Dec
(After this I’m going to look up the meanings of tarot cards)
Mr. Simms’ appointment withthe groomer that comes to care for him once a month keeps him out from under foot for a couple of hours, and since he’s occupied, and all my chores for the day are accomplished, I decide today is a good day to investigate the moving statuary. No one believes me that it keeps changing. Alex, the gardener, assures me that it is the same every day. Even when I showed her two pictures taken from one day to the next, she literally could not see a difference between them. It was the strangest thing.
Heading to the utility shed to grab a ladder, I glance up at the statuary overhead, comparing it to the picture I took yesterday. The little grotesques definitely do not look the same as they did yesterday. The larger ones are in the same position, but the horns are different. I can’t see too many details from the ground, but the horns are definitely different.
Shaking my head at the strangeness, I finish the jog down to the shed, grab a telescoping ladder from the hooks on theoutside wall, and carry it back to the side of the mansion where I won’t be obstructing anyone’s view and where I’m quickly available if someone comes to the door. Extending the ladder takes some creative handling. I’m not weak, but I’m also not a bruiser; I’m just an averagely strong man, and a forty foot long ladder is challenging for my arm strength and coordination.
With a few false starts but zero broken windows (whew!), I manage to get the ladder secure. As I climb, I take my time, because holy shit it’s stupid to do this without someone to hold the ladder steady. What the hell was I thinking? I glance down and a shot of adrenaline puts me into high alert mode. Fear clenches in my gut, and I immediately look back up.
Shit, I’m an idiot. What am I doing?
Swallowing my fear, I take a deep breath and tell myself that everything is fine. People go up ladders all the time. I might have no business on a ladder, but I’m fine. I’mfine.
I never thought I’d have to overcome a fear of heights, but here we are. No, it’s not the height. It’s the fall. I’m very uncomfortable with a three story fall.
Donotlook down
—again. Do not look downagain.
Slowly I get my brain to make my muscles move and restart the climb up. It takes less time than it took me to panic to reach the top. I’m between a couple of the statues, and I now see that they're all grotesques, not a single gargoyle among them. That would have been cool to see in the rain. Oh well.
The little ones are pretty classically monstrous, about a foot and a half tall with pointed ears and stumpy muzzles with sharp teeth and fangs. Their wings are all folded around them, hiding everything but their clawed hands and feet. They’re actually kind of cute with big eyes like baby Yoda.
“Hello there,” I say and chuckle at myself. “I guess I’m talking to the statuary now. Well, I suppose if you’re moving on yourown, there’s no reason you wouldn’t be able to hear me. Not that I think statuary moves on its own.”
I look up at one of the big statues, and catch my breath, clamping my mouth shut. It’s clearly a gargoyle in the sense of the monsters that are depicted in entertainment and art. It’s about four feet tall, crouched on bent legs with hybrid features that make it appear humanoid. The detail on it is amazing, but the most inexplicable part is that it looks exactly like Ethan.
“Why would anyone make you look like Ethan of all people? Not saying he’s not worthy of being the face of statuary but—well, I guess it takes all types. Diverse tastes and all.”
I shake my head, and very carefully climb onto the roof.
I blink, stunned. The entire roof is covered by statuary. There are four large statues and at least thirty of the smaller ones. I reach for one of the smaller ones and attempt to move it, but it’s so heavy that I barely get it an inch off the ground before I have to put it down again. There’s no way I could move the big ones.
“Who the hell is moving you?” I ask, walking through the garden of statues.
They’re all different in the details—the artist is clearly talented. I walk to one of the other larger ones, unsurprised to see a familiar face. Greeley as a gargoyle is hot. The next one is Faulkes. The artist really captured his immensity and the devastating sadness that has corroded his child-like joy.
“I’m so sorry for what happened to you,” I whisper to the statue, wishing I could say the words to the man himself. “You deserved better.” As much as I applaud Arcan’s organizational skills, breaking Faulkes’ heart is unforgivable.
Patting the statue’s head between his horns, I move on, looking at each of the little grotesques one by one.
I let out a very audible gasp when I reach the last of the larger statues and it looks exactly like Thoren.
“Fuck,” I whisper, running a finger along the statue’s cheek. “You look just like him. Jesus. Someone has a fucking crush on you. Look at you. Whoever made this has been way too close to your face.” I scowl at the tiny scar above his eyebrow that is only visible when Thoren gets close enough, pressing on it with the tip of my finger.
“Not sure why I’m getting upset about a fucking scar,” I grumble to myself, looking away from the face to take in the rest of the details.
The horns stand straight up in a conical shape with a spiral pattern. It looks like the artist gave the impression of fur, which I hadn’t noticed on the other statues, and there’s a design on the folded up wings, though it’s not clear what the design is because it disappears into the folds of the wings. He’s sitting on one foot with the knee of the other leg bent up and fortunately (maybe unfortunately) he’s wearing a loincloth with beading on it in a similar pattern to what his pants usually have. The statue's naked upper body does things to me that I’m ashamed to say are a direct result of seeing Thoren’s massive chest every day. His nipples are even pierced like they are in real life.
“They really do know your body, don’t they? Weird how they got the nipple angles right.” I touch the nipple of the statue, tracing over the stone impression of barbells, but I drop my hand, uncomfortable now that I’ve touched him. “I’m not doing this. I’m not perving on a statue,” I chastise myself, turning around so I stop looking at the thing.
“Alright. Let’s find out what the fuck is going on up here.” I clap my hands to rally myself to the task again, and I start looking around for evidence of whoever the artist is and how they’re moving the statues.
I don’t see any scratch marks, so I assume the statues are being moved on wheels or possibly carried. The roof access door is a surprise; I didn’t realize the mansion had roof access,though I suppose if the family has designated the roof for work, I wouldn’t have access to their work areas.
“How did you get up here?”
