Andrew Davidson - The Gargoyle

It was Marianne Engel who first broached the subject. “I have only one statue left.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know which one it is?”

“Another grotesque, I suppose.”

“No,” she said. “It’s you.”

During the previous months my statue had stood, covered in a white sheet like the caricature of a ghost, in the corner of her workshop. At first I had been disappointed that she’d lost interest in it, but as she grew thinner I was thankful that I didn’t have to sit for her while she wasted away.

I only had to think for a moment before I volunteered to sit for her again. While I wished that she would give up this idea of a final statue altogether, at least I could keep an eye on her while she worked. There was also the advantage that, if my earlier sittings were any indication, she would proceed with my statue at a much more relaxed pace. I was not a frantic beast screaming to be pulled out from under an avalanche of time and stone; I would allow her all the time at my disposal, never rushing.

Curiosity compelled me to ask Marianne Engel whether, when we’d started the statue so many months previous, she’d already known that it would be her final work. Yes, she answered, she had known. So I asked further, why did she bother starting it at all, knowing that she would need to put it aside?

“It was part of your preparation,” she answered. “If it was already under way, I thought there would be less chance you’d refuse now. It looks like I was right.”

We started that very day. Being naked in front of her always made me feel awkward, but I felt less self-conscious now that she, too, was physically imperfect. While her unhealthy thinness was not yet a match for my injuries, it did at least bring us somewhat closer in misshapenness.

Work on my statue continued for about ten days, with about half of that time spent on the fine details. Often Marianne Engel would come to my chair to run her fingers over my body, as if trying to memorize my burnt topography so she could map it on the stone as accurately as possible. Her attention to every nuance was so intense that I had to comment on it; she replied that it was vitally important that the finished statue be found perfect, with nothing lacking.

Things went more or less as I hoped that they would. She never approached the intensity of her other carving sessions, usually working for less than an hour at a time despite the fact that I could sit as long as was necessary now that my pressure suit was gone. She seemed to be savoring this, her final work. She smoked less, and the lids on the jars of coffee crystals remained shut. She leaned close while working the stone, whispering into it with a voice too low for me to hear. I leaned forward, trying to catch what she was saying but I never quite could; it didn’t help that my hearing had been so damaged in the accident. I tried to draw out the truth with a casual comment. “I thought the rock talked to you, not the other way around.”

Marianne Engel looked up at me. “You’re funny.”

And so it went, until she stepped back after the inevitable last stroke of her chisel. For what seemed an eternity, she inspected my stony doppelgдnger before deciding that there was no longer any difference between him and me. Satisfied, she said, “I want to add the inscription in private.”

She worked until late in the night and, although my curiosity was almost overwhelming, I respected her request for privacy. When the final word was engraved, Marianne Engel came upstairs. Naturally, I asked if I could read what she’d carved.

“There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” she answered. “Right now, we’re going to go to the beach to celebrate.”

I liked the idea. The oceanside always relaxed her and it would be a good way to mark the occasion. So she packed me into the car and we soon found ourselves among the driftwood.

The waves beat rhythmically against the shore and her body was pressed wonderfully up against mine. Bougatsa bounded around happily, kicking up sand everywhere. Down the way, teenage boys drank their beers and tried to impress girls by acting like jerks.

“So,” I said. “What now?”

“The last part of our story. Which, in case you’ve forgotten, begins with you being burned by the condotta.”

Out. In. I concentrated on my breathing. Steady. Be simple. Aim. Be calm. I called my target. “Heart.”

I don’t know what I expected the arrow to look like as it flew away from me. I was surprised to find that my eye actually focused on the target at the end of the line, rather than on the arrow itself.

Despite the storm, my arrow flew as if guided by wire, never wavering. Everyone knows the story of the master archer who could split an arrow already lodged in the bull’s-eye. That was how my arrow entered your chest, in the same spot where you’d previously been pierced. The first time you’d been shot, the volume of Dante slowed the arrow enough to save your life and you were brought to me. This second arrow met no opposition, and you were taken from me.

Your head kicked back with the impact and your mouth popped open to push out a surprised final breath. Your chin bounced twice off your chest, before your head came to rest on your deflated body. You drooped from your pinned hands, and the wall of Brother Heinrich’s house continued to burn all around you. My arrow had spared you any further pain and, for this, through my tears, I thanked the Lord.

The mercenaries roared in confusion, and Kuonrat demanded to know who had been careless enough, or stupid enough, to fire a lethal shot against his strict orders. He was livid that one of his soldiers might have shown mercy.

I should have spent less time thanking God and more time escaping. An inspection of my arrow quickly revealed that it did not come from any of the soldiers’ bows, and the angle of the shaft showed that it had come from the top of the ridge. An arm went up, and the soldiers immediately began to advance in my direction. They couldn’t see me yet, but they knew where I was.

I dropped the crossbow, as I knew I’d never fire another shot. My horse was close, the ridge was slick, and the branches were thick enough to slow a man. As the soldiers slipped their way up the slope, I was able to unhook my horse and take off just ahead of their outstretched hands. I didn’t have much of a head start, but it would take them a few minutes to scramble back down the slope and mount their own horses. I had another advantage, as well. I knew the area from my youth, and the mercenaries did not. With the snowstorm raging, I thought I might even have a chance.

I should have known better. The horsemanship of every soldier was superior to my own, and their animals were better rested and better fed. I hadn’t been on the trail for more than a few minutes before they were hard upon me. I knew that if I stayed my course, they would catch me in moments. The path was coming to a fork, with one side leading to a safe trail and the other side to a sharp precipice overlooking the River Pegnitz. As a child I’d occasionally walked its edge, but only when I was feeling particularly reckless or wanted to test the idea that the Lord did have a purpose for me.

Desperate times call for desperate measures so, although I knew that it was too narrow for my horse by half, I chose the dangerous trail. The animal sensed the peril and I had to drive my heels into his flanks to coerce every step, chanting the same prayers that I’d always said as a girl. When the horse began to rear, I switched back to my harshest words to try to get a few more steps out of him. It wasn’t long before his hoof hit an icy root and we lurched awkwardly to the side.