Gargoyle

They creep over the paws of all the gargoyles in the abbey, nice and quiet. When they scamper over her mane, it is warm and soft. They hide there against the cold. As they nestle under her belly, her paws move. The gargoyle pets their little heads, then goes still again as watchful eyes pass by. No one knows, but the mice.



Mice creep over the paws of all the gargoyles in the abbey, quiet and unseen. On those vaulted rooftops and alcoves near to heaven, who could watch but the bellringers? With the exception of evenings, weddings, funerals, holidays, and the great alarum of war, when some dragon must come to waken the great abbey bells, the domain of stone statues belongs to none but rodents. And how easy it is to keep secrets among the mice.

There is one gargoyle hewn from a swirling, barely-blue stone, draped with cobwebs and the discarded feathers of so many nesting birds gone by. When the mice scamper over this gargoyle’s mane, their tiny feet find much purchase. It is warm and soft, and gives way to nuzzling and nestling. When snow falls, the mice hide there against the cold. When the sun is too hot at midday, they stand under her arching belly, and they do not flee when her paws move. The gargoyle bends a wrist, flexes a toe, and pets their little heads with a soft paw pad. The mice know her secret, and their silence is paid for with love.

The bellringer ascends the steps behind them and gives a squint of scrutiny at the blue-grey gargoyle. Was her paw always raised? But she stands with perfect stillness, and there is work to be done. As the last peals of holy copper fade, the gargoyle’s paw stirs, caressing the velvet pelts of her little secret-keepers. Then her paw sets back down in its place upon the parapet, and the mice know. In time, she will move again.

Forty-two gargoyles line the roofs of the abbey. The mice do not tell that one is filled with breath and lifeblood. They do not linger on the statues without motion. Sometimes they watch the unblinking eyes of their warden and wonder why she sits and stares, why she guards the abbey and does not leave. Why she can move but chooses not to. But mice keep their secrets, and their gargoyle keeps hers. The bells of the abbey peal with gladness, and the gargoyle and her visitors do not speak. Metal booms baritone hymns in the morning air, and Gargoyle is not alone.