The Tale of the Hippogriff

by OleGrayMane


Ⅱ - Spring's Promise

In the second week of spring, on the day following a full moon, pain seized Meadow. That final month had left her depleted, and the planting had progressed slowly. Every movement had become an effort, and even the simplest chore became a burden. Then, as she cast the last of the millet seed into the furrows, her body told her the time had come. She thought it a blessed relief.
She struggled to return home, but that short distance proved too far. Meadow laid down, exhausted, by the hedgerow that surrounded her vegetable garden, and there she birthed her daughter. And what a most remarkable thing her child was, a faithful product of its dam and sire, the faultless culmination of their love. Downy white feathers covered the tiny creature’s head and wings, accentuating a sumptuous gray coat that shone like silver. Set upon the child’s face, as if placed by a skillful jeweler, were tiny golden eyes that gleamed like the beguiling summer sun.
Meadow hastened inside with the squawking newborn, and after cleaning her with great care, she held her rare foal close until at last she quieted. Both were in need of rest now, so they laid by the smoldering cooking fire, daughter nestled against mother. But before allowing herself the luxury of sleep, Meadow gazed through the window and out into the afternoon sky. She touched the pendant hanging from her neck and announced to the absent Ahren that their daughter’s name was Celia.

Since Celia was no ordinary foal, Meadow fretted over what the child might eat. However, she discovered all too soon, the true question was what the child would not eat. Little Celia consumed everything offered and, despite constant feeding, squawked endlessly for more. After a particular contentious night, the exhausted mother made a discovery: The child was less than two weeks old, and already their larder was running low. This she resolved to remedy come morning.
The pre-dawn rains came and left, waking nopony, leaving the morning air laden with the rich scent of fertile soil. Such morns are said to invigorate the earth pony’s spirit and to awaken their magic. New-mother Meadow had no time to savor the glories of the day. After feeding her daughter, she put on her panniers, loading one side with a sack of grain to balance the swaddled child on the other, for she was bound for the mill.
Meadow traversed a field of tall, dry grasses, following a narrow path that lead to the river road. To call it a road was generous, for it was no more than compacted ruts formed by the carts that trundling the route at harvest time. Yet, burdened as she was, Meadow made good time along it, for the rains left the ground soft but un-muddied. And so, before the sun had climbed too high, the sounds ahead announced that her destination was near and its master was at work.
When running, the miller’s machine filled the countryside with noise. The chorus of rushing water that turned the great wheel could never overwhelm the toneless groans and thunks of its wooden gears. Meadow entered the mill, but did not call out, for speech was futile while the apparatus toiled. She searched the scaffolding and spied the miller’s robust form: A smile blazed upon his face as he watched the wheels of his invention turn. Her wave caught his attention, and he kicked a lever that caused the gears, and their racket, to cease.
“Ho, Meadow,” he called to his familiar customer.
“Ho, Miller,” she cried back.
“What shall it be this fine day? Two sacks to grind?”
“Only one.” Meadow tossed her bag of rye upon a movable platform and added a single copper, for payment, atop it.
The miller moved a pin, bumped another lever, and the platform rose to his level. “Winter was kind to you?” he asked, for he had not seen her since the previous year’s harvest time when she had brought her surplus for sale.
“Indeed,” she said, and she held the wriggling Celia up for inspection.
The miller sent the sack’s contents rattling into a wooden hopper, and engrossed in this task, he did not see the child.
Meadow laid Celia aside and went to the base of the grindstones where the flour would arrive and slipped a bag over a chute.
With a lively dance of operations, the miller started his machine. It clattered, and the stones began to hiss; only then did the miller glance downward. His mouth hung agape, for astonished as he was to see Meadow with a foal, he made no sense of the feathered face peaking forth from the swaddling! Rapt, he failed to tend his raucous engine, and soon it ground no more than air. He broke away with difficulty, tripped over his own hooves, and stumbled. Upon righting himself, he clumsily halted the stones’ futile labor. Racing to the platform’s edge, the miller teetered over the railing, gawping, unable to speak and utterly baffled. But by this time, his customer had packed and was leaving.
“Much thanks,” Meadow called back without looking and hurried off towards home. Baking would occupy the rest of her day, for nary a crumb of crispbread remained in the house, and no doubt, little Celia would soon be hungry for more.

By the time the crescent moon had grown to slightly more than a sliver, visitors sought out Meadow. They found her in the field where she had planted beans. On the morning of their arrival, she had been weeding around the tiny sprouts, all the while humming as she imagined the meals she and Celia would enjoy before summer’s end. Her child slept nearby in a basket shaded by bent grass and, on occasion, made happy noises in her slumber.
Somepony cleared their throat to make their presence known. Meadow looked up and saw two silhouettes at the field’s edge. She went to greet her callers. One was the miller, and such a curious sight he was, for seldom did one find him outside his beloved machine. Now he stood in Meadow’s fields, twitching like a bird desperate to take flight. Accompanying him, standing stiff and tall, was Councilor Bay, their appointed leader. Although the thin councilor was older, his black mane showed not a tinge of gray, and the high, white collar he wore only served to make it all the blacker.
“Good tidings to you both,” she said and dipped her head in deference to the councilor’s standing.
“We would see this—child,” he said. Bay’s angular face was pinched and inscrutable.
“At once, Councilor.” Meadow gathered up Celia and led the party the short distance to her home. Once inside, she removed her drowsy daughter from the basket and placed her, wrapped in a blanket, upon a bed of straw.
“You see. I told the truth, did I not?” the miller insisted in an uncharacteristically high and rapid voice. He glanced at Meadow and offered a hasty, agonized grin. The bewildered look she returned made him recoil.
Councilor Bay unwrapped the blanket and stared. He threw a baleful glare at Meadow, while his short cropped tail slashed the air. Returning his attention to little Celia, he began his inspection.
He prodded her. She squeaked.
“She is healthy and eats much,” explained Meadow, but the growing tightness in her throat made the words sound insincere.
Bay examined Celia’s hooves and tail. The child wriggled and laughed, thinking it a delightful new game.
“You see how happy she is.”
A dour scowl constituted the councilor’s reply. Next, he rolled the child on her side and stretched out a tiny wing. This, Celia did not appreciate and protested by snapping her beak. Incensed, Bay glared wild eyed, first at the child and then at her mother.
Meadow turned to seek aid from the miller. He lingered by the door, and although he had always been kind, he now ignored her, his eyes fixed upon the ground. More disturbingly was how he shook, so much so that Meadow feared he would bolt through the half-closed door. Garnering no help, she turned back to Bay who hovered over the child with cinched lips.
“But I… I love her,” begged Meadow.
The councilor’s chest heaved as he took a single step towards her, his ears laid flat to his skull. His mouth hung open as he sputtered; flecks of spittle clung to the hairs around his lips. What his tongue refused to utter, his eyes shrieked. For a frightening span, he remained locked in a frozen rage before Meadow, until at last he scoffed and strode out. The craven miller raced close behind.
Celia burbled innocently, and Meadow swept her up, holding her tight. She told herself she would remain true to her father’s teachings, that she would be brave, that she would hold love safe in her heart, to never let hate taint her. Yes, she would do this, and then surely the councilor’s heart would open. It must. All would be right, if only she were brave. She told herself all this, but could not keep herself from weeping.

In the days following the councilor’s visit, the child and the fields kept Meadow busy, busier than she had ever been. Yet she felt hollow, unable to take pride in her work or celebrate the marvel of the rapidly growing Celia. Many things weighed heavy on her. Foremost, winter’s stores were depleted, and no crops would be ready for months. The hungry time approached, and so Meadow steeled herself for a trip to the trading post.
The trading post stood at the north end of the village right before the road crossed the river. Built of rough sawn boards, aged silver by years of sun and rain, it was the village’s tallest structure, with a verdigris weathervane atop its steep pitched roof.
Meadow delayed her trip until late morning. She loaded up Celia and reluctantly left, scuffing her hooves, kicking up dust along the way. Although her heart was low as she approached the outskirts of the village, she vowed to keep her head high and not let her eyes drift from the road ahead. Still, her heart beat with trepidation of what was sure to happen.
She passed the first house and somepony yelled for the foals playing in the yard to head indoors. Meadow knew that family by name, for her father had befriended them long ago. Now they stood in their doorway and gawked. At the next, the supports were yanked from beneath the shutters and they banged shut. Those that lived there once bought tomatoes from her, prizing their freshness. Perhaps, she thought, it was better that they did not demean themselves by laying eyes upon her and her child.
Grumbles and gasps, closing doors, clicking latches, all accompanied her trek through the village. Tiny Celia babbled as she rocked in her mother’s pack. Meadow dared not waver, for between houses, she caught sight of somepony running along a back path, one heading towards the edge of town.
The interminable journey ended, and she stood before the trading post, but hesitated entering its dark interior. Peering through the doorway she saw nopony, only the sunlight spilling through the building’s sole window, turning dust motes into daytime stars. All was quiet inside, which was not typical. Meadow entered and found the proprietor standing behind the counter, his eyes narrowed, his face as hard as iron.
“What do you want?” he barked.
“I need supplies.” Celia squirmed upon hearing her mother’s voice. The once friendly owner did not ask what she required, so Meadow began listing her needs. “Dried apples, some walnuts…” The stallion listened to her entire list before gathering even the first item. Then, instead of placing it on the counter and making a tally, he dropped the bag on the floor and kicked it towards her. Without protest, she placed it in her pack. When he had slid the last in her direction, he called out, “Twenty,” and said not a word more.
Meadow kept her eyes upon him as she bent to retrieve the sack of dried peas. Then she stepped towards the counter.
The owner took two steps back and turned his head aside, his contorted face half hidden by mottled shadows. He stood a head taller than she, yet he appeared terrified, even from behind the counter’s safety.
After a brief hesitation, Meadow smiled and placed her coppers before him. “Good day to you,” she said and left, wasting not a second.
Outside she spotted three ponies a way off, doing no more than observing. When she moved, they followed, but never did they seek to close. If she were to run, she wondered, would they give chase? And her heart thundered thinking of the possibility. Encumbered with child and goods, she could not gallop out of the village, let alone the entire way home. So rather than retrace her route, Meadow took another path, one she and her father had walked many times, moving briskly while the watchers trailed. Soon, she made her way up a weedy walk to the home of Blanchet.
Meadow knew the weaver was not at her bench, for she did not hear the shushing of the shuttle nor the clacks of the old mare’s hooves dancing upon the treadle. Through the half-opened door she stuck her head and offered a weak “Hello?” From amongst shadows the old mare’s face appeared.
“In now—quickly.” Blanchet beckoned her across the threshold and closed the door behind them. “I’d heard, I’d heard. Oh! Look! Here she is.” Without seeking permission, she wrested Celia from Meadow’s side and sat the child sat on her lap. “A beauty. Yes, very much so.” The praise went on as Celia was prodded and played with.
Meadow slouched and shed her burden. A few deep breaths dispelled the sudden dizziness which had seized her upon entering the poorly lit house. Blanchet made no attempt to converse, the little one keeping her occupied, and for that, Meadow was grateful.
“Oh, little bird, what is our name?” Blanchet asked.
“Her name is Celia.” Meadow’s words came out like a slow exhalation.
“Celia! Celia!” the old mare teased, poking and repeating the name. The little one’s beak grabbed her elder’s hoof. “Feisty, no?” said Blanchet.
Meadow reached out, scolding, “No, stop,” but Blanchet would not let her touch the child.
“Let her go. Perfectly natural. Now,” the old mare began, “you are here and there is much to know.”
A lecture began. On rare occasions, the student intervened with a question, which the patient teacher answered. Recess was called to feed Celia, and as she slept, the conversation between the mares became hushed. In the space of two hours, Blanchet declared the topic of rearing foals exhausted.
Meadow watched her daughter lying asleep against Blanchet’s side. The old weaver hummed as she often did when at the loom. This roused memories which Meadow could not place. In a trice, she felt as soothed as the sleeping child, but with equal rapidity, she recalled the actions of the ponies on the way through the village, and the expression on the shopkeeper’s face, and the manner of those who had followed. Meadow touched the pendant hanging around her neck.
“I’m afraid I’ve made a terrible mistake,” she confessed in a whisper.
With a face both peaceful and serious, Blanchet looked up from the child. “Love is a precious thing, my dear.” And gently she cleared her throat. “Did you give it to one who—who deserved to receive it?”
Meadow did not hesitate. “Yes, I did.”
“Love does not require the sanction of others. Do not doubt yourself so easily, and give those who do not a mustard seed of care.” Blanchet nodded and went back to watching Celia sleep.
All remained silent for several minutes, and Meadow thought that Blanchet herself might have nodded off too, until she heard a sigh.
“You accompanied your father here many times. The two of us talked much then, for many hours. Why is that?”
“You were friends, from long ago when—”
“Oh!” Blanchet laughed, only to hush herself when the child stirred. “He courted me, that rapscallion. Yes, he did.” She nodded vigorously. “We were quite young, of course. Younger than you.”
A smile crept across Meadow’s face.
“Smile if you must, but ’tis true. My mane was long and beautiful many summers ago.” Blanchet gave its short, white remains a toss as Meadow giggled. “Many remarked upon it—they did—especially your father. He thought he loved me, but I knew better. And I loved another. Heady days then, they were. Your father left disappointed, but did not remain so for long.”
The old mare's voice halted, and her face hardened. “His was true, but mine was one who could not stay. Off with another he said he loved more, till he met his next.” She paused again. “They—those out there—said the fault was mine.”
All traces of mirth disappeared from Meadow’s face. “I’m sorry. I did not know.”
“It matters not, for it is long past.” Blanchet dismissed the sympathy with an energetic shake of her head. “Over before you lived,” she added and looked boldly into Meadow's eyes. “You live because your father found his true love. Of that I do not doubt. If I’d said yes to him, you would not be—she would not be.” And the old mare pulled Celia close. The child sighed.
“When you arrived, with your mother gone... You were not twice this one’s age when your father came to me, wan and frightened. So sad. He professed he always loved me, but his heart knew the lie.”
Meadow watched the old mare’s face tighten, her thin lips fluctuating between a smile and a grimace, accentuating the myriad of lines surrounding her muzzle. Awkward seconds passed before Blanchet resumed.
“My heart—it knew too. I said I’d be a friend, a helper, always—to him and you—but no more than that. No.”
Celia awoke and yawned. Blanchet rose and, still holding the child, shambled towards a shelf near her loom, where she began rummaging through a basket.
“His gone. Mine gone. All gone in the end. Now, where...” she grumbled and continued the search in another basket laying on the floor. “Always too late to change what has been, but—Ah, here we are.”
Blanchet tottered back and turned Celia over to her mother. Sitting, she offered the child what she had sought, a simple toy of her own making, a brown cloth bird with black embroidered eyes. Both mares watched as tiny talons reached out and clasped it.
“Bay spoke against you in public,” Blanchet said plainly. “Such priggery from that miserable old bachelor. Never does he have a good word for a mare. Never. And such absurdity. A sorceress, consorting with a demon—”
“A lie!” blurted Meadow.
“Does it matter?” The old mare shook her head. “From him, the superstitious and ignorant will believe, even when reason and their eyes tell them otherwise.”
Meadow sat stock-still and watched Celia gripping the toy bird, shaking it. After Bay had come to inspect them and left in such an agitated state, she had come to terms with what would happen. She knew he would rebuke her. Others might too. She had prepared herself for that. But such accusations, monstrous and spiteful. And the way the ponies in the village acted… his word had turned them against her. Now, more than when the councilor huffed out her door, more than when the shopkeeper backed away, when the suspicious gawkers followed, she comprehended her fate brought on by her love and her child. It felt as if the seasons reversed, winter’s bitter winds sweeping back, chilling her very marrow. As palpable fear gripped Meadow; she sought to disappear into herself. She held her daughter closer. Still, there was one thing she must know, so she wet her lips.
“Will they seek to harm us?”
To her surprise, Blanchet cackled.
“Have faith, child. Their cowardice exceeds their ignorance.” She reached out and touched Meadow’s shoulder, adding, “Nevertheless, always mind yourself—and your child.”
Meadow could not bring herself to return the old mare’s smile, but nodded that she understood.
“Today I’ll have another visitor,” Blanchet said. “Of that I am certain.” She leaned back before continuing. “Word will reach him, and Bay will call on me before the sun has set, thinking to chastise and spew venom. Not in my house. And before I throw him out, I promise his ears will burn.”
The thought of it provided cold comfort, for Meadow doubted the words of Blanchet or any other were capable of changing the councilor’s heart. Despite her earnestness, it appeared the old mare’s eyes reflected the same. Meadow recognized her fate was chosen. Bravely she told herself that there was Celia and that she loved her. And she loved Ahren, too, and never before had she so fervently desired his return. Still, she shook.
“Enough now, enough.” Blanchet stood and stretched. “It grows late. Let us take Celia home, my dear.”
So they took the child and walked through the center of the village, everypony staring as they passed. Taking no notice of it, Blanchet escorted mother and daughter down the south road until the last of the village houses faded away. Then she left them and returned to prepare for her visit from the councilor.
Meadow hurried home and unloaded her supplies. She made a meal and fed her hungry child before preparing for sleep. That night, rest remain elusive, for she lay awake, engulfed in an ocean of darkness, listening for voices that did not call and steps that did not come.

Before Celia’s fifth summer had ended, both Blanchet and Bay departed to their respective rewards.
On a morning in the first moon of the year, following a particularly bitter night, the villagers noticed no smoke coming from Blanchet’s chimney. They pounded on her door and, receiving no reply, forced their way in. Blanchet the weaver, born in the spring of the year with the late frost, had finished her mortal work and left them in her sleep.
Nopony thought to tell Meadow.
Bay’s exit proved more dramatic, so much so that Meadow learned the details at harvest time from the talkative miller. He related that at the onset of fall, the thin councilor had been overseeing the reconstruction of the north road’s bridge. He carelessly backed up while criticizing the joinery, took a misstep, and plunged into the river. Having never deigned to learn the indecorous art of swimming, he struggled against the robust current. None present had truly mastered the skill either, and they hesitated to effect a rescue. The waters swept the unfortunate councilor out of sight in no time, and it was not until noon the next day that he was found, far downstream, wedged amongst the cattails.
A replacement councilor was appointed without delay. Where Bay was grim, Councilor Chestnut was jovial; where his predecessor was lean, he was rotund. Upon arrival, the likable Chestnut wasted no time and sought to use his office, along with his generous smile and flaxen mane, to vie for the affection of the village mares. Everypony remarked that Chestnut’s eyes gleamed with the pleasures of life, for he possessed an appetite for music and dancing, along with the finest spirits and dishes that could be had. His appetite encompassed everything but change, and he hurriedly rejected Meadow’s appeals. She found no ally in the fleshy councilor.
Although Meadow obtained no solace, she remained brave and hopeful, and after so much time, both her and Celia’s lives were set as much as set apart. They lived humbly, worked their fields, and in the old tradition, sang songs and told tales while they labored. Of those tales, a particular one was oft repeated.
Fetching water always provided an opportunity for the retelling of the story of the griffon’s arrival, a story the energetic Celia never tired of hearing. Her mother said she had told the story long before the child understood words, but in no time Celia could repeat it unaided. Eventually, as she grew, the tale became so well known it was reduced to little more than repeated questioning.
“Where was the spot by the stream?” Celia asked as she hovered above her mother.
“Over where the hawthorns grow.”
“Father wasn’t frightening, was he?”
“No.” A smile graced Meadow’s face. “Only noble and gentle.”
The child paused for a moment. “Do I not look like him?”
“In some ways yes and some ways no. You are unique, my dear, as it should be.”
“But because I look like Father, everypony stays away.”
Meadow moved along, mute and in thought for a while. “They look and cannot see,” she said. “One day, perhaps, they will.”
“And there.” Celia pointed in the distance. “Is that the spot where he left?”
“You tell me.” Meadow’s smile returned. “You are the one in the air, not I.”
“Yes. It was on top of that hill where he gave you the pendant and left for the city in the mountains.” Celia hovered, looking at the spot while her mother walked ahead. Realizing she had been left behind, she dove down and landed beside Meadow.
“And he will return to us.”
“For that,” Meadow replied, “we can only hope.”