The Tale of the Hippogriff

by OleGrayMane

Ⅰ - Between the Mountains and the Sea

On the eastern prairie, where the rivers make their journey to the distant sea, the tribe of earth ponies lived. Their lives were not easy, for the soil bent unwillingly to their magic, yet they were always grateful and took pride in what they had brought into being with their labors. Bound to the land as they were, they possessed but simple wisdom, understanding the value of hard work and the vagaries of time, and thus were never frivolous.

Along one of these rivers a village sat, a settlement of no more than twenty rough wooden buildings. To the north of this village, a road wound through the woods, forming a link to other settlements, some brazen enough to call themselves towns. To the south, a path led to a simple dwelling standing alone amongst the fields.

There a young mare lived with her father. They were only two, for her parents had married late, and her mother had not survived the day of her daughter’s birth. Such were the unfortunate ways of those ancient times. The little foal with the tawny coat and shock of reddish mane was named Meadow after the humble location of her birth. On that bittersweet day, her father swore an oath to his wife to raise their daughter with bravery and love, and that he did without fail.

From their home, Meadow and her father looked out upon the rolling grass of the windy prairie to the mountains that crouched on the horizon. Their home was no more than a hut, circular in form, constructed from rushes, with a low thatched roof. Meadow’s father said he chose that shape to confuse the winds, so they would endlessly circle the house, and frustrated in their search for entrance, they would at last leave. She laughed at his jest.

Father and daughter lived there for many years, planting and harvesting, singing songs and telling tales to lighten their work. The flow of the seasons bounded their lives more than the river or the prairie or the mountains. As for those far off mountains, they were but the rim of the sky, and busy ponies did not waste their time pondering such distant things.

They did not live in solitude, for in that nearby village dwelt many ponies. Several times each year, they visited the village to trade for that which they could not grow. On occasion, those from the village sought them out, seeking to purchase the choicest of their garden’s crops. And at harvest time, all would meet at the old mill along the river. There, while the millstones spun, they exchanged their surpluses—overseen by the councilor—for a few precious coppers.

Many happy years they spent together, but before Meadow had seen two decades, her father became lame. In compensation, she worked harder and loved harder still. One spring morning, Meadow’s father sat and watched his daughter nurturing the tiny seedlings as they stretched up to renew the annual bond between earth and sky. Content with the way things were and would be, he closed his eyes, laid down his head, and joined his wife in the eternal.

Meadow grieved deeply, for her father’s absence was a cruel strain upon her heart. The village ponies encouraged her to join them, but she could not. While she missed companionship, leaving the home of her father was unimaginable. She knew no other place, no other life than the tending of the surrounding fields. Maintaining a stubborn gladness, she told them she would remain, and while the villagers thought it strange, they respected her wishes and left her in her lonesome dwelling.

The years passed, and Meadow’s trips to the village became infrequent. Alone, she needed little that she could not grow. Her father’s friends in the village grew older and older, and fewer came to see her, until one spring none came at all. Yet her solitary life did not bring despair, for as she had been raised, she lived with the determination of an unfaltering heart.

—❦—

A few years into this solitude, near day’s end in early autumn, Meadow prepared to gather water from a stream that lay a short distance away, as was her habit. She retrieved a vessel from its high shelf and made fast her cloak, for the agitated winds had found no rest in many days. With hood over bowed head, she made her way along the familiar path. It was from the crest of a hillock that she spotted an unfamiliar sight. Something lay along the stream’s bank, next to where the hawthorns grew, but from a distance, she could not discern its nature. After a moment’s pause, she crept towards it.

Meadow drew nearer and nearer, but still could not determine what it was. She dropped her head low and approached with measured steps until she was close enough to see it was a creature. It laid curled tight, attempting to shelter itself from the unyielding winds, but obscured in such a manner, she could not say what type of creature it could be. Meadow advanced and, absorbed by curiosity, stepped upon a dry branch. The resulting crack alerted the peculiar beast to her presence.

It leapt up and flared its golden wings, its azure eyes fixed upon her.

She reared, for she recognized the beast from the description in tales of old: the feathered head of an eagle, the muscular body of a lion. Before her stood a griffon. Her father’s stories said its kind came from mountains more distant than those that bounded the prairie. If such fables could be relied upon, how had this creature found its way to the land of ponies?

The beast took a step toward her and raised a leg, brandishing fierce talons.

“Be not afraid,” his sonorous voice commanded.

Meadow’s heart raced, for those stories warned of his kind. Proud hunters they were, swift and savage. Yet—this one spoke and wanted her to be unafraid. So she did not panic, but instead examined this most unlikely visitor. He did not crouch, preparing to attack, nor did he utter ferocious cries; he only waited with head held high. Slung about his neck was a pouch, so he was not uncivilized. It was his piercing eyes that fascinated her: intense, yet possessing a weariness of more than body. How strange, she thought as she looked upon him, for truly she held no fear of one believed so dangerous.

“I am not afraid,” she said. “I was startled—as were you.”

The griffon placed his leg on the ground. Seconds passed. He did not speak.

A strong gust gave them both a shove. Meadow broke the silence. “Are you lost?”

“No, not lost, but… These vexing winds impeded my progress and sent me unwillingly to your lands.” He folded his wings so the wind could no longer make sport of them. “I am sorry. I meant no trespass.”

She offered no reply, for the remark perplexed her. He had no need to apologize. Did not the stream’s water belong to all? Were not the fields here nopony’s? How could she forgive if there had been no trespass?

“I will go,” said the griffon, and he turned to do so.

“No.” Meadow was surprised to hear her voice filled with urgency. Why had she said such a thing? she asked herself, but possessed no answer.

The griffon turned and faced her.

Hastily, Meadow reasoned that hospitality was due all visitors, regardless of circumstance or manner. And so rare were her visitors, yet alone one so intriguing.

“No,” she repeated. “You are tired. Rest tonight—inside—while the winds blow.”

The griffon did not speak. Neither did he leave. Except for the wind’s continued harassment of his feathers, he remained a silent statue.

Meadow would not wait for his answer. Hastening to the stream, she filled her vessel with water and turned towards home, bidding him follow. While her eyes remained fixed upon the path, she kept an ear cocked back. From behind her she heard him brushing against the tall grasses and found herself strangely pleased.

—❦—

Sheltered at last from the wind in Meadow’s tiny home, the taciturn griffon ruffled his wings and sat far from the door. He had said not a word since offering to leave, and Meadow herself just as few since she had bade him follow.

Sunset approached, and Meadow busied herself with preparations for the evening meal. She fetched ingredients from the larder, took down the copper pan from its hook, and tended the fire. Both occupants remained mute while she worked.

How should one address a griffon? Meadow did not know, so instead she stole glances of her silent visitor while he in turn watched her from beneath a furrowed brow. Without words she could not make sense of him, yet in a peculiar way, it felt proper to have another in her home.

With her cooking complete, she retrieved two earthenware plates and a pair of worn pewter spoons and placed them upon the table. Onto this simple setting she ladled out her hurriedly made concoction.

Her visitor approached with caution. Meadow settled, uneasily, across from him. Uncertainty leapt upon her as she raised a shaking spoon to her lips. The griffon raised his spoon too and partook of the modest meal. “Good” was his first word since they had left the banks of the stream. A relieved Meadow smiled, and she had the impression that the griffon’s eyes were softer.

At first they ate in silence, but spoonful by spoonful, a warmth grew within them and conversation flowed—if sparingly. She said her name was Meadow. He said his name was Ahren, and he thanked her for her hospitality. With little more said than that, they finished their meal, and, as it was now dark, Meadow retrieved a candle from a box. She centered it on the table and lit it with a brand. Outside, the perturbed winds roared, conspiring to burst in and extinguish the tiny flame. But her father’s construction confounded them, and the candle flame hardly wavered.

Meadow returned to her seat across from the griffon and asked whence he came.

“A far away city,” Ahren replied, “in the northern mountains.”

Having never seen any place larger than the village, she inquired what manner of city it was.

“It is our great aerie, a stronghold built of white stone, inhabited by more than eleven hundred of our kind.”

“Oh.” Meadow felt a flush of crimson in her face, and she shied away, fearing her home inadequate for one of such grand origin.

“I meant no boast,” he said. “Please, do not deem me ill mannered, for what I say is no more than the truth. I beg forgiveness if I offend.”

She nodded but could not look upon him. After a moment, she heard him speak.

“Tell me of this place, your home—here.”

“There is little more than what you have already seen,” she replied and fell silent.

When she did not respond, he said, “Please.”

Meadow looked up. His face appeared quite earnest, so she told of days past when she and Father labored together. She explained that her father was quite wise.

Ahren cocked his head. “What wisdom does a farmer profess?”

“Father always said three things are important. One must work hard and love, and to act bravely when you fear the other two have failed.” Meadow watched the reflection of the candle flame dancing in his eyes as he nodded. Before she could tell more of her father, the griffon posed another question.

“To work hard—” And he paused. “Is there no more here than drudgery?”

“We have simple pleasures,” she replied in haste and smiled. Although she recalled many things that brought joy, she found it difficult to decide upon any particular thing. Picking berries in springtime? Far too mundane. Watching distant thunderstorms flash as they plied their way across an evening sky? Such a thing would bore one who inhabits the sky itself. Unable to recall anything else, she blurted, “We tell stories and sing.”

“Singing.” Ahren chuckled. “Do you think—perhaps—you could favor me with a song?”

“Oh—Yes, I can.” This was not entirely true, for Meadow was unprepared. As she had been unable to decide upon what to say, likewise she found herself unable to select a song. Still, she could not disappoint her visitor. She would not. The winds battered the house again, and the sound stirred a memory. She recalled a song her father oft turned to on evenings such as this. So Meadow closed her eyes, and licked her lips, and sang in a hushed voice.

O, matchless maiden

Maiden, I sing to thee

Never will there be another

For you are the one for me

Lips sweet as April’s dew

Eyes bright as the moon of May

None born fairer than you

If only your heart could I sway

Mere words leave you cold

Devotion brings dismay

For my song’s not made of gold

And so you turn away

O, matchless maiden

Maiden, I pine for thee

Never will there be another

No other love for me

Upon opening her eyes she discovered Ahren watching her with rapt attention. Both sat quietly gazing at each other in the flickering light of the candle, paying no heed to the ceaseless moaning of the prairie winds. Meadow blinked. Since it appeared her visitor would ask no more questions, Meadow asked one of him.

“Why are you so far from your home?” Her heart leapt upon hearing Ahren ruffle his wings.

“I was on a journey. A journey to find—something.”

“I see.” He provided no further explanation. Meadow asked, “Did… Did you find this something?”

“No…” he said from behind narrow eyes. “I mean—I am uncertain.”

“Oh.” This vague answer left Meadow hesitant to ask for more details of what he had sought. Yet, to insist would be impolite. Nevertheless, she was curious and asked, “Where did you look?”

“I followed the rivers. They led me to the sea.”

“The sea?” Meadow’s father had repeated the stories of the sea he had heard in his youth. Those tales described a forbidding place where dark monsters dwelled, ready to swallow any who dared take to the waters. He had thought it all nonsense, as did she, mere foolishness designed to frighten the young. But being so far away, nopony she knew had ever travelled there themselves.

“What is the sea like?”

“It is very—different.” Ahren paused, gathered his thoughts, and leaned forward. “You must understand that in my homeland, the waters are cold and hurried. They race down the sides of mountains, forming swift rivers. But these waters of the southern sea… They are warm, calm. Quite shallow, very clear and filled with fish. Fish in a multitude of colors—bright blues, and yellows, fiery reds—like a valley of wildflowers. And there are islands nearby—I flew to one.” He became emphatic. “Its white sand glowed on its own. And the stars, they shine brighter there, I am convinced. At night their reflections float on the waters, sparkling. And the sound of the waves, calling…” Ahren shook his head, appearing on the brink of laughter.

“So beautiful,” he concluded. “So different—from home.” He stared, unblinking, through the window and into the darkness.

As to whether he sought to imagine the sea or his homeland, Meadow was unable to ascertain. “I think—” she began, but waited until Ahren’s far-away look dissolved, and his gaze returned to her. “I think I should like to go to the sea someday.”

Ahren tilted his head, and the look in his eye was so mysterious that it gave her pause. He cautiously reached across the table and touched her.

Meadow looked at his talons lightly resting upon her. She did not recoil, although she knew they could rend flesh from bone. Instead, she struggled to unravel the meaning of this act and looked at him. How different he seemed than when they had met by the stream, looking so doleful, so anxious to take his leave. Even with such little acquaintance, she recognized a transformation, for those eyes of his now radiated gentle strength and confidence. His touch brought her no fear—no—his touch was exhilarating. And confusing, for she did not understand how such a simple act engendered such feelings.

“Perhaps”—Ahren lowered his voice—“we could go to the sea together.”

Bewilderment became revelation. Meadow realized why she had offered one so different from herself shelter without reservation, why the griffon’s presence in her home felt so fitting, why his touch beguiled. In living apart she had let her heart lay fallow. Loneliness had become her occupation. Yet there was more than what she lacked, for did she not sense the same in him? Yes, it must be for what else could his words and touch signal? The suddenness of it all, unsought as it was, swept her up. And the impossibility… But what had been rediscovered would not now be restrained.

“Yes,” said Meadow ardently. “I would like that very much.”

—❦—

It was half-way to morning when Meadow extinguished the flickering stub of the candle. Neither she nor Ahren had need for light or words, for as the night wore on, their hearts had become entangled. They slept by the remains of the fire, graced by love.

Outside, the angry winds, appeased at last, departed, leaving naught but a gentle breeze.

—❦—

The sun had long since dispatched the fog that sought shelter in the shallows by the time the lovers awoke. The morning held no vexing winds, for now only a pristine sky remained. Into the glory of this new day they emerged.

Now, Ahren explained, more than ever, it was imperative he complete his homeward journey, but he swore an oath most sacred that he would return to her.

From Meadow’s home, they walked side by side to the top of a hill, and there, Ahren again declared his love, pressing his cheek against hers. He released her from his fervid embrace.

This bittersweet love left Meadow’s heart aswirl with emotions she could never turn into words; all for the better she thought, for although she desired to speak, a single utterance might break the magic spell she was under. She only gazed at Ahren, desiring nothing more than for time itself to end before he must depart.

With great care, he reached into the pouch he carried and retrieved a pendant of blue stone, the token of his troth, and brushing aside her mane, made it fast about her neck. With solemn dignity he spoke these words: “With this, I declare our love for all the heavens to see.”

Again Meadow was embraced, Ahren’s wings enfolding her doubly. It was then, listening to his muffled heart beat, that melancholy overtook her. His ardent words had endowed the moment with a dreaded finality.

Ahren took flight and circled overhead, called out, “When I return, together we shall visit the sea.” He climbed higher than Meadow imagined possible, and his form began to disappear in the deep and distant sky as he flew northward towards his mountain city. She touched the pendant dangling from her neck and watched. She watched and watched until there was nothing left to watch and then watched a bit longer. At last the time to go had come. There was no more to see.

While Meadow understood her heart’s circumstance was now no different then on the day prior, she felt an emptiness she had never experienced nor imagined. For less than a day, the fullness of love had graced her only to be removed, and she doubted her heart could ever be full again until they were reunited.

—❦—

Autumn left and winter entered, for once merciful and mild, favoring Meadow with calm days to wait for Ahren’s promised return. Standing where he departed, she would touch the pendant and beg the heavens that knew their love to deliver him safely to her. Those heavens remained indifferent and mute. Cold sunshine accompanied her home.

Inside her simple home, there was always warmth, and through winter’s bleak months Meadow sat by the fire and nourished her hope. Each day brought her more than living for she knew their love grew ever stronger. And on those clear and quiet nights, she closed her eyes and dreamt of the return of her beloved Ahren.

Author's Note:

Matchless Maiden is heavily inspired by I Sing of a Maiden although no religious parallels are implied.

Comments

[Starlight Nova]

Why not give a link to Tigerose's profile?

[Olden Bronie]

I've been meaning to read this story and so decided to start it tonight.

You did not ever tell me you were such a good writer. This is a wonderful story!