Saint Anne

 Saint Anne

Raindrops hit the stone cheekbones of Saint Anne, who stood with her palms facing upwards as if she had been carved to catch the rain. Subtle, spidery cracks had developed in those perfect marble hands and were spreading like latticework across her arms and neck. When pieces of alabaster gradually loosened from her body, rolling into the sculpted folds of her robe, she slowly enjoyed the pleasure of taking her first breath of the night. Beneath the darkness of the new moon, the statue lifted her colorless eyes and watched the thick rolling clouds that hugged the sky above the Notre Dame Cathedral.

 

“Pleasant morning, Rhy. Did you enjoy your sleep?” A gray angel was hovering in the enclave beside her, sheltered from the cold rain. He stretched his wings and shook loose stone from his carved feathers. “You are the last to awaken. If you do not move quickly you will loose your chance to be as the Ones Who Built Us are. It will soon be daybreak.”

But Rhy didn’t respond as she knelt to the base of the pedestal in which she was placed. Groping the walls of the cathedral, she was able to make her way down, carefully avoiding to step on the heads of other statues. A granite imp playfully nipped at the hem of her robe and she made sure to pat him on the head as she slipped by.

 

“You’ve been sleeping a lot lately,” the representation of Michael said. He had followed the saint as she descended and watched her slide her fingertips over cobblestone when she reached the ground. A soft smile played upon her lips as she appreciated the sensation of rough pavement pressed against her hands.  “I worry about you, Rhy.” Rhy became more lifelike with each move. She shook her head, flinging droplets from her loose wet hair and spattered the archangel in the face. She smiled slightly as he rubbed his hollow eyes and suppressed a scowl.

 

“Now you,” Rhy said, “you don’t need to worry about me.” She walked out from under the angel’s gaze and away from the West End of the Cathedral.

On most nights, Rhy stood motionless in the architecture next to her stone companions. She was among a hundred other statues that had been carved to represent a parthenon of biblical figures, and together they lived cloistered in the Western Facade of Notre Dame.  Though their limbs were ridged and their eyes did not reflect light, they were fierce sentries. They had been made to protect the cathedral on Judgment Day, when Lucifer and his Horsemen are believed to visit the Earth. Lucifer, as the humans say, will arrive from the West, for the West is where the sun disappears beneath the horizon at the end of each day. Therefore, the Western Facade was the cathedral's mightiest and the architects buttressed it with a fortress of statues.  Patiently, these guardians watched years slip from their outstretched palms and talons. New ideas, transportation, fashion, alterations in language and revolutions all occurred within their sight, and the statues looked on with curiosity at their makers' progress.

 

Now, most of the time, the Western Facade was a silent metropolis, but only most of the time. On the night of each new moon, when Paris rested beneath blankets of dark sky and stars, the buttresses, portals and spires of Notre Dame began to murmur.  It was on these special nights that the guards were paid for their services with freedom to move and speak as their human makers.

The only Parisians who had ever known about the magical quality of the statues were their sculptors, and they took this secret to their graves. The average man or woman would be terrified to witness a statue walking about and fluently speaking Latin or French. In order to prevent the sculptures from growing too bold and attempting to interact with the humans, the enchantment allowed the statues to move when only the light of the stars could touch the cathedral. If the sun rose and the statues had not returned to their proper pedestals, they would become ordinary sculptures and forever loose their human abilities.

“Perhaps,” Rhy thought, “the angel will not follow me if I walk in the rain.” Her friend was the Archangel Michael, who stood above the central portal of the Notre Dame Cathedral, piously sneering at the hoofed Lucifer statue and his band of sculpted sinners. Rhy knew Michael well. Tonight he would, or at least she hoped that he would, perch in his cloister with the Satan statue and casually banter as usual, rather than flutter after her and possibly chip a wing in the wind.

“Rhy! Come back here!” Michael shouted through the curtains of rain, “we’re all staying here tonight!”

But Rhy did not want to stay with “We”. She knew that hundreds of stone faces hovering in the façade tilted their gaze downwards to watch as she passed below. Their whispers buzzed about her ears but she refused to look up. Rhy breathed in happily when she realized that she was alone, and she walked briskly towards the Eastern corner of the Cathedral. Ah, how wonderful it felt to have legs to take her anywhere she chose to go, and arms to swing freely as she walked! From within her core, she felt a soft palpitation and knew that it was her heart wakening and sending a warm pulse throughout her body. She gulped the night air into her chest with deep, greedy breaths,  and though it was cold and wet, she loved how oxygen could feed her. She knew that she was grinning in the darkness and nearly laughed aloud. This feeling was new to her, but she had enough sense to recognize that it had a name: thrill.

The Notre Dame Cathedral employed an ornate drainage system to prevent the rooftop from flooding during frequent Parisian storms. Spindly gargoyles with open mouths lunged from the uppermost corners of the Cathedral as if they were preparing for flight, but on nights such as this, they remained at their posts. Their duty was to allow the access rainwater to drain through their mouths and onto the streets below. When Rhy neared the Eastern Facade she recognized the streams of the spitting gargoyles and surprised herself by feeling nervous.  She stared up into the façade, unable to determine if the rain was a good enough excuse to give into her growing fear and turn around. Finally, she shouted to the walls above her and hoped that no one in the West End would hear, “I’m here! I’ll be up in a moment!”

The wall was dangerously slippery but being made of marble herself put Rhy at an advantage. She grasped a ledge that jutted from the wall and lifted her body to prepare for a climb up to the side of the cathedral. She melded with the buttress, but only ever so loosely so that she could shimmy up the parts where there was no easy footing. She planned each of her movements carefully. She knew that if she began to feel too safe ascending the cathedral wall and slipped, her stone body could not be reassembled. Rhy fought against her fear and pushed herself upwards until she had forgotten how long she had been climbing and how far she was from the cobblestone paths below.

A balcony welcomed her when she had finally reached the roof and she embraced it, collapsing gratefully to the level stone. The wind beat the air with more fury at this height, and the rain struck hard against her skin, but these sensations were exhilarating. Panting, Rhy pushed her body back up on her feet and lifted her head. The wind disappeared and she was left with a view of all of Paris.

 Darkness and sheets of rain had hidden most of the city but its rooftops and labyrinthine alleys were just visible. They were not enough for Rhy; she suddenly found herself wishing she knew the stories of all who lived beneath those rooftops. She leaned forward slightly and rested her elbows on the balcony railing, placing her chin in one hand and allowing the other to droop lackadaisically. Everything her eyes fell upon, she thought beautiful. How proud the statue felt, of her human makers who had known just how to cut stone so that it formed the shape of a woman, as well as build cities that protected their civilization and allowed it to flourish. “How did they know how to construct homes, cathedrals, and theaters from wood and stone?” Rhy said aloud, “How are they always full with ideas? Yes, I know that they have also fashioned tools to kill one another, but if they are all born with sin, then how have they learned to create things that are wonderful and good?”

“That is a fine question.”

Rhy was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn’t quite believe that someone had spoken. She turned her back to Paris and searched the shadows of the entryways that led into the upper chambers of the cathedral. She had scarcely time to decide if this voice was friendly or threatening, but she knew she did not recognize it and suddenly wished that she did not have to be alone to meet its owner. 

 
“Yes, your question is good, but this is not your place to admire views and contemplate The Ones Who Built Us. Go away from here.”

Rhy’s eyes were involuntarily drawn upwards to a spire that stood black against the sky.  It was hard to distinguish the figure that had been resting there, but Rhy sensed movement and saw a silhouette dart down from the spire and onto a supporting column. Rhy backed away from the voice and began to search for the safest way off the balcony. 
 

When Rhy proved she could not move fast enough, a large gargoyle emerged from between two neighboring columns. Rhy recognized her immediately from the stories she had been told about the denizens of the cathedral roof and knew her name was Hii. With the wings and legs of a bird and the breasts of a woman, Hii had been fashioned after the harpies who plagued sailors in the ancient Greek stories. She flapped her wings and hissed at Rhy, who stared hypnotized by the steam rising from the gargoyle’s nostrils. Slowly, Rhy recognized her fear, stepped backwards and gasped when her hands caught the railing of the balcony.

 “Good evening Hii,” said the statue of Saint Anne, and bowed her head slightly. “I am sorry if I startled you.” She would convince this statue to let her pass. She would have to be firm, yet she would have to be polite, for this was Hii’s territory and the saint had trespassed.  Solitary creatures, gargoyles like Hii were. They spoke only to each other, if they spoke at all. With their skeletal, bird-like bodies and contorted, serpentine faces, they were more frightening than the demons of Hell, and for that, they were best equipped to fight them. They were the most powerful protectors of the cathedral, and for living in such hideous bodies, each gargoyle was rewarded with his or her own sacred territory that no one could enter without permission.

 “You did not startle me, Saint Anne.” Musty vapor escaped from the guardian’s lips when she called Rhy by her biblical name. “I am always waiting for our Foes, and I see all as I wait. Even while you are busy amusing yourself with daydreams of humans and views of Paris.”

Rhy had to command herself to ignore Hii’s resentful comment and lower her head again. “I am sorry for intruding upon your domain without proper permission,” she corrected herself, not denying that she had taken joy from Hii’s balcony. “I know it is impolite to assume I could enter…”

“Not only is it impolite, it is dangerous. At least I have given you a warning, not everyone else here is kind.”

 

“Well yes, and thank you,” Rhy said. “I did not mean to stay as long as I did. To enter, was wrong, to stay was unspeakable. I want you to know that I really do mean that, Hii.” The gargoyle stared into Rhy’s eyes, and silently judged how meaningful her words were. She expected Rhy to bow down to fear and grovel, which would be flattering, but she would not tolerate insincerity. Determining by Rhy’s gaze and tone of voice that the saint spoke the truth, she waited for Rhy to continue. “I also want you to know that I was requested here. I’ve been granted permission by a brother of the Gargoyle Order.”

 

Well! That was certainly a surprise! Hii revealed a subtle smile, leaned forward eagerly and asked like a regular gossip, “Who?”

 

“Kiren.”

 

And at that, the she-gargoyle released a great whooping laugh, breathing steam as if it were fire. “Kiren!” she shouted in disbelief, “Kiren!” She gave Rhy a sidelong glance and repeated an additional three times, “Kiren?”

 

Rhy flinched as the gargoyle spattered bits of rock and saliva as she laughed at her friend. She could feel her cheeks grow ruddy in anger as if she were made of flesh. “Yes, Kiren! I don’t see why that has to surprise you so much if nothing catches you off-guard!”

 

“What a clever thing to say!” gasped Hii through laughter, “oh, clever indeed! But you must be mistaken for Kiren hardly counts as a gargoyle. That beat up stone? That moldy old serpent with the broken bird’s beak? With those woefully small bat’s wings? That’s the Kiren who invited you up here and whose invitation you accepted? Now what are you doing associating with him?”

 

 “That is none of your concern!” Rhy said folding her arms and tilting her chin upwards in defiance. “And those are horrible things to say about your own!”

 

“That pitiful creature is not my own.”

When Rhy met the gargoyle’s eyes, the pain she felt for her friend overpowered her fear of Hii. She reeled backward, as if Hii’s words were a physical blow and now, Rhy could only think about how she would absorb these insults so that Kiren would never hear them.  Hii must have been the masterpiece of her Maker.  She was the size of a lioness and the expertise of her sculptor was apparent from the ridges of clearly carved muscles in her belly and haunches, to the individually crafted feathers of her wings. Hii’s duty was to look dreadful and she fulfilled her role beautifully, but appearance was all there was to Hii. Kiren was smaller, less detailed, and significantly more weatherworn, but as a component of the drainage system, he was useful to the everyday needs of the cathedral.

 

 “You may not call him your own but I will call him mine,” said Rhy. “He is my friend and I wish to quietly pass with your kind permission. “

 

“The angels are your own and you have enough friends. Now away with you! Your human face and hands are unsightly here!” Hii jutted forward with talons outstretched and Rhy slipped back further, grasping the railing behind her.

 

 “I’m going to die here,” she thought, and she could already see her broken body scattered across the cobblestone. The sound of marble hitting the ground would be deafening and startle all of the cathedral’s denizens into silence. She imagined the puzzled humans standing above her in the morning, picking up her severed limbs and wondering how she had even ended up on the wrong side of the cathedral. Hii was now standing on hind legs, trapping Rhy between her claws so that the saint could only avoid the gargoyle’s maw by arching backwards over the railing. She closed her eyes and prepared to experience her last sensations of the physical world: the heavy scent of mold emanating from the Hii, the bellow of the wind, the coolness of the rain and vertigo.

 

But the thick stench of Hii suddenly dissipated into the pure, night air. When Rhy opened her eyes and lifted her head, she saw that the gargoyle had retreated and that the two of them were no longer alone on the balcony.  In the shadows, with spindly arms folded over a barrel chest, stood Roan, the head of the Gargoyle Order. He stepped forward so both statues could see the disapproving frown upon his narrow face and the threatening pair of goat’s horns protruding from his forehead. Rhy had only seen Roan once before on one of those rare nights when she had been awake at the cusp of dawn. Each fortnight, Roan’s duty was to circle the sky above Notre Dame to warn the statues when the first light approached.

 

“Rhy, you may come forward. You are dangling off the ledge and quite frankly I do not have the energy to break your fall,” Roan said calmly. Still panting, Rhy removed herself from the railing and walked forward on wobbly legs. “Hii,” said Roan, “you will be punished for threatening another guard.”

 

“But she clearly encroached upon forbidden territory! I should not be punished for her deliberate disobedience. She--!”

 

“Do not speak back to me.” Roan turned his face away so that Hii could no longer protest. As Rhy walked onto the stable roof and passed Hii, she snuck a quick peek over her shoulder and cast a mocking smile towards the she-gargoyle.

 

“Rhy, return to the West End. You are not to be found creeping along the rooftop anymore,” stated Roan.

 

“If I may, I would like to visit my friend. That’s why I’m here tonight, just to visit, not to cause trouble.”

 

“You are no longer to visit any friends in this domain.”

 

“Just once!” Rhy gasped.

 

Roan shook his heavy head. You have friends with smooth marble skin and beautiful human faces. Visit them. I want to see you here, no longer. Now, Rhy, say goodnight to your fellow guardian and sister Hii. Hii, say goodnight to your sister, Saint Anne.” Both statues looked up at Roan with disbelieving eyes.

 

“Say goodnight to her?” implored Rhy, bringing her hands to her hips, “You saw what nearly happened, how can I possibly say goodnight to her much less call her my sister!”

“You must practice what the Good Lord taught us: Forgiveness.” said Roan firmly. When he turned his back and slinked into the shadows, he could just barely be heard muttering “Who made these fools the guardians of God’s house?”  

 

II

 

“And where have you been all night?” The Virgin Mary asked with a smile and one eyebrow arched mischievously at Rhy.  The Virgin and Saint Anne were sitting side-by-side in the main portal above the Notre Dame’s West End. Rhy had made it a promise to spend the evening with her friend but she was late and the veiled statue demanded to know why. She wasn’t necessarily angry, or even jealous of the one who benefited from Rhy’s company, she simply wanted to know who and what had been keeping Rhy busy from the waking hour until four in the morning.

 

“I’m telling you it was nothing!” Rhy insisted. “I’ve been sleeping, that’s all.”

 

“Well I figured as much. You’ve been a real bore lately, Rhy, sleeping all the time! Well, at least I thought you were a bore until Michael came flying up here to check on you because he could not find you anywhere in the Western Façade.”

 

 Rhy lowered her eyes and bit her lip. “That’s ridiculous,” she said softly. “Where else would I be? I haven’t been anywhere tonight except for here to visit you.” 

 

The Virgin smiled as she watched Rhy’s cheeks turn to rose quartz.

 

“Look at you! You are doing that thing that the makers do; you’re blushing! Oh, I wish you could see yourself!” The Virgin cried. “You are a terrible liar and I want to know everything! Tell me now!”

 

“Please calm down, sister,” Saint Anne said even though she could not bring herself to look into The Virgin’s eyes. “I promise you I’ve done nothing out of the ordinary.” Because Rhy actually was a terrible liar, she couldn’t come up a with an excuse for her absence from the West End, so she turned an even deeper shade of pink and stared into the cobblestone streets below.

 

“See if I were to put you with anyone,” The Virgin said, “my guess would be Michael because he so clearly dotes on you as if you were his savior. He’s beautiful too! But of course you obviously weren’t with him tonight.”

 

Rhy rolled her eyes at the thought of the angel. “Michael is completely enamored with himself.”

 

The Virgin frowned and shook her head, “You’re just too picky! He’s the most beautiful of the West End! Oh well, so it’s not our Angel Michael. It must be Gabriel.”

 

Saint Anne scrunched her nose and lips in disgust. “Those archangels are all the same. Except I think that Gabriel may just have a bigger ego.  Well, that is, if it's even possible to have a bigger ego than Michael.”

 

The Virgin laughed and lowered her voice. "Don't let him hear you say that," she said, "I hear that he's actually quiet sensitive." Her eyes lit up again. “I know! He must be one of the Thirty Three Kings. I’ve always thought they were all so lovely. Did I ever tell you about the night I kissed Stephen III? He was such a good kisser…”

 

Rhy felt relieved when her friend began to repeat the same story that she had already heard at least 30 times before. She let The Virgin speak without interruption, because as long as the veiled statue was satisfied telling the story of her own escapades, she would not be able to question Rhy. Soon, the bell in the tower chimed five times and the statues began to return to their cloisters to prepare for daylight. Rhy had been saved from future interrogations until the next new moon.

 

“You clever statue,” said The Virgin once she heard the bells chime. “You’ve let me speak this entire time without answering one question! You will tell me your stories when we wake next fortnight!”

As the sun rose, The Virgin was still in thought. “Well, I know that it’s definitely someone and not a something that is keeping Rhy so preoccupied. But who?” And then the light poured over Notre Dame, draining the color from her eyes.

III

 

“Hi” Rhy whispered, her face partially hidden behind thick dewy webs of shrubbery that had been allowed to grow wild. The stone serpent that had been resting in the grass smiled at the sight of Rhy and took her hand into his claw and kissed it.

 

“Pleasant morning,” Kiren said. “I’ve missed you.” His familiar, raspy voice made Saint Anne smile. How soothing it was to hear the sound of a good friend’s voice and how disappointed she had felt when Roan sent her away from the cathedral roof!

 

Rhy brought her body closer to Kiren’s and rested into the grass on her back. “I’ve missed you too! These past two weeks have been my hardest because I’ve wanted to do nothing but break from the West End.”

Kiren inched closer to Rhy and felt the smoothness of her arm brush against his scales. When Rhy didn’t move her arm away, Kiren slithered even closer. “That’s interesting to hear you say that, Rhy. The West End is so lively, everyone talks to each other there. My brother and sister gargoyles are so solitary that the Eastern Façade is as silent as death.”

 

“That sounds peaceful to me,” Rhy said sighing deeply. “The gargoyles know how to mind their own business. You can come and go as you please. There is enough quiet to hear the sound of your own thoughts. Sometimes, I wish I was a gargoyle.”

 

Kiren laughed because he could not imagine the beautiful Saint Anne re-sculpted to look like his kind. “Rhy, if you were a gargoyle don’t you think you would miss all those theological debates that you people love so much?”

 

“Theological debates?” said Saint Anne, rolling onto her side so that she could face Kiren. “They are nothing but dribble. I’ve been listening to the same tiresome conversations for the past century.”

 

“But don’t you think you would get bored up there, all alone, watching the city?”

 

“Oh no, it would be thrilling! I could see for miles and miles, just imagine how much I would learn if I spent my days observing all of Paris! How I envy your view! And besides,” added Rhy as lowered her eyes and circled one finger through the grass, “Maybe I wouldn’t have to be alone.”

 

Kiren’s serpentine heart had never beat so fast. Surely, the statue could not mean what her words implied! Flattered by her friendship but doubtful that she wanted anything more, Kiren pulled away so that he no longer brushed her arm. He slithered towards the shrubs but Saint Anne came crawling forward.

 

“Kiren,” she said, “help me pretend that I’m a gargoyle.”

 

Stone scales warmed when they touched human lips. His mouth fit so well with hers, as if the Cathedral had been assembled wrong for all those many years and now was being properly slid into place.

 

Rhy had once been content with her prominent watch at the West End. She enjoyed the company of those statues who were constructed next to her, but after 400 years of hearing the same philosophical dialogue fortnight after fortnight, Rhy grew tired of her companions. The arguments were monotonous and the debates were never won. As the Renaissance and Reformation were born then died respectively, Rhy noticed that her companions did not greet modern eras but instead, seemed to delve deeper into the biblical personas they were carved to represent.

 

“It’s because they’ll soon have no use for us,” The Virgin once said. Rhy understood and to some extent, feared secularism as well, but to her, boredom was a greater threat than the possibility of being unneeded by humans. The Virgin Mary with her smile, conspiring eyes and jokes was one of the few Rhy still felt comfortable with. The Virgin and Kiren. Both displayed emotion, both knew how to laugh. Their friendship was the reason to wake up every new moon and feel as if a human would.

 

And now, she was hiding in the shadows with her best friend, feeling his mouth on her face and his claws gently flexing into her back with just the right amount of pressure. Her complexion was changing first rose then the color of warm sand. Long mahogany hair fell over her shoulders and blanketed Kiren, whose scales were glistening like wet lapis. When he looked into her eyes he found that they were green and the statue of Saint Anne was no longer a statue. He fell into the folds of her robe, careful not to let his claws tear the delicate fabric.

 

“This is really wrong!” Rhy thought between gasps. “But if this is the happiest I’ve ever felt, if this one in my arms has the purest heart and the sharpest mind, then what are looks? Just a shell to protect the soul.”

 

She mounted her pedestal shortly before sunup. She was the last of the statues to return and most had already fallen into slumber. Only one could see her well enough as she stole back into place.

 

“Someone has given our Saint Anne flesh,” thought Lucifer with a grin, “and it certainly was not Michael.”

 

VI

 

Kiren was growing tired. His eyelids continuously fell, but the thought of her encouraged them to snap open again. And yet, she didn’t come. He waited until the sky began to shake her black veil loose and reveal a garment of pale purple light. In a panic, Kiren scrambled up the rough stones of the Cathedral, nearly slipping several times. If day hit him, he would remain stone forever and that was a fate he could only endure at Rhy’s side.

 

But she never arrived.

 

V

“I’m not moving until you tell me who it is you’re running off to!”

 

“I’m not running off to anyone at all! Who is telling you these things?”

 

“Well, your fellow saints,” said The Virgin, who had been physically blocking Rhy so that she could not descend from her pedestal. “They’ve all noticed how you refuse to speak with any of us anymore and how you sneak off towards the Eastern Façade when you think that no one is watching you. Who else? The statues of the humans waiting to be judged. The imps too! Oh, and I heard the kings whispering. And Michael, watch out for Michael! You and your lover better be careful because he is ready to mal some marble. ”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous! Ignore these people and their talk!” Rhy screeched. “They’re bored, can’t you understand that? Any little disturbance, any little hint of change is going to rock their world apart. Oh, how I worry about this place if Judgment Day ever comes! Everyone would be so consumed with petty rumors and gossip that they wouldn’t be able to distinguish a Hellion from a human. They would just go on whispering until the bitter end.”

“And you!” Saint Anne continued, pointing at The Virgin. “I want you to quit concerning yourself with my personal affairs. So what if I prefer the Eastern Facade? What business is that of yours? We were all given the gift of freedom by The Ones Who Built Us, and if I choose to spend my few hours of freedom in solitude then that is my choice!”

 

The Virgin reeled backwards with her mouth open in shock. Never had she known the mild-mannered Rhy to lash out at anyone, much less herself.  “I just thought you should know that they’re talking,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to attack you. You’re my best friend and I love you, Rhy. If someone is making you happy, I want to be the first to know.”

 

Rhy stood silently. 

 

 “What have you got to hide, Rhy? If he’s good to you then let it be known! It’s almost as if you’re ashamed for some reason,” and at that The Virgin began to laugh. “You’re acting as if you’ve fallen in love with some spitting gargoyle dangling off the Cathedral. Come now!”

 

The thought drew more laughter from The Virgin but Rhy remained sullen.

 

At length she slowly spoke. “Let’s pretend that I had. Now would you still be my friend?”

 

The Virgin raised her eyes. “That’s a stupid thing to say. Don’t be so silly!”

 

“But would you? “Rhy insisted.

 

“Oh stop it. Don’t make me answer that question.”

 

“Why? You’ve been asking me plenty of questions lately. Allow me just this one.”

Well, if you had fallen in love with a spitting gargoyle then I’d tell you to pull yourself together,” The Virgin said snorting through her chuckles. “You are too beautiful and too charming for the life of a gargoyle. Gargoyles are kept on the roof of the Cathedral for a reason. And you guard the front for a reason. The one you love should be your match, not your lesser-than.” The Virgin was laughing so hard that she had tears in her eyes. “But why are we having this discussion? Its not as though you’re actually in love with a gargoyle!”

 

Rhy began to grow aware of the silence that had fallen and the painful realization that practically everyone in the Western Façade was listening to the fight between The Virgin and the saint. Before hundreds of her brother and sister guardians, Rhy stood exposed.

 

This my chance! I can tell them about Kiren and how much I care for him. I can convince them to meet our brother and sister gargoyles and then they’ll see that they’re not so different than us. If they got to know Kiren, if they even talked to him for just a moment, then they would surely love him just as I do.

But I know them better than that. They would never accept anyone who is half man, half serpent. I’m fooling myself to imagine that they would do anything other than to ridicule me.

If I give into my emotions I will loose all respect from the ones who have stood by me for 400 years, the friendships I’ve cultivated and the influence I have. What would they say about me behind my back?

Oh Kiren, I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, Kiren my love! I was strong. I thought I didn’t need them! I thought I didn’t care what they said when they thought I wasn’t listening! But maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m crazy for even imagining that the two of us together would not be a sin!

Michael, I will run to Michael and no one will think I’m a freak.

 

The bells chimed three times and Rhy’s heart sank. This was the hour when Rhy and Kiren always met in secrecy.  Rhy looked longingly towards the periphery of the West End and the path that led into the familiar shrubbery. With an aching unlike anything she had ever imagined possible to feel, she bowed her head.

 

 “You’re right,” Saint Anne said. “This is a silly thing to talk about. And no, rest your head, I’m not in love with a gargoyle. I’ve just needed quiet time to myself recently. But I’m feeling more like Rhy again.”

 

“Praises to the Lord!” The Virgin sighed. “You were beginning to worry me. You were beginning to worry all of us.”

 

Rhy returned to her pedestal well before daybreak, feeling more like a statue than she had ever felt before.  Just before Roan appeared in the sky to warn the cathedral denizens of the first light, a cloven-toed statue came creeping to Rhy’s pedestal and whispered in her ear: “Don’t listen to them! I beg you to ignore the ones who tell you to turn against your heart. If there is such thing as a hell, then lady I can assure you that you are walking straight into it.”

 

Saint Anne whispered in response. “It will not serve me to take advice from the Devil” and the hoofed Lucifer statue said no more. 

 

It was not long before Rhy consented to the Archangel Michael’s affection. Kiren continued to visit the meeting spot every fortnight until technology advanced so that the city never went black and streetlights eventually locked each stone guardian into place. Kiren knew Saint Anne had chosen Michael, but continued to faithfully visit their old meeting spot until word spread that Rhy had been trapped under a ray of light one evening and would never move again. That night, Kiren too surrendered himself beneath the streetlamps.

 

If you should visit the Notre Dame Cathedral on a night when the moon is new and the rain will not cease,  you may walk its blackened walls and meet Kiren, the spitting gargoyle who still dutifully serves the cathedral. If he could speak, he would implore you to walk to the Western Facade and send his regards to Saint Anne. There she stands, in an enclave near the central portal of the cathedral, with raindrops for tears, trickling down her marble cheeks.
 

Reviews

[Eagle Cruagh]

This is not a suitable review for such an
outstanding piece of writing.

I will try to come back later, read about
St. Anne again and try to produce a suitable review.

This writing demonstrates a keen imagination, but more
it shows that much research was done and the writer
is a student of her subject.

This piece shows remarkable talent, an outstanding
command of the language and vast knowledge of the saints
and of the Cathedral.

When a suitable time can be arranged I will review this
appropriately, in the meantime let me plead with you
to continue writing ---- it is superbly gifted .

----- 'Eagle Cruagh