The Chalice and the Gargoyles

by Drew Alexander Ross

Table of Contents

Table of Contents
parts: 1, 2, 3

conclusion

Bartholomew and Thomas approached the church grounds. The sunrise was still a ways off, but a dim light crept over the horizon like the ocean waves moving up the shore.

The two gargoyles landed with thumps that made deep imprints on the ground. Bartholomew took the lead and walked to the entrance of the church. They passed under the archway into the nave with bowed heads.

“Ahh, the prodigal sons return.”

“It was one son in the Bible, monk,” Thomas called.

“You think I don’t know that?” Friar Philip bit back.

“Enough,” the angel Arael said with a sigh.

The gargoyles walked down the aisle. The pews were still in disarray, along with the Bibles. Bartholomew’s gaze was fierce as they approached the altar. Thomas walked up and put the pieces of the chalice on the communion table.

“What’s this!” Friar Philip erupted. “What happened to the sacred chalice?”

Arael’s cast his gaze down with the corners of his mouth twitching.

“We found the janitor with the chalice,” Thomas said. “He was drunk and tossed the chalice when we confronted him. It cracked on the pavement.”

“Cracked!” The Friar choked. “It’s broken in two.”

Philip stifled sobs and brought his robe up to wipe his eyes. A grating rub echoed as the robe brushed his face. Thomas stared at the ground with eyes that didn’t see.

“It’s not your fault,” Arael said.

Bartholomew set his gaze on the angel in his painting. Arael rose above the sheep and looked down at the gargoyles with a soft glow around him.

“It’s yours,” Bartholomew stated.

Friar Philip and Thomas turned to see Bartholomew staring at Arael. The angel stared back at Bartholomew before he curled his lips in a smirk.

“Was it that obvious?” Arael asked. “It doesn’t matter. The objective is complete. I hope you weren’t too tough on the janitor.”

Thomas and Philip exchanged baffled looks. The friar gaped at the angel.

“You can’t have done!” Philip exclaimed. “How could you? I was here the whole time. This must be a joke.”

“It’s not,” Bartholomew stated.

“No, it’s not,” Arael confirmed. “The song I sing to the sheep is as effective on our kind as it is on them. It wasn’t difficult.”

“But why?” Thomas asked.

“Ask your brother,” Arael smiled. “He seems to have everything figured out.”

Friar Philip and Thomas appealed to Bartholomew. Bartholomew took in the church once more. He pictured it after its glorious construction. Their sculptor sang poetry of the beauty of the Lord to them while he carved. He named them and asked them to protect the holy church. The building was simple but beautiful in its simplicity. Large windows let the light in and filled the church with hope.

Now, the dirtied stained glass windows cast a gloomy light into the dank interior, even on a nice day. The whole church was wet and dark. The mortar on the walls was chipped and loose. It was a dump. The once holy place was as empty of spirit as the town.

Bartholomew addressed Thomas and Philip.

“Without the chalice, there would be no reason for this church to be kept. It would be converted or demolished, and the artifacts would be moved to another church in the diocese.”

“You wretch!” Philip spat. “This is the holy sanctuary we were chosen to look after. How could you do this?”

“The flock has abandoned us!” Arael roared. “We are shepherds over a decaying field. Is it wrong to want to find new pastures?” Arael’s voice rang out in the silence of the church.

Bartholomew looked upon Arael with pity. “It’s wrong when you have forsaken faith in the Lord and believe you can alter his will.” Bartholomew stared at the angel without malice and without judgment.

The angel cursed him. “What do you know?” Arael raged. “You are a stupid boulder that couldn’t protect the church from a drunk. It’s your fault that one that of your family isn’t here today to share in your misery, and it’s your fault that the other lump is disfigured and lame. You’re the reason that chalice is broken. You failed your holy duty!”

Thomas stepped forward and raised a clawed hand to strike the angel. Bartholomew held out an arm.

“It doesn’t matter, you fools,” Arael continued. “I have won. I will find a new mantlepiece while you will be destroyed.”

“The Lord will hear about this!” Philip shouted. “You will be the one cast down.”

“Oh, be quiet, friar!” Arael spat back. “You will be lucky if they put you in a forgotten broom cupboard.”

“Not if we put you there first,” Thomas stated.

Thomas brushed Bartholomew’s arm aside and took a few steps toward Arael’s painting. The angel laughed. The glow around him now brightened. Arael cackled as he watched the windows fill with dampened light from the sun.

“You’re too late!” Arael shouted. “Now, we will all wait and see what happens. By the time darkness falls, I will no longer have to look upon your ugly, pathetic faces.”

The angel continued to cackle as Bartholomew and Thomas were frozen in the sunlight. The friar’s face was mortified as he was paralyzed by the light that reached him. Arael was the last to be silenced by the morning rays. The sickly contortions of his facial features captured his maniacal laugh.

* * *

Father Dooley sat in the first pew facing the altar. The bench was skewed in the middle of the aisle. He stared at the scene before him. The gargoyles that protected the church, that came to his bedroom the previous night, stood upon the raised pulpit. The priest was prepared to call last night a fever dream but, when he came to the church in the morning, the hairs on his neck stood on ends. He immediately noticed the absence of the gargoyles above the entrance. When Dooley found them inside, he sat down. He hadn’t moved since.

No one came for Monday mass anymore. Hardly anyone showed up for Sunday mass. Father Dooley came out of habit and curiosity. He stayed because he wanted to fathom what this all meant. For his life, for the church. He stopped asking questions years ago but found himself looking for answers again.

Knock. Knock.

Father Dooley swiveled his head toward the door but didn’t make a sound. The door creaked open. A boy poked his kinky, black-haired head in the door. He spotted the mess and Father Dooley in the front row. “Uh... Is everything okay?”

Father Dooley stared at the boy but had nothing to say.

Trent stared at the priest for a moment before his eyes found the gargoyles on the raised dais.

“Holy shit!” Trent exclaimed. “They really were there last night.”

Father Dooley’s eyes cleared up at the boy’s words, and Trent met his gaze. “Oh, sorry for swearing, Father.”

“It’s okay,” the priest replied. “What did you mean by what you said?”

Trent stepped into the church and observed the damage. He tiptoed between the scattered benches and made his way up to the front of the church. He walked by Father Dooley and inspected the gargoyles. The boy saw the broken chalice on the communion table and turned back to the priest.

“So, they found the cup,” Trent walked over to Father Dooley and sat down. “Did you take it?”

“No, I didn’t,” Father Dooley replied. “I’m not innocent of betraying the church, but I didn’t take the chalice.”

Trent scooted a little way away from the priest. “Oh, relax, boy,” Dooley replied. “I took tithes from the offering basket... But that’s over now. Not that it matters. With the chalice broken, this church won’t receive any funding or have any tourists. The locals hardly come as is.”

“Oh, that’s an easy fix.”

Father Dooley stared at the boy and raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

“Don’t look at me like that, Father. I thought priests were supposed to have faith.”

“How can you fix it?”

“Some wood glue, clamps, and a bit of sandpaper will fix it right up.”

The priest stared at Trent and the look of easy belief on his face. Father Dooley let out a laugh that filled the church with lightness.

Trent grinned at the priest and walked over to pick up the pieces of the chalice. “I can fix it up and bring it back later tonight,” Trent stated. “What are we going to do about the state of the church? And the gargoyles?”

“I’ll straighten up the church while you fix the chalice,” Father Dooley answered. “I’m not sure what to do about the gargoyles, though.”

BANG!

Trent and Father Dooley fixed their gaze on the entrance to the church. The janitor stumbled into the nave. He held his head and bumped into one of the benches in the middle of the aisle.

“Blasted thing! What’s it doing here?”

“Mr. Cahill?”

The janitor peered up and saw the priest, the boy, and the dais with the gargoyles behind them. His already blotchy face drained of all color. “All my fault.”

Mr. Cahill trudged up the aisle, looking at the mess of the church. He reached the priest and the boy and stared up at the dais. The janitor didn’t go up to inspect it. He took in the scene before him for a moment before he went over to the priest. Mr. Cahill let out a choked sob. “It’s all my fault!” the janitor cried. “I turned over the church and stole the cup. I don’t remember it all. But I know it was me. I was angry with God. I felt so alone...”

Trent stared at the drunk man who was starting to sober.

“It’s okay,” the priest responded.

Father Dooley stood up and closed the distance between him and the janitor. He put his arms on the man’s shoulders.

“Nothing is lost. The boy here—”

“Trent.”

“Trent says he can fix the chalice,” he priest continued. “You can help me fix up the church.”

Mr. Cahill looked up. “Thank you, Father.”

* * *

Father Dooley, Trent, and Mr. Cahill stood facing the dais. The church was as clean as a pot after Sunday stew, and the chalice was a whole cup again on the communion table. Light shone through the cleaned windows, and shadows crept across the floor. The three men stared at the gargoyles in front of them.

“What about them?” Mr. Cahill asked. “We’d need a forklift to budge them two.”

“What were they even doing here?” Trent asked.

“Returning the chalice.”

Trent gazed at the priest, then back to the gargoyles. “But why did they get frozen...? That one isn’t even looking at the chalice. He’s looking at the angel.”

Mr. Cahill followed the boy’s gaze and went pale again. “Eeeeek!”

Father Dooley and Trent turned to the janitor.

“That’s the heathen creature that enchanted me with his evil words to take the chalice and trash the church.”

“What do you mean?”

Mr. Cahill locked eyes with the priest. “That thing is alive...” the janitor started. “I don’t know how, but I heard some songs, and when I came up to see what the bloody hell was going on, the thing started talking to me.”

“Are you sure?” the priest asked.

Trent stared at Mr. Cahill for a moment.

“I believe him. The gargoyles are proof enough to me. When they found me last night, I was on a bench in the park square. They were talking to the statue of the knight.”

The three men observed the painting of the angel Arael. Its smug aura was darkened by the shadows that crept over it. Night was starting to envelop the church, and stillness rose around them. The silence was broken by the shift in stone and the rustle of a canvas.

“Noooo!” Arael yelled. “How could you!”

The men stared up at the painting with mouths agape.

“They did what you could not.”

Bartholomew arched his back and stretched his wings. Thomas followed suit.

“They accepted the present and restored their faith in the here and now.”

“How dare you lecture me, you lump!” Arael spat.

Thomas and Bartholomew walked forward toward the angel. Arael drew back in his painting with wide, terrified eyes. He lifted his head and started to sing. “Be not afraid—”

A wooden shoe the size of a thumb smacked the angel in the forehead. “That’s enough from you!” Friar Philip called over.

Trent, Father Dooley, and Mr. Cahill followed everything with looks on their faces akin to a bunch of boys watching their parents argue while mud wrestling. The shock and disbelief froze their features to the point of staring like statues themselves.

“This won’t change the fate of the church!” Arael erupted. “I will be moved!”

Thomas advanced quickly. He went to the painting and drew a fingernail across the mouth of the angel. His stone nail tore the canvas and erased Arael’s mouth. The angel’s fury pulsed from the lines and veins on his forehead, but Arael had no voice to covey the contempt he held for those present.

“Yes, you will.” Thomas took the painting down and nodded to the Friar. Bartholomew picked up the Friar’s shoe and handed it back to him like an adult giving a toddler a fallen pen cap. Philip nodded at both Thomas and Bartholomew, put his shoe back on, and resumed his position of looking out over the church.

Bartholomew and Thomas walked over to the men.

“Thank you.”

The men looked at the gargoyles. All three stood unafraid. They met the gaze of the gargoyles and nodded.

“Is there a place to store this?” Thomas asked the priest.

Father Dooley glanced at Mr. Cahill.

“I got meself a toolshed on the grounds,” Mr. Cahill offered. “I think I can find a spot behind all the junk for this thing.”

“Will he be in range to hear the congregation?” Bartholomew asked.

“He might not hear every word, but he’ll hear the singing and the people coming and going.”

“If we get the people to return,” Father Dooley added.

“You returned, Father,” Thomas stated. “Have faith your flock will follow.”

Father Dooley nodded.

“And thank you for fixing the chalice, young man,” Bartholomew bowed his head to Trent.

“My pleasure.”

Thomas handed over the painting to Mr. Cahill. The gargoyles observed each of the men before them.

“Peace be with you.”

They walked out of the church and took to the sky.

* * *

The sun shone brightly on the English village of Stevonshire. The church grounds were filled with smiling and radiant townsfolk. The courtyard was clean, and the doors to the church were open. Father Dooley walked among the people exchanging greetings and pleasant tidings. Mr. Cahill stood with Trent, and the two were in conversation with a couple of youngsters.

The babble of conversation overflowed the area, permeating the grounds and rising to the heavens. The noise even echoed over to a small neglected corner of the grounds, home to a grungy toolshed.

The crowd began to trickle away from the church, but each person left with a lighter heart and walked a little straighter. A sense of peace and calmness flowed from all.

Father Dooley talked with each person who sought his word, while Trent and Mr. Cahill talked with whoever passed by them. The three had smiles on their faces as they spoke. They took in the present moment and felt connected with everyone. The townspeople continued to trickle away until just the three of them were left in the courtyard.

They glanced at each other, then stared up up the roof of the church. Bartholomew and Thomas watched over the grounds, still as stone.