared back at Bartholomew before he curled his lips in a smirk.
“Was it that obvious?” Arael asked. “It doesn’t matter. The objective is complete. I hope you weren’t too tough on the janitor.”
Thomas and Philip exchanged baffled looks. The friar gaped at the angel.
“You can’t have done!” Philip exclaimed. “How could you? I was here the whole time. This must be a joke.”
“It’s not,” Bartholomew stated.
“No, it’s not,” Arael confirmed. “The song I sing to the sheep is as effective on our kind as it is on them. It wasn’t difficult.”
“But why?” Thomas asked.
“Ask your brother,” Arael smiled. “He seems to have everything figured out.”
Friar Philip and Thomas appealed to Bartholomew. Bartholomew took in the church once more. He pictured it after its glorious construction. Their sculptor sang poetry of the beauty of the Lord to them while he carved. He named them and asked them to protect the holy church. The building was simple but beautiful in its simplicity. Large windows let the light in and filled the church with hope.
Now, the dirtied stained glass windows cast a gloomy light into the dank interior, even on a nice day. The whole church was wet and dark. The mortar on the walls was chipped and loose. It was a dump. The once holy place was as empty of spirit as the town.
Bartholomew addressed Thomas and Philip.
“Without the chalice, there would be no reason for this church to be kept. It would be converted or demolished, and the artifacts would be moved to another church in the diocese.”
“You wretch!” Philip spat. “This is the holy sanctuary we were chosen to look after. How could you do this?”
“The flock has abandoned us!” Arael roared. “We are shepherds over a decaying field. Is it wrong to want to find new pastures?” Arael’s voice rang out in the silence of the church.
Bartholomew looked upon Arael with pity. “It’s wrong when you have forsaken faith in the Lord and believe you can alter his will.” Bartholomew stared at the angel without malice and without judgment.
The angel cursed him. “What do you know?” Arael raged. “You are a stupid boulder that couldn’t protect the church from a drunk. It’s your fault that one of your family isn’t here today to share in your misery, and it’s your fault that the other lump is disfigured and lame. You’re the reason that chalice is broken. You failed your holy duty!”
Thomas stepped forward and raised a clawed hand to strike the angel. Bartholomew held out an arm.
“It doesn’t matter, you fools,” Arael continued. “I have won. I will find a new mantlepiece while you will be destroyed.”
“The Lord will hear about this!” Philip shouted. “You will be the one cast down.”
“Oh, be quiet, friar!” Arael spat back. “You will be lucky if they put you in a forgotten broom cupboard.”
“Not if we put you there first,” Thomas stated.
Thomas brushed Bartholomew’s arm aside and took a few steps toward Arael’s painting. The angel laughed. The glow around him now brightened. Arael cackled as he watched the windows fill with dampened light from the sun.
“You’re too late!” Arael shouted. “Now, we will all wait and see what happens. By the time darkness falls, I will no longer have to look upon your ugly, pathetic faces.”
The angel continued to cackle as Bartholomew and Thomas were frozen in the sunlight. The friar’s face was mortified as he was paralyzed by the light that reached him. Arael was the last to be silenced by the morning rays. The sickly contortions of his facial features captured his maniacal laugh.
* * *
Father Dooley sat in the first pew facing the altar. The bench was skewed in the middle of the aisle. He stared at the scene before him. The gargoyles that protected the church, that came to his bedroom the previous night, stood upon the raised pulpit. The priest was prepared to call last night a fever dream but, when he came to the church in the morning, the hairs on his neck stood on ends. He immediately noticed the absence of the gargoyles above the entrance. When Dooley found them inside, he sat down. He hadn’t moved since.
No one came for Monday mass anymore. Hardly anyone showed up for Sunday mass. Father Dooley came out of habit and curiosity. He stayed because he wanted to fathom what this all meant. For his life, for the church. He stopped asking questions years ago but found himself looking for answers again.
Knock. Knock.
Father Dooley swiveled his head toward the door but didn’t make a sound. The door creaked open. A boy poked his kinky, black-haired head in the door. He spotted the mess and Father Dooley in the front row. “Uh… Is everything okay?”
Father Dooley stared at the boy but had nothing to say.
Trent stared at the priest for a moment before his eyes found the gargoyles on the raised dais.
“Holy shit!” Trent exclaimed. “They really were there last night.”
Father Dooley’s eyes cleared up at the boy’s words, and Trent met his gaze. “Oh, sorry for swearing, Father.”
“It’s okay,” the priest replied. “What did you mean by what you said?”
Trent stepped into the church and observed the damage. He tiptoed between the scattered benches and made his way up to the front of the church. He walked by Father Dooley and inspected the gargoyles. The boy saw the broken chalice on the communion table and turned back to the priest.
“So, they found the cup,” Trent walked over to Father Dooley and sat down. “Did you take it?”
“No, I didn’t,” Father Dooley replied. “I’m not innocent of betraying the church, but I didn’t take the chalice.”
Trent scooted a little way away from the priest. “Oh, relax, boy,” Dooley replied. “I took tithes from the offering basket… But that’s over now. Not that it matters. With the chalice broken, this church won’t receive any funding or have any tourists. The locals hardly come as is.”
“Oh, that’s an easy fix.”
Father Dooley stared at the boy and raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
“Don’t look at me like that, Father. I thought priests were supposed to have faith.”
“How can you fix it?”
“Some wood glue, clamps, and a bit of sandpaper will fix it right up.”
The priest stared at Trent and the look of easy belief on his face. Father Dooley let out a laugh that filled the church with lightness.
Trent grinned at the priest and walked over to pick up the pieces of the chalice. “I can fix it up and bring it back later tonight,” Trent stated. “What are we going to do about the state of the church? And the gargoyles?”
“I’ll straighten up the church while you fix the chalice,” Father Dooley answered. “I’m not sure what to do about the gargoyles, though.”
BANG!
Trent and Father Dooley fixed their gaze on the entrance to the church. The janitor stumbled into the nave. He held his head and bumped into one of the benches in the middle of the aisle.
“Blasted thing! What’s it doing here?”
“Mr. Cahill?”
The janitor peered up and saw the priest, the boy, and the dais with the gargoyles behind them. His already blotchy face drained of all color. “All my fault.”
Mr. Cahill trudged up the aisle, looking at the mess of the church. He reached the priest and the boy and stared up at the dais. The janitor didn’t go up to inspect it. He took in the scene before him for a moment before he went over to the priest. Mr. Cahill let out a choked sob. “It’s all my fault!” the janitor cried. “I turned over the church and stole the cup. I don’t remember it all. But I know it was me. I was angry with God. I felt so alone…”
Trent stared at the drunk man who was starting to sober.
“It’s okay,” the priest responded.
Father Dooley stood up and closed the distance between him and the janitor. He put his arms on the man’s shoulders.
“Nothing is lost. The boy here — ”
“Trent.”
“Trent says he can fix the chalice,” he priest continued. “You can help me fix up the church.”
Mr. Cahill looked up. “Thank you, Father.”
* * *
Father Dooley, Trent, and Mr. Cahill stood facing the dais. The church was as clean as a pot after Sunday stew, and the chalice was a whole cup again on the communion table. Light shone through the cleaned windows, and shadows crept across the floor. The three men stared at the gargoyles in front of them.
“What about them?” Mr. Cahill asked. “We’d need a forklift to budge them two.”
“What were they even doing here?” Trent asked.
“Returning the chalice.”
Trent gazed at the priest, then back to the gargoyles. “But why did they get frozen…? That one isn’t even looking at the chalice. He’s looking at the angel.”
Mr. Cahill followed the boy’s gaze and went pale again. “Eeeeek!”
Father Dooley and Trent turned to the janitor.
“That’s the heathen creature that enchanted me with his evil words to take the chalice and trash the church.”
“What do you mean?”
Mr. Cahill locked eyes with the priest. “That thing is alive…” the janitor started. “I don’t know how, but I heard some songs, and when I came up to see what the bloody hell was going on, the thing started talking to me.”
“Are you sure?” the priest asked.
Trent stared at Mr. Cahill for a moment.
“I believe him. The gargoyles are proof enough to me. When they found me last night, I was on a bench in the park square. They were talking to the statue of the knight.”
The three men observed the painting of the angel Arael. Its smug aura was darkened by the shadows that crept over it. Night was starting to envelop the church, and stillness rose around them. The silence was broken by the shift in stone and the rustle of a canvas.
“Noooo!” Arael yelled. “How could you!”
The men stared up at the painting with mouths agape.
“They did what you could not.”
Bartholomew arched his back and stretched his wings. Thomas followed suit.
“They accepted the present and restored their faith in the here and now.”
“How dare you lecture me, you lump!” Arael spat.
Thomas and Bartholomew walked forward toward the angel. Arael drew back in his painting with wide, terrified eyes. He lifted his head and started to sing. “Be not afraid — ”
A wooden shoe the size of a thumb smacked the angel in the forehead. “That’s enough from you!” Friar Philip called over.
Trent, Father Dooley, and Mr. Cahill followed everything with looks on their faces akin to a bunch of boys watching their parents argue while mud wrestling. The shock and disbelief froze their features to the point of staring like statues themselves.
“This won’t change the fate of the church!” Arael erupted. “I will be moved!”
Thomas advanced quickly. He went to the painting and drew a fingernail across the mouth of the angel. His stone nail tore the canvas and erased Arael’s mouth. The angel’s fury pulsed from the lines and veins on his forehead, but Arael had no voice to covey the contempt he held for those present.
“Yes, you will.” Thomas took the painting down and nodded to the Friar. Bartholomew picked up the Friar’s shoe and handed it back to him like an adult giving a toddler a fallen pen cap. Philip nodded at both Thomas and Bartholomew, put his shoe back on, and resumed his position of looking out over the church.
Bartholomew and Thomas walked over to the men.
“Thank you.”
The men looked at the gargoyles. All three stood unafraid. They met the gaze of the gargoyles and nodded.
“Is there a place to store this?” Thomas asked the priest.
Father Dooley glanced at Mr. Cahill.
“I got meself a toolshed on the grounds,” Mr. Cahill offered. “I think I can find a spot behind all the junk for this thing.”
“Will he be in range to hear the congregation?” Bartholomew asked.
“He might not hear every word, but he’ll hear the singing and the people coming and going.”
“If we get the people to return,” Father Dooley added.
“You returned, Father,” Thomas stated. “Have faith your flock will follow.”
Father Dooley nodded.
“And thank you for fixing the chalice, young man,” Bartholomew bowed his head to Trent.
“My pleasure.”
Thomas handed over the painting to Mr. Cahill. The gargoyles observed each of the men before them.
“Peace be with you.”
They walked out of the church and took to the sky.
* * *
The sun shone brightly on the English village of Stevonshire. The church grounds were filled with smiling and radiant townsfolk. The courtyard was clean, and the doors to the church were open. Father Dooley walked among the people exchanging greetings and pleasant tidings. Mr. Cahill stood with Trent, and the two were in conversation with a couple of youngsters.
The babble of conversation overflowed the area, permeating the grounds and rising to the heavens. The noise even echoed over to a small neglected corner of the grounds, home to a grungy toolshed.
The crowd began to trickle away from the church, but each person left with a lighter heart and walked a little straighter. A sense of peace and calmness flowed from all.
Father Dooley talked with each person who sought his word, while Trent and Mr. Cahill talked with whoever passed by them. The three had smiles on their faces as they spoke. They took in the present moment and felt connected with everyone. The townspeople continued to trickle away until just the three of them were left in the courtyard.
They glanced at each other, then stared up up the roof of the church. Bartholomew and Thomas watched over the grounds, still as stone.
