By Falconcrow
In the 1700s, there was a cemetery by a small Protestant church in the hills of an insignificant New England town. In this village, in that graveyard, there was a deep pit hidden in the roots of a great oak tree. And in that dark hole, hidden by thick roots, lived a hideous beast — a creature of the night. He made his home deep underground, in the earth that kept him warm and the roots of the old tree that held him close.
Each night of the new moon, when shadows hid all things from sight, the creature would rise, move the roots aside, and climb from his pit. He would wander among the gravestones and read the inscriptions thereon: words of love and words of loss — a parent lamenting the death of a child, a husband’s letter of love to his wife, a friend’s lyrics of praise for a devoted mate. The beast could understand the words, but he wondered about the lives these humans lived, the feelings they had. For these things he had never known. He had never experienced love or friendship. After all, he was just a night creature who lived alone in a pit.
One day, a wealthy landowner died, and a great tomb was built for him in that cemetery. In front and to one side of the door of that tomb was placed a large stone sculpture of an angel, set there to guard the dead inside.
When the beast came out on the following new moon, he crept over to the tomb to investigate this new thing in his territory. He marveled at the gilded door and the crucifix above the archway. But what mainly drew his attention was the statue of the angel. You see, the creature had never seen a human form. He had never seen such grace and beauty — and he stared at her all night.
The creature was so lost in the angel’s downward gaze that he forgot the passage of time. Eventually, the morning twilight brought the first light of day to the cemetery. The creature, stirred from his reverie, immediately retreated to his pit and to safety, for he knew he could not withstand the direct rays of the sun without perishing.
Thereafter, on each night of the new moon, the creature would go to that angel and sit at her feet, gazing up into her eyes. This continued for many years, and the creature found some small joy in his many days living beneath the old tree.
But time was unkind to the tomb and to the stone angel that stood beside it. The harsh winters brought terrible winds, ice, and blankets of wet snow. Spring brought thunderstorms, gales, and hail. Summer’s fierce sun cooked the marble of the angel, and birds that alighted upon her left their droppings on her frame. In the fall, the leaves and branches struck the angel, chipping the alabaster stone. Over time, the stone began to wear, and strain created cracks across her body.
The creature became distraught. He took up the daily burden of keeping the angel in repair. Each day, while the world of men went about their routines, deep in his lair, the creature mixed the earth and the bark from the roots of the old tree with his tears and his own blood, forming a paste harder than anything made by man. And on the new moon, he climbed from his pit and carefully filled the cracks, covering the chips in the stone of the angel. After completing his repairs, he would sit at her feet until dawn.
Over the years, the creature stripped more and more earth and roots from his pit. Eventually, the old oak tree began to die. At last, when the creature had used all the materials available to him, his pit was empty bare rock, the tree a withered frame, and he could no longer hide away from the world.
So, on his last night, the creature decided to stay with the angel and did not return to his empty pit when the sun rose. He hoped the angel would protect him. But such creatures are not meant for the light of day. And as the sun rose, the creature felt his skin stiffen, and his heartbeat fell silent.
Today, people from all over the countryside visit that cemetery. At first glance, it appears as any old burial ground: a mosaic of closely spaced, leaning, and broken headstones and crosses, most with unreadable words and barely legible dates worn clean by weather and time. Even the great tomb is now nothing but a crumble of rock and earth blanketed by long grass and shrubs.
But there is one thing that stands distinct from all others in that ancient place. A magnificent statue of an angel, sculpted from a form of stone not known to any human hand. A stone brilliant and hard, unlike any sculpture found in museums, parks, or government halls. It is alabaster — so pure, so durable — that rain, hail, wind, and sun have never worn it, never scratched it, never cracked it. It seems as new as the day it was carved.
The angel’s eyes are piercing in their workmanship. You might even fancy them real, as they gaze down toward her feet with a love so deep it steals the breath from the living.
And at her feet, gently covered by the folds of her robe, is a creature most foul — a demon from the hell-pit. But his face does not reflect horror or anger or mockery, as the faces of gargoyles often do. Instead, he stares up at the angel with a look of peace, of worship, even of love.
And if you are ever so lucky to find yourself in that graveyard on the night of a new moon, when shadows hide all things from sight, you would see light coming from the face of that angel.
