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St Stephen's Windows

Here’s a playlist I listened to whilst writing

For Rhydart, From ForWhenMyBrainHurts

Ross leaned his head against the huge, heavy wooden beam which made up the part of the rafters he was sitting in. His mouth was slightly curled into a sad smile, sympathy heavy in his heart for the men who were working in front of him, heavy for the families they would go back to, heavy for the pets in their homes, heavy for the people who visited the church - more often than they had in a long time - and heavy for everyone he had never seen before. Each person seemed to have lost someone they knew, either in the air raids, or over on the continent, where the war was on everyone’s doorstep.

Each Sunday the bells rang defiantly out, bursting out over the city, and joining in with the other churches’ callings to prove to the enemies - and to Heaven - that the city would not fall or be beaten. Ross would clamber up to the belltower, hold on to a pillar with one arm, and lean out to breathe in the air. Of course, he didn’t need to breathe, but he felt free, and hopeful.

Nothing this huge had happened in the city for so long, and the sermons became more and more serious. However, no one ever let the situation destroy their mettle. They were winning the war, whether that be thanks to the troops in Europe, the help from America and Russia, or thanks to the never ending resolve of the people left at home. The whole city was working together, cleaning up the rubble left behind after raids, manufacturing things to destroy the enemy forces, sending care packages to their loved ones overseas, sending their children away to the countryside to keep them safe, taking care of the vulnerable people who stayed in the city, and still finding the resolve to go to church every Sunday and thank God for the miracles still happening despite it all.

All of this was made obvious during services at the church, where people were remembered, and honoured. Where Mr Foster the butcher, who lived round the corner, was commended for his efforts in clearing up the devastation caused by a high explosive bomb. His dog was from then on welcomed inside the church, as she had sniffed out two men who had been trapped.

These were the reasons for Ross’ smile, as he watched twelve men, including the vicar, remove the panels of stained glass from the East window, one by one. They started with the Saints and Angels in the smaller, top two rows of panels. These panels had been there for as long as Ross could remember. He could never recall if they had been here first, or if he had. The design was medieval, the faces of the saints so much more characteristic than those made in the Classical or Neo Gothic times of the 19th Century. Their eyes seemed to hold so much more emotion, and each one of them knew a secret. Ross could see it in their curious lips.

The central panels were each a small part of a big story; the life of St. Stephen. He stood meek, yet clearly the focal point of the whole window, in the centre, dressed in blue, and with all the other characters facing him. Ross couldn’t tell who these people were supposed to be. They seemed to be from a different time and place from each other, but all revered St. Stephen. One of the gargoyle’s favourite observation spots inside the church roof sat beside a wooden carved depiction of the stoning of St. Stephen. He never understood how anyone was supposed to see it and know what it was, especially as it was so worn over the centuries. He guessed it was simply to mark the death of the martyr, but he liked to believe it was for him. To remind him of humanity, or even to help him feel connected to it somehow.

Each of the bottom panels of the great window were as old as the ones in the top, and Latin text was surrounded by roses, paying homage to the beautiful rose garden outside, and leaves similar to the ones the dove in the West window held in its beak. Ross had lost the knowledge of Latin he had pieced together in his mind from listening to services and sermons. The Latin had been phased out centuries ago, even if a little of it remained in hymns; its long forgotten meaning punctuating the English with sudden unfamiliarity, so he didn’t know what the text read, other than the final line: “Stephanus Dei manet in gloria”. It wasn’t hard to recognise “God”, “glory” and the saint’s name. Ross chose it to mean, “Stephen has been given the glory of God”, or something to that effect. He often wondered what that might be like.

Each pane was removed with precision and care by men that Ross recognised as part of the congregation, and placed in wooden boxes, wrapped in metres of thick cloth. One by one, the boxes were carried out of the church, into the sunlit garden, and buried - it was poignant in more ways than one. There had been many times in which multiple boxes had been buried together in the yard, and each of them seemed to be more sad than the last. Earlier in the week, four coffins lay side by side in the church, as the faces of the living collectively mourned the workers killed when an explosive caused the roof of their warehouse to collapse on top of them.

For seven weeks the routine went along as it had for the past four years; steady streams of people went about their lives in the daytime, some women wore overalls and pinned their soft hair back in scarves, which Ross particularly liked. They joked and walked proudly to and from work, clutching each other in affectionate ways. It appeared that this happiness was to spite the enemies, but Ross had long figured out that it was to mask the fear, bereavement and hopelessness they felt. Nothing had changed for so long, all prospects were that things were going to be this way forever, so people just dealt with it.

The evenings ended early. As soon as the sky was dark enough to see the first stars, doors shut until morning and lights were extinguished to the point that they had never been before. Ross named more stars in those six years than he had done in his whole life, and once the six years were over, some of those stars were never seen by him again.

Some nights stayed quiet, in fact it was most nights, but the nights that were filled with noise, flashes of light and choking engines made it feel like those quiet nights were somewhere in the past, untouchable, forgotten in the chaos. Ross ached to join in the efforts, helping out in some way, but a voice from his past told him that he would be considered a monster. He’d be locked away in a cage to be poked at, blamed for atrocities which he knew nothing about, and eventually killed in some brutal way. He couldn’t put a face to the voice, but it was caring and soft, and spoke in a strange, fluid, emphasised English. Whoever it was, and wherever it came from, the gargoyle believed it, so he stayed in his hiding spots, looking out over the city, or down towards the flagstoned floor of the church.

It was a Tuesday night, much like any other Tuesday. Everyone had gone back to their homes and Ross had enjoyed the clear skies for an hour or so, his gut squirming in juxtaposition. Clear nights didn’t usually mean air raids, thanks to anti-aircraft defences, including fantastic searchlights, but the gargoyle somehow knew that it would be a long night.

Sure enough, as the clock hands shifted their way just past eleven o’clock (the bell tolling had been disabled), the siren wailed out over the valley from its station point at City Hall, and Ross felt the walls of his church tremble with anticipation, as the community took shelter, and the emergency services prepared themselves. They had done a drill only a week and a day ago, and thanks to the devastation caused by the last raid, there wasn’t anyone who didn’t take it seriously.

Ross watched the lights attempt to pick out the reflection of metal in the sky, shadows of objects blocking his view of the stars, but it was at least an hour until the low, distant rumble of propellers reverberated in the air. Ross watched as the plane ducked over buildings on the other side of the river to drop a bomb. It swooped back up high to escape the guns that were firing at it, and Ross lost sight of it in the darkness. The light coming from the gunpowder, the noise of firing, engines and sirens, and the smells of remnants from damaged buildings and gunfire filled Ross’ senses to the point where he closed his eyes, held his breath and lifted his head towards the sky. He didn’t believe in a heaven above Earth, unseen by human eyes, but it always seemed like the most logical place to pray towards.

A second plane swooped over the north of the city, and dropped another bomb. Once it had come around, lifting into the air to get out of danger, it came back down, so low that Ross could no longer see it. But he heard the shots. Machine gun fire rained over the industrial buildings which sat beside the rail tracks. The gargoyle choked tears, knowing that he would remember this war for the rest of his life, as he listened to bricks and windows being crumbled and smashed. He climbed down from the tower, hung his head low as he leapt inside and down the walls to the cold, flagstone floor.

His small, nimble footsteps echoed around the silent, empty building as he walked between the pews to the East window. He missed St Stephen and the angels. They had been replaced with wooden boards. Glass was expensive enough in peaceful times. It was as though the parish had predicted what was about to happen.

Ross didn’t hear an engine, but heard a whistling bomb. By then it was too late. He was stronger than a human, of course, but he still didn’t much fancy his church caving in on him.

“Fitting,” he said to himself, before ducking under the archway of the Sanctuary.

The ground underneath his hands groaned in shock first, and Ross felt the tremors climb up and through his body, up towards the roof, and every window in the place shattered. Dust billowed around the building, the wooden boards had splintered onto the floor nearby, but the structure remained. In testament to the craftsmanship that had gone into the building of St Stephen’s church, the power of their beliefs at their side, not one stone seemed to shift, not one beam collapsed.

Ross counted to three before coming out from his hiding place. The walls around him were still and silent as they had been mere seconds ago, only now there was a distinct draft rustling the flower arrangements, and it looked almost as if every surface had been caught in a summer shower.

The initial relief and thankfulness that the church was still standing was suddenly replaced with loss and sadness. Whilst the angels of the East window had been saved, every other window had been utterly destroyed. Ross’s marble feet were undamaged by crunching the glass under his feet as he paced the South Aisle, but there was pain inside him. As he approached the West window, he spotted the dove of peace, strewn over the entrance in over seven separate pieces. He started picking up the jagged shards, and placed them in order on the 19th Century bible, which was on a stand just inside the door. However, the tip of the dove’s beak was missing, as was the olive branch, and as it was, the poor thing served no purpose. Ross grew more and more frantic, falling to his knees and crawling, picking up any and all fragments of glass to try and find a hint of green. Eventually, exhausted and depressed, he sat on the stone floor with his back against the heavy, bolted, wooden door, and waited for the sirens to stop.

Once they did, Ross retreated to the rafters, and the vicar pulled the door open slowly, around twenty minutes later. He stepped with extreme care, breathing in the damage heavily, and tracing his fingers over pillars, walls and furniture, thanking God as he went. Ross watched him silently pray for a while, before returning to the West door, ready to try and sleep before the sun would rise. As he reached around four feet from the handle, however, he stopped.

“What?” He questioned, as he sidestepped over to the bible, gently touching the white glass belonging to the dove. Ross smiled in pride, feeling a lot better about the whole situation, as the vicar sobbed a few tears of joy.

“Peace is on its way,” he whispered to himself, before leaving the church, this time with a spring in his step.

It took over a day for four people to sweep up the glass, and the vicar used his own time to sort through the shards and find pieces which were still big enough to be saved. He would put them in groups, laid out on tables to the right of the Sanctuary, but the dove’s beak was never found. It wasn’t until the war had ended, a year later, that repairs of the windows finally took place. The East window went back in place, pane by pane from the top to the bottom, and a great sense of relief and familiarity filled Ross’ heart. He spent hours staring at the details of the glass, which hadn’t diminished one bit.

The oldest parts of the North and West windows were similar to the bottom panels of the East window; decorated with Latin and roses. It was the biggest historical loss that the church had suffered in the blast, but thankfully, a lot of it had been saved. The vicar knew less Latin than Ross, but he had a plan in mind, so it seemed.

A slim gentleman of unremarkable height, dressed in a velvet, bottle green jacket was brought into the church by the vicar. The vicar explained that he wanted the fragments put together deliberately out of order.

“I want it to be a reminder of what happened. An homage, if you like, to the grace of God. He saved the church, and sent a sign that war would end soon, and it did. But the beautiful windows were sacrificed.”

The young, rather good looking man had blinked at the vicar a few times, as if he was silently laughing at him, but came across genuine in his reply.

“I like that idea, it’s great. I can do that, no problem.”

He spent hours at a time piecing fragments of glass back together. Ross didn’t recognise the man, but people in and out of the church seemed to know him. The gargoyle wondered why he had a bad feeling about the man. There was nothing curious or notable about him really, other than the fitted jacket, which he always wore. He didn’t talk much, and when he did, it was only small talk, but Ross simply didn’t like him, and there was an ominous feeling of doom about the work he was doing, as if it meant the beginning of the end of something.

He pored over the fragments of red, brown, green, gold and white and eventually mosaics of stained glass, dating back five hundred years, decorated the West, North and South windows’ bottom rows. The pieces of glass from the dove remained together, in a display case next to the old bible at the entrance.

The man was a good artist, and painted new panels for the windows. Saints congregated at the top of the West window, and Ross liked the way they looked as though they were at a family reunion. The South window told the story of Easter, and finally the North window depicted the nativity. It was everyone’s favourite new addition, to the point that every Christmas saw the clergy leave a lamp on behind it as soon as darkness drew in, illuminating the glass from the inside. All of the people walking past the church were treated to the colourful reminder of the story of Christmas, and a great warmth would fill them, whether they were religious or not. However, when all the windows were finished, a shadow hung over everything. No one else seemed to recognise it, but Ross rarely stayed inside the church from then on.

He would sit sulkily on the side of the tower, willing the congregation to go elsewhere. There would only be sadness inside, but he knew he couldn’t confide in anyone. He longed to have a friend, or even just someone who could see the darkness like he could, and do something about it.

It was 1959 when Ross’s fears were realised. Everything he had ever known, and all he could remember was taken from him. The vicar died, clutching hold of a pew, attempting to get to his little office to phone for help.

Ross heard nothing, it was a silent death. The gargoyle was watching a young couple walk their dog up the road, smiling at the shopkeepers who were done for the day, sighing at the squirming feeling in his stomach, which had been there for years. He didn’t know until it was early next morning, and he wondered why the vicar hadn’t opened the doors.

Climbing down the wall, Ross pondered at the lights. They had been left on all night. A flash of white appeared in the corner of the gaygoyle’s eye, and he turned to see the vicar, very much dead in between two pews.

The post mortem decided that the vicar had died from asphyxiation, yet no marks appeared on his body. The funeral was sombre, and a gentle hum resonated around the small crowd; how had he died? What could have done this? They were scared. The shadow had descended, and at last the congregation could feel it. It was mid August, but coats bundled around everyone, and unease decorated their faces.

Ross could only question why human life was so fickle. They all died so soon, so easily. He often wondered how easily he would die, or if he even could. If the church had been destroyed in the war, or if it had been pulled down when they started the urban expansion of all the shops and offices, what would have happened to him? Would he have ceased to be? He believed he had once loved the church, but St Stephen looked so forlorn these days, almost as if he was begging Ross to do something before it was too late. The gargoyle asked himself what that might be, was he supposed to just leave? Where would he go? He had never once walked out of the grounds. He only knew as much as he could see from the tower, and what he could hear from the people talking amongst themselves. Or was he supposed to do something more dramatic? How? He had no tools, and what a shame it would be. It was everything Ross had ever known. Still, everyday the eyes of the angels grew sadder and more detached. Whatever that artist had done to the church, it was full of hate.

Three weeks after the vicar’s funeral, the congregation thinned to less than a hundred people. A christening was held, and the child screamed throughout the ceremony. Days later, they had caught a crippling illness and the child was never able to grow up like their friends.

“Just a child!” Ross whispered to the wooden carving above his head, when he found out; as if St Stephen could help.

God took four members of the congregation in the next five months. The remaining people would hiss at each other about the ‘curse’ surrounding them all. It was attributed to the church, specifically at the ceiling.

“There’s something up there, I can see it out of the corner of my eye sometimes.”

This disturbed Ross beyond anything else. He would look around the rafters, searching for whatever the thing might be, but never once found it. He saw the ‘curse’ swimming around the building at times, like a fog, and he would sit amongst the roses, pulling off leaves, sulkily. It was only during a heavy meditation - pleading with anyone who would listen to lift the ‘curse’ - that he realised the thing in the ceiling which scared people could only be himself.

He simply couldn’t leave. He was meant to be here. He heard the old English voice in his head, “You have to stay in this place. It is where you belong, and God trusts you to be a part of it.” Sitting outside in the frame of the West window, Ross touched the glass, and felt the buzz coming from inside. He was scared to go back in.

The city was warm with the scent and excitement of Christmas. Families trudged in the snow which had fallen over the last couple of weeks - though Ross was certain that the winters came later and shorter every year - and music played in the street all the time.

Some of the music was like nothing the gargoyle had ever heard. It had steady drum beats, like a march, but the melodies were sweet, and the singing so simple and harmonised wonderfully. A shop selling music had been opened, and the front was painted in pastel pink and green, which clashed in the most intriguing way. A face sat in the window, looking as if he was pleading with every passer by to buy him. Text under the picture read, “Cliff Richard - Travellin’ Light”. The face was pretty, and Ross wondered if he would oblige him, by buying him. After all, he was only travelling light, so wouldn’t be a burden on anyone who did. But he sat there in the three weeks before Christmas, until another picture sat next to him. This man was called Emile Ford, and he asked, “What Do You Want to Make Those Eyes at Me For?” He smiled as he questioned, and it confused Ross so much so that he aimlessly wandered across the road one night to take a closer look. He had never seen a face this close to him before, although he knew he must have done in the past, he just couldn’t remember.

The gargoyle traced a finger over the glass of the shop window, exploring the features of both men’s faces. It was almost half an hour before he realised where he was. There was a silence-shattering series of bangs coming from behind him, and he whipped round.

Before locating the source of the sound, Ross’ breath was taken back by the sight in front of him. He had never seen the church from the front before, not from this far back. His heart came up to his throat, and he panicked. The building was so dark, imposing and twisted by shadows with no origins. How had he ever lived there? The nativity window beamed out onto the snow, as if it were a glimmer of hope, but the colours looked harsh, and the gargoyle saw them as a warning against anyone going in.

Finally, with another set of loud bangs, Ross’ attention was drawn away, to the heavy wooden door. Someone was trying to get in, as if the heat from Hell was underneath their feet. They beat a fist against the door three more times, before crying out in frustration.

Ross silently crept back across the road, up the other side of the church building, and round to try and get a look at the person below.

He had never seen this person before. From what he could tell, it was a man, and he had a head of auburn hair, styled like Cliff Richard’s was, albeit messed up, which amused Ross. A spattering of stubble was over the man’s chin, and a cigarette hung out of his mouth, unlit. A black leather jacket with heavy looking zippers over it hung off the man’s shoulders, revealing a plain green t-shirt underneath. He also wore tight fitting jeans, which were covered in some sort of greenish dirt. It looked fresh and wet. Ross couldn’t see his feet.

Four more heavy bangs on the door to no avail, and the man swore loudly. He retreated into the garden, frantically looking around, the jacket clinging onto his forearms to avoid falling into the snow. He shrugged it back over his shoulders and scooped up snow around him to try and find something.

He found it before long, it was a broken chunk of a tombstone. The man slowly gazed up at the North window, into the face of the Virgin Mary, stone in his hands, and seemed to pause for a moment, as if questioning what he was about to do. He did it anyway. The stone was lifted behind the man’s head, and as he leaned back, the bottom of his torso was revealed. Ross blinked in amazement at the vulnerability of it, and the shape. He had never seen under a person’s clothes before. They were always so well dressed in church, after all. The man grunted as he threw the stone, hitting a shepherd first, which then impacted over a quarter of the window, and once again that awful shattering of glass rang in Ross’ ears, though this time it was oddly satisfying.

The man clambered deftly up and into the church via the hole he had made, somehow squeezing through the metal bars without injury. He wore black boots. Ross sat and admired the scene he had just witnessed. Whoever this was, he was amazing. His slim body was so quick and light, despite his height. He must have been almost as tall as Ross. Taller even? The gargoyle never knew humans could move that way.

He climbed back down the side of the building to survey what was left of the Christmas window. The colours were stark against the white snow, but most of the pieces lay on the inside. Cautiously, Ross peered through the hole. Glass dust swirled from the wounds of the window. The shepherds and their sheep were all separated from each other, and Ross allowed a smile. Some of those nameless shadows had been disturbed.

The gargoyle spotted the young man standing at the front of the Chancel, facing the great East window, with a flower stand in one hand. He looked angry, yet thoughtful. The cigarette was now lit, and he puffed plumes of smoke towards the roof. He turned to his right, and looked at all of the windows. Walking with a determined pace to the North window, he threw his weight behind an attempt at destroying it. However, the stand broke, and Jesus remained, nailed to the cross, his eleven remaining apostles and his mother by his side. Desperately searching for another weapon, the man swung around the aisles. Ross watched him. It was clear he could see the darkness too.

As he looked to the North porch, he froze. He removed the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it into the Font. For the first time, his face was soft, youthful, beautiful. So Ross thought. It was why he didn’t move. The man was staring right into his eyes, and he didn’t realise it. He was too busy staring right back.

The man cleared his throat. “I can’t destroy it,” he said.

Ross finally came back to himself. He was suddenly aware of the warmth from the lamp above his head, and looked towards it. It reflected in his aquamarine eyes, and in the blue speckles of glass over his body. He was discovered. He heard the man sigh, shudderingly, and faced back towards him, terrified, but unable to move.

“You’re beautiful,” the man gasped. Ross saw him swallow, still soft faced, but now with the hint of a smile in his eyes.

“Thank you,” came a rather raspy, unsure reply. “So are you,” Ross replied without thinking.

The man laughed out loud this time, his broad, mischievous grin spread all over his face.

“I try,” he cryptically raised his eyebrows as he walked over to the broken window.

When he reached the gargoyle, they each sensed the great energy and magic radiating from the other, and there was a holy silence between them for long enough to take in all features. The gargoyle was made of marble, dark veins embedded all over, different shades of blue glass and precious stones adorning him in patterns, and those stunning eyes absorbing everything in front of him in turn.

It was then that Ross finally realised. This was no man. There was no way he could be human. River green eyes beamed with powerful magic, though it was hard to tell if it was good or bad. His skin was pale and smooth, and gave off an illusion of fluidity. Indeed, the waves in his hair reminded Ross of the rivers which flooded the gutters during storms.

“What are you trying to destroy?” Ross asked, sure that he wanted nothing more than for the creature to be happy.

“The windows. They put a curse on this place.”

Ross looked confused for a moment before asking, “How is that going to help? The whole place is cursed.”

The creature paused for a moment. Then his eyes twinkled in excitement, but he remained still. “Would you like me to burn it down?”

“What?” The gargoyle replied, softly.

“I need to stop the curse. If the walls are infected, it needs to go; all of it.”

“People have died,” Ross assured. “I don’t want anyone else to suffer. The congregation are good people.”

The creature snorted laughter, and looked suddenly unsure. “They’re only good when they’re in church, believe me. That’s not the reason why I want it gone.” He answered to Ross’ shocked expression. “The damn demon who painted the glass and set the curse works for a rival. Everyone is going to him for magical remedies and advice. The people who come to church are passing it on to others. It’s like an infection. It’s all over the city, and this rival can cure it quicker than us, because he’s got the antidote to hand. It’s halved business.”

Ross was perplexed. “You want to destroy it because of business? It’s my home, it’s everything I’ve ever known. I have nowhere to go. The people need the church.”

“Listen, there are thirteen other churches in the city. They will find another one.” The creature paused again, and the twinkle came back. “Come with me. That’s where you can go.”

It was a little too much for Ross to think about. Thirteen churches? He had never known there were so many. Did they all have gargoyles like him? He knew he wanted to stay with his new friend; in fact he wanted nothing more. A weight was lifted as soon as their eyes had met, the sadness was gone, he had been found, and it wasn’t terrible, like the voice in his memory said it would be. He remembered the satisfaction he had from the window smashing, and wondered if he could feel it again.

Ross shook his head, “I need to be here. I need to have the tower, the angels, St Stephen…”

Then the creature reached through the bars of the broken window and touched Ross’ face.

It ignited life inside him. He felt love, his heartbeat, his organs, his tears on his cheek, as he reeled from the emotion. The creature smiled, and his eyes pierced to Ross’ soul.

“I live even further up the hill. You can see everything from up there. There’s music all day every day, there’s food for you to try, there are people around who will adore you as much as I do. There’s a place for you.”

Ross breathed in hope and pride.

“This place needs to go. Think of how much better it will be.”

Gulping down the last of his attachment to the walls, Ross closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

“Right, let me back through,” the creature said, excitedly. He was looking forward to it.

Ross obliged, and the two of them stood face to face finally. Their hands reached out to each other, and Ross felt the touch of someone else under his fingers for the first time in his memory. It was wonderful.

“Smith,” the creature stated.

Ross blinked at him.

“Call me Smith,” he clarified.

“Ross,” the gargoyle replied.

Smith grinned again, clasped hold of Ross’ hand and led him up the hill, along the pavement. Ross took in every sight he could. the buildings were all made of different materials, tall and each one a different personality. He couldn’t help but smile, excited at what might be around the next corner. His pleasure was short lived, however. Smith stopped at a long, ridiculously stunning brand new Chrysler New Yorker. Ross marvelled at the squareness of the shape, unlike anything anyone drove around the city, and he wondered how on earth anyone could drive something like this in the snow.

“This is yours?” Ross asked.

Smith merely smiled in response, in such a way that it was obvious there was a long story behind it. Ross watched him gather some things from the car; a canister of liquid, and something that looked like a package.

Ross took Smith’s hand again, and Smith couldn’t seem to shake his grin. They walked in silence back to the church, Ross looking at everything he might have missed on their first passing of the other buildings on the street. They reached the broken window again, and Smith let go of Ross, and licked his lips in anticipation.

“Stay here,” he advised.

Ross watched Smith slip with relative effortlessness back inside the church. He fiddled with the package, separating it into small pieces, and put them all around the building. The canister of liquid was poured, linking all of the pieces together. Ross couldn’t shake the feeling he was missing something. The prospect of everything changing for him was making him grip hold of the bars in front of him and warping them. He breathed heavily as he watched Smith working.

The shadows were angry. The swirling around the building was heavier than ever before, and it only reinforced to Ross that this was necessary. It meant that the angels and the saints would be lost, the bible, and… the dove.

Without thinking, Ross crawled up the side of the North window, then clambered up the tower, and inside. He made his way to the case which housed the dove, and broke the display glass with care.

“Ross!” Smith screamed, as the gargoyle picked up the shards of painted glass which he had rescued only seventeen years before. Ross looked over to where Smith was leaning just out of the broken window. He had set a trail of fire from the window towards the first small package. “Get out!” Smith shouted, terrified.

Ross fumbled for a moment, before putting the shards of stained glass in between his teeth, climbing up and out of the tower. Smith stood at the bottom, panic on his face as he looked from the gargoyle to the fire. He looked ready to sprint, and at last Ross realised what was about to happen. Fire wouldn’t destroy the stone of the church. It had to be something explosive.

Gasping, he leapt down from twenty feet, picked Smith up in one arm, and jumped over the stone wall of the yard and through the snow, out of the way. He slipped, and they both went over onto the ground. Ross covered Smith with himself.

Finally, after years of feeling as though he no longer belonged in his home, and some even feared what he might be, there was nothing to go back to. A series of explosions smashed every window in the buildings Ross had admired only minutes before, and plumes of ancient stone dust and rubble littered the snowy street.

He heard Smith giggling in his ear, uncontrollable and breathy. Putting him down and looking at him, Ross saw the thrill of destruction on his face, and found it utterly endearing.

“That was- that was so good!” Smith gasped shrilly.

It was infectious, and Ross took the glass out of his teeth and started laughing too, if only to release some of the shock he was feeling. After being still and quiet for so many centuries, this all happened too fast. He wanted to go back and see the damage, to see if St Stephen had survived at all, but almost immediately, the sounds of shouting people grew louder.

“Come on!” Smith urged. “We have to go, now!”

Ross ran with Smith back to the car, and soon forgot the link he was supposed to have had with the church, as he experienced being in a car for the first time, and gaped at the sights they drove past. His heart raced more than it had ever done before, but it was out of sheer joy and excitement. On reflection, the gargoyle wondered if there had even been a link in the first place.

Some twenty one years later, Christmas 1980, Smith came home to find Ross prodding the shards of glass again. He often did it when he was feeling useless or bored.

Handing the gargoyle his long, fitted black coat which made him look like Gary Numan (so Trott said, trying to be complementary), the kelpie raised his eyebrows.

“I’m taking you out,” he stated. Ross followed. “Bring those with you,” Smith hinted at the shards of broken white glass. Ross hesitated for a few moments, before placing the dove carefully in his pocket

They walked rather than drove, to enjoy the crisp afternoon and comment on the people they walked past, and came to a guild hall, now a museum. It focused mainly on the stories from the city during the war, but at the very end of the building was a display of stained glass. St Stephen stood, no longer forlorn, but back to how Ross had remembered him; meek yet powerful. The angels eyed Ross from across the hall, knowing and amused at seeing him again. Ross walked blindly over to the display. Chunks were missing, of course, but the gargoyle could tell that they were happy, and they were loved. They looked more clean than Ross could ever remember.

Smith came up close behind him, the kelpie’s hand on the small of his back. “They restored everything they could,” he explained. “It’s only just been put on display. The story is all here. Though of course, no one knows who did it.”

Turning to Smith, Ross smiled knowingly.

They paused, looking at each other. “Thanks,” Ross said.

Smith nodded in acknowledgement, and gestured towards where the story of St Stephen’s church was written. Ross walked closer and read, all the while feeling the gaze of the angels on him. He knew they were grateful, and so was he.

Ross got to the bottom of the description of the display, and read:

‘The case contains what was left of the rest of the ancient glass. Only one piece of the “miracle” dove has ever been found; just the tip of its beak and the olive branch it held.”

Moving his gaze slowly up to the glass box which contained mismatched colours that could have been from anywhere, he spotted it. It was the missing piece of the dove, just sitting there, in the middle of all the rest.

The gargoyle’s heart beat steadily in awe as he stared at it. There was no way this was chance. He had searched every corner of the church for that final bit, and it certainly wasn’t in the collection the vicar had gathered together.

“I don’t believe it,” Ross breathed.

Of course, he had recounted the story to his friends, so Smith merely smiled back.

After a few more minutes of looking around, reading, and remembering, Ross took the dove in its fragments, and placed them discreetly on top of the glass box. He and Smith left the hall, with no more words to be said, and the last of the shadows which might have gripped Ross were gone.

NOTES:

My time is spent in the city of Norwich, one of the oldest and most important in Britain’s history. Norwich once had 57 churches, one for each week of the year, and then some. 31 still stand to this day, and St Stephen’s is one of them.

I walk past the church every day. It sits right in the city centre, overshadowed by modern buildings, and practically sitting on the pavement/sidewalk. During December, the nativity window is lit from inside, so passers by can see the beautiful colours of the stained glass.

Having a sneaky look at Rhydart’s blog, I knew architecture, colour, fashion and character would be important. I hope I have delivered.

Bonus: St Stephen’s Day is the 26th December.

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