Ten Years Ago …
Posted by Harry Haller |
“I don’t think there are any Russians
And there ain’t no Yanks
Just corporate criminals
Playing with tanks”
— Michael Been
We were innocent.
I sat with a gargoyle under a stone bridge out of the rain, watching a thundershower grouch across the sky from west to east. The storm was a grumpy old man, darkly gray and full of electric invectives, stumbling from his bedroom into the kitchen for his first cup of coffee, stopping along the way to lash out with a static bolt at whatever displeased him. Like any curmudgeon, he was amusing at first blush, trailing a string of curses and pyrotechnics, but in time even these grew tiresome; I gradually tuned him out and turned to study the bridge and my gargoyle companion.
Constructed of round gray stones, the bridge had arched over the Flat River for as long as anyone could remember, perhaps long enough that those inhabiting the river valley knew why they named it the Flat in the first place. In the twentieth century it was anything but flat. It swirled, eddied, boiled, swelled and tumbled over rocks, dipped down falls, and in late spring, when sudden downpours engorged it, the river surged into a ruthless torrent, sweeping away everything in its path from its source until it emptied into the Mississippi. Other bridges, some made of wood and some — engineering masterpieces — made of iron and steel, succumbed to the wily Flat. Only the stone bridge remained — stubborn, intractable, determined to bear its load through the river’s fiercest onslaught. It made only two compromises with the elements: Along its parapet the uppermost stones were bleached from their usual slate gray to the color of brushed aluminum by the sun, and its abutment had been lent a green and brown patina by lichens. Otherwise the bridge showed no signs of age.
Underneath the arch, on the thin strip of land between abutment and river’s edge, the bridge sheltered various frogs, newts, spiders and lizards that gathered to dine on swarms of mosquitos, gnats and flies rising almost magically out of little pools and puddles. During the summer months fish hovered in the water under the arch, seeking shade from the sun. An occasional muskrat drifted down from the marsh to eat a frog or fish; rarer still, raccoons were seen rinsing their food in the river. While we hunkered under the bridge waiting for the storm to pass, a five-lined skink crawled up my gargoyle companion’s leg, mistaking him for another stone. Pip (for that was the gargoyle’s name) threw the lizard twenty-two feet down the riverbank with a casual thump of his foot-long, taloned finger. Then he stared at the clouds with his gray hawk’s eyes and took a drag from an unfiltered Camel cigarette before exhaling a cloud of smoke with a long sigh.
He was fourteen feet tall, which made him difficult to disguise in a crowd, especially since his thirty-foot bat wingspan wouldn’t fold up under the overcoat I found in the Mens, Boys and Giants Department of the local Wal-Mart. And if hiding those leathery wings were somehow possible, not even a pandemic of Botox could have erased the permanent scowl from his beak-lipped face. From the devil’s horns cropping out of his forehead, to the granite scales of his skin, to the iron claws that were his feet, his species could not be mistaken. So we traveled mainly at twilight and dusk, when humans were inclined to blame his appearance on tricks of the crepuscular light. We were headed to Gotham, because my companion could not believe a city of 8 million individuals housed in thousands of buildings included only a handful of gargoyles.
“What protects them from devastation?” Pip asked in a voice that sounded like the marriage of concrete to steel. “What keeps them from falling down like houses of straw?”
“Science,” I answered. “And human engineering skills.”
“Pfft!” Pip responded, dismissing technology with a wave of his enormous hand. “The Egyptians were greater engineers, and they kept their talismans against destruction. And what of evil spirits? Who protects this city from Baal?”
I shrugged. “Educated humans no longer believe in Baal. They consider it superstitious folly.”
Pip drew the smoke from an entire cigarette into his lungs with one mighty, red-ember inhalation. When he exhaled, it seemed he was expelling all the steam of hell from his body. “Humans are stupid,” he declared flatly.
A few minutes later the storm passed, and with it the threat of electrocution. I climbed aboard Pip’s shoulders. He stretched out his wings and we lifted into the sky and above the thinning cloud cover. Resuming our journey northward, we stopped only after the sun set and the light of the moon failed. We spent the rest of the night outside Richmond, Virginia, sleeping on the sweet grass under the stars. In the wee hours of morning I walked a couple of miles to a diner, where I bought a donut, twelve breakfast specials, and a gallon of coffee. On the way back I ate the donut and drank a little coffee; then I watched Pip devour the dozen breakfast specials — styrofoam containers, paper wrappers and all — before we set out again.
From Washington northward the journey was all a matter of ticking off cities. Baltimore. Wilmington. Philadelphia. Trenton. Edison. New York! With each passing milestone I felt more and more exhilarated. Pip couldn’t understand my enthusiasm. “Bah!” he spat. “Who can tell where one city ends and another begins? It all feels like New York to me.”
But the Manhattan skyline impressed even Pip, its solid mass of skyscrapers rising out of the water like an industrious child’s steel, stone and reflective glass Erector Set. I pointed out buildings I recognized: Bloomberg, Citibank, Chrysler, MetLife, Conde Nast, the New York Times and Empire State. And, looming over all, the towers of the World Trade Center, great spikes of human achievement and industry. Pip ascended to the top of the North Tower and perched there, brooding over the skyline and listening to the stones of the tower’s foundation. What he heard saddened him.
Before proceeding I should explain about the relationship between stones and gargoyles. All the world’s stones know the mind of Gaea; yet none of them, not even quartz, has a concept of time. Time simply doesn’t define them. So all stones — even the smooth flat ones skipped over lakes on lazy summer afternoons — not only recall the past, but also tap easily into the future. And since no living thing on Earth has a more intimate relationship to stone than a gargoyle, they are able as a species to sense the future of human shelters constructed of stone — especially those rendered of steel.
The moment Pip roosted atop the World Trade Center he started communicating with it; and as their exchange continued his face grew darker and gloomier. The building cried out for him to remain and guard it against an evil future, though both of them knew such a thing was impossible. Pip could not abandon his post wandering the earth, and the Trade Center would never house a gargoyle. It was, after all, a monument to human science, not magic. No gargoyle would long survive in such a nest of human arrogance.
I hunkered, napping, on the roof for two or three hours, waiting for their communion to end. At last Pip lit a cigarette, turned to me and said, “Ten years from now this place will not exist.”
“You’re mistaken,” I responded.
“Steel doesn’t lie,” Pip insisted.
“Then you misinterpreted what it told you. Or it doesn’t know the meaning of destruction,” I said.
Pip reared and his eyes blazed. “Are you calling me a fool?”
I held up my hands, palms out, a sign of conciliation. “No, Pip. Not at all. I would never call you, of all people, a fool,” I said. “I am saying you surely misunderstood. Human engineers have determined this building will withstand great floods. Earthquakes. Hurricanes. It will remain as long as the Pyramids.”
Pip’s scowl deepened. “It will fall.”
“No,” I said quietly. “Why, scientists say a jet can crash into this building and it will remain.”
“It will crumble,” Pip averred. He lit a cigarette. “And hundreds — no, thousands — will die.”
A cold shiver passed down my spine, but I still shook my head.
Pip smoked two, three cigarettes in deep contemplation. Then he said, “That isn’t the worst. After it falls fear will blanket this land, and humans will barter their birthrights to wicked, soulless demons for peace and safety. The demons will come as sheep and feast as ravenous wolves. All these buildings agree. Darkness is coming.”
For a long moment I felt enveloped by darkness so thick and bilious it left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. But an instant later I heard an airliner soar overhead and I realized human enterprise would always triumph over magic and superstition. Humans could fly without Pip’s batwings. I walked to the center of the roof. The concrete was firm under my feet. I bounced up and down on tiptoe. Solid. Pip was wrong. Dreadfully mistaken. This place would stand forever.
I strode confidently to my companion and climbed aboard his shoulders.
“Let’s go to Florida,” I said. “I feel like a swim.”
“Good,” said Pip. “This New York gives me the heebie-jeebies. Too few gargoyles.”
He lifted his wings and we flew south.
