Andrew Davidson - The Gargoyle

“It’s fine,” she insisted. “People do it all the time, you know, in polar bear plunges.”

I had heard of such events-people jumping into the freezing ocean for a few minutes, usually for charity-and knew they were closely monitored by dozens of volunteers, not to mention doctors. Any one of a hundred participants could help to pull out a swimmer in trouble, but here, she would be alone.

“I love that you’re so worried about me,” she said, “but I’ve done it plenty of times before.”

“Yeah?” I challenged. “When? Where?”

“Finland. Often.”

Finland. “That doesn’t make it a good idea today.” We weren’t in Finland.

“You’re sweet. I’ll only stay in for a few minutes, and I won’t swim past where my feet can touch bottom.” Her clothes were now off, heaped in a pile on the beach, and I asked her one more time not to do it. “Only a few minutes. Not in deep water.”

I’M SURE IT’LL BE FINE.

“I really am touched by your concern,” she added, “but you needn’t be worried.”

She headed out into the ocean, calmly. The moon cast a splintered glow over the waves. She did not pause, nor shiver, nor splash, nor scoop up water to smooth over her stomach to acclimate to the cold. No, she just walked out until she was up to her chest and then leaned forward to slide THERE SHE GOESinto the water.

Down the beach, I heard some of the teenagers laughing about the fact that anyone was stupid enough to go swimming at this VERY COLDtime of year. I watched the small wake that formed behind her as she headed away from me, but parallel to the shore. At least she was keeping her promise not to head into deeper water. I followed her progress, hobbling along the shore to keep abreast, although I didn’t know what I could do if she encountered trouble in any case. SAY “BYE BYE.”Yell to the teenagers, I supposed; since my accident there was no chance that my body could handle the chill of a winter ocean.

She cut the surface smoothly; it was apparent that she was good at this and, despite her smoking, her body was strong from the physical labor of carving. Occasionally she would look towards the shore, towards me. I thought I saw her smile, but she was too far out for me to know for sure. I nervously clutched at my angel coin necklace until I saw her turn around and start back to where she had entered the water.

When she started returning to the shore-to my relief, only a few minutes after leaving it-she exited the water the same way that she went in. She did not rush out, or shake her body to dispel the wet. She just calmly emerged and walked to me, shivering from the night chill, although less than I would have imagined.

“Do you know what the best part of that swim was?”

“No.”

“Knowing that you were on the shore waiting for me.” She used a towel to squeeze the water from her hair-quite a job, I’ll tell you-before she put back on the clothes that I was anxiously thrusting at her, lit a cigarette, and said it was time to tell me more of our story.

Each time she paused, perhaps to add a bit of drama to the telling, I was worried it signaled the delayed onset of hypothermia.

Now that you had come out of the worst of it, your condition was improving every day. There was still much healing that lay ahead, but I no longer worried about you slipping away each time I left the room.

In the beginning, you said that you didn’t want to talk about your life. I was unsure if this was because you were ashamed of all your years as a mercenary, or if that final battle was simply too painful to remember. But since your life was not to be discussed, we talked about mine instead. You seemed fascinated by it, by me, which I couldn’t quite fathom. What could possibly be interesting about life in the monastery? But your eyes lit up when I told you about my scriptorium duties, and you excitedly asked for your clothes. I retrieved them from the cupboard where we’d stored them. Even though they were mostly in tatters, the nuns couldn’t bring themselves to throw out something that didn’t belong to them.

The arrow had cut through the breast of your habergeon and much of the material around it was burnt away, but I could feel something heavy and rectangular in the inside pocket. You pulled out this item, which was wrapped in cloth. The broken shaft was still embedded in its front, with the arrow’s tip just barely emerging from the back. You turned the object over in your hands a few times, amazed that this accidental shield had prevented the arrow from entering more deeply into your chest. After you pulled the arrowhead out, you pressed it into my palm and told me to do with it as I pleased.

I did not even have to think on the matter; I said instantly that I knew what I would do with it.

“And what is that?”

“I will return it to you,” I answered, “after I have asked Father Sunder to bless it. Then your chest can accept it as protection rather than an assault.”

“I look forward to that day,” you said as you handed over the parcel. “I got this from a dead man.”

I unwrapped it, revealing a hand-copied book with scorched edges that left charcoal on my fingertips. How, I wondered, could the book have remained undevoured by the flames?

I held it against your chest, and it lined up perfectly with your burns. The patch of unburnt skin was exactly where the book had been pinned to you by the arrow, and this also explained the small cut in the middle of that unburned rectangle.

I flipped through the book, noticing that the cut on the pages became smaller the deeper I went, and I asked you about the dead man. You answered, “We had two Italians in our ranks. One was killed in battle, a good man named Niccolo. The book was his.”

It was not uncommon for the condotta to hire foreigners, provided they had special skills. Your mercenary troop had taken on Italian bowmen and that is, in fact, how the troop began calling itself a condotta in the first place; it was the Italian word for mercenary troop, and the soldiers just liked the way it sounded.

The Italians were among the best crossbowmen you’d ever seen, and they worked well with you and Brandeis. You couldn’t speak much of their language, but both Benedetto-that was the other Italian-and Niccolo were able to struggle through in German, and during your years together, you came to respect each other as archers and as men. You trusted each other enough even to talk about the fact that you’d all grown weary of battle.

When Niccolo died, Benedetto decided that he’d had enough. Since he risked death every day on the battlefield, he might just as well risk it in an escape. The fear of being chased down by a team of trackers was finally outweighed by the fear of remaining. Rather than simply disappear without a word, Benedetto offered you and Brandeis the opportunity to join him.

You considered the idea, but in the end decided against it. Herwald might allow one foreigner to disappear, but if three crossbowmen vanished at the same time, the retribution would be inevitable and gruesome. But, more important, neither you nor Brandeis could make the same claim as Benedetto. The truth was that you were still more afraid of your own troop than of the enemy. Still, you both admired Benedetto and felt compelled to help him, partially out of friendship and partially for the vicarious thrill.

Benedetto felt it only proper to take whatever he could to Niccolo’s wife and two young boys in Firenze. “The sons should have something that belonged to their father when they grow up.” So, in the dark of night, the three of you laid out the dead man’s effects and went through them. There was a bag of coins, his clothing, his boots, a book, and his crossbow. Benedetto picked the coins, so that he could pass along these items of value to the wife, and the crossbow, which he thought would make a fitting gift for the sons of a warrior.