Olivegoyle

Dear reader, how might the following story—or any of the thousands told the world over of inanimate objects coming to life—be explained? I believe, that with the passing of centuries, a significant buildup of residual magic, misspoken curses, incomplete incantations, and other dark emissions have encircled the earth to such an extent that, by some strange, mysterious law of attraction, a number of curious objects—such as Gothic statues—have become increasingly enchanted. This is, of course, just a theory. Perhaps you’ve one of your own.

Rock should not walk in the evening.

— from “The Gods of the Mountain” by Lord Dunsany

    Rain slants heavy like a torrent of curses from an angry god. The twin dragons of Altgeld Hall at Northern Illinois University crouch on either side of the front archway, spewing water from stone grins. In the nearby garden plot, a human-sized statue stands dreaming and alone. This is Olivegoyle; not a true gargoyle, per se, but one of several grotesques stationed on and around the Gothic-style hall, a building often referred to as ‘The Castle’ for its turreted design. Today, sadness pours over Olivegoyle with the rain. Not only is she alone in the garden—separated from the others due to past lightning strikes—she is headless, her bat-like visage having been stolen, and subsequently lost, by a drunken prankster. Often her consciousness thinks: My head is gone, I must go get another. But she cannot do much without eyes.

    The storm retreats to the surrounding farmland; the campus grows quiet beneath an emergent moon. Back at Altgeld Hall, two dragons wiggle, snarl, crack free of their stone foundations and launch themselves into the air. Spiraling up and into the sky, they glide playfully across the moonlit rooftops. Next they chase each other high into the cold, thin atmosphere at the edge of space. There they dance medieval jigs, growl long-forgotten laments, breathe imaginary fire. For a time they engage in mock aerial combat and swooping aerobatics, their eyes ablaze amid a field of stars. Satisfied with their play, the dragons then drop down to The Castle. There they sniff wildly about the garden like a pair of bloodhounds; in minutes they pick up the scent of Olivegoyle’s prankster. Not having far to go, they alight on the ledge of a dorm room window and scuttle through its billowing curtains….

    As the rising sun warms the morning, as a low fog swirls about the legs of walking students, a long, piercing scream shoots across campus, scattering pigeons from rooftop perches. At Altgeld Hall, a student has taken notice of Olivegoyle’s new head. Students begin to gather, start to gasp and cry as they recognize the horror-stricken face of their peer, his severed head now stuck atop the soiled grotesque. Blood pools inside the man’s throat, rises, spurts intermittently from the gaping mouth. Then a wisp of steam—or perhaps an outward sigh from Olivegoyle herself—escapes into the brisk morning air.

First published in The Gargoylicon: Imaginings and Images of the Gargoyle in Literature and Art, an anthology from Mind's Eye Publications, 2022.