“Oh! That’s why you’re Gargoth of Tallus!” Kath-erine exclaimed.
Gargoth shot her a dark look and said, “That’s correct. Now quiet please, Katherine. This is a long story, and we’ll never get through it if you interrupt me.
“I believe I may have been his final creation. No one ever heard of the master French stonemason Tallus after 1604.
“The little churchyard where I was created was a beautiful place. There was once a brotherhood of monks who lived in the church, and they planted an apple orchard and many beautiful flowers and bushes, but the brothers were all gone by the time I arrived. King Henry VIII didn’t like monasteries and had shut them all down years before.”
“Why?” Katherine asked.
Gargoth shot her another dark look and sighed. “Look, if I go into all the ins-and-outs of English history, we’ll never leave this rooftop. Look it up—it was called the Dissolution of the Monasteries. That ‘net’ on the box you like should be able to tell you about it.” Katherine knew that Gargoth was referring to the Internet and her computer. She made a mental note to learn more about King Henry VIII.
Gargoth took a few puffs of his pipe. “It was a lovely place, but I was completely alone. There was another statue in the churchyard, an ancient stone lion, but I hated it. It wasn’t alive like me, just a lump of cold stone. How I would rage at it! How I wished it were alive, just to have someone to talk to. It reminded me, every day, of how lonely I was.
“I was alone for years, decades. England went through a terrible civil war, and still I hid in the church tower, all alone.
“Then one day, a young boy arrived in the church-yard. He came with his father to pick the apples in the old orchard: people were starving in England at that time and had to eat whatever they could find. They came year after year. Winter would come, and I wouldn’t see him again until late the next summer. Finally, when he was almost a man, I decided I would speak to him.
“His name was Philip, and he was the first friend I ever had.”
Gargoth’s Story, 1664
The Empty Basket
The boy reached gingerly into the grass and picked up the half-eaten apple core. He left the basket of apples he was collecting at the bottom of the apple tree and walked toward the church.
“That’s the third time this week,” he said to himself. “Whoever is doing this is a really good shot.” As if to remind himself of this fact, he rubbed the back of his head where the apple core had just hit him.
He brushed off his breeches. He looked carefully up into the church tower, still holding the apple core. He raised his hand to shade his eyes from the glare of the setting sun.
“HULLOO,” he finally shouted. “I know you’re up there. There are plenty of apples for everyone; you don’t have to throw them at me.”
He waited and listened, but there was no answer. So he tried again.
“HELLO! Whoever you are, you’d better come out now and give yourself up. I know you’ve been throwing apples at me when I’m out here in the orchard.”
ZING! An apple core whizzed right at him. He ducked behind a tree just in time to hear it smack the other side, hard. He stuck his head out from behind the tree, and shouted, “STOP IT! What are you doing?”
At that moment, he saw the basket of apples he had just picked disappear behind a tree. He jumped up to run toward it but quickly had to take cover.
Someone was throwing the entire basket of apples at him! Each time he stuck his head out, trying to catch a glimpse of the culprit, an apple whizzed by, sending him ducking for cover.
ZING! ZING! ZING! A torrent of apples flew at him. The entire apple orchard was ringing with the sound of apples smashing against the trees.
His heart was starting to pound. Who was doing this? Who was wasting an entire basket of apples throwing them at him, and why?
And who was such a good shot?
Suddenly the apples stopped flying, and the boy heard someone calling him. It was his father.
“Philip! Philip, where are you? The cart is loaded, we’re ready to go! Where are you hiding, boy?”
Philip stood up and peered around the side of the tree. “Here, Father! I’m over here in the orchard.” He moved away from the tree and ran toward the spot where he had left his apple basket. He and his father reached the basket at the same moment.
It was empty and lying on its side. A few trampled apples lay nearby.
“What happened here?” his father asked, concerned.
“I…I really don’t know, Father,” Philip stammered.
“Well, where are the apples?” His father crossed his arms, never a good sign.
“I...I don’t know. They’re everywhere. They’re all over the orchard, Father,” he said, confused and upset.
His father looked around. He saw apples everywhere, smashed against the trees, and many piled up and ruined at the bottom of one particular tree. He gave Philip a hard stare. “If you’re going to do target practice, Philip, please use the river stones and not food for our table. Every apple you’ve wasted here could have been saved and dried for food in the winter ahead. You will have extra chores to do tonight.”
His father never really got angry, but Philip could tell he was displeased as he marched back toward the waiting horse and cart beside the old church gate.
There would be no apples for lunch tomorrow. There would be fewer dried apples for the winter ahead.
As Philip bent down to retrieve the empty apple basket and follow his father to their old cart, he heard the most amazing sound.
It was like a creaky cartwheel groaning uphill under a great weight. Or maybe, just maybe, someone high up in the church tower was laughing.
Gargoth’s Story, 1664
The Lion Roars
It was getting dark. Philip wasn’t really sure he wanted to be there, but despite his complaints, his father had insisted. Since the incident the week before, when an entire basket of apples had been destroyed, Philip had been trying to avoid the churchyard altogether.
The more he thought about it, the more sure he was. Someone had been laughing at him from the church tower that day. The sound was odd, though, not like a laugh he’d ever heard before. It was chilling and whispery and kind of sad. It left him thinking of spirits. Philip was a very sensible and brave twelve-year-old boy, however, and he was pretty sure that spirits couldn’t pelt you with apple cores. At least, not so accurately.
Still. Someone was up there, hiding in the church tower, he was sure of that now, which made his current task all the more unpleasant. He had been sent to the abandoned apple orchard to pick a small sack of apples for a sick neighbour, even as the sun was setting.
He wasn’t going to tell his father that he was too afraid to go. His home wasn’t far away, though, and he was quick on his feet. He could outrun almost anyone who tried to catch him.
He kept telling himself this as he unlatched the creaky wooden churchyard gate and slowly swung it open. It made a very loud screech which Philip hadn’t noticed by day.
“Why is everything louder at dusk?” he asked himself, trying to seem casual. The sun was low in the western sky, sending a beautiful orange glow through the small