The Gargoyle Overhead. Philippa Dowding

dead in his tracks and gasped.

      The ancient stone lion statue was broken! The lion’s left ear was broken off and lay jagged and smashed in the grass at its feet.

      Philip stared. The lion was the only statue in the village. It had stood in the middle of the churchyard for as long as anyone could remember, proud and fierce on its pedestal of stone. It wasn’t a large statue, but it was very regal.

      “Who would do this?” he wondered, dragging his shirt sleeve across his stinging eyes. He was sure the lion statue had not been broken the previous week when he and his father had last been there.

      He moved toward the broken piece of statue lying in the grass but stopped suddenly. Something had moved in the apple orchard just a few feet away. He stood stock still, barely breathing. His heart started knocking in his chest. He knew someone was behind him.

      “Who…” he cleared his dry throat, “who’s there?” he tried to shout. He wanted to sound brave and big, but unfortunately his voice chose that very moment to break. He sounded like a frightened child, which is exactly what he was.

      There was nothing but silence. Philip turned slowly, too afraid to run, and couldn’t believe his eyes.

      A basket overflowing with apples waited beside the orchard. He couldn’t tell why, but somehow he knew they were for him.

      He gripped his apple sack tightly and slowly app-roached the basket. He jumped across the little river, and in ten strides stood at the edge of the orchard with the overflowing apple basket at his feet. The sun was just about to dip behind the nearby hills for the night.

      Philip took a deep breath. “Who is here?” he asked quietly.

      Nothing moved, not a bird, not a branch, and even the tiny river seemed momentarily silent. So he took another deep breath, and asked again, slightly louder this time. “Who are you? You might as well come out. I know you’re here.”

      But nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.

      A small, squat creature with leathery wings stepped out from behind the tree at his feet and looked up into Philip’s face. Philip wasn’t absolutely sure, but there might have been tears in the creature’s eyes.

      “Hamithin sorken behem. Sorth belamont,” was what the creature said.

      But Philip heard it say in its strange whispery voice, “Do not be afraid. I am alone.”

      Gargoth’s Story, 1664

      Smoke Rings in the Orchard

      Philip stood completely still, barely daring to breathe. The sack for collecting apples had fallen, forgotten, from his hand into the grass. His face held a strange look of bewilderment and dawning comprehension.

      The creature was hunched at his feet, looking at the ground. Eventually Philip was sure the creature was crying, since he heard the plunk plunk of its tears hitting the earth and saw small columns of steam rise from where they fell.

      Philip clenched and unclenched his fists, under-standing now that he was in no immediate danger. He cleared his throat. “What is that language you speak? It is strange and whispery and not my tongue, I think, and yet I understand you.”