//------------------------------//
// Ⅲ - Hope Falters 
// Story: The Tale of the Hippogriff 
// by OleGrayMane 
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In the ten summers since Blanchet left them, Celia’s memories of the old mare, their only ally amongst the villagers, grew fainter. A flash of remembrance might come, an imprecise vision of the weaver at her machine, her tiny self sitting beside it, captivated by the tangle of strings and the flurry of motion. It must have been the blue blanket the weaver was making, Celia concluded, the one that appeared with chilly autumn nights. These days, like her recollections, the blanket’s color had faded.
What remained vivid in her memory were the arduous trips through the village. The stares, the barking dogs, the taunts: She would not forget a single one. She could not. And her mother’s insistence that she walk, not fly, made it all the worse.
“Why, Mother?” she would ask. “Walking is so slow. I can fly as fast as a bird.”
“I know, my dear, but let them see that you are as much pony as bird.” And Mother’s face would blossom with a brittle smile. Little Celia knew it was not a good smile.
Celia did not remain little. In those summers, she grew tall and strong, as did her desire to be in the air. Mother no longer restrained her, and if the villagers had ever seen pony in her, they could not now. No longer did she walk alongside her mother when they ventured into the village, yet never did she leave her unaccompanied. Celia’s shadow escorted her mother along the road north, and once in the village, that shadow slid over the ponies’ homes in a silent proclamation that she watched. No, she would not let them forget she watched.
Mother insisted she not hate the villagers, for Celia was part pony herself. “To do so would be to hate oneself, and that is poison to the heart.” Celia struggled. It was the hardest thing Mother ever asked of her, for not a grain of good could she find in them, seeing how they treated one of their own. Unswerving, Mother remained forgiving of Celia’s anger, even when Celia knew she did not deserve it. Eventually, she yielded, promising not to hate them, yet neither would they be loved.
Village trips were few nowadays. Field work occupied their lives, and while the world of her father came to Celia with ease, mastery of the earth eluded her. Planting and harvesting held no luster, notwithstanding her desire to please. Her ever supportive mother heaped praise upon her work, although Celia knew she was clumsy. Sprouts and weeds appeared maddeningly alike despite the endless and patient tutoring. How did Mother’s hooves move so deftly about the little green stems while her talons uprooted everything? The skills of the farmer seemed forever unlearnable, the magic of the earth unobtainable.
Meadow recognized the signs in her child: listlessness, dejected scratching in the dirt, those dispirited, skyward stares. So when Celia was still young, she had devised a ruse. When the work became tiresome and the child became downcast, Meadow would prick up her ears and feign a sudden shock.
“My dear, can you hear them?” she would exclaim while holding a hoof just behind her ear in an attempt to catch some distant sound.
“Who,” a startled Celia would ask, for she heard nothing.
“I hear rabbits munching. Yes, I do.” And Meadow would nod most ardently. “They are in the garden by the house, robbing us of the peas you so love. Go now and shoo them away.”
Without hesitation, Celia would throw herself into the sky and race off to put a halt to the long-eared perils. However, the gullible child always arrived too late to apprehend those rabbits dining on peas, or the mice conspiring against a cabbage, or any of the other fabrications intent on seeing them starve come wintertime. Finding nothing, Celia would fly to and fro above the garden like an anxious dragonfly until she at last tired and perched on the hut’s roof. From that vantage point, she could safeguard their garden and watch her mother labor in the distant fields. But her attentiveness never lasted long. In due course, her gaze was drawn to where the sky and mountains met.
Long gone were Celia’s childhood days. Too old for such trickery now, she persevered in the fields. Still, Mother knew.


—❦—


It was two days past the new moon, the one marking the end of spring, and evening was approaching. Celia and Meadow were weeding the long rows of sprouts in a field east of the stream, and as they worked, darkness rolled over them. Both looked up. Vigorous winds bustled the clouds across the sky, capriciously obscuring the sun before returning it. With the momentary darkness gone, Meadow went back to work.
A woebegone Celia remained transfixed by the lofty clouds gliding over the grasslands. She watched them drift towards the far away, dispassionate mountains. So distant and entrancing, tinged red by the receding sun. Celia pulled herself away and stared down the row of seedlings. As always, the last row seemed longer than the rest combined. She sighed.
“Celia, dear…”
Her reply was curt. “Mother, the garden is safe.” And she lowered her head and returned to the task of weeding.
“I’m sure it is, but what do you think of the blueberries?”
“What?” Celia tilted her head. Was this some strange new ruse?
“On the hillside,” Meadow began. When Celia’s eyes narrowed, she added, “By the bend in the stream where you sometimes fish.”
Celia’s head snapped up. She paused, uncertain and apprehensive, for the subject of her fishing was seldom broached. “Yes. What of the blueberries?”
“Do you think, perhaps, they are ripe?”
“I… I have not checked. When I’m finished I’ll—”
“Go and get a basket,” Meadow instructed.
“But I’m not finished.” The objection appeared to go unnoticed.
“Get a basket, and if they are ready, we shall have them tonight. Now go.” The corners of Meadow’s mouth lifted only a fraction.
Celia knew not what to make of that nascent smile.
“Go and check, dear. I will finish here.”
With an effortless leap, Celia escaped the dull earth. “Thank you, Mother,” she called from overhead, and after circling the field twice, she made for the house.
Arriving there, Celia sought out the berry basket. A brief search was required, for it was not stored where is should have been. Once found, she raced towards where the berries grew.
Being in the air, even for such a short time, left her intoxicated. She giggled, zig-zagging across the fields to stretch out her trip. A flock of shiny jackdaws exploded from the bushes, issuing complaints to the intruder. Now she had competition! Celia pursued them, scattering the startled birds across the fields, laughing all the while.
With her sport finished, she returned to the bushes near the stream and began plucking berries, for they were indeed ripe. Her talons worked well for this chore, but she did not rush, placing each berry in the basket with great ceremony. Soon the basket was full, and she returned to the air and hovered, letting the sun warm her.
Not too distant, Mother sat on a hilltop. A long, narrow shadow stretched out beside her. Celia wondered how she could have finished both their work in such little time. Then the thought struck her that she might be admonished for dawdling. But her mother did not call, nor move, nor do anything but sit and watch her. Unsure of what she should do, Celia did nothing. So the two looked at each other, one anchored to the earth, the other hanging in the sky. A full minute passed.
At last Meadow moved, but only to touch the pendant that dangled from her neck. It was then that Celia recognized where she sat. It was that hill, the one from which her father had departed.
Meadow rose without calling to her daughter. She turned and walked away. Celia caught up to her and landed. They walked side by side.
“You have the berries?” Meadow asked as they ambled down the hill.
“Yes. They were ripe as you thought.”
“Good,” Meadow replied. “That is good.”
No more words were exchanged between them on the way home.


—❦—


The washed berries went into a wooden bowl upon the table. While meal preparations were under way, and their home was tidied, first Meadow and then Celia sampled the plump treats. Both remarked on their taste. This one was bitter, the other not quite ripe but, ah, that one was perfect.
Celia was relieved, for she thought Mother was more herself as the berries disappeared. All she had thought about on the awkward walk home was that she would be chastised for dawdling. Now, aided by the berries’ sweetness, perhaps nothing would come of it.
As for the blueberries themselves, one more and yet another were assessed, so that by the time the evening meal was upon the table, not a single one remained.
Like many that labor hard, their fare was never luxurious, but always nourishing and plentiful. They ate, and the hut was quiet.
Peculiar, Celia thought, for as they ate, it was Mother’s wont to speculate on the weather, or converse about planting plans, or the growth of the crops, or harvesting, all the concerns of ponies that work the earth. Also missing tonight was the question of the meal being tasty or not. She did not inquire if Celia desired more. Neither did a happenstance evoked the retelling of some story. Mother ate quietly.
Was it her tardiness? Not persevering in the fields? Celia wondered if an apology might be required. Mother was, sometimes, quiet when displeased. Not often, but sometimes.
When they had finished, Meadow rose, and both began the nightly ritual of putting their home in order before sleep. They removed the plates and utensils, placing them upon the sideboard where they awaited washing.
The last item Celia removed was the empty wooden bowl. She turned and handed it to her mother. Then she went to tend the fire and began poking at the wavering embers to again summon a flame. It emerged quickly.
Behind her, a gasp and a heavy clunk: Celia turned. Mother stood near the window, her eyes covered, her sides heaving. She lurched forward, knocking aside the wooden bowl that lay on the floor.
Swiftly at her side, Celia touched her shoulder. “Mother?”
“No! Please.”
Celia withdrew. Upset over dropping that old wooden bowl? Why, it made no sense. Had she taken ill? It would explain her peculiar silence.
Meadow uncovered her eyes. Turning, she threw a glance at Celia, before lowering her head. “I’m sorry.” The tone was plaintive.
“Come, sit by the fire,” Celia offered. “I will finish the work. Sit by the fire.” And she attempted to escort her there.
“No. I—” Meadow’s voice shook. “I am very tired.” Nodding, she said rapidly, “Yes, tired. I should go to sleep.”
“There is still work—”
“Never mind,” she insisted. “We shall finish come morning.” She turned to Celia, and spoke in a manner both pleasant and tranquil, “You need not join me. Go outside for a bit. I will leave a candle burning for your return.”
“Candles are expensive, Mother.”
“It does not matter! Go! Go outside.”
Tense seconds passed. Meadow added, “Please. I need rest. That is all.”
Not entirely convinced, yet not wanting to argue, Celia bade her mother good night and left.
Outside, the sun had spent its last in remaking the clouds into a weightless mountain range in dappled pinks and grays. Celia studied it, watching the sky redden. Shortly, she decided upon flying to the river.
With the setting sun, the countryside beneath her slowly blended into a uniform gray. The thought struck her that, even when only blackness remained, the colors still existed, hidden, never lost.
She reached the river and headed to the mill, then from there followed the river upstream, to where it emerged from the woods north of the village. Unhurried as she was, by the time she had arrived over the village, dusk had made itself comfortable there. Lights already glowed through windows. Full night would come soon, and being no owl, she must return home. She did so and upon arriving, alighted on the roof of the hut, for perching there afforded a wide view of the land. The after-light faded; the darkness grew.
Flying seemed to bring such excitement, a euphoria. How contrary was the peace, the contentment, she felt as she looked upon the fields. Mother said the pony part of her, the part which understood the powers and needs of the earth, spoke to her then. Celia ruffled her feathers to disperse the thought. She raked her talons through the roof’s rushes, remembering the feel, that crinkling sound. From her youngest days, she had liked it.
Mother said their home was constructed long before even she had been born, soon after her father left the village with his bride. Among the distant silhouettes, Celia strained to see. She knew they were there, the two stone mounds that lay to the west, the simple markings of the resting places of the hut’s original inhabitants. Mother’s mother was gone before she was a day old. Of her, Mother had no memories; for Celia it was as if she never existed. Not so for her pony grandfather, for in the home he had constructed, he still lived, only sleeping upon that far hilltop. Mother made him live on with the stories of his life, with the songs he had sung, the tales he had told. He lived through her, a benign ghost that the prairie wind could not dissipate.
Darker now, and whip-poor-wills darted across the still-lit remains of the sky, starting their day, not ending it. The flock of little birds twisted and spun in pursuit of insects swarming in the cool night air. Celia thought of the sky and the birds. She thought of the village and the ponies there.
A member of neither flock nor village. Her only heritage was the story of the griffon. And what of her father, Ahren, whose noble qualities Mother extolled? Another of Mother’s ghosts—and Celia’s as well. He had left his daughter no songs and only a single story, one promising his return.
On countless days, Celia had relentlessly surveyed the horizon, her eyes boring through every mountain, assured she could draw him forth, yearning for his promise to be fulfilled. How many nights had the dreams been so vivid that she knew them to be real? At dawn she would wake, expecting to find the eyes Mother described looking down upon her.
At last he would have come, his golden wings spread wide! He had arrived to rescue them, he would announce, and now they would go to their true home, that magnificent white city so far away, where they would live together, forever!
There, above snowy peaks, she and her father would soar, cutting the crisp mountain air, laughing as they went. Mother would be in the valley below, lying amongst the greenest grass imaginable, beside the bank of a murmuring stream. Laughing too, she would wave and urge them on, promising a kiss to the race’s winner. Then at night—on every night—there would be an enormous meal, in a proper house, like the ones the villagers had. Afterward, while they rested beside the fire, Father would tell marvelous stories of noble heroes and clever knaves. Eventually, too tired to request another, she would fall asleep, utterly contented.
Mother said they must be patient and brave. They must continue to hope. But in the blackness of night, on the edge of the endless prairie, sitting and waiting and hoping had no more substance than a dream at sunrise.
The whip-poor-wills’ cries faded. A feeble breeze was her only companion. Celia hopped from the roof. She went inside, easing the door closed behind her, and there on the table, as promised, a candle burned. Celia went to put it out but heard muffled weeping. Mother lay face down in her bed, her hooves held tight against her eyes. Celia touched her.
“Mother? Mother, what is wrong?” The tears increased. Profoundly unprepared and frightened, Celia held her. Mother’s face rocked back and forth against her side.
“It will be all right,” Celia said.
“No!” Meadow gasped. “It can never be right! Forgive me. Oh! forgive me.” She begged forgiveness again and again as she struggled against Celia’s hold. Minutes passed. Her strength waned. She uncovered her eyes and wrapped herself around her daughter, sobbing.
Again Celia asked, “What is wrong? You must tell me.”
“He’s never coming back,” Meadow managed between sobs. “Never. Never.” She ended with, “It was all a lie.” The muffled words were faint, for her face was buried in Celia’s feathers.
How tiny and weak she seemed, Celia thought. No. Her mother was not weak. She worked hard in the fields to feed them. She bore the scorn of the villagers, yet refused to hate them. Did these things not take strength? Yes, her mother was strong, as strong as iron.
“I was a young fool,” Meadow mumbled. “A fool to believe—in his love, that he would return.”
“That cannot be,” insisted Celia. “Father was noble. You told me that. Was that not so?”
“Yes, I… But—”
“Then he would not lie.”
“Why has he not returned?” pleaded Meadow. “Where could he be?”
Celia had no answer, for the faith she placed in Father’s word came from the story itself. Mother’s certainty, her love, wove more than story, but truth itself. For Mother to no longer trust her own truths, it was unimaginable.
“I believed in his love because I wanted to. I needed to. I was a fool.”
“Then—why did he give you the pendant? Why did he say those grand words?” Celia caught a sparkle in her mother’s eyes: In the depths of her heart, hope still lived, but could not be sustained.
“Where is he?” Meadow hid her face and cried, “Why does he make me wait? It is unbearable!”
Celia held her. There was nothing else to do. Bewildered, she maintained a blank stare upon the walls while Mother wept. Once their home felt so big, but tonight, with each flicker of the candle flame, with every sob, it shrank. Their shelter from the elements, their safeguard from hostility, felt confining, too small for the sullen shadows fluttering on its walls.
“Forgive me,” said Meadow. “It is no fault of yours, only mine.”
Years ago, in a moment of spite, Celia told her mother she would harm the village ponies, although she had been too small to carry out such an act. Mother told of a place called prison. Gloomy and bleak, and very far away, it was a place for those who did wrong. As punishment, the Councilor would send you there, and there you would remain, alone with your thoughts, until you realized your error. At the time, Celia thought the villagers should be sent to prison.
Now she knew it was Mother who was the prisoner, and her life was her cell. Celia herself was her crime. The ponies had abandoned her, casting her into a void of loneliness from which Ahren’s return would be her only rescue. The promise of his return supplied her with the strength to endure all. Alas, the years had overburdened her faith. Time had bested her hope.
Celia sought to rekindle it. “He will come. He promised.”
Meadow’s crying ebbed. She shook her hanging head. “Oh, my dear. It has been too long. He will never come to us.”
Perchance it was no more than romanticism, perhaps the sublime impetuousness of youth, but a resolve gripped Celia, a determination that seemed to materialize from the very air itself. And the words she spoke felt as if they came from another, one supremely composed, one superbly valiant.
“Then,” she vowed, “I shall go to him.”


—❦—


Those valiant words, spoken in darkness, now faced the light of day. The preparations were complete, and mother and daughter stood not far from their home.
Celia glanced back at that simple dwelling, the only place she had ever known. Morning’s soft light imparted a blurry incandescence to it, and she no longer thought it small. It and its modest comforts, she realized, would soon would be behind her. Her bedroll, a faded blanket secured by rope, was slung over her shoulder; a homespun pouch hung from her neck. The little food she carried could last no more than a day or two, so for the remainder of her journey, however long that might be, she would forage.
Mother turned to her, and in her eyes, Celia saw the hopelessness dwelling there still. After a night of fitful rest, she seemed stronger, more herself, yet despite such outward bravery, Celia feared for her. How would she fare once all alone?
“When I am gone,” Celia said with half-hearted confidence, “the village ponies will treat you kindly once more.”
Meadow’s smile was forced and soon became pained. Her head drooped. With glassy eyes fixed upon the ground, she whispered, “Perhaps…” Then, with unexpected urgency, she removed Ahren’s pendant, wrapped it in a cloth, and placed it in Celia’s pouch. Neither uttered a word; both knew its purpose. With the act complete, Meadow locked her daughter in a crushing embrace.
“Dearest heart, the earth was never your home. I will not keep you here.” As swiftly as Meadow had grasped her, Celia was released. “Go now. Go to the mountains and find your father’s city. Go.”
“I will. I will find him and return him to you.”
And thus, no more than twenty paces from where she was born, Celia left her mother.