Chapter 15
“Papa, asa coon seve kani?”
As they got closer, Scootaloo saw that the girl with feathered wings had a slight limp. Her rear left foot—the broad foot of a lion cub—was bandaged.
“Don’t talk like that, Sweetie,” the big male griffin said. The two adults, burdened with the lifeless manticore, fell far behind the children.
“He dead?” Asked the one with bat wings, who reached the ponies first. She lowered herself against the boardwalk and poked Morning Rain’s ear with a single worn talon.
Now that she had a clear look at the young griffins, Scootaloo felt like she might faint too. The unconscious colt’s current tormentor wore a necklace of brightly-coloured pheasants, each bird hanging by its broken neck on a tiny noose. A male in mating plumage made for a gruesome pendant. His red-striped tail feathers trailed against the ground even when the griffin stood at full height. The other twin had two brown hares draped across her neck, their limp corpses hanging like shoulder pads.
“I see your hunt has been fruitful,” the stallion commented, casually driving the head of his paddle into the soft mud.
“I catch all this!” The bat-winged one squealed, immediately abandoning the still-unconscious boy to wave her necklace proudly over her head.
“Oh, I see,” he replied with a smile. “And what about you, Gina? I didn’t even know you could catch rabbits this time of year.”
“Snares, Master,” the other girl grumped. “No shoot. Waste time fletch arrows. Grace shoot better.”
“Master” threw his head up and laughed a shrill, shuddering laugh.
“You girls are just learning Equestria Standard,” he said. “I’ll forgive you for that, but you have to remember to use pronouns and proper tenses. It’s not like that griffin squabble you’re used to.”
If they were offended the children didn’t show it. Grace went back to prodding the unresponsive colt, flicking his limp ears now. Unfortunately for her the adults had finally caught up, and the male was none too gentle in throwing her aside with one powerful swipe of his claws.
“Don’t do that,” he growled before turning his attention to the stallion. “And I would appreciate it if my daughters didn’t learn to speak from crows. What seems to be the problem, Master?”
“Problem?” The bargepony repeated in exaggerated shock. “Well, there’s no problem at all Gregor. I found these two in the reeds just now, and I was just explaining to them that I can’t take them to the coast without proper fare.”
With a grunt the griffins heaved off their load. The monster rolled on its side, limbs as thick as a pony’s waist flopping like bags of grain.
“Did you need a paddle to tell them?” He demanded between sips from a weathered water skin.
“They’re orphans, Gregor,” the pony said as if that was answer enough. “They’re armed too, as you can clearly see. And the boy seems really eager to get going. I don’t like the looks of him.”
“He’s alive,” reported the female griffin. Even Scootaloo, who harboured no ill will against griffins, cringed inwardly at the sight of her sharp, dusty talons resting on the boy’s face. “He’s going to have quite a headache when he wakes up, poor kid.”
Gregor’s golden eyes scanned the scene and came to rest on Scootaloo. They were the eyes of a hunter, and awakened in her a primeval fear that compelled the girl to lower her head and lock her knees.
“Where are you from?” He asked in a softer tone.
“I’m from Ponyville,” she replied, realizing her mistake too late.
“Hah!” Exclaimed the stallion. “What did I tell you, Gregor? He said they were from Canterlot!”
“We were!” Scootaloo cried, her gaze shifting between the pony and the griffin. All she could think about was how his talons looked like little black knives. “We both lived in Canterlot Orphanage, but I don’t live there anymore! We were traveling on foot! We ran into some trouble and lost all our bits! We just want to cross Hayseed Swamp…”
“And I’m being very reasonable for charging such a modest fare,” the bargepony said, more to Gregor than Scootaloo. “You’ll not find a better rate, but even The Master needs to live.”
Gregor nodded and twisted around to reach beneath his left wing. Scootaloo had a hoof on the handle of her tomahawk before she realized what she was doing.
The griffin took out a small yellow satchel closed with drawstrings.
“I think sixty bits will cover it from here to the Jackdaw?”
“Seventy,” the pony harrumphed. “I’m telling you, these two are nothing but trouble. You just wait and see.”
“Seventy it is,” Gregor agreed, and began counting out little gold coins on his leather-gloved palm.
The female griffin gently picked up Morning Rain in one arm and began walking for the dock with the girls skipping along beside her. She stopped after a few steps and looked back at Scootaloo, and the latter followed without a word.
“Just stay in one place and don’t touch anything!” The bargepony called after her.
The wharf creaked under her hooves. The twins picked up on Scootaloo’s discomfort, and started hopping on the spot causing the boards to heave wildly.
“Stop it,” the big griffin hissed.
They obeyed instantly, and exchanged sheepish looks before vaulting the foot of water between the dock and the barge. Scootaloo prodded the flat wooden deck with one hoof, and quickly withdrew it when the barge drifted lazily away.
“Come on,” urged the big griffin while the twins giggled on the deck behind her. “Step over quickly, or just jump. You won’t fall in.”
Scootaloo leapt with a running start. The deck seemed solid at first, but slowly responded to the new passenger by rolling to the side. She began to fall backwards, her wings beating frantically in a vain effort to regain her balance.
The griffin caught her with a scaly claw and held her firmly to the deck until the rocking subsided.
“That wasn’t bad,” she said with a most disconcerting smile, the corners of her mouth turning upwards to reveal bright white molars behind her parted, toothless beak. “My name is Galina, by the way. Who are you?”
“Scootaloo,” replied the girl.
Morning Rain lie just inside the deckhouse with a wet rag on his forehead. The twins had arranged all his gear in a row along the port side of the deck, and the contents of his pack was enough to distract them from him.
“Tikana asi set,” Galina snapped. “Goon set papa manticore.”
That seemed to mean something to them. The twins began undoing clasps and clips, conjuring gear out of nowhere; in the end their pile of pockets and belts and leather quivers (two each) was about all that could fit in a large saddlebag. The one with bat wings still wore two broad black straps across her chest, though she had nothing on her big enough to justify them.
“Stand over here,” Galina said to Scootaloo when the twins were out of earshot. “My husband’s bringing the manticore.”
With Gregor and “Master” walking shoulder-to-shoulder under its massive torso and the girls each supporting one of its broad forepaws the manticore was loaded without incident. The barge dropped three inches from the added weight; one more straw would surely sink it.
“That’s a good catch,” the bargepony breathed as he examined the monster, taking especially long to admire its pearly white fangs. “I didn’t think they could get this big.”
“This is the biggest I’ve seen,” Gregor chuckled. “He put up a good fight; Gina got banged up pretty bad, but you got him in the end, didn’t you?”
In reply Gina unsheathed a short dagger from her forearm and proudly raised its corroded black blade for all to see.
The bargepony whistled. “It’s a real family effort, then. Can you spare me some venom? Just a vial, or whatever you care to give. There’s a doctor in Warmblood who wants some.”
“You should have thought of that before taking my money,” chided Gregor. Seeing the pony’s ears flattened dejectedly, he added, “I’ll think on it. You won’t be needing it for a few days, am I right?”
Apparently satisfied with this answer, the stallion adjusted his socks and turned towards the bow to fiddle with the mooring lines.
“Wait!” Grace suddenly exclaimed just as the last rope was hauled in. “Where Cabbage?”
“Cabbage!” Gina hollered towards the boardwalk, her claws cupped around her beak. “Tikana! Asa li!”
In Scootaloo’s peripheral vision the manticore twitched. Everyone onboard jumped to face the carcass, the bargepony going so far as to raise his paddle over his head.
So long was the monster’s red mane that only a bulbous green-and-yellow head could be seen poking out of the fluff, and Scootaloo had to concede that “Cabbage” was aptly named. The bird, about as big as a large chicken or small turkey, hopped down in a flurry of feathers and sand. Its wings, colourful and well-preened and broad though they were, could not bear its tremendous weight. Landing with a thud, it galloped clumsily towards Grace, its head bobbing wildly.
“Keep an eye on that thing!” Master growled, putting down his paddle and resuming his pole. “Exotic chickens. Honestly!”
“Cabbage not a chicken,” Grace laughed, scratching the bird’s stubby neck. “He is a kakapo!”
Cabbage nudged the griffin affectionately, until Gina joined in. Then he opened his beady black eyes and reached for her claw with his perpetually-smiling beak.
“The Master has a point,” Gregor said, lying down beside his daughters. “Remember what happened last time you brought him to school? Just keep an eye on him. Your mother and I are going to move all this meat out of the sun. You two can start cleaning if you want.”
As soon as Gregor turned his head, Grace stuck out her pointed black tongue and grimaced in disgust.
The barge had moved quite a ways by this point, once again pushing across overgrown waters. The two adults struggling with the manticore made the barge heave again, and Scootaloo waited until they finished stuffing the carcass into the deckhouse before checking on her brother. The twins followed her, the big green parrot standing tall and proud like a morbidly obese falcon on Grace’s back.
The deckhouse turned out to be quite spacious. The manticore took up the rear half of the room, looking lifelike with its paws folded beneath its chin, a crown of pheasants and hares upon its head.
Morning Rain lie with his eyes closed. Wet cloth could not hide the two big lumps on his head, and his injured back was stretched out for all to see.
Gregor and Galina were busy tending to the boy, brushing twigs out of his coat and examining his chipped hooves. They made room for the girls when they entered. Between the adults and the gawkers Morning Rain was completely surrounded.
It was then that he decided to wake up.
Wall-eyed at first, Rain grew two shades paler as the scene before him came into focus. The twins had leaned in to within an inch of his face, Scootaloo was not far behind them, and Cabbage was sitting on Grace’s neck with his head resting atop hers.
“Ow!”
In the blink of an eye he was sitting up, and the griffin kids were lying on their backs holding their beaks. Cabbage squawked noisily, his legs flailing at the sky as he spun helplessly on his back. The adults retreated also, leaving Scootaloo to deal with the screaming boy who was stretching the canvas covering of the deckhouse to its limit.
“What’s going on in there?” Cried the bargepony from the deck.
“Rain,” Scootaloo said, grabbing her brother by the shoulders and pulling him away from the wall lest he tore through it. “Rain, come with me. Come outside.”
That was easier said than done. His legs shifted constantly between resisting and fleeing, and he was always craning his head towards the griffins.
“Sorry,” Scootaloo mumbled as they passed the shadow of the roof.
She walked him past “Master” all the way to the bow. There she sat down and bade her brother to do the same.
“Scootaloo,” Rain hissed when he at last calmed down. “What’s going on? Where are we?”
“This is the barge,” she replied. “We’re crossing Hayseed Swamp.”
“With them?” He gasped. “Are you crazy?”
“Rain, what’s gotten into you?” Scootaloo looked into his eyes. The left one moved with a slight delay.
“What’s gotten into me?” He spat. “They’re griffins! We’re stuck on a boat with griffins!”
“You said the bat ponies are the problem, not griffins.”
“Bat ponies are the bigger problem!” Rain managed to get out before he clutched his head and fell flat on the deck. “Ow, ow, ow…”
“They seem pretty nice,” she reasoned. “You should be grateful; you’d still be getting your head bashed in if it weren’t for them.”
Rain shot her a venomous glare between waves of crippling pain. His wings beat against the wooden deck. Scootaloo could do nothing but watch and pull him back by the tail when he got too close to the edge.
“I didn’t hit him that hard,” the Master said. Scootaloo didn’t even acknowledge him.
“We should leave,” Rain said through his teeth. “Catch another boat. I don’t care how long it takes. Let’s go.”
“We’re not going back,” she declared firmly. “Rain, nothing’s going to happen to us. Trust me.”
He didn’t say anything after that, but continued to grind his head into the deck. About half an hour later Galina came to relieve her watch, and Scootaloo returned to the shade of the deckhouse where Gregor was preparing dinner with his daughters.
“Are you okay?” Scootaloo asked of Gina.
“I am not hurt,” she replied.
Gregor had erected a tiny metal tripod at the entrance to the deckhouse. A length of tubing connected it to a metal jar that had once been red.
“Stand back,” he warned, seeing Scootaloo approaching from port.
Sparks showered down on the metal frame from the edge of his knife, followed a moment later by a flash of red and a soft pop.
“Griffins,” the bargepony mumbled without turning.
“Don’t complain, Master,” Gregor said good-naturedly. “Even you appreciate a good hot meal.”
“I appreciate an intact boat,” he retorted. “Oy! Don’t do that! Do you want to lose a hand?”
Grace scampered back from the edge, still holding the dented and blackened pot at arm’s length.
“Use a pole,” he ordered gruffly. “I keep enough for all of you! Don’t be like the Admiral’s son; bent down for a drink, had no head when he was through!”
“Do as he says, sweetie,” Gregor said.
Scootaloo watched the griffins from a safe distance. Grace filled the pot using a long bamboo pole with a porcelain mug tied to one end. Shriveled nuggets of carrots and greens floated in the slightly brown-tinted water, looking wholly unappetizing at first. After a few minutes on the tiny stove, the soup started to take shape. Scootaloo helped Gina grind hardtack in a sack, her hooves being well-suited for the task.
“Go fetch your mother,” Gregor instructed Gina when the viscous content of the pot was blowing big bubbles of aromatic steam.
Scootaloo saw a chance to slip away, but Gregor tapped her on the shoulder.
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
“There’s lots to eat out there,” Scootaloo stammered, quickly checking the overgrown water around the barge. “I… I don’t want to be a burden to you.”
“We have enough,” he said. “You’re looking kind of thin, you and your brother both. Have some soup, okay?”
Galina returned to the deckhouse with Morning Rain leaning listlessly on her side. Scootaloo looked at him questioningly, getting a defeated glance in return. Taking it as a sign of approval, she knelt down beside the twins and watched Gregor ladle soup into matte metal bowls.
The griffin spoke truth; the ponies had lost quite some weight since leaving the comforts of civilization. They could live off raw grass and bland leaves for a long time, but days of walking took a toll on their bodies. Scootaloo ate with gusto, the salty broth satisfying a craving she didn’t know she had. She didn’t care if it was carrots or celery or a lump of hardtack that she was tasting, and her tongue was numb from the plethora of spices when she licked the last drops from the bowl and looked longingly at the now-empty pot.
Grace poured out a small pile of nuts from a drawstring bag for Cabbage, and dinner conversation was held over a background of clicking and snapping as the parrot worked at his own meal. Morning Rain was especially intrigued by his antics, and would have let his soup go cold were it not for Galina periodically putting a spoon in his mouth.
“Master” had his bowl balanced atop one front hoof while he pushed with the other in an automatic motion. The twins told him all about their five day hunt in broken Equestrian, periodically drawing a harsh laugh or a comment from the otherwise surly stallion. After that the discussion turned to bows and arrows, and from here on Scootaloo was completely lost. The griffin girls argued about the benefits of quail versus turkey feathers, of steel or flint heads, oftentimes going off in their aggressive griffin tongue until Gregor or Galina rebuked them.
Scootaloo was beginning to feel at ease in their company until Grace climbed over the ever-present manticore and returned after much cracking and sawing with a big black ball.
“Grace, we’re not eating that just yet,” Gregor said. “We have to eat your pheasants today, before it goes bad.”
Her head drooped in disappointment, and the little griffin tossed the thing to the back of the room. Her father snatched the dead birds off the manticore’s head and began yanking them violently from the string. Feathers filled the air as he plucked them with deft fingers, slowing down only for the ornate rectrices of their tails.
Morning Rain squeezed his eyes shut and covered his nose. Scootaloo could not open her mouth. It was “Master” who broke the silence.
“Come out for some fresh air,” he suggested, obviously speaking to the ponies only. “It’s a fine night.”
Scootaloo helped her brother up, and they spent the last light of day on deck. The air had become waterlogged, and black trees loomed all around them. Deep-throated frogs sang non-stop, and big red dragonflies hurried about their final flights. The griffins laughed and spoke merrily over the sound of sizzling fat, and the rich fumes from their main course had Scootaloo’s mane standing on end until the bones were dumped overboard half an hour later.
#
Gregor’s white face hovered like a mask on the wall, taking on a yellow tinge from the warm light of the stove-turned-lamp.
“I think that I have a right to know what you are doing so far from home,” he said, leaning into the light. “You understand that I am only looking out for my family.”
“We’ll tell you the truth,” Rain said nervously. “Please don’t make us drink, sir. I told Gari I wouldn’t.”
“You misunderstand,” the griffin explained. “It isn’t about the alcohol. It’s all about this.”
He dispensed onto his palm a small black lozenge from a glass vial and held it out under the light. It looked like a grape-flavoured hard candy.
“This is a truth serum,” he said. “Taken in water, it doesn’t work very well. It dissolves just fine in whiskey, however.”
Scootaloo looked at her brother uncertainly, and then at the heavy veil over the entrance. Only the manticore accompanied the three in the deckhouse; even Cabbage had been ushered out to wait on deck.
“We’ll tell the truth,” she pleaded. “We have nothing to hide.”
“You’ve lied before,” Gregor pointed out. “Come on, you don’t need to drink much. I’ve paid your fare, and all I ask is to be sure that you will be honest with me for an hour. I will drink with you, so you may question me also.”
“Fine,” Scootaloo sighed at last. “What’s the harm?”
Morning Rain opened his mouth, but a disapproving glance from his sister killed the argument in his throat. It was getting late, and everyone onboard was evidently expecting them to cooperate.
Gregor dropped one lozenge into each of three glasses and unscrewed a flat silver flask. The liquor turned black upon contact, but returned to its clear and honey-brown form by the time he stopped pouring.
“Drink it quickly,” ordered the griffin as he held up his thimble of a glass.
Scootaloo wrapped her lips around the cup and tipped its contents down her throat, coughing as the drink set her mouth and throat aflame. Her brother beside her was doing likewise. The liquor left a sweet, smoky aftertaste, and warmth radiated from her stomach.
“Let us begin,” Gregor declared. “You are both children of Gari, Daughter of the Luna, yes?”
“Yes,” Scootaloo replied immediately, and heard Rain saying much the same thing.
“You both lived in Canterlot,” he said. “Scootaloo, you said that you no longer live there. Tell me about yourself. Have you been adopted?”
“No,” she said. “My dad left me in Canterlot for a year while he was an officer of the EUP Guard. We moved to Ponyville after he came back, and I have lived there ever since.” Resisting only made her words come out faster; her last sentence became an unpunctuated string of syllables, at the end of which she stuffed her hooves into her mouth.
“You’ve said nothing wrong,” Gregor said with a kind smile before turning his attention to the boy. “Your name is Morning Rain, and that is the only name you’ve ever had?”
“No sir,” he answered, his eyes widening in surprise as he continued to speak. “I was called Bucket Hooves and Mothwings when I was little. Later on they called me Barn Owl because I was learning magic with Summer Dusk. And…”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Gregor interrupted, allowing the boy to catch his breath at last. “I’ll just call you Morning Rain. And now, why have you come so far? Does Gari know about this?”
Don’t say to kill griffins. Don’t say to kill griffins. Anything but that, Rain!
“I don’t know,” Rain said after a long silence. “I… I was… I was mad at Gari for letting my brothers die.”
He sniffed loudly and wiped his eyes.
“You were there when Canterlot Orphanage was attacked?”
“Yes,” he said.
Scootaloo felt like she had fallen into an ice bath. Slowly she turned to her brother, and saw her fear mirrored in his eyes.
“How do you know about that?” He asked shakily.
“I was in Wintergreen when I got the news,” Gregor replied in an even tone. “Gari sent a telegram to every visiting griffin and sylvanocian in Equestria, telling us to return home as soon as possible. She told us what happened, though I didn’t believe her at the time.”
“When did she send it?” Rain pressed on, standing up and stretching out her wings aggressively.
“It must have been more than two weeks ago,” said the griffin without a hint of uneasiness. “I do not remember the exact day, and I don’t think I still have the transcript.”
Rain stood his ground, glaring in silence at Gregor through the shimmering veil of hot air above the hissing gas lamp.
“I’m sorry to hear what happened,” he said solemnly. “I sincerely hope that whoever did this to you will be brought to justice. Gari has seen their faces, and we will soon know their names. They will not escape, Morning Rain.”
The boy sighed and resumed his seat down beside his sister.
“A few more questions for the two of you,” Gregor coughed. “You are carrying a blade of the Midnight Guard. How did you come to possess it?”
Scootaloo was unfortunate enough to be the first to speak, and was thus compelled to deliver a lengthy retelling of everything that happened since Appleloosa with Rain filling in a few gaps. She had talked herself hoarse by the time Gregor cut her off, leaving her feeling numb and violated. Words rolled off her tongue straight out of her head. She had divulged her darkest thoughts and her weakest moments, and all before her brother and a stranger.
And a dead manticore… and two strangled hares.
“So what do you know about this ‘Midnight Guard’?” Rain demanded while Scootaloo drank greedily out of a wooden bucket offered to her by the griffin.
“The Midnight Guard are like Royal Guards for the Children of the Night,” Gregor explained. “They were originally formed out of the sylvanocian refugees who fled to the Garden of Shadow after Nightmare Moon’s banishment. Princess Luna’s guards are all drawn from among their ranks. That blade you have is definitely one of theirs; war scythes are ubiquitous among Children of the Night, but few are so elaborate.” Here he cleared his throat. “I can talk all night about the military might of the Garden of Shadow, but that would do you no good. Now, I want to know more about the two of you in particular. Scootaloo, tell me all you know about your birth father?”
“His name is Dust,” she said without wiping her muzzle. “He was a wheelwright for the EUP Guard. Before that he was a hobo.”
“And your mother?”
“She was the fairest girl in all of Canterlot,” Scootaloo blurted out, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment as she recite those dimly-remembered words of her father’s from her early childhood. “She’s the only decent girl in that dogpile they call the aristocracy. She ran away with… my dad… and for a while they lived happily on the railroad. She was strong, smart and brave… Just like… Just like her… daughter…”
She stopped as her vision grew blurry with tears. The griffin did not press her and moved on to questioning the boy.
“My father is Summer Rain,” he answered impatiently. “He was a lieutenant of the EUP Guard. I don’t know a lot about him. He died a few years ago at Percherone Landing.”
“And your mother?”
He did not answer immediately. Scootaloo looked over at him and saw the storm brewing behind his glistening green eyes before he exploded.
Never had she heard language so foul. Morning Rain screamed at the top of his lungs, and after long seconds of uneasy listening she managed to piece together something about a nameless mare from Baltimare. His hooves swept across the deck, knocking over the lamp. Fortunately Scootaloo was quick to react, dumping the remaining water in her bucket over the glistening mantle before it could set the deck alight. The sweet scent of white gas filled the room as the canister hissed and sputtered in the dark. She did not dare to move, listening to Gregor struggle with the frantic boy lashing out at everything within reach. Rain didn’t repeat a single vile phrase, and each pause was only long enough for him to draw in a long, shuddering breath.
“Stop!” Gregor Bellowed.
The boy’s words became mumbled gibberish before fading completely, like a freight train derailing at full speed. In its place rose a heartbroken sob, soon joined by another.