A Loremaster's Book of Tales I - The Fishergriffon of Happyfish Wharf

by Metemponychosis

The Fishergriffon of Happyfish Wharf

Griffons are mighty creatures. They are meant for the mountains, hard, inhospitable, and tall as their pride. High above the land, the proud lords of the skies could perch at the entrance of their caves and survey their domain. They could spy the movements of their prey and the eddies of the weather. It allowed them to keep watch on what other griffons were doing and the cold of the altitude bred a special kind of strength. They would fly from the peaks and hunt amid the prairies and forests. It put a distance between them and the prey. It brought them closer to the sky.

But as they left their first home in the world, griffons faced many new challenges and dangers. They had to adapt and find new places to live, ways to deal with the new creatures they found along the way. And when the Windigos came to the north, too many griffons distanced themselves too much, and forgot more than they should have.

The lands to the south of the Snow Mountains were wide and diverse. From the marshes of Fernland to the hills of Griffonland and the verdant plains of Greenland. The land presented new challenges, but from the mountains to the shore, griffon settlers prospered and made new homes.

The sea posed a more difficult challenge. Most of Griffonia’s shores were unstable cliffs. Beyond them, the treacherous currents powered by the Maelstrom made sailing dangerous. If griffons were to have easy access to the sea and the fruits it bore, they would have to avoid most of their new nation’s coast. With the magic of the Frozen North encroaching on them and the Maelstrom to the south, precious pieces of coastal land seemed viable.

From the shore, the first griffon settlers saw only water. But closer to the north, something gave pause to the violent currents of the magical whirlpool. The waters abounded with edible fish, coral, and crabs, so they stayed. Soon wood and stone became little griffon homes in the absence of mountains and hills. Others came, for there was work to do and a life to live.

They called their hamlet Happyfish Wharf. It stayed days of travel from the nearest settlement, but it provided fish and the bounty of the sea to their brethren in the region. Much later, it would become the great port of Beachhome.

But for a while, it was a little hamlet with a few dozen griffons. Some of them fished. Bits or Eagles didn’t exist, and griffons better understood the value of work. Go out on your boat and throw your net. Cast your hook, check your traps. Return to the beach and offer your fish in the market. Make sure your mate and your cubs ask enough for the beautiful crab, and wince when your mate yells that they know how to sell the stupid fish. If you are lucky, there may be a pearl inside your oysters. The wealthy ladies in Griffonstone will take it for a small fortune.

In the afternoon, do that again. And as the pale moon takes the sky with its glimmering children, make sure you are back home. Along the way, feed the poor, and offer them a job. Don’t let a fatherless child sleep on an empty stomach, or under no roof. Ensure no family starves and keep from the bed until you have resolved your quarrels.

A community is as strong as its weakest member, and the sea holds many dangers the Children of the Storm are not prepared to meet.

Life was hard work, but straightforward. Day after day, the Fishergriffon would take his wooden boat from the sturdy docks and brave the waves for the bulkier, meatier fishes. Some employed the nets for the shallower waters or the line and hook for fishes worthier of their time. A good fishergriffon would adapt and if the whitewater wouldn’t provide in the morn, they’d hook a worm or two and let them bring their dinner from the depths.

But the deeper water was distant from the shore. Far from the rocks which guarded their natural harbor. The currents from the Maelstrom could pull a boat adrift. Always keep a bank of sand or rocky outcrop close to your beak. And beware the time. As the Dawnbringer brought the day, the Nocturnal brought the night. And the sister of the moon loved to catch a griffon unawares. Fishes were supposed to feed griffons, not the other way around.

And if luck was on his side, the Fishergriffon could catch not one, or two, but three basses. Two cubits, thick and shiny, worth of fish each. Enough to bring a grin to a griffon’s beak and the hook to the water again a fourth time. Because the Children of the Storm were a greedy bunch. They always wanted more and better than what they had. And sometimes, they earned a score of fishes. If an exultant cry of pure joy didn’t escape them, that was a dead griffon inside.

When a head popped out of the swaying water, he dropped his fishing line on top of the wiggling fish. A magical beast like which he had never seen. A strange creature with soft lines in their rosy face. Ears like a deer’s and a gentle snout holding a mellow smile. Deep eyes of strong magenta and shaded with purple. If that was not enough, it also had delicate fins for eyelashes. An exuberant sea flower for a mane, and glamorous fishy plumes for headdress.

She smiled at him and giggled at his wide, surprised eyes. Her voice caressed his ears, soft as silk so fine that would never make it to his town. Her necklace of pearls and coral, vibrant like flowers, chimed around her neck.

“Are those enough fishies, master Fishergriffon?” She asked. “I require your assistance, unless those are too few.”

The sea rocked his boat a few times too many before he understood she spoke to him and stopped gapping at the creature. “I must bathe under the sun before the Dawnbringer retires and my home is far from here. But I cannot untie my tail.”

Solicitous and gentlemanly, the Fishergriffon jumped off his boat and his wings clumsily propelled him in the water. Paws made for running and grabbing made for poor rudders, but what fishergriffon would not know how to swim? His skill barely kept him from drowning, so amazed he was at the sight his eyes presented him with.

Under the water, the creature had the sleek shape of a dolphin. Sleek as to swim as the bird flew. Her fin-like wings kept her from drifting in the current. Instead of paws with talons, her limbs ended in what a fish’s idea of hooves would be. Delicate things made for swimming, they too helped her stay her place in the current. And lavish as her swimming tail was, like a delicate set of thin petals, the Fishergriffon found it entangled with a net stuck to the rocks.

He came to the surface for air and gulped a mouthful before telling the peculiar creature he saw the problem.

“I will set you free, sea dweller!” He grinned with confidence and a thumb to the shrunk plumage in his chest. “Those fish will feed a banquet and earn my mate the silk that she wants.”

Blundering, but determined, the Fishergriffon dove again and propelled himself to the rocks. Wings were made for flying, not swimming, and his muscles cried at him because of that. But a lungful of air must be sufficient for him to fulfill his part in the bargain. Thick as the rope was, decay had claimed it, and his sharp griffon talons made quick work of it. Careful though, as not to etch at the rosy, delicate scales.

Triumphant, he returned to the surface for air first and for a celebration second, but the sea creature shared a hurray with him. She clapped her alien limbs together wetly and giggled like a finely tuned harp.

“I thank you again, master fishergriffon! I am elated at thy brave rescue!”

He laughed and his griffon cheeks flushed. Unflatteringly wet and bent feathers hid themselves. “I thank you for the fish. What should I call you?”

“I am Selkie.” She piped, wrapping her hoof-fins together.

Before he could tell Selkie his name, her long body jumped off the water with the agility of a sailfish and vanished beneath waves. Gasping, both surprised and for air, he found her swimming so fast under the surface she would shame the fastest falcon in the air.

Curious as he was, he would never catch her and the fish in his boat would not wait before starting to go bad. Holding to the edge of his boat, he gave the silvery stash a good, long stare as his grin grew larger and larger. Better be back home early; those ‘fishies’ needed some salting. His family was going to eat like the village elder!

Overflowing with bounty, his boat cut deep into the waves. Wind permitting, he grabbed his boat and flapped his wings to push it forward. The excitement trounced the tiredness out of his wings. The sooner he came ashore with his bounty, the sooner he could see the smile on his cubs and his mate. Although the sun and her height in the sky gave him apprehension. All the more reason for excitement at how soon he could return.

Soon enough, he sighted his home. The mighty white cliffs protruded and protected the beach beneath and their wooden wharf from the currents. Jagged rocks jutted from the water, but they marked the limits of their shallow, safe bay. Beyond them, boats floated above an abyss of dark and capricious water. From the golden stripe of beach, guarded by jutting rocks, a winding path made a way for a griffon too tired, or with too heavy a load to fly up the rock face. At the top rested the griffon homes of Happyfish Wharf. Columns of smoke raised, and on a good day, one could even make out the market and the elder’s home.

Eager, the Fishergriffon renewed his efforts. Still aware of the dangerous currents, he steered his boat skillfully. The rocks which flanked their haven were known for ending the lives of incautious fishergriffons aplenty. Even the circle of guardian spikes was liable to break a boat. He was an old acquaintance to the churning waters, though. One day, when his daughters became old enough, he dreamed of teaching them the same closeness to the salty water, as his mother had taught him.

The villagers hadn’t assembled the guiding bonfires yet, so early was the hour. But griffons flew down from the cliff to the beach. Families congregated on the sand when someone sighted the single returning boat. Their agitation was born of worry rather than excitement, as one wouldn’t return before the job was done. Unless something was wrong.

Rather than taking it to the moors, the Fishergriffon beached his boat, eager to hug his cubs. Two kittens hopping on the white sand, trying to keep up with their mother’s forceful landing and anxious gallop. Pink and blue as the cranesbill, with her perpetual frown in her brow. He didn’t know if she was angry he had returned too soon, or worried something might have happened. Her raspy voice cried at him as he hopped off the boat.

Grinning, he responded with a wave of his wing, revealing his bountiful catch.

Holding from the edges of the boat, his cubs cheered and whooped. Flapping little wings and soaring into the air. The others, once they noticed it was not a family matter requiring they don’t intrude, approached. Griffons of all colors and builds gasped and gawked at all the fish.

Not his Geranium. His colorful as a flower mate glared at him, with cyan eyes hard as the stone. “How is this possible? Griffons only come ashore with a dozen or less such large catches, and by the night’s hour. What did you do, my mate?”

“Mother above! Are you never ever happy, hen?” He flapped his wings at her, but she ignored his outburst, still expecting an answer. And it better be a good one.

Soon, not only the families which lived off the sea gathered, but the entire village had come, attracted by the commotion. Griffons shoved each other aside and hovered above to gawk at his catch and make shocked comments of theft and black magic. The village’s elder, so old he had gone silver and missed his funeral, yelled. He cried griffons into submission and silenced the inane murmuring. His hag for a mate, yet another walking corpse with missing feathers, had just finished examining the bounty.

She stared at the Fishergriffon with her good golden eye, as the other had already gone white and opaque. “Geranium is correct. While I would never accuse you of theft, such a catch is unheard of. When the offer abounds with excess, the wise griffon will mistrust.”

“For feather’s sake.” He huffed and puffed. “A fair sea creature paid me with them for a service.”

Geranium, even before the elder griffoness spoke, screeched at him. She scratched the sand with a hind leg, and her vibrant plumage puffed until she almost doubled in size. “Treachery and deceit! Throw these cursed fishes to the sharks and the crabs!”

“Have you lost your senses, hen?” Not only did the Fishergriffon tap his head with a long primary feather, but the crowd’s angry protests supported his shock at the suggestion. “No! Absolutely not!”

“I will not throw away perfectly fine fish.” He frowned, full of the certainty and authority of the righteous. “Is it not fair to be paid for saving a creature? Her tail had tangled in an old net, and I saved her. I claimed payment for my service. We shall all eat like kings tonight and the village will have plenty of fish to trade!”

All the clamor his words caused died fast as the flash of lightning.

“And yet, you are not a king. And I am not a queen.” The elder’s mate raised her crooked beak. Speaking with the wisdom and arrogance of far more decades than a griffon ought to accumulate. “A griffon’s life is not meant to be easy. The sea is not our friend. Its creatures are prey, and prey will lie and cheat. That Our Mother in the Storm has said.”

The popular judgement of the Fishergriffon and his catch had concluded, despite the old griffoness’ words. They decided the fish were to stay. His Geranium acquiesced to the decision and their daughters celebrated. They salted the best fish and took them to the fishing community’s stall. So much there was, and such good fish, it was enough to share. All the fishergriffons and their families saw good trades that day.

They solved their differences and agreed. The Fishergriffon and his mate spent a happy couple’s night, and their daughters hid under the pillows because of the noise. In the morning, the Sun was on time with her duty. Before her, the fishergriffons of Happyfish Wharf had started on the day’s routine. A meek fleet launched into the sea and families set the fruit of their labor on their rickety stands. Fish, plentiful or not, didn’t trade itself.

However, the Fishergriffon, alone in the sea, stared sadly at the empty hook and the couple of less than glorious basses on the keel. He then smiled, though, taking heart that they had plenty of fish to survive for days. He deserved some rest. Adjusting his fishergriffon hat of seagrass to cover his eyes, he laid his back on his trusty boat.

He woke to the jerk of his boat coming aground and crunching against the sand. He yelped and jumped off his back. His hat, the wind of the evening had taken back to the sea long ago. Fortunately, the boat was undamaged, and he recognized the small island with a rocky outcropping. It was the Rock, one of the many islands which guided fishergriffons back home.

He laughed at his own foolishness. Were he less lucky, the sea would surely have claimed his life. At least, a ship on the sand was easily returned to its place among the waves. He hopped to the wet sand and shouldered the bow. A quick shove and he would be homebound, for the Dawnbringer should soon retrieve her sun, low over the horizon.

Singing. Someone shared the islet with him, and their precious voice gave him pause.

Many griffons sang. Often because they were happy. Usually harmonious, singing griffons transmitted pure joy with their singing. But on that little island, what reached his ears was tantalizing. More like a maid from the legends of the Stormy Eyrie and the Stormborn than anything his Geranium sounded like. Or any griffon maid in his village, for that matter.

How could he resist? He left his boat on the sand and climbed the rocks. Sheltered behind the jutting rock at the top, he could see the beach on the other side of the islet. The beautiful sea spread in all directions, and the cerulean above matched it like a loving mate. A large storm cloud hung over the distant land, but out in the sea, little grains of sand sparkled with the low sun’s evening light. The salty aroma of the sea was the same as his home, but the creature laid on the sand was not.

At first the Fishergriffon saw an immaculate griffon maid. Her beak was delicate and smooth like that of the finches and her visage soft like a hummingbird. Magenta eyes adorned by the most graceful of lashes, like bristles, and pulling back to give her an elegant aspect of delicateness. A pair of ears, thin and fluffy, long, and elegant like a cat of the mountains. The little tufts at the tips danced in the sea’s breath. None of that compared to her plush mane of fluffy feathers like the petals of a purple flower also swaying in the salty air. Much less her crest of cyan plumes, long and dancing like kelps in the current. What was she?

Plumes like the foam of the breaking waves covered her long neck and thin barrel, shimmering wetness and sand under the glorious sun. One long and delicate forelimb held her from the sand, swaying like the coming and going of the grass to the sound of her music. The other she held aloft like it guided the divine notes out of her, with fluffy feathers dancing right under her delicate paw. Like a griffon’s, but her talons had less of the fearsome sharpness or threat. Delicate, like adornments rather than weapons.

But most distracting of all, where griffon ladies were felines, she was an equine. Her paws had been changed for hooves. The powerful muscles of a hunter altered into those of a runner and the lioness’ tail was a lush clump of purple and pink feathers among long cyan plumages.

She finally ended her song with a playful crescendo. Singing chirps turned to happy tweeting. She giggled and wiggled her cute hooves in the air after turning extravagantly on her back. A delighted sigh escaped her, limbs relaxed on the sand and under the warmth of the sun.

Was it curiosity or lust that kept the Fishergriffon’s eyes on her exposed belly? Her delicate nipples, not unlike his Geranium’s, were plumper and only in one pair. Also exposed to the eyes of any passersby, which was an indignity Geranium would never suffer. His beak hung open like his mother had told him not to do. He stood hiding behind the rocks, averting his eyes from her showing lady bits.

His beak clicked a couple of times, and then he wasted no time. Stumbling his way down the rocks and grabbing one fish he had caught, he held it in his beak. Wings flared and eyes wide, he galloped around the rocks before he sent the sand in the air with an abrupt stop. He brushed his crest of sandy feathers before walking with all the confidence of a mature adult.

The wind grew stronger and undid whatever fancy he had achieved. Dark clouds had come out of nowhere and the thunder cried at him. But the Fishergriffon heeded none of it, sauntering across the beach. The creature laid on the sand noticed his arrival and turned to him with a smile. It grew bigger, but not her modesty, as she stared down her upside-down beak at him.

“Hello, Master Fishergriffon!” she pipped and smiled. Her eyes shone at the fish he held in his beak. “That is a nice fishy!”

He didn’t answer. The colorful shine of the corals in the sand drew his eyes. It was Selkie’s collar, laying on the sand, with its colorful coral shards and shiny pearl. He tilted his head, eyes bouncing between the collar and the alluring, unusual-while-familiar hen on the sand.

She raised to sit, closing her hind leg over the other and the heavens opened in the smile her beak held. “Is it for me?!”

He coughed the fish to his paw and remembered to smile. “Yes! It is for you! You are very pretty! And different. Who are you?”

Busy swallowing the fish whole, with a gurgling noise and her beak to the sky, she didn’t answer. Until he asked again, albeit slightly less fascinated. Until she smiled again, and her eyes lit a fire in his chest. “I am Selkie!”

With a trapped ‘but’ in his beak, his confused eyes still delighted in her shapely and delicate avian half. Lost in curiosity and second intentions about the latter half, her abrupt manners surprised him. She clicked her collar of coral and pearls around her lithe neck and scanned the dark, convulsing clouds with a sweeping, exaggerated arc.

“Goodness me, a storm is brewing! I must return home!” She jumped to her feet and spread delicate wings with fluffy feathers.

Before he could urge her to wait, she hopped with a flap of her elegant wings. But rather than using them to fight gravity, she jiggled her collar in between her fingers. Before his eyes, the unique griffon lady turned to the fishlike Selkie he had seen yesterday. And she was gone again, with little more than a splash.

“Selkie! Wait!” He cried and raised his paw. He didn’t see her again for a second before her head popped out of the water.

Gasping, grasping at the opportunity, he jumped closer to the wafting foam on the sand. A wide smile came to his beak and an excited gleam shone in his eyes. “Come with me! I can give you all the fishies if you will help me catch them! All the villagers will love and praise you! Won’t you be my mate? I will share my home and the wealth we will make with you.”

His eyes filled with more than excitement. All the fishes in the world and such an exotic beauty to call his mate. He would be the next village elder! But Selkie’s eyes emptied of her bubbly happiness and her luxurious fins folded. “I cannot. The sea is where I belong, and it calls to me. I must be under the waves, or my heart would turn to stone and my smile into prickly thorns.”

Then she waved her fishy fin-for-a-paw at him, with her smile bright again. “So long, Master Fishergriffon! And thank you for the fishy!”

Jumping off the surface, she vanished under the waves not to return despite his calls. The stupid fish-brain didn’t realize she would live by the sea! His shoulders slumped with a sigh and his griffon feathery crest deflated. Oh, well… It was not like his Geranium would suffer the cute thing in her house, anyway. And since he was there, he might as well check the crab traps, too.

Instead, sat on the beach, the Fishergriffon stared at the bobbing surface of the sea. Its soft weaving had turned to an angry whisk. The first raindrops struck his beak and pulled him from his daze. The thunder screamed at him again. If anything, the Fishergriffon knew not to trifle with the storm.

Finding the traps empty, he shoved his boat back into the sea. Drenched in rain, he hopped into it and rowed his way around the islet, for the wind was too violent for flying. Soon he joined the other boats, hastily on their way home. At the end of the day, he had a large fish aboard. But only one. It mattered little; they still had fish from the previous haul.

Dragged back into the routine, he joined the rest of the fishergriffons. They pulled ropes and tied moorings with tight knots. Their mates and older cubs joined the work. Fish safe on the land and boats secured, cheerful griffons fled the rain across the beach and ran the winding path up the cliff. The market was already closed; no produce remained on display. The griffons of Happyfish Wharf rushed inside their homes as the storm threw fury in the shape of gale and downpour.

Geranium barked urgent orders, and their daughters obeyed, orderly as a marching army. They locked doors and tied windows. Once having secured their home and relegated the storm to the outside with the dark and thunder, the two cubs giggled at all the excitement.

Then came supper. Across from his mate, the Fishergriffon listened to his daughters chirp excitedly about the day’s happenings. He watched his mate. Geranium plucked a piece of fish from the broth. He was not sure why, but his smile to her felt insincere and demure. She paid it little mind, though. Her eternally frowning aquiline face of fierce lines spared him an acknowledging, tired nod.

“The storm will chase the fishes away from our shores.” He told her mindlessly.

“Worry not. We have plenty from the previous haul.” Thunder crashed outside and his cubs jumped and then giggled. “Mother’s wrath is fleeting to her industrious children.”

The Fishergriffon avoided his mate’s frowning gaze. His bowl was easier to face. The pieces of fish held no notion of his shame. The vessel cared not where the fish had come from and certainly wouldn’t mind if a more delicate and alluring lady would clean it later. His thoughts died in a frown of his own before he brought the bowl to his beak. But he drew slowly from it and before long, the broth went cold. Slowly drawing from it was easier than an idle conversation with his mate while his cubs played with their dolls.

Hail shredded past the thatch roof. It crashed against the wooden ceiling, rivaling the thunder, and leaks made themselves known. A sudden rush to move the bed out from under one of them brought some further excitement to the cubs. And, for better or worse, it was easier than pretending his mate wasn’t there, or that his thoughts were not on Selkie’s smiles.

As it always did, the storm calmed, and the night passed. Before the Sun rose, the fishergriffons of Happyfish Wharf had already left to retrieve their prize from the ocean. The storm had wreaked havoc though, and repairs delayed two of them. They remained on the beach to fix their boats. Another remained to assist their friends. The rest of the village joined to repair the damages to their friend’s homes.

Not the Fishergriffon, though. His boat soon vanished in the mist. He remained close to the beach that morn. Many times cast, his net was too light every time he pulled it back aboard. It mattered little. He was merely going through the motions. His thoughts were of delicate beaks rather than fish, and Selkie’s smile haunted him from the water.

Hours passed before he noticed there were no fish there. But the mist lifted, and the sun hung high in the sky. Dozens of cubits apart, his friend Golin fared a similar luck and so did the other two fishergriffons further away. The closest one, covered in shades of green, winced, retrieving his own net into his boat. When they had joined, he didn’t know, but his friend showed an empty net and laughed.

“The fishes are getting smarter than us!” He laughed again, despite the toll from the storm. “I suppose it is time for deeper waters.”

“Aye!” The Fishergriffon responded. He frowned and his eyes drifted away. In the distance, he found the islet. Finally, a smile graced his beak. “Aye! I’ll check the traps by the Rock!”

Golin nodded and told him to do that, just as his wings gave his boat momentum. The Fishergriffon too pushed his boat and spared his friend no more stares. Distant from the wharf, none would see his meeting, and his heart became lighter with that thought on the way.

Ran aground, instead of on the waves where it belonged, his boat waited for him the whole day. The hours passed, but his strange and alluring friend never appeared. When the sun touched the horizon, the Fishergriffon decided he had waited too long. His boat took him, and only him to the wharf. The last to arrive, he saw Golin and his family unloading a couple of fishes from his boat.

The others too had fish for market, but he had none. The Fishergriffon had his mate’s frown and her worried stare. She needed not to say it. He knew they still had fish. Then the days passed, and they had fewer fish, but a fishergriffon who spends his hours waiting instead of fishing makes for a poor fishergriffon. One day, they traded all the fish. In the next, his mate and daughters had to help the young maids in the market clean another’s fish, lest they spend the night with naught.

“Would it kill you to smile? Every once in a while?” She looked up from her bowl and said nothing, but she deepened her frown at him from the other side of the table. Their little cubs minded none where their fish came from, but that night, the broth gritted like ash in the Fishergriffon’s tongue.

Perhaps it was his guilt, or her reaction, that infuriated him further. She finally reacted with a soft smile, like a pittance. “Worry not, my mate. We will not starve. Our community is strong and a fishergriffon’s luck is riddled with vicissitudes. Everyone understands that.”

That night, they slept apart in their bed. Even if she approached him.

A new day always brought a promise of change, but it also brought chance with it. The Fishergriffon would look for the mythical creature one last time. If he found her, she could fix everything. He excused himself with the others casting nets or rowing to deeper waters, for the wind was strong that day. The traps ought to be checked, after all. So, he rowed toward the islet with the jutting rocks while they did the work of fishing for their dinner and that of the entire village.

There she was. Selkie, the amenable griffoness. Laid with her back on the wet sand and showing her belly to the sun. Rather than singing, she slept, and the Fishergriffon approached. The sun crawled down through the sky and when she awoke; she stood and looked one side and the other. Brow heavy with worry, she saw the Fishergriffon sitting on the rocks.

“Oh, Fishergriffon, have you seen where my collar has gone to?” She asked with a smile.

“I have hidden it. It is mine now, as are you.” He told her, gently and calmly. He walked from the rocks, and he offered her his paw. “You will live with us, and I will take care of you.”

“I am left with no choice. I cannot return to my home without my collar. But I will not suffer the weather or loneliness. I beg you, though, to return my collar to me, for my place is beneath the waves.”

He didn’t answer, but she smiled at him and held his paw after his silence. He took her to his boat and his boat took them to the wharf. There, the griffons of Happyfish Wharf met them with shocked gasps and worried stares. The mothers took their cubs inside and the fathers distanced themselves from the mooring. The Fishergriffon’s cubs hid behind their mother’s legs, and Geranium had her perpetual frown to greet him.

In the clouds, the thunder raged, but no storm came. Griffons watched and kept their distance, watching the Fishergriffon presenting Selkie to his family. It was a family affair, and they would let the family deal with it as they must. Then, they watched Geranium with her cubs follow the Fishergriffon and the stranger into their home.

The night passed and then the day. There was shouting and angry talons pointing. Pottery flew and insults, too. Cubs cried. And Selkie smiled. Before the night fell again, Geranium walked out of their home, carrying her youngest cub cradled with her wing, and the other following fast.

“I will not share a roof with this creature! I will not suffer the stares you give it!” She shouted back into the house, her perpetual frown a scowl of sorrow. “You curse the entire village with your foolishness. You are blind and insane! And her hinds look like a disgusting blobfish!”

With the door slamming shut, the Fishergriffon sat in the middle of his home. He massaged his brow and his nervous tail whipped at the broken pots of clay. But Selkie smiled at him obediently and patiently.

“She will see. They will all see! I will catch more fish than the village can eat.” He growled and pumped his fist in the air. Angry at what he knew not, for he knew what he was doing and how right he was.

Geranium needed only to see it. She and all the others would gawk at the astuteness of his idea. And if Selkie lived in his home, nothing more just than she too should be his mate.

“In the morning, I will fish, and you will help me.” He told Selkie, triumphantly.

“Fishergriffon, my mate, to find the fishies, I must have my collar, else I cannot swim. Wings are for the clouds and fins are for the kelp.”

And Selkie smiled at the Fishergriffon.

He loathed the thought that she would escape. He would be alone before he proved his resourcefulness. It didn’t matter. He was a fishergriffon and catching fishes was what he did. Selkie would still be his mate and work in the market, as did all the mates of fishergriffons. Sure of his wisdom, he shared his bed with Selkie that night.

When the sun brought the day, the Fishergriffon left to fish and Selkie went to the market. The griffons of Happyfish Wharf accepted it. If such was how the Fishergriffon’s family would resolve the situation, such was to be. Griffons minded their own families, and Selkie cleaned the fish and traded it when her mate brought it from the sea.

Soon, the Frishergriffon was sure. She would understand it was better that way, and he could trust her not to leave him. And then Geranium would return with his cubs. It should only take a few days. Or perhaps a few weeks. Perhaps a year or two. But eventually, they would all nod and smile at the Fishergriffon and his wisdom.

One evening, he moored his boat at the wharf. The other fishergriffons ignored him. Jealous that they were of his most obedient and lovely mate. The best one in the village. A storm brewed in the sky and the thunder rolled, but Selkie and their cubs were not there waiting for him. Not at the market with the stand, nor the beach with the others.

He ignored his soaked feathers under the rain. He flared his wings and flew to his home as fast as he could. Under the table, he found a plank missing, and so missing was the collar of coral and pearls he had hidden in there.

“Selkie!” He cried when the thunder yelled at him. “Selkie, where are you?”

He flew above the house and the wind tried to land him, but he saw she was not there. Griffons ran around the town, and they screamed. A confused mess of frightened griffons took over the town. Movement drew his eyes to the cliffs. And there he found Selkie and their cubs, walking to the stone edge above the entrance of their harbor.

His heart sank and his paws trembled. Griffons flew above the houses, but the wind was mighty, and they knew not to trifle with the storm. The bravest ones flew to the cliffs after Selkie and her strange cubs, but they did nothing. They kept their distance when lightning crossed the sky. There was nothing good a griffon could get approaching the slippery stones and the cliff’s edge. Much less daring the storm and Mother’s fury.

“Selkie!” The Fishergriffon cried, though.

He made to fly to her, but the wind dashed him against the wood of his house. He stood, and he galloped against the wind as the thunder roared at him from the clouds. When he reached the cliff, Selkie jingled her collar and transformed. She jumped off the cliff and so did her cubs.

He screamed and almost fell off the cliff. Amid the churning waters he found Selkie and her five fish-cubs, vanishing under the white foam.

“Selkie! Don’t leave me!” He cried, tears and rain in his eyes, reaching for her.

His paws pushed against the stone and slipped. The world spun around him. But a griffon held his paw. Geranium and her perpetual frown, stricken with sorrow, held him from the edge by a foreleg.

“No, my mate!” She frowned at him, as she always did. Her eyes pleaded. Her voice begged. “We will work this out! Please!”

Other griffons joined her, trying to reach him. Golin, his fishergriffon friend, held her, so his weight wouldn’t drag her past the edge. His eldest daughter too crouched at the edge, next to her mother and a young tom. Strong and gray as the rocks, his paw flailed in the air. Desperately trying to reach the Fishergriffon hanging from his paw.

What happened? His eyes darted with confusion from one to the other. When had his daughter gotten so big? Where was the little cyan grifflet hanging from the side of his boat? When had his little kitten met that handsome tom, and why didn’t he know his name?

He found Geranium again. Wrinkles made her perpetual frown deeper. She talked to him with her raspy voice, but her words never found his ears. Her plumage had taken an elderly silver around her beak. His friend Golin had his shades of green speckled with white. The village’s elder never appeared, and neither did his hag of a mate.

And then, he found only pain in Geranium’s cyan eyes. But it was not hers. It belonged to the old fool she desperately tried to save. The clouds wept above. Thunder rumbled, distant and melancholic.

“I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.” His heart weighed too heavy. He let go of her paw and slipped from her talons.

She screamed. Geranium howled and grasped at the air, coming short of leaping after him. But more reasonable griffons held her. Others screamed too. They became small while the wind rushed past the Fishergriffon’s ears and the cliff grew taller. Rushing wind became water. The sea claimed him mercilessly and to the depths dragged him. A furious current tossed him in the dark and the rocks ended that old fool’s pain.

***

Old Galfrid closed her eyes as her finishing words left her beak. The wind sang outside, and the thunder offered a counterpoint. The fire crackled and warmed the hall. It smelled of burning ash and of cooked meat. The older of Madam Galfrid’s cubs stared silently at the wood of their heavy table. A young queen between them sniffled. Gainor stared into his empty bowl, holding it in his paws.

A younger cub at the table, with a greasy beak and harboring her empty bowl between her little paws, snorted, and giggled. “Her fanny looked like a blobfish.”

Delighted, laughing cubs surrounded the young hunter. Next to the cauldron, the servant griffon stirred the wooden spoon around it. Too thoughtful to laugh with the little cubs as was the Huntsgriffon of Whiteford. At her seat, the old griffon lady smiled quietly, hiding her beak behind her white paw and wicked talons.

“Galvin.” Galfrid finally spoke again once the cubs calmed down. “Make the guest room ready for Master Gainor. I believe he shall weather the storm with us this night.”

Obediently, the green griffon let the wooden spoon go with a clung to the cauldron. Excusing himself with a bow, he rushed past the door behind Galfrid’s seat.

“Thank you, Madam Galfrid. For your hospitality.” The hunter told her quietly.

Come the morning, the sky was as clear as it would ever be in that region bordering the perpetual winter. Gainor’s conscience was clearer.