The Veil by Nancy Brown Copyright 1998 PG As usual, Buena Vista owns the toys. Certain characters, who should be obvious, are the creations and sole properties of The Gargoyles Saga, used here without permission. This little mood piece was inspired by the holiday, and by an interesting discussion in Astronomy class. A merry Samhain to all, and to all a good night. Light was already peeping at the horizon as she made her final descent to the castle, then touched down roughly on the topmost tower. An early rising sea-bird was startled from its perch on Goliath's shoulder, and went squawking off the cliff towards the safety of the waves. She ignored it, setting down her clumsy bundle and twisting her arms to relieve the crick she'd developed from carrying it so far. "Hello, my love," she whispered to his statue, placing a kiss on the brow as she did each time she visited this place. She sat beside him, brushed the ivy from his face. "I've missed you. "I know I haven't been to see you for some time, but you can't imagine where I've been. Across the sea, there's a new land discovered not long ago. I went on a ship in search of more of our kind. I found humans, as fearful there as they are here, but only a single gargoyle clan. I stayed with them for a while. You would have liked their leader. He reminded me very much of you." She continued to talk to him, telling him of the gargoyles in the New World, how they had tried to live in peace with the humans, how they had been slaughtered when some of the humans took ill and died, how she had revenged their deaths with blood. She did not weep as she spoke, having spent her tears on the voyage back to England, the journey here. She had to tell him everything that had transpired since her last visit, perhaps gain his understanding, at least in her own thoughts. She was still speaking when the sun rose, and trapped her with its blessed oblivion. *** The itchy burn that preceded wakefulness skittered over her skin, and she flexed, casting the stone shards off her body to land in the courtyard below them. Six hundred years gone, and yet she turned to him, expecting him to rise up, shatter the stone around him, and sweep her into a long-delayed embrace. Instead, he kneeled as he had these past few centuries, staring into nothing, and her heart ached anew. She went to the bundle she had set aside the night before and unwrapped the burlap, revealing a silver disc the size of her hand, a bit of chalk she'd scavenged, a tiny silver bell, several dried stalks of grass tied with twine, and a smaller cloth package, pure white. She opened the smaller bundle, being careful not to spill any of the seeds within it. The fine satin slipped over her fingers like water. She inspected the chalk. There wasn't much. It would have to do. Making certain the provisions were secure, she went into the castle proper. Shadows leered at her as the moon flickered behind clouds, poking in the gaunt windows. Chilled by the night air more than the threat of unrestful spirits, she boldly made her way into the interior, into the princess-bitch's precious dining hall. Her tail brushed against something promising: a cup, cracked and abandoned on the floor. She retrieved it and went back to the tower, refusing to acknowledge the relief which accompanied her retreat. The courtyard was a mess. What had not been looted lay strewn by time and circumstance in an obscene jumble on the ground. Ignoring the rotted weaponry, she carefully picked the poor, broken pieces of stone that had once been her clan, and placed them in a loving pile at the center of the courtyard. There was no way to get them all, but she made a good pass, recognizing this wing, that face, even after all this time. Not one was chipped further as she placed them. The moon was high in the sky as she set the cup, filled with seawater, about ten paces due West of the pile. The seeds were poured onto the flagstones at the same distance due North. She rang the bell at East. At South, she had some difficulty getting the stalks of grass alight, but soon they crackled into quick, hot death. Sweet smoke curled through the courtyard, sending fingers of scent around the stones at the very center. As she drew the chalk circle, starting and ending at West, she recited the names and calling of the wards in her mind, inviting Those who guarded the quarters to come in whatever form They chose to watch over her work tonight. Late insects, attracted by the burning grass, hovered in a soft, whirring cloud near the South, but did not enter the chalk circle. If she looked carefully, she could see the glow around the circle, could even sense the absence of that glow at the Quarters, and knew the Faceless Ones were at hand, cloaked in a mystery she would never know. Before she started the next phase, she willed herself to relax. This spell had no guarantees from this point onward. She had seen something similar in the rites of the New World gargoyles, had heard whispers of it even in her tutelage under the Archmage. The Grimorum had not been seen in centuries, but other magic books she had held in her fingers also had touched on this spell and its like. She had drafted the form of it from her studies of these, and the knowledge she'd gained from the witch-women in the hills in exchange for their lives. The true test would come in the hours before daybreak. It had to be right. Tonight was the night, the old New Year celebrated by Oberon and his kind that had once been celebrated by the humans as well, the traditional night when the walls between their world and the next grew thin --- thin enough to cross, if one knew the way. Demona had been raised to believe that the darkest night of the year marked its closing, whatever the thoughts of the Second and Third Race on the matter, but she had also been taught by the Archmage that belief was magic, too. She could believe that the veil grew thin at this time of year, especially in this place of death. Had she not spent nights here during her long loneliness, hearing voices on the wind? And if she had one chance at capturing those voices, even for one night, did she not have to seize that chance? The shield hummed with life. The insects had been drawn to the glow of the chalk line, batted ineffectually against the barrier between outside the circle and within. She took the mirror, set it face-up atop the pile of stones. It reflected the moon's bright face back into the sky, but was stopped at the edge of the hemisphere that was the top of the shield. Demona picked up the cloth which had held the seeds, raised it above her head. She formed in her mind an image, a shimmery veil before her of vermillion and gold and ivory. Across its dancing depths, she saw the beloved faces of those whose bodies lay crumbled in the courtyard. They all watched her silently. Demona ripped the satin in two. The veil in her mind ripped apart. She opened her eyes. Two dozen ghostly apparitions crowded within the ring: old friends, rookery parents, even the poor slain hatchlings, all taking substance from the diffused and reflected moonlight streaming from the mirror. As if a moment had been stolen from their lives, they stood frozen in the acts of speaking, walking, loving. "Live," she breathed. The moment shivered, and the figures took life. Very dimly, she heard voices, as one of her rookery fathers, a kindly old blusterer, started regaling two hatchlings with a story. Two of her rookery brothers stood to one side, one a handsome fellow with little imagination, the other with a twisted horn and a sharp mind. Two hatchlings played at keep-away from a third. When one gargoyle went to bump into another, the two moved through each other. All avoided the barrier, although not blatantly. Their walks, or games, merely shifted position so as to stay away from it naturally. Demona sat at West, her knees huddled against her, and watched. "In my day ... " "I really don't see the point of all these patrols." "The Prince would like tae speak wi' ya." "Your turn in the middle!" " ... and the Dragon said, 'Fee Fi Fo Fum!'" The scene flickered. The same gargoyles were in the circle, but in different places. Her rookery brothers were hatchlings, oblivious to the other hatchlings. Her rookery parents seemed no older than gawky adolescents. The conversations shifted, blended into one another. "Aye, she's a bonny thing." "Would the Second mind if we joined th' party?" "I don't know what she sees in him." Another flicker, and her rookery brothers were as old as she had been on that terrible night. The hatchlings played a different game, with ghostly wooden swords and shields. And so it went, for minutes, perhaps hours, even nights. Demona could not guess at the time in the circle. The captured echoes of the spirits changed in time to an unknown heartbeat, while the moon seemed to stay overhead for an eternity. She searched each new face, finding only reflections of the old. His shattered form was not among the stones, and his face was not worn by the ghosts. The disappointment tasted familiar on her tongue. Instead, she watched her rookery siblings, and felt the old pain. "What did the Prince say?" "You've always been a good friend to me, but he is the one I love." "I wish ... " When the moon slipped from its throne in the heavens, the light diffused more, became less distinct. The figures faded into mere wisps of being, their voices growing more distant as she strained to hear them: "That's a good lad." "Here, you can help." "My love!" This last was directed at the male with the twisted horn. He looked up from his conversation to see one of her rookery sisters walking across the circle to him, her golden wings practically transparent. As the pair touched wings, they vanished into the night. She heard a peal as a hatchling laughed, and then all was still. Slowly, she got to her feet. Automatically, she released the wards, sent the Watchers off with mumbled thanks, was too numb to sense their passing. The shield relaxed into nothing. The insects hummed into the circle, but finding no light there, dispersed. She left the circle, left the stones, left the offerings and the wasted satin veil. The next rainfall would wash away most traces from the eyes of the curious, and the snow would move the stones. Taking only the silver disc, she climbed the topmost tower one last time. Still he had not moved. "Happy Halloween," she said to him, knowing he could not hear her in his long sleep, nor feel the tender brush of claw to forehead. She went to the edge of the tower. The sea grumbled in the thin moonlight. She drew her arm back and cast the silver disc towards its hungry waves. The disc flashed with light, a bright speck in the chilly darkness, then disappeared forever into the night. The End