“. . . Can’t do that,” mumbled Christine, following the others into Hannock Park.
When they reached the middle of the park they made the gargoyle take off its coat and stand between the other statues.
“You can spot it a mile off,” Christine said unhelpfully, and it was true. Even in the darkness the squat and ugly figure stood out like a sore thumb.
Suddenly Christine was struck by something which had been nagging at the back of her mind all night. There was something odd about the monster, something lacking. It was different from how it had looked when they first saw it on the church tower. What was missing?
“Beverley,” she said suddenly. “Where are its wings?”
“I don’t know,” said Beverley uncertainly. She stood rooted to the spot, deep in thought. “Here, Christine,” she said with dawning excitement. “The gargoyle—it came to your house about twenty minutes after it went dark!”
“Did it?” said Christine, puzzled.
“Yes, so Christine—it couldn’t have walked! Not even the gargoyle could walk fifty miles in twenty minutes! Well don’t you see?” Beverley’s eyes were bright now, “It must have flown!”
“Oh,” said Christine.
“Well that’s it!” shouted Beverley. “You don’t tell it to go home, you say—Gargoyle! Fly home!”
There was a noise like the grinding of stones. Out of the gargoyle’s humped back spread the two black, jagged stone wings that had been folded there. It rolled its marble eyes. The wings beat the air once, twice, fanning a breeze that the two girls could feel where they stood.
The gargoyle nodded farewell to Beverley, flickering its tongue like lightning in and out of its mouth. Then it stretched up its arms, beat the air again with its huge wings and suddenly soared upwards, dwindled to a dot in the sky and finally vanished altogether among the black clouds.
“It’s gone,” said Beverley, with a curious note of sadness in her voice. “It’s gone back.”
Christine ran over the grass and picked up her grandmother’s coat and umbrella where the gargoyle had left them. “Yes, and it’s taken my Gran’s rainhat with it,” she said crossly. “Oh well, never mind. Come on Beverley, let’s get home before Mum finds out.”
When Mrs. Lee came back, the house was tidy and everything appeared to be in order. Kevin was fast asleep in his cot and the girls were in bed. Only Beverley was awake, and she opened her eyes as Mrs. Lee tiptoed into the bedroom.
“Everything all right?” she whispered to Beverley. “Do you want the light left on? No? That’s a sensible girl. There’s nothing to be afraid of in the dark, is there? Goodnight, Beverley.”
“Goodnight, Mrs. Lee.” As Beverley dropped into a deep sleep she thought that if Mrs. Lee knew what had happened that night, she might change her mind about that last remark, but naturally she didn’t tell her.
The girls never told anyone.
By the time Christine’s grandmother discovered the torn lining of her coat, she did not connect it with the night she had gone away to visit her relation. By the time Kevin grew old enough to talk, he thought the whole thing must have been a dream. By the time Mrs. Lee noticed that the dog’s bowl and two glasses had vanished, Beverley Riley had replaced them.
When the Vicar of Church Milton realised that someone had decorated the ancient gargoyle on the tower with a lady’s rainhat, he blamed it on the students of a nearby university playing pranks.
Long afterwards, Beverley and Christine wondered why the spell had taken effect.
“It probably would have worked whoever said the charm,” Christine suggested, but Beverley was inclined to believe that accidentally letting a drop of her blood fall on the gargoyle at the crucial point in the charm had really done the trick.
“One thing’s for sure,” she said. “We’re never going to try it again, to find out!”
Decorating the ancient tower of a country church there squats a heavy, ugly statue, its chin resting on its hand and its great black wings spreading from its huge shoulders. It stares over the fields and the rolling hills with its marble eyes, as it has stared for ages past, as it will stare forever unless it is again awoken by a certain magic charm.
The remains of a lady’s hat flutter about its stone head, and perhaps its carved grin is a little wider now than when the craftsman fashioned it, all those centuries ago.
THE STORY OF GIANT DUMPLING AND HOW HE BECAME A HERO
By John Cunliffe
There was once a place called Honeytown. It was in a wide valley, full of sunshine and the scent of flowers and the drowsy hum of bees. All round the town, as far as you could see, the land was covered with orchards and gardens and rich farms. Hundreds of bee-hives stood under the fruit trees, and Honeytown was famous for its honey-market. You could not find a pleasanter spot in all the world. Visitors thought it strange to find a giant living in such a place, but there had been a giant in Honeytown as long as anyone could remember. Old Gaskin was a hundred years old, and he could remember the giant being there when he was a boy at school, and his grandfather knew the giant when he was a boy. No one could miss seeing the giant’s home; it was an enormous cavern on the edge of the town with a wide road leading to it. Everyone called him Giant Dumpling, because he was so fat and so round, and everyone was fond of him because he was a good and kind giant. He would do anything to help the people of Honeytown. He would stamp down the earth for new roads, move trees when they needed replanting, dig foundations for new houses; nothing was too much trouble. In return, the people gave him barrels of honey, which he loved more than anything else, and which made him so fat. Giant Dumpling even said that if the people of Honeytown ever had enemies, he would fight them and drive them away.
Honeytown lived in peace for many, many years, for, as Old Gaskin often said,
“Who would dare to attack a town with a giant living in it? Nobody in his senses would do such a thing. Giant Dumpling would soon scare them away.”
“What about those people the other side of Moss River?” his young grandson, Peter, would ask.
“The Mosslanders?” Old Gaskin would growl. “They’d never dare trouble us. Our honey-sellers visit Mossland, and they spread stories about how fierce Giant Dumpling is, to frighten the Mosslanders, strange folks that they are.”
“But Giant Dumpling isn’t fierce,” Peter would protest, “he’s good and gentle. He plays with the children, and gets fat eating honey. I believe he’s too fat to run, let alone fight.”
“Hush, boy! Hush, boy!” Old Gaskin would say then, and send Peter out to gather peaches.
The years went by; years of peace and good living for Honeytown; years of hardship and thin living for the Mosslanders. Giant Dumpling grew fatter and rounder with each year that passed, and Peter Gaskin worried still about their giant’s real usefulness for keeping enemies away if it should ever come to a real battle. Peter grew to be a man, to have his own fruit-farm and keep his own bees. One day in autumn, he was busy about the farm when a Mosslander came to buy honey. He was a dark-browed fellow, big and strong, though haggard and hungry looking, called Guntrop Gilliform. He stood in the farmyard with his two-horse waggon, frowning at Peter Gaskin. The barrels of honey were loaded on to the waggon, and tied down securely. Now Peter waited for Guntrop to pay him, but Guntrop did not get out his purse, he just stood glaring at Peter as though he hated him.
“We’ve had a terrible harvest in Mossland, terrible,” said Guntrop, looking as though he thought it was Peter’s fault. “We’re going to starve this winter, in Mossland.”
“I’m truly sorry to hear it,” said Peter. “There have been rumours . . .”