Page 3 of Rock Hard Alien

The higher I got, the worse I felt. 'The shakes have got shakes', that's what my mentor used to say. He'd not been a fan of ladders either. We'd bonded over that - the one thing that had connected us in a male-dominated world where I'd stood out from the start. I wondered if he was enjoying his retirement, or whether he was still carving statues in his back garden. Last time I'd seen him, his wife had been busy persuading him to get rid of at least half of the unfinished pieces that were taking up space in their garage. I smiled. I missed him. Now I was the mentor and had my own apprentice. I didn't feel quite ready enough for such a responsibility.

Sunlight blinded me. I was almost at the top. Shade drenched the courtyard below, but up here, it almost felt like it was still summer. Only a few more rungs. The end was in sight. I dared to look up. There he was, towering above me, the grotesque known as the Guardian. He was not only the biggest, but also the most expertly made statue in all of Stirling Castle. I'd never seen this one up-close myself, but I'd studied pictures and sketches to prepare for the job.

The masons must have spent weeks if not months perfecting it. The detail was spectacular. It was far more lifelike than the grotesques I usually worked on. Maybe Michel Auberge had believed in demons and monsters to reach this level of realism. The stone was so smooth that I couldn't see any chisel marks. No imperfections anywhere. No mistakes. I'd carved my own gargoyle as my masterpiece and even after weeks of working on it, days where I did nothing but sand and polish the stone, it hadn't looked anywhere near as perfect as the Guardian.

He was monstrous, yet strangely pleasing to the eye. Many gargoyles were purposely ugly, with huge mouths, bulging eyes, misshapen claws. This one had perfect proportions, and the face... High cheekbones, two small fangs peeking out between open lips - how had Auberge managed to create lips that had the same tiny lines I looked at in the mirror every morning - wide eyebrows over piercing eyes, and above, two horns curling back like a goat. Not that he had anything in common with a goat. He was way more gorgeous.

Could I call a grotesque gorgeous? Keiran was down below, I was up here by myself, so I decided that yes, I could. Nobody had to know that I found a five-hundred-year-old statue attractive.

His wings were a thing of beauty. Leathery like that of a bat, extended as if he was about to take flight. For the thousandth time, I admired the stonemason's artistry. I wouldn't have been surprised if the Guardian suddenly flapped his wings and took off. He was crouched slightly, with one hand on the ledge, although something that had always bothered me about him was that his hand was flat, his fingers in the air, not curved around the edge. Maybe Auberge had planned him to be placed in a different position when he'd carved the hand. We'd never know.

The only concession to modesty was a short wrap fitted low around his hips, with an opening at the back for his tail. It looked like leather turned to stone, its folds far too fine and natural for even Auberge’s skill. It covered everything essential while leaving very little to the imagination.

The Guardian not only stood out because of his height and craftsmanship, but also because of his colour. The castle was built mostly using brown and red sandstone from local quarries, but the statue was a dark grey. One theory held that the stone had been brought here from the Southern Uplands, but it was unusual to use different stone for one grotesque and not for any others. He was a mystery, which is why I was honoured to be working on him today.

Up close, there was little evidence that he'd stood here for centuries. A bit of moss around the feet - Auberge had deviated from the trend by giving him shoes rather than leaving the feet bare - and at the edges of the wings, a spider’s web here and there, but no cracks that I could see. This was going to be a quick job. A few examinations, taking pictures from all angles, then a report. That would take the longest. Maybe I'd get Keiran to write it, he had to learn how to do the boring aspects of being a stonemason in today's age. I bet Michel Auberge didn't have to write reports for King James V.

“How's it looking?” Keiran shouted from down below. Speak of the devil.

“He's in peak condition!” I yelled back. “I won't need you up here. Keep holding the ladder!”

He was too far down to see if he looked disappointed - and I refused to look down anyway. My vertigo had lessened a bit while I'd been distracted, but now that I'd thought of it, it returned at full force. I grabbed the metal rungs a bit tighter. The wall where the Guardian stood was narrow, but it would be better than balancing on the ladder. I reached for the final rung, my fingers brushing the edge of the statue's hand - and a deep groan came from the stone.

I blinked. I was imagining things. Maybe the wind. Had to be.

I took another step up the ladder when the stone shook. The statue shivered, and then the fingers of the hand that had been flat for centuries curled around the wall. I froze. Stared. Blinked again. Leant back to see what trick of the light had made me think that stone could move and-

My foot slipped.

For a moment, time slowed down. Gravity pulled on me. My legs dangled. All weight was suddenly on the one hand that was still wrapped around the ladder rung. The air was squeezed out of my lungs as I screamed.

And the Guardian looked at me. The head turned, slowly, with a sound of stone grating against stone.

I did the worst thing I could have done.

I let go.

Two

Cairn

Instinct took over. I gripped her wrist.

Her skin was soft and warm.

I pulled her up in one fluid motion. Sat her on the stone next to me. Didn't let go.

My thoughts were slow. I had not thought much recently. There was nothing to think about.

Sometimes, an avian creature would make me think when it landed on me. I would endure the stench of its excrement until the rain washed it away.

It rained a lot on this planet.

I rolled my shoulders. Everything hurt. I had not moved in a long time. My wings were still extended, in the same position they had been since I petrified. I doubted I could fly.

Thoughts rolled through my mind like boulders. Thoughts about her.

She'd woken me from petrification. The female was breathing hard, but she wasn't saying anything. I turned my head, looked at her. My neck hurt from that small movement, but it was worth it.