Avram Davidson - The Phoenix and the Mirror

If Clemens had any notion of this, Vergil did not know. But some mild stirrings of reproach kept him from refusing the one favor on which his friend insisted.

“I am sending my gargoyle with you,” the great-bearded, shag-pate savant had said. “It is a sacrifice, I must admit that, but I will be safer here without him than you would be. Up, Kiss the Magus’ hand. Guard him in all things, obey him in everything. Vergil, may the Fair White Matron and her consort, the Ruddy Man, both shine favorably upon you. If you meet any in Cyprus who are skilled in the Spagyritic Art, inquire concerning antimony. I, in return, will oversee the work of preparation for the making of the maiden mirror. Since there will thus be no time for me to engage in any major work of my own, I will pass the few hours available to me, lightly — my editing of Catullus, my Galenical studies; and my transposition into current modes of music of the ancients.… Up, Gunther! Up!

The gargoyle had lumbered onto his hind legs and, with a slaver and a slobber, kissed Vergil’s hand, then sank with a grunt to his common posture, and mumbled the ruins of a blood orange — his favorite tid-bit. It was long since that Clemens, returning from a consultation with the Druids of Transalpine Gaul, had come upon a rachitic mountain hamlet where he was obliged to spend the night. The place was in some degree of excitement — a party of hunters, out after wild goat, had met with a horde of gargoyles on a windswept plateau. The creatures fled incontinently, leaving behind one sickly whelp, which was captured without difficulty. The horde father, following at a distance, growling and lowing and making fierce gestures, was at length dissuaded by a shower of stones from further pursuit. Clemens had gotten the whelp for half a ducat and a flitch of bacon; and, by means of infusion prepared from the humors of bullocks, effected a cure.

Gargoyles proverbially seldom lived long in captivity, but Gunther was now in his second decade with Clemens. Great tongue lolling far out, bat ears either a-prick or a-flap, tushes sharp and given to clashing noisily, as near to no neck as made no matter, back covered with broad shoulders and forepaws (on the back of which he walked), short hind legs bowed, the talons on their spatulate feet clicking and clacking as he sloped along, casting suspicious glances from side to side, Gunther was worth a cohort in protection by his looks alone.

Vergil made the voyage on the Messina carrack without molestation, arriving there a day before the rendezvous. He had acquaintance and other claims to hospitality there, to say nothing of what he might demand by reason of his letters of state. It seemed, however, easier all around to stay at the Great Serail, widely known as the finest inn in Sicily. The table was excellent, the gardens beautiful, the chamber well appointed and comfortably furnished and clean. He had had a curious dream that night, of a marble slab sinking back into the wall, and a hand coming out, of Gunther rising ponderously from beside the foot of the bed, shutting out his view. Everything was, of course, in perfect order the next morning when, first warm water, then breakfast, was brought in. Aware of some minor annoyance, however, Vergil, frowning, had looked all about before realizing what it was: a noise which Gunther had been making.

The gargoyle sat on the floor contentedly enough, chewing and sucking something. He glowered when his surrogate master demanded it, but finally and reluctantly spat it into his hand that Vergil held out.

It was a human finger.

Vergil finished his own breakfast rather thoughtfully. All in all, Gunther, though certainly useful on occasion, had better go; and go he did, on the Naples carrack, supplied with a hamper of blood oranges, which he crunched and swallowed, skins, pips, and all.

As agreed, Vergil had taken to water from Messina’s Tartis Port, a small boat carrying him and his gear so far to sea that the City of the straits became a mere blur. The scent of oranges grew fainter, and a touch of a hot, dry wind passed over his face.

“The Saracen wind,” the Tartisman coxswain said, observing the effect on his passenger. “It blows from Lybya. It blows no good.” And would say no more, but only shrugged.

Presently a dark patch showed against the sea. Vergil thought it was An-Thon’s ship, but it was merely his boat — a tiny thing, no bigger than a scull, with scarcely room for two; the other being, to his surprise, the black man, Boncar. The Tartismen turned about with no word of parting, Boncar smiled his welcome, and the little craft skimmed along the sea. like a fish in search of sprats. The Red Man’s vessel waited on them in the lee side of a tiny island which was all rock and offered only concealment.

“Greetings, patron,” said the Phoenician, directing, with a gesture, the lading aboard of the scant baggage. “You left your lion ashore, I see.”

“My lion?”

“Rumor credits you with having embarked from Neapolis with a creature variously described as a lion, a gryphon, or a mandrilla.”

“Rumor, I fear, is scarcely as accurate as he is rapid. No, Captain, the creature was my friend Clemens’ tamed gargoyle. I sent him back to his master, thinking that the longer sea trip might not agree with him. You have a new bosun, Captain.”

“Yes. The old one unwisely chose to dispute possession of a wench with someone younger, stronger, and more agile. Boncar, meanwhile, had become bored with ferrying sacks of wheat. Thus do the workings of the Major Principles arrange all things in ultimate order. You may have my cabin, I prefer to sleep on deck. In good weather it is pleasant and in bad I dare not stay long below anyway.”

The bird prow lifted oars, dipped its nose into the sea, and was off. The Straits were unusually quiet, for which all were thankful, and a loaf of bread was thrown over for the Prince of the Sea — one of his emissaries, a dolphin, appearing at once to claim it. A small sea monster broke water some leagues off, once, but made no attempt to break the sacred peace, merely staring at them with its great moon eyes before diving again. The waters were the color of lapis lazuli; in the distance rose mountains of a smoky blue-gray; the nigh shore was a dim green, and the off shore — far, far across the white wave seas — lay dun and gaunt. Clouds paced across the Heavens like giants’ sheep, newly washed and fleeces combed; their dark twins and double-goers grazed upon the seas beneath. Here and there from time to time a flash of lime-whitened houses and thin plumes or clouds of smoke marked the settlements of mortal men

who must till the soil for bread, or perish.

Once the Tyrian lifted his red hand and pointed toward the crag shore. “In that cave, patron, do you see… ?” Vergil, carefully following the long finger, saw on the drab escarpment a black speck which might have been the mouth of a cave; he nodded. “In that cave dwells a puissant guardian, the Cherub Dys, upon my life! When voyagers over the sea, being of good intent, such as lawful trade and traffic, are beset by that cruel fey which haunts the shores of that sharp rock — do you see, patron? there — so Dys, with his flaming sword, sallies forth and saves them. But if they are of bad intent, bent on war or plunder, or fleeing from the just wrath of the All-Maker, the Cherub does not help them. No, if any are able to escape the shade or djinn or daemon which dwells on Sekilla — meaning, in my language, the Rock — then Cherub Dys assails them, too, and serve them right, say I.”

Vergil listened, vaguely aware that the Red Man’s tones and words now seemed, as he half-said, half-sang, these legends of his kith, far different from the manner in which not long ago he had spoken crisply enough of cargoes and charters, of fees, and demurrages. He realized, rather less vaguely, how little he knew about the man, his wishes, his concerns, and his brooding desires.