What Happened at The World’s Fair
The fairgrounds were alive with people from all over the world. They had come to see the greatest fair the world had ever known: The World’s Fair, New York City, 1939. It was the fair which promised to show everyone “The World of Tomorrow”.
A small boy held his father’s hand tightly as they worked their way through the throng of people. The boy wished he were back in his dark home, far above the city, and far from the press of people all around him. It was too bright and noisy for his liking. He adjusted his thick glasses (he had very poor vision) and held tighter to his father.
But they
had
seen some interesting things in the great buildings and in the huge sphere, called the Perisphere. There had been an exciting new invention called “television”, where they’d seen President Roosevelt say words and move around on a little grey screen. They had also seen Elecktro, a seven foot tall walking, talking robot, and a futuristic miniature replica of New York City.
But what the boy liked most were the statues, since they were quiet and still. They didn’t mock his rich clothes or laugh at his thick glasses like the children in school. He already had a small collection of statues at home: they were his only friends and didn’t talk back.
There were statues all over the fairgrounds, huge statues of gods and kings and mythical creatures, and the boy wanted one.
He tugged at his father’s sleeve. “Papa, I want a statue.” His father looked down at him, through his own thick glasses, and smiled.
“Another statue? What do you want this time?”
“I want a mifical creature.”
“You mean ‘mythical’, and I haven’t seen a pavilion selling statues. How about a replica of the Perisphere?” His father stopped and handed him a small white sphere from a table.
They were standing in front of a vendor’s stall. Like every other stall, or pavilion, or tent selling things, this vendor was selling small statues of the Perisphere and Trylon and Helicline—all replicas of exhibits at the Fair. The owner of the stall looked up and grinned.
“Yes, how about a Perisphere for the young man?” he said, winking at the boy. The boy scowled and looked away. He was used to getting whatever he wanted. His father was rich enough to buy him anything he ever asked for. He wasn’t about to settle for a small, insignificant trinket, sold to him by a man who might have been somebody’s servant.
“No,” he pouted. He pointed across the road to a large statue of a winged horse, standing high above the crowds. “I want that one.”
The boy’s father and the vendor both laughed. The boy’s pout grew darker.
“You can’t have that one. That’s a gift from the people of France, and it’s made of marble. Even I couldn’t buy you that statue. Pick something smaller.”
The boy stomped his foot. “NO! I WANT THAT ONE!” he screamed. He did not like being laughed at, and he did not like not getting his own way.
His father knelt down, his expensive coat mixing with the mud of the fairgrounds and with a worried look tried to calm the boy. “Son, I can’t buy you that one…surely you can understand that?”
“NO! I DON’T! I WANT IT!” the boy screamed even louder, turning purple in the face. He was making so much noise that a crowd was beginning to gather, staring and laughing at the small boy having a tantrum.
The father stood up abruptly and shouted at the vendor. “What else do you have that my son might like?”
The shocked vendor shook his head and shrugged. “Nothing. I only sell these Perispheres. Sorry, mister.” But there was something in the man’s look that made the rich man draw closer. He drew his face up to the vendor’s, all the while holding his squalling son’s sweaty palm.
“What’s that, then?” he asked angrily, pointing his free hand at a partly covered cage at the back of the vendor’s stall. The vendor moved quickly to cover the cage completely, but it was too late: the rich man had seen it and sensed it was something of worth.
“What do you have in that cage there?” he demanded.
“Nothing. Really, it’s nothing you’d be interested in, believe me,” the vendor answered, sounding desperate.
“You’re going to show me what’s in that cage. Do you have any idea who I am? I’m one of the richest men in New York City, I could buy you and your whole family. Show me the cage…”
The vendor sighed and slowly pulled the cloth off the cage, closing the cage door with a click and turning a large, shiny key inside the lock. He held the cage up to the man and the boy.
“See, it’s nothing. Just a gargoyle statue, and a small one at that. Nothing that a rich man like you would be interested in.”
The man looked with disgust at the statue in the cage and snorted his contempt. But the boy dropped his father’s hand and drew closer. He stuck his finger in the cage and poked at the statue.
“Why is it in this cage?” the boy demanded after a few moments.
“I do a lot of travelling. It’s fragile, I don’t want it to break. It’s safest in there,” the vendor answered quickly.
“You’re lying. It’s special…” The boy picked up the cage and shook it. The statue rattled around inside.
The vendor drew in his breath but said nothing.
As the boy continued to shake and rattle the cage and poke at the statue inside, the rich man pulled the vendor to one side and whispered, “Look, my son is rude, I know, but he has just lost his mother. He has a fondness for statues, he is collecting them, it is the only thing that makes him happy. What are the cage and the gargoyle statue worth? I will pay you two times what you ask…” The rich man drew out his wallet and looked beseechingly at the vendor.
“He’s…it’s not really for sale,” the vendor stammered. “It’s just a worthless keepsake, of sentimental value only to me…it’s worthless to anyone else, really…”
Suddenly a scream filled the air. “IT BIT ME!”
The father ran to his son’s side. The boy was sucking his finger, tears shining on his face, clasping the cage to his chest.
“What do you mean, it bit you? It’s a lump of clay…” The father looked up at the vendor, suddenly furious at the man.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded of the sales-man. “I’ll sue you! I’ll ruin you! What kind of a thing is this? It hurt my son! It should be destroyed!”
But he was very surprised to see the man collapse into a puddle of tears and hear his son’s now-quiet voice say, “It’s okay, Papa. I want it. Make the man give it to me. I want to take it home…”
“Fine then,” the rich man said, swooping down on his son and swirling away from the vendor and his tiny stall. He threw some bills into the man’s face and shouted over his shoulder. “We’re taking the cage and the statue, and you’re not going to stop us. You’re lucky I don’t have you arrested…”
And with that, the boy and his father melted back into the crowd, the vendor watching them go.
“Goodbye, Gargoth,” he whispered sadly, tears in his eyes.
The boy had what he wanted and clutched the cage, happy now, oblivious to the vendor’s sadness or the little gargoyle weeping inside.
It will be years before the boy lets Gargoth out of the cage, even for a moment. And it will be longer still, seventy years or more, before Gargoth sees a friendly face again.
Ball-on-a-foot
It was a clear night in Toronto. Cassandra was watching Katherine play soccer. Katherine’s team was playing against a team of tall girls, and her team was losing 3-0. It wasn’t a great game.
At Cassandra’s feet was a sturdy yellow canvas backpack. If you looked closely, you might notice two dark holes cut into the cloth, but you probably wouldn’t look that closely. It was just an old backpack, after all. Certainly, no one had ever noticed the holes or commented on them. Occasionally they might think they heard an odd sound coming from it, something like a whispery breeze or a sneeze or cough, but then they dismissed it. It was awfully loud sitting on the sidelines of a soccer game, and it was hard to tell where noises came from, exactly.
Of course it was Gargoth inside, calling out encour-agement (or more often saying something rude to the opposite team). Thankfully no one understood him, and when Gargoth became too loud or outrageous, Cassandra would gently pat the backpack, reminding him to be quiet.
It worked perfectly. No one knew Gargoth was there.
Everyone was cheerful (despite the losing score), and people were chatting and commenting on the game, but if you looked closely (if you were the type to look closely enough to notice holes cut into a backpack, for instance), you might notice an old man sitting off by himself all alone, watching the game. He wore thick glasses, a white straw hat and a big baggy brown jacket which didn’t fit with the hot weather. Most of the time he stared straight ahead, but sometimes he would suddenly stare up into the night sky, as though he was expecting rain, which was odd, since it was a perfectly clear evening.
And once in a while he turned to look over at Cassandra Daye. Or really, at the yellow canvas backpack at her feet.
If you looked even more closely, say with a telescope or binoculars (not completely unheard of at a soccer game), you might notice a tiny winged creature circling high, high above the soccer field, then flying slowly off into the night.
Ambergine:
In Toronto with the Dwarves
Ambergine flew, clumsily perhaps, but she flew…
She was circling slowly, high above the city, searching for anywhere a gargoyle would want to hide. She had visited the Golden Nautilus store the night before but found nothing. No gargoyles at all. Plenty of odd statues and frightening masks and candles and incense. But no gargoyles.
Her hiding place for the past few days had been a large round park with a giant statue of a poet in it. She curled up beside the poet’s head each day, perfectly hidden.
This night, she was flying over a neighbourhood west of the university with many small backyards. She had just flown over a large field full of girl children running after a strange black and white ball. She had seen this odd human game played many times in her life, but it didn’t really interest her, so she left.
She flew lower, just skimming the tops of the trees. As she flew, she heard a quiet trickling coming from one backyard. Water. She decided to investigate and flew lower, hovering just above the yard. The house was dark, so the people were out. She settled on the backyard fence.
What a backyard! It was full of glorious flowers and statues. The trickling was coming from a unicorn fountain; water was pouring from its long, curly horn into a small pool at the unicorn’s feet. She hopped off the fence and waddled toward the unicorn. She could use a drink.
She opened the little pouch at her side and pulled out a small jug, which she filled with water. She drank long, then wiped her mouth with her claw and looked around.
There were statues everywhere. Three dwarf statues (on closer inspection, she found one had a badly broken nose recently fixed), a cherub with little wings, and a beautiful apple tree strangely bearing fruit in the middle of the summer. She flew heavily to a bough in the tree and decided to help herself. She picked a few apples and breathed in their scent, which was heavenly. She placed them in the pouch at her side for later.
As she picked another apple and took an enormous bite, she noticed something odd. There was an empty stone pedestal beside the back fence. There was also a bench beside it, just as though friends sat and talked there all the time.
Ambergine flew over for a closer look and stopped dead.
A calico cat was eyeing her from the bushes near the empty pedestal. Ambergine didn’t particularly like cats, nor, in her experience, did cats particularly like her. Most of the time they ran away from her. Occasionally, a very brave cat might stand its ground and spit at her.
But this cat did neither of these things. Instead, the cat walked over to Ambergine and rubbed itself against her legs.
“Well, you
are
an odd creature,” said Ambergine surprised, reaching down and stroking the cat’s head with her claw. “Aren’t you supposed to be afraid of me?”
But this cat was not afraid. In fact, when Ambergine hopped up onto the pedestal, the cat jumped up and sat in her lap. Ambergine was oddly comforted by the little cat purring in her lap. She stroked the cat’s fur for a while, quite comfortable.
But suddenly the cat jumped down. The neighbour’s back door opened, and a man’s voice called, “Milly! Milly kitty! Time to come in! C’mere, kitty!”
The little cat looked back up at Ambergine, whisked its tail, then trotted off to be let into the neighbour’s house.
“How strange,” Ambergine thought. But that wasn’t all that seemed strange to her. It was beginning to dawn on her that this yard was special. There was something familiar and comforting about it.
This yard had water, apples, an empty pedestal and a cat which wasn’t afraid of her.
It would make a perfect place for a gargoyle to live.
Just then a loud noise in the alley startled her. A man’s voice cursed in the dark.
Ambergine streaked to the top of the apple tree. A man with a white straw hat, a big baggy jacket and thick glasses stood by the back fence, peering into the yard. He looked up at her in the tree.
Ambergine shrieked and took off into the night. She flew as far and as fast as she could. She didn’t stop flying for hours, and when she finally collapsed from exhaustion on the roof of a tiny library, she had no idea where she was.
Life is unfair sometimes. If she had flown just a few rooftops further, she would have come across one hundred and forty-eight orange-scented pumpkin candles burning low, late into the night.
Gargoth and Cassandra
The week with Cassandra went very slowly for Gargoth. He lay about on the rooftop of the store, being as polite as he could, drinking the lemonade and eating the apples which his kind host left out for him night after night. The only time he had spent with Katherine was the night before when they had gone to her soccer game.
Each evening, Cassandra and Gargoth would light the beacon together, then they would sit silently while Cassandra worked on her knitting and Gargoth smoked his pipe and stared into the sky. Eventually Gargoth would get up and blow out the candles, and Cassandra would say goodnight then descend the stairs to her apartment at the back of the store.
But it was odd without Katherine there. She was away all day, only to come home too late and tired to do anything but eat and go straight to bed. He had no way to communicate with Cassandra, and he found her great height and clumsiness oddly upsetting. One night, he heard a great crash below him and hurried down the steep stairs to see what had happened. He was in such a hurry that he tumbled down the last few stairs and landed heavily on his back. He grunted and struggled to right himself, only to find Cassandra fussing over him, completely unhurt herself. She had dropped something and had come to no harm. Gargoth was the one who was hurt.
So he remained steadfastly on the roof after that, no matter what noises came from down below. Cassandra had put a small tent on the roof for him to sleep in. She called it a “pup tent”, which made him feel uncomfortably like a dog, but he didn’t complain. It was dry and cozy enough with his cushion in there to sleep on.
In the daytime, people would come and go in the store below, announcing themselves with a little tinkle of the doorbell as they entered. Cassandra would see to them, sell them a scented candle or a crystal ball or a book about something called “yoga”, then a little while later they would let themselves out the door, which would tinkle again. Gargoth got used to the comings and goings down below him and ignored most of what happened there.
Near the end of their week together, however, Gargoth was lying on his cushion, not paying much attention to the shop below, when he heard the sound of angry voices. He sat up and listened carefully.
A man’s voice was raised loudly. “I know that you have something of mine. You ought to give it back. You are stealing from me! It’s my property!”
Cassandra’s voice shot back, “I have no idea what you are talking about. We don’t have any here, can’t you see? Now you should really leave, or I’ll phone the police!” Gargoth couldn’t see her, but he felt sure that Cassandra was standing at her full height, over six feet, and looking very fierce.
For a moment Gargoth was filled with gratitude for Cassandra. He had no idea what was going on, but he was very happy that she was courageous and strong. He heard the bell over the door tinkle furiously, and a second later the door slammed hard. The man had left. He heard Cassandra walk across the store and lock the door.
Gargoth descended a few steps and peered over the edge of the stairway to the shop below. Cassandra was standing beneath him, clutching the store counter with one hand, pushing her curly red hair back from her face with the other. She looked very flustered.
“Cassandra?” Gargoth said.
Cassandra looked up at the sound of his whispery voice. “Oh, Gargoth. Did you hear that?” She waved her hand toward the door.
He nodded.
“Oh.” She thought for a minute. “Gargoth, you can understand me, correct?”
He nodded again, more slowly this time.
“Okay. Can you nod or shake your head for me, yes or no?”
Another nod.
“Is someone looking for you?”
A shrug.
“Okay, then, let me be more exact. Is it
possible
that someone is looking for you?”
Gargoth looked at his scaly feet for a moment and shrugged again. But he also slowly nodded.
“Would it be an old man?”
A faint nod.
“Does he wear a white straw hat, a big baggy brown jacket and thick glasses?” Cassandra said this with a chill in her voice, but she was silenced by Gargoth’s response.
The little gargoyle started making a terrible noise, which could not be mistaken as anything but a heart-broken howl. Cassandra ran up the stairs and stood over him, unsure what to do.
Gargoth was shrieking and sobbing with terror, his entire body curled in fear. Cassandra sat on the stair beside him with a very worried look on her face. Gargoth turned and suddenly buried his little face in her shoulder, scalding her with hot gargoyle tears. She held him tightly while he wept.
It didn’t matter whether they understood each other or not; anyone watching would have seen one friend deeply upset, and the other friend doing her best to comfort him.