Free Gargoyles by Bill Gaston

horizon and that your stomach knew never stopped.
    Placing the latest cigarette in his uncle’s lips, which reached out for it in a less-than-attractive way, Philip decided against telling him that his lips were turning purple. If the game ended now, with the wave surges not yet at the first moats, his brother and sister would be upset. Also Uncle Phil was still energetic with chatter, always about music. Because of the nearing surf, he had to shout. He really was a sight. Sasha had draped his head with a seaweed crown, a frond of which flipped wind-blown against a cheek.
    â€œ. . . because it isn’t English any more, it’s Euro or brown. Now I
love
brown. Little Richard’s my hero, mate. And I
had
my Ravi Shankar period. I mean we’ve never had music of our own ’less you want to include fucking
skiffle
.” He laughed and Philip didn’t know why, but his uncle was talking fast and not really noticing anyone. His teeth were actually chattering. “See you had Elvis translate black for us and these were the first invaders, which we digested and sent back as the Stones and Yardbirds and R and B whomevers, you catch my drift, butnow you’ve sent us Britney and it makes me, it truly makes me hostile. All we can send you back this time is a big fucking bucket of
sweets
.” He laughed again, and coughed. “Jesus, it’s really cold in here, I don’t know if . . .” Then he put his nose in the air to call out again comically, rolling the R, for “Brrrandy!”, at which Tommy said “Yay!”, ceased his scooping and, stepping carefully over the battlements, hurried in with the gin Thermos. Tommy’s offering was unsteady and Uncle Phil shivered as he drank, and some dripped off his chin.
    â€œI’ve met Sting. You know Sting, right?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œProof that
unbridled ambition
is all a bloke really truly needs, plus an instinct to go Hollywood at
the first ring of the freakin bell
. Sure he’s
hand
some but . . .”
    Uncle Phil wasn’t talking to anyone but himself any more and Philip wished he would stop. An eagle was up in the snag behind them and at Philip’s pointing Uncle Phil tried turning to look, but not really, and on he talked. Now three ravens — Philip’s favourite bird — came to chase the eagle off and take its place in the trees, and though the ocean was loud he wanted his uncle to hear their croaks and screams and other sounds, especially the one exactly like a hugely amplified drop of water landing in a pool in the depths of a cave:
Plooink
. Sometimes ravens would make this sound back and forth, using different tones that seemed to mean something, or sounded intentionally funny, and Philip wanted to tell his uncle that at such times it was possible to believe that these birds carried the spirits of dead native elders who, it seemed, were comedians.
    When a surging tongue from a big wave travelled up with a hiss, leapt two moats, and knocked through the first wall as if it weren’t there, it was almost like this was a signal to Uncle Phil.The only sign of his struggle was his head lifting, straining to rise above the sand.
    â€œIt’s — it’s
very cold actually
.” He laughed out of a bed of weakness, and no hint of a smile. He seemed embarrassed. “I think I — Philip? Well, I don’t think I can feel my . . . Actually, I think I have to — Phil?”
    Uncle Phil’s voice trailed off. He gritted his teeth and stretched his blue lips out away from them. His gums were grey. In the middle of that he appeared to go to sleep.
    Philip could see that, barely halfway to the parking area, Sasha and Tommy had grown tired and had slowed to walking. A few people were moving about near the cars. Philip couldn’t see their arms so he knew they couldn’t see his either, so he stopped waving. He had tried one steady scream but it was nothing, he could barely hear