The Gargoyle of Yorkshire Wood
A Gargoyles Fanfic by Quill N. Inque
I do not own Gargoyles.
Chapter 1
"There's a lot in this world that you'll never understand. And you always fear what you don't understand."- Carmine Falcone, "Batman Begins" (2005)
Yorkshire, England, 1662
The area of Yorkshire was renowned throughout Great Britain for its beautiful scenery. Ancient trees, their branches gnarled with age, stretched their limbs to the heavens as the greenery of summer gave way to an explosion of yellows, reds and browns; this let all and sundry know that autumn's cold was imminent. Farmers could be spotted amongst the gently rolling hills as they went about the last harvest of the year, collecting bail after bail, bundle after bundle of crops in preparation for winter's scarcity. Others went out into the forest, intent on hunting deer and squirrel for that evening's meal. The quaint thatched-roof houses of the town square gave it a picturesque beauty worthy of a postcard, and the shadows they cast had already begun to lengthen as the sun dipped below the horizon.
Such a pity, then, that the serenity was marred by the angry shouts of the rabble which thundered down the cobblestone street. The gathered townsfolk looked for all the world like something out of "Frankenstein"; torches cast an eerie light over the proceedings as they brandished pitchforks, scythes, and other common agricultural implements.
The mob parted like the Red Sea before Moses as Reverend Thomas Limster, a religious zealot who also functioned as the town's magistrate, solemnly trod to his spot on the elevated dais. He was no longer young; a slight groan escaped his lips as he eased his body into the hard wooden chair, knocking his curly powdered wig askew. Limster's facial features were as severe as his mannerisms; his nose was hooked and thin, his eyes beady and darting, the skin beneath his eyes etched with frown lines, and his mouth turned permanently downwards. The Reverend's reedy voice brought about instant silence as he spoke.
"Bring forth the accused!" he thundered, pointing with his gavel.
Again the assembled patronage made way, but the second person to come forward was much more pitiable than Limster; a young woman, no more than eighteen, bound in a cocoon of ropes and prodded mercilessly with spears as she was ushered forward. Even by today's standards, she was beautiful; the girl possessed a lithe figure curvy enough to catch any man's eye, and her almond-shaped brown eyes complemented her sun-tanned skin. Her brown hair, highlighted with gold, hung in front of her face as she was tugged rougly along.
After all, one couldn't be too careful with witches.
Nods and mutters greeted her arrival; it made sense that Annie Whitehall had been working with Satan. Annie was unmarried, which was improper for girls her age, and spent time outdoors instead of on more womanly activities. Anne had a strong personality, too; she was never one to submit to men, like proper women did, and would voice her opinion to Cromwell himself. The only concession Anne made to tradition was the embroidered green dress she wore.
Limster turned to face her, and his expression was one of utmost loathing. "What is this woman charged with?"
A herald unrolled a piece of parchment, and his booming voice echoed through the town. "The accused is charged with the practice of unholy witchcraft, of committing acts of said witchcraft that are numerous in quantity and sinister in nature! How does the accused plead?"
"Well, Mistress Whitehall," Limster said. "Did you or did you not make a pact with the Devil and write your name in his black book? Are you or are you not a witch?"
"I am not," Annette said with quiet dignity, fiery determination in her voice. "I am a Christian woman, and I always will be."
"Lies!" shouted a man in the crowd. "She passed by my field, and a blight came upon our harvest that year!"
Anne rolled her eyes. "That was because mold got into your granary, Charles. It's your own fault for not making sure your roof was watertight."
"But could you have summoned the mold to Mr. Johnson's wheat?" Limster demanded. "Surely a witch such as yourself is more than capable of such a thing."
"I am no witch," Anne said. "And I certainly don't wish Charles any misfortune."
She could see that the Reverend was not convinced. "Next witness," he barked.
Another villager, a woman this time, stepped from the assembled masses. "Anne helped to deliver my baby last spring, but he was a stillborn!"
A collective gasp made the very windows shake, and even Anne looked perturbed as she replied, "Again, that was no fault of mine, Mistress Noll. The umbilical cord had wrapped around the boy's neck; there was nothing anyone could have done to save him."
"She spews lies again!" Mrs. Noll said. "I'm telling you, that trollop hexed my baby!"
"The evidence against you is overwhelming," Limster said, turning to Anne. "It would go better for you if you confessed your sins and pleaded for God's forgiveness! The Lord looks upon you with shame, Anne! Let Him cleanse your soul!"
"I'll not confess to a crime of which I am innocent," Anne said defiantly as her sweet voice rang out loud and clear. "You'll get no such satisfaction from me! Kill me if you want, but know that you are sending an innocent woman to her grave!"
"You won't be fortunate enough to be granted death," Limster said, smiling grimly. "No, you will serve a greater purpose: You shall be sent to the Demon's Lair, to be his unholy bride!"
The color drained from Anne's face; she'd heard stories of the bat-winged demon that dwelt within the ruined castle only a day's ride from town. Rumors and whisperings said that he slept during the day, but came out at night to feast on human flesh. No man was brave enough to try and vanquish the creature, and Parliament had ignored the town's entreaties, so the townsfolk tried to pacify him with periodic offerings of food and milk. Thus far, they'd kept the Demon's wrath at bay, but Anne felt tears well up in her eyes as she imagined the hellbeast having his way with her. She knew without a doubt that this was the "greater purpose" Limster had in mind.
"We can think of no better gift for the beast than a woman as unclean as himself," the Reverend continued. "We will escort you to the Demon's stronghold, and there you will remain for the rest of your days! Never return here and darken our skies with your presence on pain of death! Take her away!"
Two big, hairy men seized Anne's bound body and hoisted her up on a horse as the townsfolk cheered. Meanwhile, Limster picked out a handful of the most seasoned hunters and fighters to accompany them, and the expedition was underway in a trice.
The setting sun lit the sky with its brilliant hues, but to Anne it confirmed that within his castle, the Demon was about to awaken. Lower and lower the glowing orb sank into the sky, until the last vestiges of its life-giving warmth vanished below the horizon as the imposing stone structure hove into view.
Once, it had been a mighty fortress, seated securely on a cliff hundreds of feet above the roaring ocean, its soaring towers and magnificent arches had been an object of fascination and beauty. But now the once-great stronghold had fallen into disrepair: many of its towers were crumbling and open to the elements, and vines and creepers had overgrown the once-impregnable walls. It was a scene of desolation and abandonment that only served to increase Anne's apprehension.
Darkness fell, and almost instantly a bone chilling roar echoed through the castle's corroded corridors. The men on either side of Anne stiffened, their eyes wide with fear, and the horses whinnied fearfully.
It was official: the Demon had awakened.
The man at the head of the column rode inside the ruined gates, and called out in a booming voice, "Hear us, Demon! We bring you a witch for a bride, an offering! Take your fill of her, and leave the women of the village alone! We hope this pleases you!"
Someone seized Anne's hand, and a tarnished ring was thrust upon her finger. "Go," the man said harshly. "Go and warm the Demon's bed. It's all you're good for now," he snarled as he pushed Anne inside.
The horsemen were gone before she could even protest.
Anne took in her new surroundings, and an involuntary shudder passed down her spine; the place was even spookier up close, and this fact was not lost upon her as Anne Whitehall entered the Demon's Lair.