//------------------------------//
// Ⅳ - The Journey Northward 
// Story: The Tale of the Hippogriff 
// by OleGrayMane 
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Over the fields Celia flew. With confident flaps, she rose, describing an ever widening spiral, while below, a feeble breeze put the prairie grasses into motion.
Never before had she dared to fly so high. Here the air chilled while the sun warmed, much like an autumn day. Celia banked and glimpsed down. Finding her home was difficult, for it was but a dab of brown amidst so much green. North of it she saw how the pony village wedged itself between the river and woods. It looked pitifully small. Sounds too were distant. The rushing air swallowed the river’s gentle shush; muffled were the low thumps from the mill. Celia was alone, hovering above what had been her world.
How puny, she thought. How confining. But now she had escaped! No longer would the earth vex her, no longer the villagers oppress. She was free from all that was. Celia threw back her head and laughed, finishing with a shattering screech. Free!
No—she chastised herself. This journey was not for her, but Mother, and she still was down there, suffering, still a lonely prisoner. She must not forget, ever.
With deeper and deeper breaths, she built her resolve. Emboldening sunlight poured upon her as she flew higher still, and from the rarified heights, she took in the entirety of the landscape. She saw the prairie bounded by the western mountains. To the north lay forests, and hills, and valleys filled with the morn’s mists. Binding all was the river.
Mother said Ahren followed the river southward on his journey to the sea. He must have taken the same route to his home, the city in the north, now her destination. Certainty mixed with anticipation, and it left her exhilarated yet anxious. She dove down to follow that river, and as she did, she sang.

Blow ye north wind, blow
Send ice, rain, and snow
I shall bear whatever you throw
Oh! Never shall you master me

The grass he bows to you
Tall poplar quakes in fear
Meadowlark hides her head away
When’ere you doth appear—
When’ere you doth appear

My back, it will not bend
Nor shall my head be bowed
Bright sun will find me once again
From behind blackened clouds—
From behind blackened clouds

Begone, north wind, go
Take ice, rain, and snow
Your sorrow I’ll no longer know
Oh! Never shall you master me


—❦—


The first day’s travel brought only modest progress. Celia grew fatigued, for never before had she attempted to fly for an entire day. And on that first night, she learned of the wonder of sleeping beneath stars, learning how cold night can become. Chilled and restless, she reappraised her meager home, appreciating the luxury a hut and a small fire afforded.
After a few days of travel, the food she carried ran out. Foraging then took up a sizable portion of each day, and thus progress slowed. Celia continued following the winding river through woodlands and fields, and from above, she observed the tiny forms of ponies laboring in their fields, just as she and her mother had. The settlements those ponies inhabited were not much different from the one she had left behind.
Celia passed unnoticed in daylight, garnering no more attention than a high-flying eagle scouring the river for a meal. In the evening, she would descend and forage in the ponies’ fields. She harbored some guilt, for she knew how hard they labored. And always she took care to secret herself, for if the ponies in her village, those who knew her origin, had been so hostile, how would strangers act? Discovery could not be risked.
Yet when darkness fell, the scent of woodsmoke beckoned, and oftentimes Celia crept to the edge of the fields, and there, lying low, she would watch the well lit homes, their windows casting strange, flickering geometries upon the land. On these occasions she might glimpse the shadows of those inside moving, and she contemplated their lives. What had they eaten? And with the meal over, were their young listening to stories, hearing songs? The lives of these ponies were, she supposed, much like that of her mother and pony grandfather in years past: No matter how distant, thoughts of home and Mother were never far away.
Celia would watch until an unseen breath extinguished the lights and then return to spend the night in the fields, disappearing before daybreak. What those farmers thought when they came upon the spot where she made her bed, where she had dined, Celia often wondered. Perhaps they would ascribe it to hungry deer coming in from the woods.
Rustic though they be, the farmers knew deer, and they knew what they saw. Those were foreign hoof prints, and ones which mysteriously left no trail in or out of their fields. And most definitely those were the marks of claws between the rows of carefully tended plants. They knew their visitor was no deer.
Unbeknownst to her, Celia spawned a myriad of stories in her travels, for her unwitting hosts concocted tales of a harrowing creature who haunted the fields at night.


—❦—


Farther north, the pony settlements became sparse and then passed from sight. Even the rough huts of the wood cutters and charcoal-burners, nestled in the darkness of the deep woods, vanished. Celia was glad to be rid of the latter’s noisome, smoldering mounds, but with no dwellings nearby, she spent her nights amongst the saplings flourishing along the riverside.
Upstream, the valleys widened while the river narrowed, until, in due course, the waters split into its constituent parts, leaving rivulets to travel hidden beneath the trees tops.
The days stretched and shrank as Celia ventured over the forest-blanketed hills. A tall oak would now and then push itself above the crowds of maples and poplars, reasserting its sovereignty, but other than that, the landscape remained unvarying. Boredom plagued her. Hunger dogged her too, for she found little to her liking amongst the bitter vegetation of the forest floor. At least the nights were serene and brought dreams of Father’s distant city, although they ended in a disquieting manner. Celia would spot the city’s walls, radiant and white, and rush to them, her journey concluded. The walls dissolved as she approached, transforming into a thick, all enveloping mist. Then the mist dissipated, revealing her mother standing atop a windswept hill, the long strands of her auburn mane flailing around her.
In the waking world, the nature of the forest soon changed. Trees grew so tall as to disguise the terrain beneath, and the canopy turned into a roiling sea of foliage over a bed of branches. Finding a gap where one of the mighty had succumbed, she entered this ancient woodland, a place primeval, untouched, and unbound by order.
Shards of light pierced the forest’s leafy dome and lit the emptiness beneath in brilliant pools of light. Marveling at the beauty of this hidden vastness, Celia marveled set out to explore.
The space possessed an eerie quiet, so much so that the stirring of distant birds, something an open sky would swallow, felt within reach. She became aware of the hushed crumpling of the leaf litter under her hooves; she heard her own breath. None of this frightened, for a sense of tranquil muteness pervaded. What a wonder this place was, she thought, like a great house, a peaceful refuge that required neither roof nor walls.
Upon encountering a meandering brook, she fished, easily taking several plump, pink-sided trout. It had been far too long since she had enjoyed such a feast. Full for once, she encamped beside the moss covered remains of a fallen giant and, in the shallow tree throw next to it, fashioned a bed of bracken. When darkness fell, the tripartite of a full stomach, soft bedding, and whispered rustlings in the treetops worked their magic. Undisturbed by dreams, Celia slept.
True morning light had not yet filtered down to the understory when a garrulous jay woke her, scolding the infraction of her presence. Much too early, Celia thought, and with a quick flick of a wing, she dismissed the irksome bird. Off it flew, complaining still. Slumber entreated her to rejoin it, and her eyelids drooped.
Then she was abruptly wide eyed.
From the other side of the log came the sound of leaves crackling and twigs snapping: creatures in flight. Two hinds and a hart bounded over her head in graceful arcs, landing like dancers. They raced off, each winding their separate ways between saplings and maneuvering around forest floor’s debris. In the misty half-light, all three soon disappeared from sight and then from hearing. With the amusing interruption gone, again Celia began to doze, only to have new sounds disturb her, much louder than those made by deer.
Cracks from the splintering of thick branches punctuated the cacophony from whence the deer came. Celia stretched her head above the log and peeked. In the distant shadows, a pair of green eyes resolved, gigantic, glowing with a fierce, unnatural fire. Another set appeared, followed by another. Three immense beasts, chaotic wolf-like creatures, stood arrayed, low growls coming from their wooden maws. They scanned for prey with malevolent glares.
Fear sent Celia’s heart racing, and she stood, a perilous error, for spotted, the beasts charged, uprooting trees, demolishing all before them. Celia blindly flung herself into the air, crashing into branches overhead, tumbling back down, only to crash into more. The lead beast swiped at its escaping meal: a near miss, but Celia felt a gust close behind her. Landing upon a high branch, she was momentarily safe, for the wolves of timber would not be denied. They howled and leapt, not quite reaching her. Frustrated, they leaned into the trunk and sent the ancient tree swaying. All she could do was hang on.
The assault paused as a disagreement of some type broke out. Chilling growls and snapping jaws settled it, and the loser left, snarling. By the time the remaining two resumed the hunt, Celia had slipped to an even higher branch on another tree. Safely concealed behind a thick trunk, she watched the beasts grumble their frustrations as they paced around her previous location. A few minutes passed, and the pair came to the mutual conclusion that easier prey could be had. They moved off.
Although safe, her heart pounded ever harder. How could serenity spawn such horrors? They we not even flesh, but the corrupted assemblage of forest castoffs! Celia’s mind reeled, imagining a plethora of dangers that might lurk below. What could have come upon her while she slept? Mottled daylight shone upon the forest floor by the time she had stopped shaking. Calm enough to fly, but just, Celia darted down to retrieve her abandoned possessions, gathering them up one item at a time. Then she departed.
What had seemed a sylvan paradise had revealed its true nature: indifference. She had learned that beauty does not guarantee safety, and thereafter Celia would remain wary. Never again did she sleep upon the forest floor, instead spending her nights in an uncomfortable half-sleep, perched upon the highest bough of the strongest tree to be had.


—❦—


The ancient forest dwindled to nothing, and the land transformed into the high desert which sprawled in the lee of the northern mountains. While the hills reminded Celia of home, it was no prairie, for an alien flora dominated. Groves of scrub oaks carpeted the lowlands, and the hilltops, dotted with angular stones, were nigh barren. Even the sage-colored grasses struggled to rise from the earth. The few trees of size were dead, bleached a skeletal white, twisted and tortured forms, forever locked in the midst of some febrile nightmare.
Flying over the desert was not difficult, for the warm rising air allowed Celia to glide long distances with minimal effort. But the heat. From when the midsummer sun reached its zenith to when the shadows grew long, she sought relief where she could. On days with clouds, and when the winds sent them in the right direction, she used their great shadows like stones in a stream, hopping between their shade as they slid over the terrain.
Three moons of travel had refined her skills and increased her strength, yet daily flight left her drained. Never could she find enough food or water. Sleep, too, was a scarce commodity.
Celia might doze while lying in the shade, her wings half open, inviting a breeze to whisk away the heat. This daytime slumber left her unsatisfied. Hot days with clear skies brought cold nights, which likewise afforded little rest. How lucky she considered herself when she came upon a derelict homestead. Although no more than half its roof remained, the walls of dry-stacked stone gave back the warmth of the day, and that night, she was almost comfortable.
Tired and hungry as she was, she did not despair. The northern mountains, once translucent ghosts, distinguishing themselves from the sky. They appeared noticeably more distinct each morning, and the sight rallied her. She went forth, temporarily restored.
The foothills of those mountains were palpable when she spotted an emerald thread snaking across the dull landscape: a stream. Celia raced to it and dove down, frightening off the shrikes bathing at water’s edge. She landed in the stream’s midst and drank her fill before joyfully splashing about as if she were but half her age. After shaking herself dry and preening, she took a short rest and planned. The stream flowed from the northwest, the general direction of her travel. Accordingly, she followed it, setting her course for a dark, hulking formation in the distance, which at first she took for no more than ragged hills.
Like many travelers who find themselves within that barren domain, serendipity had brought Celia to the nameless city that lies within the desert’s contours. The city is ancient, abandoned, and deteriorated. Of it, few facts are to be had. Minotaur scholars grow hostile when queried, and it is unwise to provoke a member of that venerable race. Taciturn Yaks are no better. Tales of the Zebra mystics are, perhaps, the best source of details, if indeed they may be called details. In states of trance, they tell us their ancestors relay stories of forgotten times. Some of these corroborate, others conflict.
As for the city itself, it imparts no particulars. It waits forlorn, with blackened roads splayed out among the hills like the broken legs of an insect, impatient for the earth to reclaim it.
The stream disappeared before Celia reached the city’s edge, swallowed by a nonnatural opening blocked by bars of corroded iron. Celia did not stop to inspect, but soared aloft and swept over the city to survey.
A multitude of structures, different heights either by design or deterioration, were partitioned by radial roads, describing a wheel-like plan with a hub composed of large and unique constructions. A short distance out from the center, she landed. Debris from crumbling buildings was heaped on the roadway, withered weeds filled its innumerable cracks. Before their decline, rows of uniformly gray buildings on either side had once formed the sheer walls of a canyon. Now their vacant windows stared down on Celia like the eyes of the dead.
Even in such a corrupted state, the vacant city was the grandest thing Celia had ever seen. Who could have lived here? What mighty builders they must have been. Wonder and curiosity drew her towards the city’s center where the larger buildings were gathered together.
Along the way, she came upon the remains of an enormous green, untended for ages and now grown wild. Wild or not, a sweet, delicate fragrance permeated it, for within it grew grey-barked figs, their contorted branches heavy with fruit. Celia was suspicious, for this being such an exotic place compared to her home, the fruit appeared otherworldly. Her experience in the forest left her distrustful, but hunger out-argued caution. She bit into one, and upon discovering its sweet interior, gorged herself.
At the convergence of the roads was the city center, and there stood the remains of a lofty obelisk. Beside it lay a stately building, and although nowhere near as tall the monolith, it remained imposing. Hundreds of tightly spaced columns supported a domed roof, leaving Celia with the impression of an enormous, rounded hill. Both were fabricated from stone blocks, the obelisk’s white, the other’s pink and gray. Far in the past, the obelisk had fractured, and its upper third fell, piercing its neighbor, opening its interior to the sky.
Finding no entrance, Celia flew to top of the dome and landed near the gaping hole. She peered over the jagged edge. Below, all was rubble, nothing left to reveal the edifice’s purpose.
All the same, Celia would have recognized those who once occupied this place, for she knew their lesser counterparts, the councilors of her village. While they only sought control, those here once sought to ennoble. Unschooled, she could not have conceived of the weighty propositions they put forth nor, in her innocence, comprehend the conceit their achievements produced, a victory leading to a quiet defeat.
The heart of an empire, it is said, the inhabitants once ruled far and wide, spawning lesser cities, and spread their influence across the land. For uncounted years all thrived under their sway. Then, when they thought all had been accomplished, everything mighty achieved, they grew satisfied with themselves. They ceased to dream, and their striving came to an end. Aloof, leading naught but idle lives, their hearts grew cold.
Now unnourished, the city’s offspring withered away, branches dropping from a dying tree: time has forever erased their memory. Eventually only their capital remained, this city, and alone, its inhabitants turned inward, seeking solace in pleasure, until they had no interest beyond themselves. And so, in ignoring the world, it in turn forgot them, and when the last was gone, not a solitary being knew to mourn.
A distant rushing echoed inside the dome, for far beneath it, water flowed. Water and more. Celia thought she heard breaths from something asleep: regular, raspy, wet. Perhaps the artificial cavern amplified the sounds, and thus her imagination, but she envisioned a creature dwarfing the monsters of the forest.
Celia backed away and shook her head.
No griffons lived here, not now or ever. Empty, a useless place, and in declaring it so, she would waste no more time. Refocused upon her destination, she departed, leaving behind the city to its sad and inevitable fate.


—❦—


Two days passed before the desert yielded and Celia arrived in the foothills. On the night of her arrival, she slept with an easy mind, certain her destination was near. So when she entered the mountains the next day, her heart soared with the beauty of it all.
The valley was wide. Through it, a river chortled over a bed of smooth rocks as it meandered its way through stands of pines. The valley’s slopes were grey and rocky, yet not so steep that white-bearded goats could not manage them with aplomb. Flocks of joyous birds darted between clumps of trees, and high above, wary hawks observed her, insistent on keeping their distance.
This was not the place of Celia’s dreams, for as a child she had known nothing of actual mountains and valleys beyond stories. No, the northern mountains surpassed all her dreams! The exquisiteness of this land called, bidding her welcome, and so she followed its happy waters deeper into the mountains. Why, in such a perfect place, she thought, surely Father’s city would appear around the next bend.
How often it is that optimism is premature, and so it was with Celia. The farther she ventured into the mountains, the less enamored she became of them. Trees and wildlife were sparse, the valleys narrowed, and scree threw the once languid waters into confusion. Erratic gusts swooped down from high, scheming to toss her about like a leaf. Although saddened by the loss of beauty, she vowed to endure these trials and continue her search, although it became increasingly difficult.
In the forest, the trees had hidden the land, and in the desert all was visible, although there was little to see. In these mountains, they themselves were a form of concealment. Valleys forked endlessly, constructing a disorienting labyrinth which twisted and bent and always denied Celia her goal. In a few days, she felt the mountains swallowing her.
Why couldn’t Father’s city be like the one in the desert? she asked herself in frustration. Should it not be easy to find, for how could an entire city hide?
Her futile search went on, to the point where Celia no longer woke invigorated, but listless. Those hard-won flying skills were inadequate when faced by ominously tall peaks. And every night, like the darkness itself, the day’s disappointment weighed heavily. Still she clung to hope, for the next valley—at long last!—must be the one holding the white walled city of her father.
Without fail, she found the next valley empty.
Celia stood on an outcropping and looked into the valley below. The floor of the valley lay in chilling shadows, while sunlight cut across the crest behind her, setting the far slope ablaze. So majestic, she thought, yet so exasperating, for the northern mountain range was larger than she imagined. The past five futile days had weakened her spirit. How simple childhood foolishness made the task appear: follow the rivers to the mountain and come upon the city, just waiting for her arrival. Without an honest sign, she now knew, eternity could be spent searching here. Finding even something as massive as a city felt like an impossibility.
Or was it all a lie? In her despair, Mother had thought so. If there was no city to be found, what then would Celia do? Go home, defeated? After embarking so brave and confident, how could she return and tell Mother their lives were built upon lies? Celia hung her head. Tears flowed.
Her determination drove off despair. If it took an eternity, so be it! Celia grasped the pouch which held safe her mother’s pendent. For all those years that stone was the sole tangible part of her father’s story. Its presence had fueled Mother’s hope, its power sustained her through so many tribulations. Now, Celia vowed, the stone would sustain her. It was real, and so must be her father and his city. Surety returned. No, she had come too far to let these mountains best her. She would find her father.
But this noble search would have to wait, for all day low echoes of thunder muttered in the distance. The complete absence of birds and animals heralded the storm’s approach too, for besides the trees upon the slopes and the mosses clinging to rocks, Celia had not seen another living thing since awakening. The wise beasts were long sheltered.
Now, from the northwest sky the front advanced it came, a blue gray mountain range of unnatural clouds, their dark tendrils outstretched, menacing its earthly counterpart. From within, lurid orange and red flashed, as the ceaseless percussion of thunder set the cadence for the storm’s progression.
Celia headed south to where she had spotted a bluff shelter on a southern slope. Long ago, the shaking of the earth had wreaked destruction there, scattering enormous stone blocks on the valley’s floor. A single thick slab lay wedged into the slope at a low angle, and although the roof it formed was high above her, it would suffice as a refuge.
Close behind the storm pursued, a black monstrosity consuming the sky. An early, dreadful night fell. An angry surf of clouds rolled over the mountain crests, flinging icy rain. Although Celia hid as best she could, the driven rain produced a fine mist which swirled about. It condensed on her feathers and coat, chilling her. All through the afternoon and into the evening, the tempest waxed and waned, but steadfastly refused to depart.
Without the sun, Celia could not tell the true time of day, but surely, she reasoned, by now it must be night. So she shook herself dry, wrapped her worn blanket tight about her, and attempted to sleep through the storm’s fury. Fitful dreams came, which sent her back to the prairie, to when she was very young. In slumber, she was once more home with her mother. Together they lay near the fire, Mother keeping tiny Celia beside her while outside the prairie gales raged, rattling the old door, shaking the walls. Those clamorous winds demanded entrance, and upon finding none, they wailed without end through the night.


—❦—


In the morning, the burnished copper disk of the sun rose majestically, gracing the straggling clouds with a ruddy glow. It lingered momentarily, half over the horizon, pausing to gather strength for its daily journey. Ascending again, it emerged, first golden and then a brilliant white, transmuting the clouds into an unparalleled display of lustrous silver. Sunrise was—in a word—magnificent.
Celia saw none of this. She lay in morning’s bright cold with the old blanket snug around her. Sunlight, perceived only at the fringe of her consciousness, was an unwelcome intrusion, and after such a turbulent night, under no circumstances did she wish to be awake. While she struggled against the inevitability of rising, from nearby came the clack of moving stones. The rustle of feathers followed, yet still Celia remained more than half asleep. A shadow fell over her, and the resulting chill perturbed her bleary mind. She lifted her head. She pried open her eyes.
There before her stood a griffon.