Langit at Lupa

by Comma Typer

Bungang-Araw

Colorful lights illuminated a cool sunset to hail the Christmas season. Below high rooftops ran a grand train of cars trying to beat the holiday traffic as drivers ache for home.

The stench of gas-guzzling vehicles needling around each other under two overpasses—one highway, one rail—these did not bother Garlan. Instead, he merely glanced at a passing train. Metro Rail Transit’s Line 3 would have its noisy trains every so often. It overwhelmed his ears, but noise pollution was part of the price of doing business on sprawling metro streets.

The glance lasted a second. It couldn’t distract him from his mission: selling food.

Years of gritty experience on the streets left a mark on him, taught him to be focused 24/7: the locals had little concept of lines, not like in those fancy fast food chains. It was only the crowd around him, and it took cold and calculated mathematics combined with deliberate concentration to know who ordered how many whats without an obstructive calculator. Credit must be had to the customers for never forgetting the prices of fishballs, squidball, kwek-kwek, kikiam, siomai, calamares, and his new offering, okoy: little flat fried shrimp pancakes. He’d adopted drinks too: simple sago’t gulaman, a local super-cheap version of boba tea with fragile pearls and all. Garlan had never understood why humans wanted food inside their drinks, but much of human culture eluded him; not that it mattered: it was a cheap cool drink to make, and people liked chewing on their drinks. It made him the hottest businessgriffon in town, not that there was much competition for the title. Most importantly, he earned money from it, and more money was always a plus.

A grueling half hour passed like nothing. It took too long for the crowd to disperse, to give him a break. The city lights got a bit brighter, got a little numerous. The sun had set: twilight had begun.

Garlan took down the cart-attached umbrella and hovered across the busy boulevard with his stall in tow. It was a dangerous technique, but it was dangerously amazing to the humans in their automobiles: an eagle-lion flying his cart of oil and food above them—something truly out of this world. At first, it’d gotten him on newspapers and social media feeds across the country, even a spot at a daily TV show. Now, it was amazingly ordinary. Garlan had become a part of the local city life, a common sight around these parts.

The cart landed with a little thud on the other side. Oil sloshed around in the wok but not a drop of it shot to the ground. He pushed the stall farther down Epifanio de Los Santos Avenue: EDSA for short, a famous avenue known as the stage for peaceful revolutions in the past and the stage for rage-inducing gridlock in the present, complete with a red sea of tail lights at night. Not too far from his original spot was a space chock-full of people: a mall, a rail station, and a hub for buses and public vans lay within fifty meters of each other. It was also rush hour, so Garlan readied himself for jackpot time. Already, some still unfamiliar with him stared at the Equestrian oddity selling ordinary food.

“Hey!”

The voice made him turn around. A familiar face came down the station’s stairway. Though he wore a simple shirt and a pair of jeans, there was no mistaking the man who’d chanced upon Garlan’s cart on a cold and rainy night. His soaked business clothes and his exposed name tag would be difficult to stamp out of the griffon’s mind.

But it was business hours, and a small hungry crowd gathered around him. The griffon gestured to the plethora of people and the public vehicles dropping more potential customers onto the ground. “I’ve got tons of prospects. I hope they’re starving and thirsty. What’re you doing here anyway, ‘Cario?”

“Just on the way home from a college reunion,” Macario said, slowing his speech to think of the English words to say: the human language the griffon was much more comfortable with. “Six years ago now, actually… didn’t have it complete last year kasi… well, because Gorio had Christmas in Canada. Now, he’s here. Went out around the day…”

Garlan nodded, waving his tongs around. “Yeah, yeah, lucky you. Good chatting with you, but don’t you have a place to go? I’m busy here.”

Macario then smiled a little. “Oo nga no.” Oh… yeah. “Wait, almost forgot.”

“What?”

“Our invitation’s still up. Want to come over to my house? December 23: we’ll have a big early Christmas dinner. When I tried some of your wife’s fruitcake—“

Garlan turned the gas back on under the wok and poured frozen foods into the frying oil. “Depends. I was hoping we’d have a simple family affair: just me, Ginger, and the kids.”

With that, they fared each other well, and Garlan was glad to have that finished. The wok cooked on, the food chunks heated up: the craving multitude made their move. “Agila ba’ yan?” one asked another, confirming if the creature was indeed an eagle; he was half-right.

Belching smoke, cackling trains, honking cars, and murmuring masses waiting for a trip home or to somewhere else: these composed the backdrop of skyscrapers and other weird human buildings Garlan served against. It was familiar and it gave him bits, so it was good.

Another profitable evening on the streets.

---

Tired but with a fat jingling coin purse in his bag, Garlan was on the way home: pushing the cart past boulevards and their tall architecture of commerce. The cars piled up from bumper to bumper, and Garlan overtook them all. Onward to a left turn, away from the main road and past a surprise copse of trees from the sides. Less car smoke lingered here which was a relief: fresh air would remain an uncommon commodity on the big streets for several more years.

Away from the commotion of traffic, he walked into a neat little village within the metro’s heart. The paths were narrow, and the houses and apartments bunched up together: barely a yard in sight, not like the advertisements and brochures he saw for work experience in some American suburb—maybe in Iowa or Minnesota though the names blurred in his head.

A karaoke bar had someone breaking out into Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” badly. The lyrics came from someone who sounded like they’d made it and had taken destiny into their own hands. Garlan believed he got it better than Sinatra himself: at least Sinatra confessed to having a few regrets.

Five more minutes, he was home: a little apartment unit that looked much like a cargo shipping container. Going into the lot, he parked and locked his cart up by the front where a lone security guard would keep watch over it. The uniformed human guard paid him no mind, yawning as he waited for his next shift’s counterpart to relieve him.

Through hallways and past rows of wooden entrances, he flew to that one door of home sweet home. A knock on wood with a balled-up claw later, it quickly opened.

“Oh, there you are!”

The sweet voice of an Elysian angel. Soft feathers and fur, delicately shining under cheap fluorescent lighting. Her beak, curled into a smile, still as charming as when she and he told each other sugary inanities and sweet nothings in their honeymoon. Her golden eyes were gems to behold, something greater than gold: a sight for sore eyes, a panacea for his mind.

The beauty was more than enough for Garlan to loosen up and hug the hawk-leopard of his life. “Yes, Ginger, here I am!” The warmth of each other, enough to relax his muscles and ease the strain of work, to massage the day’s migraine off his forehead—after these, he inhaled something more powerful than any cologne could offer. “And, what is that smell?”

“It’s buko pie again.” Her voice remained dreamy well beyond her prime. “Heated it in the toaster oven. You know how Genaro loves it—”

“The kid loves everything sweet.”

Ginger shook her head in jest. “Well, if you don’t like that, we have some leftover pork blood stew over there.”

That got him licking his beak.

Ginger stepped aside for Garlan to unpack his bags and lounge at the dining table. The apartment was of the studio type: one big room for everything from the kitchen to the beds; only the bathroom had its own space. On this side, he could sense the acrid smell of the pork stew as Ginger carried the pot to the table: a near-black hodgepodge of chopped pork shoulder. He also caught a whiff of that sweet pie baking in the oven.

He winced. Food had occupied his mind so much, he thought an assault was coming on when his kids flew to his side and tackled him to the ground. Amid his kids’ bubbly giggling, he saw the TV still on, airing some educational channel where math was king—a marvel: free education beamed into black mirror boxes around the world. They even showed action movies with crashes and explosions and cool epic fight scenes and explosions and car chases and more explosions: human magic at its finest.

“Daddy!’

Their high-pitched cries filled his heart with joy. They were his clutch, his progeny, his legacy. Genaro: the older rambunctious brother, already in his first school year; Gwen: the younger dainty sister, capable only of single phrases, but possessing an irresistible cuteness, especially with beady eyes so big on her little head.

Garlan got up from their successful tackle. “Alright, kiddos. Say, Gen, how’s the last day of the school week?”

Genaro flared his wings up, fiery with eager eyes. “We added two-digit numbers up! I was top second in all the seatworks and quizzes today!”

“That’s good, that’s good! Your classmates treating you well?”

At that, he folded his wings. “Uh… they still look at me a lot. Asked me questions and everything.”

Rolled his eyes. “You get used to it, and they better get used to you. Just don’t bully anyone, study well, and everything will be alright. Just give it time.”

He let Genaro go to the table. It was now Gwen’s turn to receive his full attention in the form of a tight warm hug. “How’s my sweet little bundle?”

She sputtered spit on his chest, calling out a few Dada’s. She finally managed, “You… so smelly! You… Stinky Pete!”

“Stinky who?”

“Some movie about toys,” Ginger said from the kitchen. “It was on the tablet’s streaming app.”

The train of human miracles never ended. “Well, good for you. Good for us: cinema without going to the cinema, I say. Why’d you go ahead of me though?”

“The kids really wanted to watch it.” She knitted her brows while slicing the pie. “It was a very emotional story. Made Gwen cry.”

“Yeah, not for me, I can tell.”

At the table, dinner was ready: young coconut pie and pork blood stew. The taste of not-so-fast food rolled lusciously on his tongue, a great contrast to the cheap packaged processed food he sold to everyone else. Still, the cooking might not be good enough for his stuffy former neighbor Gustave le Grand over in Equestria. If that made him a poor griffon’s Gustave, no problem; the snooty Canterlot lifestyle wasn’t for him anyway.

The fledglings devoured their food, thanked their parents, washed their dishes, and hopped back to their beds to entertain themselves with the family tablet. It left the two parents dining and digesting alone: the perfect situation for adult talk. The chat ran its usual course: road works popping up everywhere, a roadblock thanks to subway construction, and some feminine gossip with Ginger chatting about acquaintances’ rumors found in the market while buying ingredients for their Christmas feast.

“Oh… and, you got his messages for this year, didn’t you?”

Garlan looked up, looked dumb with a strip of coconut dangling from his beak. “Whose messages?”

“Your brother’s.”

His face turned flinty. “I have not been notified about it.”

Ginger sighed. “Were you not notified or are you just ignoring him?”

“It’s a fair weather affair about the Blue Moon Festival anyway.” He slurped the coconut strip into his beak. “Barely chimes in the whole year, but come this time, he bombards me with online messages. I already showed you last year—“

“Now I know you haven’t been paying attention.”

Garlan smiled with pride. “I wouldn’t know for sure if he sent me messages anyway. I put him on my ignore list last month.“

“I do know for sure,” she replied. “It’s because he’s messaged me.”

Worst-case scenarios of Ginger leaving him for his brother were thrown out of the window: Ginger would never forsake him for not-Garlan. He could take comfort in that. “Let me guess. Gary’s desperate. He thinks smooth-talking with you will get him into my good graces.”

“Well, he also sent a letter, like last time. The messages were all about what’s inside.”

She gave him the envelope. Garlan felt its rough surface and took the letter out without care. “Look, he’s been inviting us to the Blue Moon Festival for two years on, and this is year number three. I’ll tell you, it’s the same old thing—‘Please come home, we miss you.’”

He then focused on the letter itself. Under the keen white light, Gary’s decent claw-writing took center stage.

Dear Garlan,

How are you over there? I know you’re doing great wherever you are. Your grumpy face may not wear a smile, but deep down in your heart is a happy little elf on the inside (an elf is a fantasy species humans made up; they are Santa Claus’s workers in the Christmas stories).

Speaking of Christmas: we’re going to your place for good holiday times tomorrow! You told us you couldn’t come over because you had to work on holidays, and travel to Griffonstone ate up time. So, we will make things nice and cozy for you: the whole griffon experience, delivered straight to you without going to the portal rift and signing your papers all over again! We will shoulder the travel expenses because we are the ones traveling this time!

We will still be here on Sunday to see the rest of the city. Maybe you can come with us then too, but no pressure!

Looking forward to seeing you again! It has been a long time coming!

From,

Gary

“I’m okay with cooking a hearty meal for them,” she said over the letter. “I also think we should accompany them around town. Not a big city-wide tour: just around here, see what a human city is like. If we can, we could take them to Ortigas with the big malls and shopping centers, and then we could treat them to—”

“Why didn’t they tell me?”

Ginger couldn’t suppress a giggle. “You know how Gary and the cousins are. They’re a fun-loving pack trying to spread joy and happy surprises around Griffonstone.”

Garlan exhibited a smile dripping with sarcasm. “Gallant stand they’re making, staying there and all; at least they see something in the place. This, on the other claw: it’s a devious trap. Can’t leave them in the cold without looking bad since they’ve saved their letter up until the very last day.”

Ginger frowned, poking her pie slice with a fork. “Honey, remember that they’re coming here in the first place because we’re not going there. We could go next year—“

“They should’ve given us some heads-up!” He took up a huge bite of stew and pie combined, and dropped a fork on the plate: it rang loud and clear. “And before we talk about going there: travel is no small expense, so we might as well save up more money by not traveling during the most profitable time of the year. Gary is a griffon; he should know!”

“What about the breaks you take during Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve so we can celebrate?”

“We’ve been through this, sweetheart: everyone’s either flocking to the shops and other high-end stuff or staying at home for Christmas. That’s simple market research: saves you from rotten-egg ventures.”

“But what about the kids?” Behind her, the little griffons busied themselves with an online video; in it, a human did his best to explain the history of Equestria in an epic multi-part series. “They could see their homeland once in a while. Plus, Gary’s great with nestlings—”

“Yeah, and Gary’s gonna introduce them to the unnecessary misery that is Griffonstone, eh?” He snorted loud and snobby, lowering his voice to a blood-curdling growl. “And this is how he’ll repay me, huh? He can’t take a simple no for an answer, so he plans to stick his stupid face right up our alley at the worst possible time! And for what? He misses me too much: he’ll drag us across the portal back into that den of chickens all because he hasn’t hugged me in years!”

Ginger poked at her pie again. After more knitted brows, she let go of her fork. “Sorry to be blunt, but you’re missing the point. Griffonstone might’ve been a den of chickens for a long time, but at least someone’s trying to clean it up now. Besides, Gary’s sent me pictures of what they’re doing in Griffonstone, especially with Gilda and Gabby as Friendship Co-Ambassadors.”

“The same ones who went on the news and confessed to accidentally setting a fire to last Festival and were almost thrown out.”

“It was an accident, honey. Plus now, they’re not throwing them out... and look, here’re the photos.”

She’d taken out her phone. On the screen were displayed Gary’s pictures of Griffonstone. Snow back in full-force for the winter was a rare sight for Garlan in this tropical climate, but he saw something else: a couple griffons working here and there in the coarse snowy daylight, posing for the camera behind half-set-up decorations, tables filled with cooking food, and partly-repaired homes with somegriff finally fixing up King Guto’s statue nearby.

Garlan almost scratched the phone out of contempt. Cooler heads prevailed, but he crossed his claws and kept his accent icy. “Let them be. I‘ve seen griffons try that strategy before. Remember what happened after those two Harmony Elements visited Gilda? When she and Greta gave out free scones in the name of friendship and earned not a single bit?”

“But more griffons are into it. Maybe this is the year things start turning around. If not this year, we could go next year for a good Festival to come back to.”

“A Festival which robs honest workers of their time and money.” He stabbed at the plate only to attack empty ceramic: he’d finished his dinner. “And all for what? A better city? Gary and his delusions... he’s insane, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting it’ll work this time.” His feathers flared up around his neck. “You know what? I think Gary’s scheming to get us working for Griffonstone for the Festival. He’s so desperate, but he’s also so blind that he can’t even see that he’s not the problem—everyone else is! But maybe some of my work and bits could help get Griffonstone back... well, we’ll end up poorer, and I’m telling you, they’ll heckle us into shelling our hard-earned cash out ‘for the sake of Griffonstone.’ It’s like a dog returning to his vomit...”

Ginger tapped the digits of her claw on the table. She stood up from her chair, her signal that she was standing down from the argument. “Well, next year is 365 days away. We’ll think about it as time goes on.” Her expression melted into a warm smile. “Did you enjoy your meal?”

Garlan couldn’t argue with her on that. Flatly, “Yeah, it was good. Thanks, honey.”

The table was cleaned up and she did the dishes. As for a tired Garlan, he flopped onto his bed and took out his phone to check the news, watch some random action movie—anything to cool off from a heated dinner.

He checked on his kids in their bed: they were binge-watching the human’s history series. He perked up at familiar words and names: ponies, the Royal Sisters, pegasi, unicorn, Earth ponies, and trade agreements with classical-era Golden-Age Griffonstone. Not that Genaro and Gwen would understand what a trade agreement was, but at least the human narrator had a good voice, sounded enthusiastic, and had done his research.

Hours passed, and after astounding his children with bedtime stories of wingless humans inventing airplanes and going to airports to fly every week, it was time to sleep.

Comments

[FanOfMostEverything]

“Why didn’t they tell me?”

Says the guy who has his brother on ignore.

A very interesting tale you have set up here. Looking forward to more.

[Georg]

10419527 A total lack of logical consistency is not strictly a human trait. I'm afraid it's going to be a trademark of sapient life wherever we find it.

[Shachza]

I'm going to want to punch Garlan before this is over, aren't I? Strictly no-nonsense, money-focused, and fairly stingy with the goodwill and optimism... Yeah, he's bugging me so far.

[Casketbase77]

It couldn’t distract him from his mission: selling food.

Its almost too obvious to point out, but our birdy boy really hasn’t changed since his first appearance. We do get to see the first scene play out from his perspective instead of Macario’s though. There’s even an understated establishment thay they’re firmer friends now, since Garlan addresses Macario by the same nickname the latter’s friends used last fic.

“just me, Ginger, and the kids.”

This line caught me off guard, since the Garlan from Pamasak-Butas seemed so young and aloof. Then again, Macario’s mention of college reunions indicate some time has passed. But for me, Garlan being a married father is still a surprising revelation. How fitting for a character whose initial depiction was all about emotional projection.

A karaoke bar had someone breaking out into Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” badly. The lyrics came from someone who sounded like they’d made it and had taken destiny into their own hands. Garlan believed he got it better than Sinatra himself: at least Sinatra confessed to having a few regrets.

Blatant foreshadowing is blatant. I guarantee Garlan’s contentment gets tested before this fic is done with him.

Meeting Garlan’s family further plays up his softer side we hadn’t seen (or even imagined) in the last fic. I like his plainspoken advice to his son to “not bully anyone.” Nice subtle acknowledgment that griffons are capable of mauling humans.

We get a prompt rollback to Garlan’s icy affect once he receives his brother’s letter, though. I like the cautiously optimistic slideshow of Griffonstone’s repairs, with emotionally neutral descriptions giving the reader creeping hope that Garlan might approve of it. Then the following paragraph starts with “Garlan almost scratched the phone with contempt.”

Our protagonist is toting some mysterious emotional baggage, which will hopefully get unzipped and emptied by fic’s end. He’s frugal with his emotions, his money, and his positive opinions of others. He’s not a malicious person, but unlike Macario, he doesn’t seem like the type to pause and self-reflect. This fic is going to get ugly before it gets pretty.