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Brood of a New Age
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Following a text passage is a music note: The reader can already pick out the video/song to start it at this section (or can ignore the music altogether). It is just an accompaniment.
Youtube: Scorpions - Wind Of Change (Official Music Video) 4,42 min
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Sentences with these characters: ^ - are actually in the respective national language
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Washington, D.C., District of Columbia, USA 7h10 EST
He almost spilled his coffee when his wife stormed into the dining room. This kind of thing usually only happened with Chelsea, who would be moving to Stanford in a few weeks anyway ( probably as far away as you could get on American soil).
While his other female bundle of energy grabbed the remote without any explanation, he looked down at himself to see if he had gotten coffee on his shirt. Fortunately, he hadn't. Even though he only had a thirty yard walk to work, he was reluctant to change because of a stain. Then he cleared his throat.
"Darling? What's wrong?"
"You've got to see this."
She switched on the TV that hung on the wall of the dining room (because, sadly, in his job he just had to keep up with the latest developments everywhere even if he had so far refused to accept TVs in the bathrooms as some of his more gushing advisers recommended).
"Please, nothing with the Iranians. I've already told Khatami we're easing sanctions."
"Who cares about the Iranis? That pill's been swallowed. THIS - is right on our doorstep. "
She flicked through a few channels and her husband lowered his cup for the first time, making an irritated face because the same thing seemed to be on everywhere. She stopped at CNN and sat down with him.
Wordlessly they both watched the report of the journalist, who looked as if the sky had fallen on his head - which somehow turned out to be true. But at the latest, the ten-minute montage of scenes - scenes with a more than extraordinary cast - made his jaw drop. He didn't even notice. Only when the feature repeated itself - obviously a loop that was impossibly deliberate on the part of the network - and his wife gently pressed her hand against his chin from below to make him close his mouth, did he notice. She handed him a handkerchief and he wiped the moisture from his cheek and blew his nose. Not because a tear had come to his eye - the air in here was just not good. Too cold, too hot, too stuffy, there was always something - it was an old building. Plus the pollen.
His wife switched off the television. "I think ... this issue has to start moving. And now Congress can't ignore it any more," said his better half, his support, his best friend for almost thirty years. Also, the woman who had doggedly overlooked his interest in interns for years. He lifted his eyes and exchanged a private smile, which was all too rare, with the woman of his life.
"Do you think ... the boy is dead?" he asked, looking at his sweetheart who, as in the past, kept giving him a motherly lenient look.
"We may only find out when they are no longer hunted like animals without consequences," she said.
He stood up, coffee and his second roll forgotten.
"You're right. Let's get to work. Time to make history."
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Paris, France: 13h49 MEZ (- New York City, New York, USA: 7h49 EST)
He handed Louise her sixth handkerchief. She blew her nose loudly and stuffed the tissue into the pocket of her apron, which was already bulging with used tissues.
^"I can't watch this anymore,"^ she said, her voice choked with tears. Then she got up and set about tidying up the tea service on the living room table. On normal days, he took his tea in the dining room or study. Not today. Louise didn't usually have tea with him. That was different today, too. The television program was too special to watch it alone. Not when it affected the residents of the house so much.
Isidore Montigny remained seated while Louise walked away with the tray, grumbling quietly. Immediately afterwards, she became louder, obviously scolding the most extraordinary pet of the most extraordinary flat-sharing community in the country. Richelieu had probably used the opportunity while Louise was distracted to help himself to the large cookie jar that stood on the kitchen worktop. Basically, he was a gentleman and would have offered to help any other woman - both with tidying up the tea service and with regulating the griffin. But Louise, who was only called Madame by the children, had driven that out of him years ago. He didn't want to be slapped on the fingers again. Louise took her duties as housekeeper and keeper of order during the day very seriously.
She was still young. Not even forty. But he had found the perfect person not only to look after the Manoir du Muscari in a private part of the huge park of Vincennes but also to keep the many secrets here. She was as loyal as a watchful sheepdog and Isidore meant that in the best and most loving way possible. Louise no longer had to watch the TV program with him if it upset her so much. It WAS upsetting. But Professor Montigny saw so much more in it. He saw the big picture. He saw the future. The possibility of a better future. For his children. Isidore stood up, hearing the bones crack in his back, but feeling younger than he had in years. He didn't need to keep watching the program. It repeated itself every fifteen minutes. Instead, he felt a strong urge to go upstairs.
The phone rang just as he was in the hallway. He indicated to Louise, who was coming out of the kitchen, that he would take the call. He knew who it was.
^"Bonjour, Arnaud. The television program is exceptional today, isn't it?"^ Isidore said more bubbly than he had in a long time.
He grinned as he listened to Arnaud Lanvin's excited words. He grinned even wider when Richelieu perched on his hind legs in front of him and looked at him, tilting his head questioningly. He patted the instantly purring griffin on the head and beak as he mumbled a few agreeing and a few denying phrases to the questions of the strangest journalist in France and perhaps the world (strange because he preferred being friends with Isidore and the children rather than writing a story that would now at the latest hit like a bomb). But even now, his questions were not the kind that normal reporters would have asked. He asked Isidore what he thought of the situation in New York in his function as an amateur cryptozoologist, biologist and behavioral scientist and not as a clan father. And finally ... he asked if he could come this evening when everyone was awake. Of course, the professor couldn't refuse him. He was quite excited himself at the prospect of showing the children the footage.
^"Ahh, Arnaud!"^ he remembered just before the young man hung up.
^"Yes, Professor?"^
^"I'd like to ask you to go to the electronics store and buy one of those portable computers with an internet access."^
^"A laptop?"^
^"Yes - if that's the sort of thing."^
^"You want to show them the full recording?"^
^"Don't you?"^
^"Then you need a modem too. Without that, you won't be able to access the Internet address."^
^"Buy everything we need. I'll give you the money back ... Buy everything twice - the second modem and the second laptop as an expense allowance for you."^
A brief, astonished silence at the end of the line. Arnaud had long since learned not to question him.
^"Thank you, Professor. See you later."^
^"See you later, my friend."^
The professor made his way back up the stairs, Louise now behind him. Richelieu had already rushed ahead because he saw where they were going and because he wasn't actually allowed out of the house or on the roof during the day unless a human was present. The blond-feathered griffin, the size of a calf, was crouching at the door to the roof and meowing pushily to be let out. If it had been a normal door handle, he would have been able to open it. But for a round knob, it needed a thumb. Richelieu stormed out and immediately began to chase his own shadow, which he rarely got to see because he was hardly ever allowed on the roof during the day.
Meanwhile, Professor Montigny and Louise wandered around on the rooftop. He knew his household jewel had only come along to escape the television program (and perhaps to help him if he lost his strength). Yet he felt so invigorated.
He strolled among the statues that most people would have thought were nothing more than highly whimsical pieces of art until a year ago and before the bombing of the Gargoyles' former lair in Manhattan. The quirky hobby collection of a quirky old man.
Isidore placed a hand on the shoulder of the first statue.
This one was female, with two broad horns curving elegantly backwards on her forehead and small spikes on her shoulders. Absinthe - his guardian of the nightly order, his right hand, reserved and down-to-earth, tyrannical and chilly when she tried to contain the chaos of the others. What would he and this clan do without her? She had her arms crossed disapprovingly and her stony eyes looked so annoyed at the scene before her that Isidore had to laugh. He stepped up to the three statues, who looked like they were involved in an argument. Which two of them certainly had been when the sun came up because they were at each other's throats. He stroked his sweet naive Mélusine over one of her tentacles hanging down the side of her face. His little, terribly bad sorceress who saw the good in everyone. His gaze went to Grimm, who looked even more menacing than usual with his grimace twisted in anger. His problem child. They were all "adopted", but dealing with a young gargoyle who had been abused by neo-Nazis for years as an "attack dog" and who, after being freed by Mélusine, first had to learn to control his anger and trust other beings was a particular challenge. Especially because these vicious humans had mutilated him. They had cut his wing membranes so that he would never be able to glide again. Oh, the wounded body and soul that could be so warm and gentle when he thought no one could see it.
And last in the group of three, the boy who could always make Isidore smile. His dragon-like foster son Delacroix. Named after the French painter who was considered a pioneer of the Impressionists due to the vividness of his imagination and his generous use of color. And didn't this Delacroix here also paint the world around him in the brightest colors, even if only in his imagination? His heroic Delacroix, with his ridiculously childlike enthusiasm, his fondness for eighties culture, his courage and his delusion that he really was the leader of the Clan de Paris. Even now, frozen in stone, he tried to pull the two squabblers Mélusine and Grimm apart - something he would never succeed in doing.
The last three statues were given loving pats. Svenn, the hulking Viking gargoyle, who spoke little but was always helpful and clever enough to stay out of arguments. As was Morphine, the grumpy, taciturn gargoyle teenage girl with the strangest wings he'd ever come across (similar to Lexington's from the record but without the center bar). Not that Morphine used them much - she preferred to play Gameboy in her room. And on the side, always acknowledging the performance offered by the estate's liveliest gargoyles with an indulgent knowing smile, Opaline, the tall auburn female gargoyle with the crown-like horns curving back from her forehead, who simply showed up one night. She was supposedly from the future, but no one had ever gotten anything more out of her. Sometimes she was there. Sometimes she was gone again for weeks or months. As if she really was a time traveler who wasn't at home anywhere. Or ... as if she was waiting for something and thought she would find it here.
He loved them all so much. His children. His charges. He wouldn't live forever. And like every father, he worried about the future of his children, who were so strong, so special and yet so vulnerable. But ... and he would explain this to them in detail tonight, the events of last night - far away in New York - were nothing like the bomb attack on this foreign clan a year ago. The images were threatening and a turning point like back then. But not a turning point for the worse, not the beginning of the downfall. But the beginning of something very special, something great, something liberating. And he was looking forward to it so much. That didn't mean that his clan would soon be able to come out into the open. Maybe they never could - just the thought of what Absinthe would do to cameramen who annoyed her. Or Grimm! Or Delacroix - he was always so touchy-feely when he was excited.
But this clan 6000 kilometers away made a start. Not entirely voluntarily and certainly with many problems. They would ... be a future template for the whole race, whether they made good or bad decisions, had good or bad experiences. They would set an example for every member of the species. And therefore also for his children. That was a start.
^"How can you smile, Professor? Aren't you worried? That little gargoyle is probably dead. Shot by those disgusting Quarrymen who brought the building down,"^ Louise asked next to him. He was standing by Delacroix again with a hand on his gritty chest.
^"You were repulsed by the scene of that Quarrymen leader buying the gargoyle child from the criminal. You laughed when those gargoyles joked with each other. And you yourself prayed for the child's welfare when the gargoyles prayed too. And you cried when they cried, Louise."^
His housekeeper blushed and lowered her eyes. "Well, it was really upsetting."^
^"All those feelings you had. Do you think other people will have the same feelings when they see the footage?"^
Louise blinked in confusion.
^"If they're not made of stone, of course."^
Isidore grinned at her until a smile spread across her face. Now she saw the big picture.
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St. Louis, Missouri, USA: 7h35 CST (- New York City, New York, USA 8h35 EST)
As soon as he opened the bedroom door, he heard his wife arguing with his son. Loudly. He heard stomping and knew she was chasing him through the living room.
He heard war roars and hissing.
"Stop that! You're not a gargoyle! Give me the remote control!"
"NEVER!" screeched the bright voice of his child.
"This program is way too scary for you!"
"A gargoyle knows no fear!"
"I'm warning you, young man."
"I am not a man! I'm a GARGOYLE!" his son yelled, audibly jumping around downstairs and certainly keeping himself remarkably well out of reach of his wife's hands again.
Konrad smirked. But he knew he couldn't put it off any longer. He had to put his fatherly foot down and pretend that his son's wonderful energy wasn't the thing that made him proudest. And it wasn't as if he was hiding up here. He was a long-serving police officer (among other things) - he wasn't going to be scared of his wife and five-year-old. Just to be safe, he touched his belt again to reassure himself of his handcuffs and holstered service weapon. Just to be on the safe side. He took his police cap from the dresser and strolled downstairs as unaffected as possible. Where his son was bouncing around on the couch, totally hyper, the remote control in his hand.
The program from New York was still on TV, showing on all the channels and getting their already gargoyle-obsessed son all worked up. He was perhaps too young to realize that the footage showed, by and large, how a gargoyle child died. He just saw these "cool gargoyles" on TV. Because Konrad always watched the news in the morning, they had unsuspectingly turned on the TV and watched the first five minutes of the reporter's report and then the first somehow cute and funny scenes. But these changed after a cut to much more dramatic content. They then turned off the TV - because it was recommended to send the children out of the room - and went upstairs to change themselves. His wife had finished first (yes, that's why he loved her, no unnecessary dressing up - his sensitive nose didn't like creams, perfumes or the like) and had probably found her son again in front of the TV - this time the one in the living room where he was unaffectedly watching these inappropriate scenes.
His wife was now in attack stance, legs wide, arms raised, hands curled into claws (oh, that was sexy). But she was only human. When she jumped towards the child, he leapt away and within two seconds had climbed on top of the bookshelf. Which, of course, was bolted down like all the furniture in the house.
His wife stomped her foot in front of the bookshelf, which made his son cackle cheekily. "You're very naughty! Woe betide me if I have to call your father," she nagged. "Then Quarrymen and gargoyles are the least of your problems."
"Gargoyles are not a problem!"
"Give me the remote and come down. Or do you want him to drive you to Summer Day Care with a siren again so everyone can see you've been a naughty puppy?"
His child stretched his upper body like a little gargoyle and proudly lifted his nose into the air with not much air above him - the ceiling was less than ten centimetres above his head.
"I'll stay here today and watch the movie and keep an eye on things."
"What are you supposed to watch out for here?"
"A gargoyle can no more stop protecting the castle, than breathing the air!" quoted his child with so much bravado that it put the greatest pathos of the best actors in the shade.
This made Konrad laugh and his wife's and the eyes of his offspring turned to him.
"Daddy!" screeched his child and made a huge leap from the bookshelf in his direction. His wife screamed, but only the remote control clattered on the parquet. Konrad managed to catch his little one. It growled at him playfully and he growled back much more playfully.
"If you annoy your mom again, you'll be banned from Gargoyle-things," he said sternly, hoping his wife didn't see him wink at the boy.
"Okay, Chief," he said meekly as he was placed on the floor. Konrad pressed his kindergarten backpack into his hands.
"Tell him not to act like a gargoyle in front of the others. They'll think he's crazy," said his wife, pinching the bridge of her nose because he wasn't strict enough again. Konrad stepped up to her and kissed her in apology. Which caused her offspring to make a disgusted sound. He turned his head towards him.
"You know you have to act like a human in front of everyone, right?"
His child lowered his eyes, sulking, and looked at the television with the sound turned down, where the scene of the little green gargoyle dragging this woman into the chamber was now playing again. With his lower lip pushed forward, his son nodded.
"Yes, dad. Human. I'm not a gargoyle. I know that." Konrad patted him on the head. He couldn't see when the pup was so sad. If it made him feel less alone to have a soft spot for these creatures ... then he could live with it. New York was a thousand miles away - what could he do?
"Do you know who is most likely to be involved with gargoyles?" asked Konrad. The child looked up with wide eyes and immediately began to fidget and tug at him again.
"Who, daddy? Tell me, tell me, tell me""
"Policemen have the most to do with them."
His son's face lit up. Which also made Konrad grin.
"Then I'll be a policeman too!" his son exclaimed, sticking out his slim chest like a superhero.
Konrad liked that, even though he saw his wife rolling her eyes out of the corner of his eye.
"Then you have to go to Day Care every day and get very good grades at school, especially in sports," he said, feeling a little elation of his own as his child bounced back and forth enthusiastically and promised to be the best at everything and become a policeman as long as he got near gargoyles.
"OkayOKAY," he interrupted the new battle roar of his imaginary gargoyle and opened the front door, handing the kid his car keys and pushing him outside.
"Go ahead to the car while me and your mom make smoochie smoochie. And no more roaring and hissing. Outside means normal-mode."
"You got it, Chief!" his son called out in a feigned low voice, standing up straight and saluting him before giggling and jumping to the car with the keys.
Konrad cleared his throat and didn't even try to wipe the huge grin off his face before his wife came over to fix his tie.
"I wish you wouldn't support him in his passion for these things."
"Oh, he's five years old. And the castle will be guarded by the gargoyles for as long as whatever sounds good. And unlike Spiderman and Batman, at least gargoyles are real. He's talking about real characters and not comic guys as if they were real."
"That's a problem too."
"It'll grow out of it. It's just a new phase."
He put an arm around her waist and hugged her to him, grumbling teasingly before kissing her. After that, she looked more conciliatory, almost playful.
"You know-," she hummed when he reluctantly let go of her.
"Yeah-?"
"-that if it's not a phase, he'll be a cop in New York, right?"
Konrad's smile faded.
Then suddenly the police siren blew, causing him and his wife to flinch.
He gave his wife another wide-eyed look, but she just shrugged her shoulders with a grin and her this-is-your-son expression. He turned on his heel and sprinted to his police car, pointing his finger at the laughing child in the driver's seat.
"Andre Schoppenhauer! What did I say about playing around with Daddy's car?"
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Naples, Italy: 15h08 MEZ (- New York City, New York, USA: 9h08 EST)
^"Don Armano?"^
^"Uh-huh?"^
^"Ummm, it's after three?"^
^"Uh-huh?"^ returned the young priest of St Mary, Mother of the Redeemer, who was now alone in leading the masses in the church since Don Carlo's crusade in Rome had apparently not yet borne fruit.
^"I mean ... choir practice started at three. Everyone is there ... except you, Don Armano."^
He felt more than saw Beatrice beside him kneading indecisively and helplessly at the hem of her skirt. That had been one of the first changes. He had made the choir accessible to girls. That had been better received than he had thought. And the way the television programme was shaping up today, changes were afoot everywhere.
"Beatrice," he said, managing with difficulty to take his eyes off the television. He continued to sit on the couch, kneading his rosary in his hands, watching this rerun on the most widespread channel in Italy for the third time, but how could he not? When Eva was on TV. Cowering in despair over what might be a dying child of her kind, praying with him. How well she had learned English. He would hardly have understood a word if the recordings had not had subtitles. When he raised his eyes, he saw that Beatrice's eyes were fixed on the screen. Her gaze was completely disturbed. Was this the right programme for a twelve-year-old? Should he send her away? Should he cancel the choir rehearsal? He couldn't possibly concentrate on singing and notes. But Beatrice's startled eyes forced him to say the following.
^"Beatrice ... choir practice will not take place today. I want you to get all the children here. We're all going to watch this show together. I have some things to say about it."^
^"The little ones might get scared,"^ the girl murmured, lowering her eyes to hide the fact that she herself was uncomfortable with the images.
Right now this reporter was talking again who had been buried under a collapsed building with Eva and others (How awful that Eva had been caught in something like that. Something like that would never have happened in Naples).
^"Remember those friends I told you about? The ones who travelled to America to find their family or their destiny?"^
She nodded, glad not to have to respond cluelessly to a question from the priest again.
^"The woman who just prayed with the light blue gargoyle - that was one of them."^ Her eyes went wide. She looked back at the television then back at him. Lying was a sin. She knew Don Armano would never lie to her.
^"But she looks like a devil! Like one of those Hell-spawn monsters Don Carlos talked about. A devil is a friend of yours?"^
^"Oh Beatrice ... If our eyes saw souls instead of bodies, how very different would our idea of beauty be? What do you think?"^
The girl looked at him questioningly. He smiled indulgently.
^"Evil comes in many forms. Sometimes in the form of an old ranting priest or a hammer-wielding supposedly noble man. And good comes in many forms. What you saw in the footage was not a devil. None of them are. They call themselves gargoyles. And they can be as good or as evil as humans. Eva ... the female with the red skin ... is one of the good ones. I want you to bring all the children now. Maybe some of them will be afraid. But I want to explain to them what happened there in New York today and what the pictures show. This is important. And I want you all to be smarter than the other children and the adults here. Will you help me with that?"^
The twelve-year-old looked at him, an uncertain smile playing around her lips. And something that should be inherent in all children. Curiosity.
^"Will you tell us how you met your ... Gargeul friends?"^ she asked, audibly struggling with the new word but willing to accept the new facts.
The young priest grinned.
^"By all means. Now shoo. Call everyone over. The little ones may join me on the couch."^
The girl scurried away and Don Armano leaned back. He would have to think about how to tell the story without lying and yet without mentioning Camorra killers and murder. But honestly ... he was looking forward to the coming minutes and the story he would tell. He would make sure that these children would not become like many adults. Not afraid of everything strange and unknown in this world. Not hastily prejudging. They would become children of a new age. He let a few more beads of the rosary pass through his fingers and smiled. Despite his concern for Eva and Fiore, he smiled. He would pray for both of them. For all of them. But they were tough. He would find out what had happened to them eventually. And what about that internet address, constantly visible under the subtitles? ... Later in the day he would go to the library. There was a computer with internet access.
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Flatlands, New York City, New York, USA: 12h34 EST
When she finished diapering the baby and came back into the kitchen, she saw that her eight-year-old was still sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the small TV on the countertop. She had told him to turn it off and brush his teeth upstairs so they could go to the dentist. Instead, worse than before, her son didn't even look at her when she came in but stared at the screen with his eyelids half closed and his mouth open as if in a trance. He looked like a retard! The only thing missing was drool running out of his mouth! If any of her relatives or friends saw that-. If word got around in the mosque-. He even still had his plate from lunch in his hands, even though she had ordered him to put it in the sink.
She looked at the television, where one of these creatures was currently pressing on another one. The program was simply disgusting. Those gargoyles were disgusting. Why was this filth on every channel? She had at least wanted to see the beginning of her talk show before they left. She would later write a severe letter to the channel bosses, asking what they were thinking showing such a program all day on nearly every channel. Or was this some kind of freak act like last year before the Lost Nights? No, she didn't even want to think about that anymore, it was just too weird. It really made you want to move away from New York. Which, of course, wasn't possible because the World Trade Center was only in New York and her husband's broker-company was only in New York. If they ever wanted to get out of the Flatlands and into a better neighborhood, he had to keep working there. She took a deep breath and unplugged the TV, snapping the kid out of his zombie mode. He blinked and looked at her in surprise.
She shook her head disapprovingly and he had that guilty look again.
"Give me that," she said, demanding the plate from his hands with a snap. He handed it to her and she instantly dropped it because she was burning her fingers!
The plate shattered loudly on the kitchen floor and the baby in her other arm started to cry.
"Shit," she hissed and tried to calm her little angel with cooing and gentle pats on her bottom, which was covered by her romper. Although she would have loved to smack the little devil in front of her.
"Damn it, Nathaniel, did you put the plate in the microwave?" she asked with barely concealed annoyance.
"No!" he shouted indignantly and shrank under her gaze.
"You shouldn't lie to me! First the story about the gargoyle in Murshid's workshop two weeks ago and then these lies every time you're bad or break something OR something weird happens. When your father comes home tonight he's going to give you a spanking for your lies."
"But I-" the child bristled and kneaded his chubby hands.
"Or ... maybe it's not good for you that we let you see him as much as he wants. Maybe we should-."
"NO!" Nathaniel cried, his lower lip trembling as he bowed his head and confessed the truth.
"I'm sorry I put the plate in the microwave. I want to go on to Uncle Murshid. Please, I'll never do it again. I-I'm working on myself. Every day. Really."
Hila Sharif narrowed her eyes and let her wayward firstborn squirm a little longer.
"I burned my fingers, the plate is broken and you made your sister cry. How are you going to make it up to us?"
"I ... I could-" The child looked helplessly around in the kitchen. "I could pull the weeds out of the garden. And, and always tidy up Jasmine's toys. Or the whole house. I always tidy up when I see something isn't where it should be."
He raised his moist, eerily pale blue eyes. And Hila was forced to avert her iron-hard gaze. Meanwhile, the baby had calmed down.
"I just want you to be normal, Nathaniel. Just don't be a liar. And don't be a freak. And don't watch those freaks on TV anymore. Gargoyles are disgusting monsters. Do you get that?" She glared at him again and he looked petulant for a second. Before he buckled again and nodded. Hila looked at her firstborn emotionlessly. He lowered his eyes like a submissive puppy. Naturally, he avoided further confrontation. But it also showed a weakness of character. She would rather have a more stubborn child than a weakling. But ... Baz was probably right that it was good for the child to spend time in his "uncle's" workshop - even if this uncle was a strange guy. Machines and motorcycles were dangerous - but manly. Nobody wanted a son with a weak and effeminate character.
Nathaniel wanted to bend down to pick up the shards but she shooed him away - unwilling to comfort him when he cut his finger through his own clumsiness.
"Go upstairs. Brush your teeth, put your shoes on and then we have to go."
She knew she shouldn't feel repulsed by her own son. But she still felt that way in such situations. Even though it had really improved since January since she had the luxury of not needing to spend so much time with her own son. Since HE took care of him.
Hila Sharif placed her sweet angel on her other shoulder so she could pick up the broken pieces. They were still warm. She briefly thought about how her son had managed to hold the plate where she had had to drop it immediately. There had already been a few similar incidents. Smoke alarms that went off even though there was no device anywhere that could have produced smoke. Wind that sometimes tore open all the windows on a floor or slammed doors. A burnt patch of grass in the lawn. A few burst light bulbs or a smouldering electrical appliance. Tiny incidents for which there was always some explanation or which Hila Sharif resolutely ignored. She hated this damn city with all its oddities. And she refused to let herself think that something similar was happening to her house or her son. If she even remotely believed that these incidents were unnatural ... she knew that this city, this country, had broken her. She was better than that.
The baby on the crook of her neck babbled something and made Hila smile. "At least you're going to be normal," she whispered, throwing the broken pieces into the garbage can.
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London, UK: 20h34 BST (- New York City, New York, USA: 15h34 EST)
"Guys! You've got to see this!"
Old Pog almost got the door of the stairwell in his face as he tried to go through first after waking up. It was only thanks to his staff and Lunette pressing her small hands into the small of his back that he managed to stay upright.
"For God's sake, Dinesh! Didn't I tell you not to open the door like that? One night you'll break someone's beak or a horn," the two-hundred-year-old hippogriff-gargoyle nagged.
Dinesh, one of the day guards, who like most of the clan's few human familiars had been taken in as a young child or runaway teenager and lived on Knight's Spur, apologised hurriedly but everyone could see he was completely excited.
What's going on?" asked Una, as always worried about the gargoyles who stayed in Soho during the day to open the shop as soon as the sun went down.
"All hell has broken loose in Manhattan again! It's beyond belief. Come on, until the morning it was on continuous loop on all channels, now only on the two biggest."
"Oh, no, what's blown up now? Or is one of them in jail again? "Constance asked, clutching her head.
The others hurried to get in front of the various TVs - most of them probably in front of the biggest one in the dining room, which was really only turned on for the European and World Cup soccer broadcasts.
Staghart put a hand on Dinesh's shoulder as he was about to turn around.
"Is the clan all right? What- is something wrong with Lexington?" he asked.
Dinesh smiled but when he saw Staghard's worried features, his euphoria vanished. He weighed his next words carefully. "I think ... you'll have to see for yourself. But I called my cousin in India and he also says that this recording has been going on for hours. And if this recording is aired all over the world ... I think that will be good for all Gargoyles."
"That would be a change," Coco muttered, and a worried sigh escaped the handsome, usually confident deer gargoyle.
"All the gargoyles, okay. But it's not Lex who-"
Coney put a hand on his shoulder as if he suspected he was about to fall over. Staghart looked gratefully at the wiry gargoyle with the rabbit-like appearance, the big furry ears hanging down to his chest and the soft brown wings. Apart from Coco, his best friend on Knight's Spur and a calm radiating counterpart to Coco's exuberant manner or to his own nobler extroversion.
"Come on, let's go downstairs and find a TV that's not under siege," Coney said, nose twitching, and took Staghart by the hand.
Amp had his other arm wrapped around himself as if he were struggling to keep all parts of himself in place. "During the telecast, can I cuddle one of your ears? To calm down?"
"Sure, Stag. Whatever you want-."
"Can I have the other ear?" asked Coco.
"Only if you don't bite it again out of excitement," said Coney a little more coolly. His fur had grown back over the spot only a few weeks ago.
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Ishimura, Japan: 5h01 JST (- New York City, New York, USA: 16h01 EST, the day before)
Kai stared at the television in the temple's common room, which was also used for festivities or as a cafeteria when the weather outside was too bad. But apart from him, no one had been here for hours. Perhaps not so much because they were bored with the program (at the beginning of the night this rerun was on all channels and now only on a few) but because their clan leader was grumbling and brooding and no one wanted to be near him in the long run. He knew that he was unbearable right now, sometimes wavering between excessive anger at the behavior of the humans towards a hatchling in the first parts of the amateur recordings, deep agitation during the few scenes of the gunfight (they had shot at Goliath and his clan members with A LASER?!) then to a melancholic short amusement when the Gargoyles joked (even if he had no idea what this Bu-fi they were talking about was supposed to be) and finally the deep, all overlaying worry. For the whole clan, for Goliath, Elisa and Angela, whom he hadn't even seen in the recordings, but above all for the two children. Nash? Goliath had written him letters. The child of Brooklyn and Katana - a Japanese like him (not that it mattered.) He took a deep breath as the footage came to its dramatic conclusion for what felt like the hundredth time that night. They were crying. This clan was suffering. And there was nothing he could do. That was clear to him. It was clear to everyone. But he was so angry that it could have come to this.
He felt someone enter the hall and smelled Sora's subtle floral perfume. His second in command (since Yama had been temporarily banished to restore his honor) was wiser than to address him first. He had to say something first to make it known that he was receptive.
^"I know the sun is about to rise. When I wake up tomorrow night ... I'll call New York. I will offer Goliath-sama again to relocate his clan to Ishimura."^
^"Knowing him, he will refuse, Kai-sama. No matter how things turn out with Nashville-kun ... he'll have a 'Now more than ever' attitude."^
Kai smirked but felt the bitter lump in his stomach.
^"Yes, probably. That young stubborn one. But he's smart enough not to expect his whole clan to agree with him. He'll give them a choice."^
"Hai."
Sora stayed seated with him while for the last time tonight for the Ishimura gargoyles, after the last shots under the debris, this reporter who had filmed the footage showed up. Filmed with a spyglass camera! Which the gargoyles hadn't known about until the end - basically another humiliation and dishonoring towards their American cousins. But it was hard to be angry at this gajin Travis Marshall when he looked so battered and bruised himself. Still, despite the dirt, the blood in his hair, the shirt held together only by three paper clips in the front, he managed to radiate an emphatic, serious gravitas appropriate to the situation and the images.
It was jarring that someone who supposedly lived by the light of publicity would step in front of the camera like this - but perhaps that was the point. Maybe it wasn't just about the clear message of his words. Perhaps the man himself was a message to the world. After apologizing for the upsetting pictures, he came to his often-heard but unchanged factual final comment.
Kai understood English and he knew from Sora that the subtitles helped her while the audience had no choice but to listen to the war-wounded man.
"I quote the timeless closing statement of Tobe Crest, the lawyer who recently defended the gargoyle Goliath and thus his entire species:
...history will not be kind to those wo fought for or aided in oppression ... this specific moment in time will be studied down the ages. When history's final verdict is rendered, you do not want to be on the wrong site of it.
... The court in New York confirmed that gargoyles are not only sentient but embody themselves with their nature and actions, which we in our speciest way consider highly humane. Not only Goliath embodies these values as I witnessed tonight and you just observed. Gargoyles qualify for the same rights as humans, the city's court found. At the same time, it was emphasized that it is outside the cope of that court to rewrite the definition of humanity."
Travis Marshall raised his head. If possible, his gaze on the audience only intensified. As if he was requesting - without being intrusive or demanding - access to their souls and hearts. "Dear viewers in front of the screens. It is beyond any court to redefine the concept of humanity and human rights. It is up to the people. The people on the streets, the people who come into contact with gargoyles and will come into contact with them in the future. That will be all of us ... if we want it to be. If we decide on which side we want to stand. The Quarrymen and the Syndicates of this city have made their choice - because of hate, greed and ignorance, people have died tonight. Losses that didn't have to be. A young innocent life is now hanging by a thread in these hours. Decide, dear viewers, with your words and actions every night and every day whether Nashville's suffering and the agony of his family must be repeated. Be the change you hope to see. Be the divergence yourself. Good day, good night, this is Travis Marshall speaking for all who cared."
The screen then went black - with music slowly starting and intensifying.
An excerpt from a piece of music that even Kai knew and that always made him feel almost hopeful.
Michael Jackson - Man In The Mirror
They follow each other on the wind ya know
'Cause they got nowhere to go
That's why I want you to know
I'm starting with the man in the mirror
I'm asking him to change his ways
And no message could've been any clearer
If they wanna make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and then make a change
Soul softening but not distracting or loud enough to rival the warm female voice that then spoke in the recording, which was also translated by the subtitles.
"The full, uncut and unedited recording of yesterday's happenings can now be accessed and copied free of charge from the internationally accessible internet links provided at: : / / OneWorld . com"
Both gargoyles had already missed the last few sentences. The morning sun and birdsong broke through the open sliding doors of the temple while the entire recording was repeated with the web address constantly displayed under the subtitles.
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New York City, New York, USA: 20.59 EST
When Lyla Hopkins arrived in front of New York Presbyterian Hospital, having gotten off the bus one stop earlier because the bus driver had announced that there was simply no way through the traffic jam in the surrounding blocks, nothing and no one could wipe the broad grin off her fleshy face. She gradually pushed her way past the thousands of other people. To the entrance. As close as she could, because the police kept trying to clear the access roads. But she hardly believed that the hospital was overly functional. Not with this crowd. No Quarrymen protesters - they would be suicidal to show their faces here.
No.
Today there wafted the scent of change.
Today was Lyla's day. She had been a seer before anyone else. She was someone here. When the people around her saw that she had a tattoo of P.I.T. on her upper arm, they made room for her. For the first time, people looked at her like she was ... good and right. For the first time, she felt like she was swimming on top. She had chosen the right side. And she wanted everyone to see that. Not with Man in the Mirror, which had been chanted here for hours. She had another idea. Lyla flicked the ON button on her ghetto blaster, lifted it over her head, and a sweet whistle that everyone would recognize rippled over the murmuring crowd and up this side of the building. She was too far away from the policemen in front of the barriers to stop her.
She loved herself in the role of anarchist. She loved the looks the other people gave her. Just a second of astonishment before they grinned, opened their mouths and sang. Lyra herself felt the energy of the crowd as it began to sway around her like a single living organism. She herself sang louder than everyone around her. The priestess of a new age that even the gargoyles would appreciate. She loved this feeling. She loved all the gargoyles, especially sweet little Nashville. She prayed he survived like everyone here did. She was important. Her life had meaning. She had a mission. She was worthy of affection. Lyla Hopkins was no longer alone. She herself was the wind of change.
WATCH/HEAR - Youtube: Scorpions - Wind Of Change (Official Music Video) 4,42 min
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Thanks for reading, Q.T.