> Room To Grow
>  by BlndDog
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Chapter 1
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 1	

The wooden sign on the door read “no griffins allowed”. Back when Kelp Town was still a city for ponies this tavern was famous for its strong, syrup-sweet cider. The old owner’s policy was not without reason; drunk griffins used to set fire to the building almost every winter. The stone and mortar walls always remained, but the thatched roof would be burnt down to the last straw.

Gemma stuffed her black clawed fingers behind the sign and put her weight on it. It came down along with the top half of the door. With her hatchet she broke the wood into strips; when she finished the entire door fit inside her bag with space to spare.

The room was dusty and reeked of decay. Ash from the big fireplace was trailed all over the stone floor, mixed in some places with pools of drink spilled long ago. Round tables, fifteen in all, were arranged neatly with eight inverted chairs hanging over the edge of each. 

The shelves behind the bar were full of big glass bottles. There were stout brown ones and clear ones, ones with dimpled surfaces and ones that could have been beautiful vases. Most had more than a mouthful of liquor left inside. The corks were sealed with wax and cheesecloth, as if the owner had expected to return.

Gemma pulled her woolen cloak tighter at her throat as she crossed the dim room, searching for the cleanest patches of floor. She wished she had thought to bring boots.

Behind the bar were sacks of barley flour and fodder, both black with mildew. A collection of fruit pits and the husks of many maggots sat in a crumpling straw basket. The mice had eaten their fill long ago.

There was no lock on the trap door. It was a rather tight squeeze for a griffin, but the sight of barrels spurred her on.

There were eight in total. Untapped, and much too heavy to be lifted or rolled. Gemma licked her beak as she dug through her bag for her spare water skin.

The bung came out with a resounding pop, and Gemma nearly choked when the pressurized cider exploded into her waiting mouth and out through her nostrils. The drink was full of ice crystals, pleasantly fruity with barely any bite.

She drank until she was far past full, then filled her water skin until it threatened to burst at the seams. A lot had spilled down her front despite her best efforts to save it all; she looked like she had bathed in the stuff. The cider was still flowing strong when she stumbled up the ramp, blinking and shaking her head to stop the world spinning around her.

“Hey papa!” She called before she was out the door. “Papa! I… I f… found it! I found it!”

In her drunken excitement Gemma bashed her head on the doorframe several times before she got out. It did not hurt at all.

The sea wind was bitter cold. So strong was it that much of the broad empty street had been swept clear of snow. Beautifully curved snowbanks hugged the stone walls, piling extra high in places where deep-set doors and windows could shelter them. Gemma saw a flickering orange light several houses away, and stumbled up the gently-sloped street towards it.

In the west a dull winter sun was sinking into the restless ocean. The houses with their tall narrow windows seemed to frown down on her. Earlier in the day they had made her nervous; now Gemma found these stone giants rather amusing; big boxes full of colourful prey animals, with delicate latticed windows plenty big enough for a griffin to crash through. If wild boar or goats built these, nobody would ever be hungry again. And why would ponies with long stiff legs build their homes with so many stairs?

“Papa,” Gemma sang as she approached the house. It was a three-storey building with gigantic glass windows in the front. It used to be a tailor’s shop, but the sign had already been broken down into firewood. The toppled mannequins in the window display were all naked.

“Gemma!” A male voice called from inside. “Come in here! I have something for you!”

Gemma tripped on the threshold and fell forwards. Not realizing what had happened, her two lion’s feet continued to kick the air for several seconds.

The room erupted with laughter. Gus pulled her up with trembling hands. He looked down at his gloves when he felt the stickiness in his daughter’s coat.

“Did you save some for me?” He chortled, slapping her back. Gemma fell over and stayed on the ground this time, looking around with an outstretched neck like a confused bird.

“You can wash off later,” he continued. “Have a look at this.”

Gemma followed her father’s pointing finger to a mannequin in the centre of the room. A red cloak with a beautifully embroidered collar was draped across its back, glimmering in the firelight. Gold and silver threads formed the shapes of tiger lilies and buttercups, chrysanthemums and bloodroot. The back was topped with black silk bearing dozens of cruciform silver stars. It was closed at the throat with a silver brooch in the shape of the crescent moon.

“It’s beautiful,” Gemma breathed.

“It’s yours now,” he said. “A unicorn made it. See if it’s lucky.”

Gus had already helped himself to quite a number of garments, and now it was Gemma’s turn to laugh. His leather vest had become a sleek blue jacket. On his neck was an entire shop’s worth of neck ties. The hats were icing on the cake: there were eight in total, stacked one on top of the other.

Two of them were top hats.

“Too much?”


#


Gemma sat shivering by the fire beneath a pile of blankets. There was plenty of wood left in Kelp Town, but Gus would only use enough to make a lukewarm bath in one of the stone basins on the sea wall. 

The top two floors of the tailor’s shop were living quarters. The furniture was covered with white tarps, and most of these the griffins did not touch. Gemma had found a mirrored vanity in the big bedroom, and now its door was stopped with several heavy trunks.

Gus finished waxing the leather panels of their tent and folded them once again. Tomorrow they would go to the old farm. Perhaps the hives still lived.

Gemma reached for the hawthorn preserve. After a month of nothing but smoked meat and undercooked rabbit, fruit of any kind was more precious than all the silk in the world. The sugary syrup she poured onto the last bit of her rabbit hindquarter. Its dry, stringy muscle became almost palatable.

Gus kept the bag of cider all night, though he let Gemma have as much hawthorn and peach as she could eat.

“Find a proper spigot tomorrow,” he said when they were both satisfied. “If we can only save a bag or two of this stuff I will cry. This may be the last batch I’ll ever taste; yours too.”

Gemma put her head on her folded hands and sighed. Her face had been numb since tapping the keg, and her brain felt like it was wobbling inside her skull.

“Ah, my poor daughter,” Gus laughed, patting down the dark grey feathers on Gemma’s head. There was a hint of genuine sadness in his voice. “You never saw this place in its prime. Whatever unspeakable things they did, the ponies fed us well. We used to eat ‘apples’ all year round. Big, sweet ‘apples’; bigger than your fist. Not these bitter little fruits that shrivel your tongue. Maybe I can show you. The ‘orchard’ is nearby. They’ll be dry and wormy. Ten years without ‘pruning’ or ‘weeding’! But I’m sure they still bear some fruit. Maybe you’ll like them.”

Gemma always blushed when her father started using pony words. But the prospect of fresh apples excited her.

“Go to sleep,” Gus said, his wandering hand coming to rest over her daughter’s eyes. “We will start late tomorrow, if you can move at all.”

Gemma asked him what he meant, but he just laughed and poured another cup of the last batch of cider.

> Chapter 2
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 2

Her head felt heavy, like it was overfilled with water. Gemma had slept all night without moving a muscle. Now sunlight pushed through the lattices, marking bright yellow lines on the wooden floor.

Gus was stooping over her, dabbing her forehead with a cold washcloth. 

“Take your time,” he said. “We are in no hurry today. I will check the traps later. Right now we have better things to eat.”

Ponies must have been very fat. In the adjacent houses Gus had found dozens of spices, bags of dry vegetables and many pounds of hardtack sealed in glass jars.

“All the bread is long gone,” he explained over soup. “There were mouse bones everywhere.”

“This is great,” Gemma said with her mouth full of broth and flakes of hardtack.

“We cannot stay here,” Gus continued. “You did not look into that mirror, did you?”

“No,” Gemma said with a shudder.

They did not leave the house until past noon. Gemma felt rather weak, but her headache had faded to a manageable throbbing. Her new cloak was cool on her skin; she wore it under her old earth-red one.

Gemma took three steps and stopped dead in her tracks. A trail of red slush led across the street, ending at a pile of cracked bones and fluffy white fur at the opening of an alleyway. A loop of coarse string lie at the halfway point, one end still tied to a sizable aspen branch.

“Bah.” Gus spat and rubbed his temples with one hand. “Damn cougars.” He turned a full circle, squinting against the glare of the sun.

“There’s nothing here for you!” He bellowed. “You hear me? No more ponies! No more pigs! Go get your own food!”

The rope broke in two upon the gentlest tug. The thief had bitten through it. While her father tried to salvage the snare Gemma cautiously approached the remains of the rabbit. She touched the cord-wrapped hilt of her dagger to make sure she still had it. If this cougar was anything like the ones in the mountains a young griffin would be a perfect meal. 

The bones were badly mangled, mixed with bits of muscle. The thief must have been young and quite hungry; even the skull had been crushed and parts of it swallowed.

Stepping back, Gemma froze. In the snowdrift were three small wide footprints. It would have been a baby cougar, if it was a cougar at all. The four toes were squished together near the palm and rounded like eggs. The print was more like that of a little griffin.

“That is strange,” Gus said of it dismissively. “In any case, a creature this small is of no concern to us. We will have to be smarter with the traps tonight.”

Gemma stayed beside her father as he dismantled the six remaining snares. They were all empty. A familiar uneasiness had settled over the young griffin. The empty city seemed once again a scary place full of dark secrets.

She recalled the stories she used to hear about the ponies. Some of her older friends remembered the Last Harvest, when griffins from ten nearby tribes drove the ponies out of Kelp town. Gaston swore that he had been there to hamstring the biggest unicorn who ever lived (though he would have been four years old at the time). The older kids told many stories of evil enchantresses who lured griffin children with sweet cookies and spiced drinks and then cast spells to bind them in servitude.

“They always wore these big black cloaks, even in summer.”

“This one unicorn had three little kids scrubbing her house all day and all night. They had this dumb look in their eyes; like fish.”

“All their feathers fell out. If you walk down that street at night, you’ll hear a hundred children crying from inside the houses.”

Gemma strained her ears as they followed the roads north towards the farm. Her father’s presence was a great comfort to her, though she wished she was still small enough to ride on his back. The stone ground was cold and unforgiving, built for hooves and not fleshy feet. Evil oozed from the cracks.

“The earth itself is cursed; it’s how the ponies kept it so clean. That’s why nobody ever goes there. Just looking at it from afar gives you bad luck.”

“Gemma,” Gus said suddenly.

Gemma’s shoulder was pressed tight against her father’s side, forcing him towards the houses on his side of the road. She jumped away with her feathers puffed up in embarrassment.

“What’s wrong?” Gus asked, pulling Gemma into his bosom. “Are you still thinking about the cougars?”

Gemma hugged her father and cried into his feathers. He pulled his cloak around her; it felt safer than any wall of stone and mortar.

“Let’s go home,” she sobbed. “I… I want to go home!”

Gus sighed heavily and ran his beak across the top of her head.

“Gemma,” he said. “I said you could stay with mama until spring. I asked you to do just that many times, but you said you wanted to come here. For two fortnights you have walked with me. In this hard winter you have done more than anyone can reasonably ask for. I am proud of you. So what are you afraid of? Tell me; there is no one else around.”

“Unicorns,” Gemma mumbled and immediately squeezed her eyes shut.

“Ah, that’s the problem.” Gus squeezed her one more time and laughed drily. “Which version do you like best? ‘Gingerbread cookies’ or ‘cupcakes’? ‘Witch’ or enchantress? Do they eat the slaves after the work is done?

“Gemma, do you think any of your friends ever walked these streets in the old days? How many of them could walk at all back then?

“Those stories have been around since your grandpa’s time. Just think about it this way: ten tribes of griffins drove all the thousands of ponies from this town for the birth of one boy. Why would we tolerate generation after generation of unicorns stealing our children?

“No, those stories aren’t right at all. Ponies don’t eat meat unless all their crops fail, and that has not happened in my lifetime. Even their pigs they keep as companions. And they are small in general; about the size of a fawn, but stouter. That cloak you’re wearing was probably made for a full-grown mare.

“There were five races of ponies in this city. Name a few for me, Gemma.”

“Unicorns,” she said immediately.

“And?” Gus smiled.

“Earth ponies?” Gemma said.

“Three more.”

Gemma’s brows drew together in annoyance. Her father smiled wider.

“You see?” He said. “You do not know nearly as much as you imagine.

“The other races were pegasi, sylvanocians and alicorns; strange names, I know. These last three could fly; the pegasi spent most of their time in the air, though they had the tiniest wings. The sylvanocians, or bat ponies, were all the same colour: a kind of blueish dark grey. They had bat wings and big bat ears, and they were seldom seen during the day. And the most powerful of all was the alicorn. There was only one as far as I know, and she was their leader. She was bigger than all the others, but not a giant by our standards. She was simultaneously a unicorn and a pegasus, and some said that she was alive when the ponies first showed up on these shores.”

Gus paused and looked at his daughter. Gemma had stopped crying, and was instead staring up at him with her mouth hanging open.

“Walk with me now,” he said. “I can tell you all kinds of things, if you want to hear them, but I want to see the farm before nightfall.”

Gemma still walked close to Gus, but her heart was eased. True to his words, he spoke almost constantly of the ponies; stories that Gemma had never heard before. They went into some of the houses, and Gus showed her a handful of ‘bits’: little round wafers of brass that all ponies used to ‘buy’ things.

“They traded too,” Gus said. “But to get anything reliably you had to have ‘bits’. The pony in that house at the end of this street used to give me four bits when I brought her the milk from the farm. That was enough for a burger and a big mug of cider from this ‘food stand’ at the end of the sea wall.

“That’s the best thing about the ponies. They spend years pulling up grass, pulling down trees, digging up rocks and stomping seaweed into the ground. It seems absurd. But then they have more than they can ever eat. They had so much food that there were ponies who did nothing but cook. And in winter they used to give us things almost for free. I once traded a single rabbit pelt for eight jars of ‘strawberry jam’ and a loaf of bread. That was more than I could carry.”

They emerged into a big square plaza facing the northern end of the sea wall, where mortar merged with a rocky hill. The air was perpetually thick with a fishy-smelling mist, and the paving stones were coated with a fine white dusting of salt. Gus took a deep breath.

“This was a ‘public salt farm’,” he said. “This whole plaza used to be full of salt piles higher than your shoulder. Griffins from even further inland than us would come here every summer and go home with big sacks full of salt. There are pumps on this part of the sea wall. You can’t see them in this mist, and I doubt they still work. In the summer I used to go up there and pump sea water. It’s a scary place to be, so high up with the ocean on one side.”

He looked to the sky and frowned. It was starting to get dark again.

“Come on,” he said, putting his hand on Gemma’s shoulder. “I know the way from here.”

They went inland along the northernmost street of the city. Many miles of flat land lay between the last paving stone and the first small hills to the north. Gus spoke no more, and quickened his steps.

At last she saw it. A long grey building at the foot of a hill, far from all the others. Its slanted roof was covered with snow, and two of the upstairs windows were missing their lattices, but it looked to be in good shape otherwise.

They left the road and trudged through the pristine snow. Underneath was a bouncy layer of grass; in life it would have been taller than Gus. The snow was even thicker near the farmhouse, and the entire first floor was buried. Fortunately Gus remembered where to dig. By sundown Gemma was chipping through the last chunks of ice that sealed the cracked red door.

The air was dusty with faint scents of a hundred things mixed together. Into the twilight they dug, until they had an alcove of packed snow wide enough for the door to swing freely.

Gemma huddled close to her father as they stood peering into the completely dark room. Any moment now a horrible creature could burst out from within; a bear perhaps, or something worse. 

“All her servants are undead! They’re still waiting in the city. They have nowhere else to go. Hiding by day, coming out at night to catch mice or rabbits, or even…”

“Come on, Gemma,” Gus said, putting one arm across her shoulder.

He lit a fire on the part of the floor that was dirt. They left the door open. Night had settled in for its long lonely shift, and Gemma could not decide which way to face. The room was huge and had a high ceiling. Thick wooden beams cast great shadows overhead, and she could not see under the gigantic long table draped with a tattered yellow tablecloth. Floor to ceiling cabinets took up the southern wall; there was no telling what secrets they held.

“Don’t be scared,” Gus said, motioning for her to sit down. “The door was intact. There is nothing here but us.”

“I don’t like this place,” Gemma whimpered. Huddling close to the fire gave her little comfort, for her own shadow was as dark as any other.

“This whole town has seen better days,” Gus sighed. “When the ponies were here, there were lamps in this room. Eight of them in total, and candles too. Big, bright candles as long as your arm. During winter solstice there were bowls of burning oil on that table. We kept it burning all night.”

“But the ponies aren’t here anymore!” Gemma snapped. The dancing shadows kept her constantly on edge. If ponies were so small, why did they build such a big house?

Gus walked around the fire and took her under his cloak. With one wing he held her by his side.

“That is why we came back,” he said, craning his neck so that his dark face covered the only opening in Gemma’s field of view. “We are going to save everyone, you and I. 

"We have endured three hard winters. The boar get smaller and smaller every year. Soon we’ll be chasing piglets. The rabbits won’t last either. We need this farm, Gemma; all the tribes do. We have hunted this whole wide land from east to west! We’ve picked every bush clean. We’ve dug up all the roots we can find. The Goldenhands have been going to sea for fish since before the ponies came.

“There will never be enough to eat if we go on like this. You think it’s normal to gorge after a good hunt and then tell yourself that you are not hungry for several days. That’s how you’ve had to live, and it pains me to see you that way. When I was your age I didn’t know what it meant to be truly hungry.

“We are here to prepare the way. In spring the whole tribe will follow in our footsteps, and we will welcome them with warm beds and a feast. You can tell mama about all the things we did when she gets here. Next winter we’ll have lamps and candles and bread on the table. Then we’ll see how you like this place.”

Gus prepared the meal without leaving his daughter’s side. They had no more meat, but boiling the rabbit bones produced a passable broth.

Gemma felt a lot better after eating.

Papa is right, she thought as her mind grew cloudy. This is nice.

They each picked up a burning stick from the fire, and Gus led the way through the house. The wide wooden stairs squeaked under their weight. Starlight filtered through the second floor windows. The hallway was much smaller than the rooms below, and for that Gemma was grateful.

“We’ll sleep in here,” Gus said, peering into one of the many rooms. “Come on. Hold my light so I can make the bed.”

The room was smaller than the one from last night. A night stand and a simple wood bed were the only furnishing; no mirrors anywhere. Its window lattice was tighter than the ones in the hallway, so almost no light came through.

Gus laid two blankets on top of the prickly hay mattress and bid Gemma sleep, but she would not leave his side. So they went out together to set new snares and survey the surrounding land.

Gemma fell asleep as soon as her chin touched the bed.

That night she dreamed that she heard footsteps from the lower floor. They walked slowly and deliberately, silent save for the creaking of floorboards and the sound of talons scraping wood.

> Chapter 3
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 3

Gemma woke to her father screaming a long trail of profanities.

“You think this is funny?” He yelled from downstairs. “Come out, you little weasels! I’ll wear your spine around my neck, you hear?”

Gemma jumped off the bed. Her two cloaks were in disarray. She hopped around noisily to free her legs, and then bolted into the hall and down the stairs.

Gus was standing in the doorway facing out. It was a sunny morning; Gemma squinted against the glare of the snow.

“You were right,” he said, stepping aside to give her some room.

About two feet from the threshold lay a thick cord, braided from their rabbit snares. Three white pelts were also present, carefully laid in a line with fur facing up. The little skulls lay in a pile, all crushed just like before.

On the thick snow was an abundance of footprints, and now there could be no doubt as to what made them. The four-fingered handprints were smaller than Gemma’s, each digit appearing thick and wrinkled. The kids had been wearing gloves, but not boots.

“What do they want?” Gemma asked. “What’s this supposed to mean?”

“Just a harmless prank,” Gus said. “We have food still, but no fresh meat as you can see. Keep your eyes open today. We may meet this party soon.”

By the light of day the farmhouse did not seem as scary. While Gemma made breakfast Gus went outside and dug out some of the first floor windows.

“Those kids flew away,” he reported when he returned. “They took off facing the city, but that may be another part of their trick. It doesn’t matter. If we do not see them today we will close this door and post a watch tonight.”

They kept a small fire burning at the front door. Gus found some brooms in a closet, and soon Gemma uncovered a section of floor behind the table that wobbled ever so slightly under her feet. She swept it as well as she could; some of the dust was caked on. A large round handle lay flat inside a groove filled in with sawdust and wax.

Gus could barely lift the door; it was a lot bigger than Gemma had expected. Beneath was a staircase into a cellar with walls of yellow clay.

“There,” Gus breathed, dropping heavy door under the table. “I’ll take a look. Stay up here.”

Taking a lit sliver he stepped into the darkness. The cellar was much bigger than Gemma expected. Her father’s light grew dimmer and dimmer.

“Hey, Gemma,” he called at last. “There are some ropes down here. I’m going to toss you a bundle. It’s heavy.”

Gemma sat down and raised her arms in front of her. A large blue-and-yellow ball flew out from the darkness, trailing several loose ends. Her brain said something was wrong before she caught it, but she did not realize the problem until the dense, inch-thick coils started squirming in her arms.

Gemma shrieked and threw the bundle straight up; a mistake. It hit the ceiling with a muffled thud, and dozens of dazed snakes rained down.

Gus, who had put out his light, was rolling around at the base of the staircase laughing. Gemma sat trembling amidst the slowly writhing snakes, her heart tackling her ribcage like an angry boar. Every hair and feather on her body stood straight up, so that she looked to have doubled in size.

“Ah… I’m sorry Gemma,” Gus gasped when he could speak again. “I… I HAD to do it! Look at you! Oh… It’s worth it!”

Gemma grabbed one of the snakes and flung it down into the cellar. It landed harmlessly beside Gus and resumed its harmless squirming.

“There’s way more down here,” he said. “You start skinning those ones! I’ll be a moment!”


#


When it was all done Gemma laid twenty-two snake skins on the snow. The meat she placed on top of the wood pile. She had seen garter snakes only once before; the flesh was not substantial and full of little bones, but any food was considered good in wintertime.

The cellar had become a very successful hibernaculum. The snakes were all rolled into one big mass. There must have been hundreds. Gemma went down the stairs just far enough to see them before retreating to the fire.

Gus found some old porcelain bowls and six candles, but nothing to eat. The candles were enough for Gemma.

It was about noon when Gus replaced the cover on the cellar. Gemma smothered the fire with a few handfuls of snow and repacked her bag.

“Stay with me today,” Gus said as they stood outside the door taking stock of the land.

Behind the house were apple trees just as promised; a whole forest of them planted in neat rows, covering at least two hills. Most of them were twisted and gnarled, branches reaching up and down and getting tangled with their neighbours. Dry brown pomes dangled from some of the branches, and the ground was carpeted with fallen leaves.

“They’re still here at least,” Gus said.

“Are they still good?” Gemma asked, walking up to one of the trees. It was much taller than she expected. Its smooth bark was cracked in places, and she could see a burl on one of its thick branches.

“I’m no earth pony,” Gus said. “I only half-remember how an apple tree should look.”

He threw aside his cloak and flew up to the lowest branch. Gemma watched him from a safe distance. Brittle branches fell with one or two swings from his hatchet. There was a good pile of firewood when he returned to the ground, yet the tree looked not much smaller than when he started.

“Just like that,” he huffed, wiping his head with his discarded cloak. “You try one. I’ll tell you where to cut.”

It was hard work. Apple wood was tougher than the small bushes she was used to. The rounded branches were hard to stand on, and shook violently when she brought her axe down. Her arms were numb when Gus waved her down.

“That’s good,” he said, returning her two cloaks.

Gemma looked to the rest of the orchard. It now seemed to her an endless forest. Slowly she sat down with her mouth hanging open.

“Enough for today,” Gus said. “We have time still.”

“How did the ponies ever do it?” Gemma wondered.

“There were many of them,” Gus said. “That house used to be full all the time. And they didn’t try to do it all at once.

“Come on. There must be lots of supplies left in these houses. And if others are here, we should get more cider tonight. Who know how many they brought? I don’t want to sit here chewing on snakes while Goldenhands drink this town dry.”

The nearest house turned out to be a candle maker’s shop. The ponies, or perhaps the other griffins, had taken most of the candles, but Gus found a block of wax and six long red candles tucked away at the back of a drawer. In place of a wick each candle had a feather at its core; a Pegasus feather, which burned bright and hot but also very quickly.

Gus surveyed his surroundings with increasing regularity as the day faded. Gemma made a habit of checking over both shoulders before turning into a new street, but the city was as quiet as ever. They spoke loudly and often, and listened intently when they stopped. No answer ever came.

They found the doorless tavern just as Gamma had left it. Under a beautiful crimson sky they entered. Gus lit a single candle and placed it on the bar. It burned like a torch.

Gemma watched the door while her father went into the cellar to tap a new keg. She hated how the door only revealed a tiny sliver of the darkening street, yet had not the courage to go outside alone.

The candle was already half spent when Gus returned with two bags of cider. He replaced the trap door and kicked some dirt over it before he could leave in peace.

Gemma held onto the candle until it fizzled out, leaving behind nothing but a half inch of blackened quill in her hand. She reached for another one, but Gus stopped her.

“We’ll need them later,” he said. “Stay close to me for now.”

In the dark the building seemed twice as big. Still there was no sign of other griffins, and no new footprints in the snow. In the darkness speech felt like a crime. Gus had his hood down despite the cold, his head swiveling constantly in search of danger.

Despite her unease Gemma started to nod off. Her eyes locked onto the street in front of her, half-perceiving black stone and white snow and a handful of twinkling stars. Everything seemed just out of focus; just a little more light and she would recognize the buildings.

Up ahead at an intersection there was a blueish stone that bulged too far out of the wall. Gemma frowned.

It turned around instantly, and Gemma stared dumbly into a pair of big bright eyes before the thing disappeared.

“Stop!” Gus yelled, pouncing into the next street.

Gemma came to her senses and took off after him. In the next street a tiny black figure was running at full tilt, kicking up chunks of snow in its wake. Its short legs were no match for the bigger griffins, however. Gus had stretched his one step head start into a ten metre gap; on flat ground Gemma ran faster than ever before, but still could not match his strides.

The child turned a sharp corner, forcing Gus to stumble but giving Gemma some time to catch up. They were less than five metres behind, and now Gemma saw that the cloak was not completely black. Dark grey swirls defined its hem, and there was a blue patch on the back in the fashion of Gemma’s unicorn-made cloak.

Gus threw off his cloak and pounced. The child cried out, and though Gemma could not understand what he said she recognized the language.

Dazzling white light filled the street, accompanied by a loud pop. Gemma was instantly blinded, and Gus was thrown backwards by the apparition. Gemma shielded her eyes with one hand and squinted into the light. It was like looking at the sun.

With another pop the world was dark again. Gemma curled up in the snow and kneaded her sore eyes, too scared to move.

Gus picked her up and hugged her tight. His heart was pounding as fast as hers.

> Chapter 4
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 4

Two candles and a roaring fire should have seemed luxurious, but Gemma could only think about how many shadows remained. The interior doorways were blocked and a heavy cabinet weighed down the cellar door for good measure, leaving the front door as the only entrance. 

The main room of the farm house was pleasantly warm, but Gemma kept every part of her body beneath her two cloaks and added a big heavy quilt on top. Her hand had not left the hilt of her dagger ever since her watch started. Her eyes were fixed on the darkness outside; she would see much better from the other side of the fire, but she refused to shed that last physical barrier between her and the unicorn outside.

It’s a unicorn, Gemma thought. Papa knows. It’s a unicorn.

Gus refused to comment on the events of that night, and went to sleep as soon as he was finished inspecting the house. Gemma felt like she could keep watch for the whole night.

The first set of candles was almost spent when a bout of drowsiness set in. The cloaks felt to Gemma like a warm blanket, and the cold sweat disappeared off her skin. Her eyelids drooped, and once she lowered her head onto her folded hands she could not get up again. She was only a little scared; her thoughts ran like frozen pitch.

“Papa,” she said weakly. She had closed her eyes, and now they were glued shut. “Papa, wake up.”

From somewhere far away there came the sound of crunching snow.

A floorboard squeaked.

A puff of warm air ruffled her feathers, smelling of blood and pungent herbs.

“Gemma! Wake up!”

The slap on her face rolled her entire body to the side. Pain did not register in her sleeping mind, but there was a lot of it when Gemma finally opened her eyes. Her cheek burned, and there were what felt like deep bruises all over her body. As feeling crept back into her body she noticed the cold coils tickling her legs.

With a scream Gemma shot into the air and hit the ceiling. Three snakes fell from her wings, but the ones on her feet and thighs and forearms clung on, grinding their fangs deeper into her flesh.

Gus snatched her out of the air and held her in a neck lock to pry off the snakes. His legs were also bloody from their bites.

The floor was covered with dozens of snakes, and a writing mass was forcing its way out of the cellar. They slithered around aimlessly and clumped in corners, shying from the cold wind blowing through the door. 

“Throw them outside,” Gus ordered.

By the time they cleared out the house Gemma’s hands were so swollen she could barely bend her fingers. Bites covered her arms up to her shoulders, and every single snake lie frozen on the snow. Gus fared a lot better; after rolling in the snow to clean his coat he looked to be in good health.

Breakfast consisted of a rich snake stew. Gus kept Gemma wrapped in a blanket and would not let her move for the rest of the day, but that did not stop her talking.

“There’s nothing to translate!” Gus said impatiently when asked about the black cloaked child’s last words. “It’s gibberish. He’s trying to throw you off.”

“I’m done with this place,” Gemma said more than once. “You know there’s something wrong! You saw it yourself!”

“I saw a flash of light,” Gus replied. “It could have been lightning, or fireflies.”

“It’s winter!” Gemma said incredulously.

“You never know.” Was his only answer. “Stranger things have happened, especially around here. Perhaps if you hadn’t slept through your watch, we would have caught the kid before he lit a fire in the cellar.”

“It was unicorn magic!” Gemma argued. “I never sleep on my watch! Never!”

“Count this as your first time.” Gus cackled and ran his hand over Gemma’s head.

At dusk Gus went out to set traps: snares for rabbits, and more dangerous ones too. Sharpened stakes tied to bent saplings; slings full of broken glass; large stones rigged to roll off the roof when the front door was disturbed. After dinner he sat down next to Gemma and took out his antler-handled hunting dagger.

The night passed without any incident. Gus was still keeping watch when Gemma awoke the next morning. He did not look tired at all.

“You see?” He said triumphantly. “No evil unicorns. You have to be bold. There was a kid outside last night, but he ran when I went out with a torch. That’s all it is, Gemma; some kids playing tricks on us. We’ll find them today.”

Gemma was thoroughly tired of snake meat, but the snares were all empty. The bigger traps were likewise undisturbed, but there was no shortage of tiny griffin prints in the snow. Seeing them eased her mind; there was not a single hoof print anywhere.

“Here is my idea,” Gus said as they walked towards town through the tract they had worn into the snow. “These are Goldenhands for sure, and they are not with their parents. They are here to play, or else they have run away from home. Knowing the Goldenhands, they probably took a sea route. There is a beach south of here where they could have landed, and if I am right we will find their boat hidden near the tide line. We will camp there tonight and see if they return. Be watchful of the houses today. They are hiding somewhere in the city. Perhaps we need not wait for nightfall to put this silliness behind us.”

Gemma looked at every snow pile as she passed. Except for small animal tracks they were all clean. There was enough exposed pavement that anyone could easily walk the entire city without leaving a single footprint. She broke down a few more doors, finding nothing but the usual trinkets left behind by the ponies.

“We’re missing something,” she said after searching yet another empty bakery. “Papa, I’m going to fly over. We can’t search the whole city like this.”

It proved to be the best decision she made that day. Gemma spotted the tracks on the roof immediately. There were two rows, one similar to those near the farm house and the other even smaller. They ran from one edge of the roof to the other, and continued on top of the next house to the south.

“Just as I thought,” Gus said after examining the tracks. “They’re going back to their boat. Come on.”

The sea wall became shorter as the land rose, ending at ground level at the old harbour in the south. The pier stood intact if a little weathered, but there was no ship in sight.

“They wouldn’t dock here,” Gus said when Gemma mentioned this. “This pier is too tall. It’s for big fishing ships that go far out to sea, and I don’t think a few kids would have one. There aren’t many of them left. We are looking for a fishing dory or a rowboat.”

The ground on this side of the city was more treacherous. Big thickets of thorny bushes blocked the way, and the rocky beach was slick with ice. Gemma and Gus packed up their cloaks and flew south, but even that was made difficult by the sea wind. The beach was not as close as Gus made it sound. The tide was returning when they landed on a broad gravel slope. A good portion of it was above the tide line, and the incline was not too steep for a camp.

Gemma had not searched a hundred metres before she found the first boat: a twenty foot dory surrounded by a wall of rock and kelp. The inside was painted in grey blotches, making it almost invisible from the sky. The tall mast was stowed on the floor along with six boards for seats.

Gemma and Gus unearthed six boats before they had to set up camp. These were not the black lacquered boats that Gemma remembered. The hulls were not as deep, and all were painted with giant scales in every colour of the rainbow.

“How are there so many?” Gemma wondered aloud as she sat by the fire with most of her body inside the tent.

“They’re raiding,” Gus said without looking up from the pot of snake stew. “Why build your own boats if you can just take the pre-made ones? This is a bigger party than I thought; at least twenty if they plan to row all these back to one of their villages.”

Gus went to sleep immediately after dinner. Gemma kept the fire burning high against the wind, but it illuminated so little. The beach was flat and dark. Blowing snow looked like the shadows of monsters coming out of the sea.

At first Gemma thought it was just the flickering of the fire playing tricks on her eyes. A lot of things seemed to move in the dark; perhaps the tall dark shape was a bush or a snowbank. It was hard to judge time under the uniform pink sky, but a thick layer of ash was starting to smother the flames. Gemma poked the bigger chunks with a stick of driftwood, raising brilliant tongues of fire that died down as quickly as they appeared.

She shrieked and scampered backwards into the tent.

A blue face with giant white eyes was staring at her from the south end of the beach.

“Papa! Wake up!” Gemma screamed, pounding her fists against her father’s side.

He slept on without even a snort. Gemma struck him until there were bruises on his chest, and screamed into his ears. Tears of desperation rolled down her cheeks.

A long shadow fell across the tent entrance.

Gemma clutched her hatchet with trembling hands and curled up tight against Gus.

They’re just kids! They’re smaller than you!

She could hear gravel crunching above the sound of the fire.

Be bold. Be bold!

Gemma took a deep breath and launched herself out of the tent, hatchet in one hand and dagger in the other. She had meant to scream, but her throat went dry when she saw the figure that loomed over the fire.

It was completely black up to its face, and much taller than she expected. And it was not a griffin. Gemma stared into its white eyes glowing brighter than the fire. She could not see much of its face, but she was sure that it had neither beak nor feathers.

There was a loud noise like thunder, and then all was black. Gemma plunged headfirst into icy brine. Her cloaks swirled around her, tangling around her legs and dragging her down. She stretched out her legs and pushed against the current with numb hands, but there was nothing to grab and no bottom to stand on. Gemma had only known water as shallow streams and murmuring falls. She kicked frantically, but every time her face broke the surface a new wave pushed her down. She pulled the brooch off her silken cloak, but could not find the knot to the woolen one. 

A powerful wave swirled her around. The garments wrapped tight around her like a cocoon, and the hood closed around her face.

Suddenly Gemma felt her body moving upwards. She had sank a great distance. She opened her mouth as soon as she heard a splash and immediately gagged on the waterlogged fabric. Fortunately Gus pulled the hood off her head a moment later. Gemma felt the back of a blade on her neck, and her cloaks slid off her back.

“Grab this and don’t let go,” Gus stammered, pressing a corner of the cloak into her palm. Gemma could not see him at all. 

She held on with all her strength, sputtering as she paddled clumsily behind her father. He was by far the stronger swimmer, and the cloak served more as a tug rope than a leash. Gemma soon lost all feeling in her body, and her chest grew stiffer and stiffer like it was freezing solid. She knew only to hold tight to the wet wad of cloth in her hands. Eventually Gus pulled her onto his back, but the air felt even colder than the water.

At last Gus stumbled onto a rocky beach. Gemma raised her head, fighting her locked muscles.

The fire still burned, though there was barely enough flame to warm a kettle. The tent was still there, and Gemma’s tools lie at its entrance.

She crawled over the rocky ground, oblivious to the pebbles gouging her knees and belly. She threw handfuls of sticks onto the fire and almost put her hands into the hot ashes. When a decent flame was burning once again Gemma threw on all the remaining wood and lay down against the fire pit.

Gus took up the other side of the fire, leaving the cloaks in a pile weighed down with rocks. He glared at Gemma until she cried, but his anger could not mask his fear.

> Chapter 5
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 5

Gemma woke up with one wing frozen to the ground. Gus was stirring the ashes with his hand. Behind him was a pile of bushes. Most of the crowns were intact as if they had been ripped out of the ground.

“Don’t move,” he said without looking up.

The bushes burned fast and hot. Gus used the hatchets to break the ice and helped Gemma sit up.

They sat around the fire for the whole morning, burning through many more bushes. Neither of them talked much. Gemma felt nauseous. Her skin was raw and dry, and she felt like her bones were being roasted in a fire.

“Come on,” Gus said as the last twigs of another bush disappeared into the ashes. “We’re going back to the farm. Stay with me, and don’t go into any more houses.”

“Papa, we should leave,” Gemma said.

“I will not discuss this now,” Gus said sternly. “Pack up the tent.”

On the south end of the beach Gemma’s worst fears were confirmed. Many hoof prints led out of the bushes, and a perfectly circular slab of ice marked the spot where the unicorn had teleported away. The prints were just bigger than Gemma’s hand with fingers splayed; ponies were not as small as she thought.

This time they took the most direct path possible. There was still much light left in the day when they reached the farmhouse. Nothing had changed since they left. Gemma found the main room oddly comforting after the harrowing night on the beach. Mostly she was relieved to finally get a break from the wind.

After making a fire and lighting two more candles Gemma took off her cloaks and wrapped a blanket around herself. Gus was already reclined with only his face exposed.

“Papa,” Gemma said. “We should leave. A unicorn just tried to drown us! We won’t survive another night!”

“Slow down, Gemma,” Gus said, raising one hand. “Tell me exactly what happened last night. Why did you not wake me?”

“I TRIED!” Gemma screamed, jumping out of her blanket only to return immediately. “I did everything I could! You were under a spell!”

“So I was,” Gus said, putting a hand on his chin. “Go on. Did you see this unicorn? Was she old or young? Tall or short?”

“Really tall,” Gemma replied. “She was blue. She was wearing black. Her eyes were shining like lamps, and she came all the way to our fire.”

“Did you attack her?”

“I meant to,” Gemma said uncertainly. “I went out, but she was so tall! I thought you said ponies were small!”

“They’re bigger than you,” Gus said. “I believe you, Gemma, but…”

“You saw the prints!” Gemma interrupted. “Papa, we have to leave! There is a unicorn here, and she’s trying to kill us!”

“Gemma.” Gus sighed. “I believe you. There’s something else here, and it wants us to leave. But this place is important to me.”

“We’ll both die if we stay here!” Gemma screamed.

“I won’t make you stay,” Gus said, looking Gemma straight in the eyes. “Take the tent and as many snake skins as you can carry. They’re worth something to the Goldenhands, but now I doubt you’ll run into any. You remember the path, right?”

Gemma stared at her father with her mouth hanging open.

“Are you sending me away?” She said in a small voice. “What about you? If I take the tent…”

“I won’t need it,” Gus said. “Gemma, don’t take this the wrong way. I don’t blame you for what happened here. I am proud of you for all that you’ve done, but I can’t ask you to stay any longer. Take whatever you need and leave in the morning, or leave now if you prefer. Tell the tribe that I sent you. Tell them that all is well, and have them come as soon as the snow is clear.”

“You can’t stay the winter here!” Gemma argued. “You know what’s out there! The unicorn will get you!”

“Then she will only get me,” Gus said flatly. “Gemma, I grew up in a prosperous age completely unlike yours, so I don’t hold it against you that you don’t share my vision. But my intentions have not changed. You will achieve nothing arguing with me.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the rattling of snow and ice tumbling off the overburdened roof. Gemma pulled her blanket over her eyes and groaned. When her father said something like that, the chief and her entire council could not change his mind. But here was not an impromptu hunt in a blizzard or a late-autumn journey to the Hookmouths’ forest. Those things were survivable, as he demonstrated many times.

Gemma cried and cursing evilly until she was screaming nonsense. Gus watched her with a grim face.

“Are you feeling better?” He asked when Gemma finally lie down on the floor.

“No,” she said stubbornly. “Papa, come with me.”

“What did I just tell you?” He said. “There is no shame if you returned to the tribe. In all likelihood they will welcome you as a hero. Your mama will be so happy to see you again. I know you miss her. But for me things are very different.”

Gemma looked out through the door. The sun was getting low, but she could cover miles yet before the night set in.

Her bag was bulging with string, hardtack, new blankets and leather patches when she set out. Gus insisted she take at least one candle. Gemma did not look him in the eyes.

She ran until her cloak was soaked with sweat. The land east of the city was a long rocky incline. Gemma did not look back as her shadow grew longer and longer, until it covered the whole world.

She set up camp beneath a tall tree. The forest ahead was dense and completely black, and Gemma thought she had made good time. She could barely see the shadowy outline of Kelp Town in the distance. By tomorrow she would be deep in the foothills with no view of water anywhere.

Gemma pitched her tent and lit a small fire. After dulling her beak on a hardtack she retired for the night. Already she was feeling lonely. Griffins rarely slept alone, and traveling alone was almost unheard of. The tent was too big, and she had never before reflected on how delicate it was. A few layers of stretched leather would be little protection against a bear or a pack of wolves.

She did not know whether she slept at all. Sometimes Gemma opened her eyes and saw shimmering daylight coming through the vestibule, but felt too sluggish to get up. 

The knife pierced the tent with a loud pop that jolted her to full wakefulness. Gemma bolted out of her tent with nothing but the blanket and her tools.

The tent shook violently, and its leather shell slid off the poles. Her fire had been thoroughly doused as she slept. Gemma could just make out the small figure that stood amidst the skeleton of her tent. It was a little shorter than her and had a big blunted nose. Its torso was too long and its legs too short to be a pony. 

Suddenly emerging from her stupor Gemma drew her dagger and pounced. Unfortunately the thief had a sufficient head start by then. Extending a pair of big wings, it leapt straight up. Gemma’s dagger sank two inches into a tree. By the time she freed it the thief was a hundred metres ahead and flying straight towards Kelp Town with a large package dangling from his shoulder.

Gemma took off after it with dagger in one hand and hatchet in the other. Flying unburdened, she rapidly gained on the odd-looking creature. 

Hearing her wingbeat, it pulled back its hood. Two ears perked up. Not like the horns of the Owlkin tribe, these were large, triangular ears.

Gemma faltered. The thing turned its head backwards and glared at her with two big bright eyes. Steam billowed from its open mouth and through its nostrils. It had lips and teeth, not a beak.

Firelight drew her attention to the ground. She was almost at the farmhouse. A big bonfire was roaring in the field; she could already feel its heat. The thief disappeared into the column of smoke, but Gemma had already forgotten about him. She landed hard in the snow. The air currents from the fire made flying difficult.

“Papa!” She yelled, as she ran towards the farmhouse. “Papa! Where are you?”

The house was surrounded by a thick ring of little footprints, but there was no sign of movement anywhere. Gemma did not hesitate to enter the completely dark room.

She fumbled around the floor, knocking over jars and woodpiles. Finally she found a flint kit and a candle.

The house was completely empty. Blankets were strewn all over the floor, soiled with bits of hardtack and syrup. It looked as if a jar of jam had exploded.

A familiar hatchet protruded from the doorframe like it had been thrown. Buried in the floor up to the hilt was a dagger with an antler handle, like the one Gemma had in her hand but significantly longer. Its last owner had dragged it several inches across the wood floor before his grip failed and he was pulled into the night.

> Chapter 6
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 6

The bow was doomed to fail. Cutting down a whole apple tree would take days, and even the thickest branch yielded light, cracked wood. It was like stringing a toy bow with metal chains.

The arrows were worse. Made from hastily-straightened branches of an unknown bush, they were light and brittle. Gemma had no feathers to spare for fletching, and no flint for arrowheads.

She had stood watch all night, and could not find the courage to venture outside until the sun was high. The thief had taken most of her supplies. Without a tent or water skins returning home was no longer an option. The Goldenhands were four days away at best, but she entertained that option for quite some time.

I can go four days without eating. I’ll just keep running. Anywhere is better than here!

But to flee the city required leaving the house, and when Gemma saw the cloudless sky she felt her hope renewed. If nothing else, she would need a water skin. With her father’s tools added to her own set she was by no means helpless.

Find a water skin and go home, she told herself. Don't spend another night.

The bonfire had burnt out on its own. Water had flowed back over the ashes, forming a circular slab of dirty ice. 

“Papa?” Gemma called as she approached the city.

Everything was silent once more. Flying up to the rooftop, Gemma again found fresh footprints. They were not her father’s, and Gemma hovered for some time wondering if she should follow them. In the end curiosity won, and she flew west according to the tracks.

Just south of the city’s centre the footprints ended abruptly. Gemma stopped there and surveyed the street below. The pavement was cracked and weathered. Some of the windows were broken, and she could see big blocks of ice inside the rooms. There was no sign of Gus anywhere.

As Gemma’s eyes swept over the scene she caught a glimpse of motion. The house across the street had a green wooden door hanging by its top hinge. Gemma stared at it intently, trying to reconstruct what she had seen.

There were marks in the snow around the door, like it had been forced open recently. Gemma lowered her head and backed away from the roof's edge.

It knows I’m here.

Gemma checked over her shoulder. All seemed as it should be.

With her father’s knife in her beak Gemma dropped down lightly onto the street several houses down from the green door. She approached with the gentle steps of one stalking a deer, hugging the wall so that whatever was inside the house could not see her until she was ready to strike.

Gemma burst through the door with knife in hand and immediately heard something scampering about upstairs. It was heading for the window. She turned to the door and readied her bow…

It was almost dark. Much of her body was numb, and Gemma was completely relaxed. Her mouth was open, and a sizable pool of drool had collected on the dusty tile floor. She got up and ran a hand down her neck.

A large feathered dart dropped onto the floor. Its slender steel needle was a full two inches long, connected to a fat metal syringe that no amount of fletching could conceal. She jumped, fell down, and put both hands on her neck like she was holding a fatal wound.

The trap turned out to be nothing more than a simple tripwire. Gemma was too groggy to be properly scared. She remained in the house for a while, staring in wonder at the syringe. It was full dark when she came to her senses.

Gemma ate a handful of snow before setting off towards the farm. Several times she checked over her shoulder and saw a flash of movement far behind her. Once she thought she saw a pair of ears on the rooftop. The creature was only tailing her for the moment.

Past the last row of houses Gemma turned around and sat down. From there her line of sight was open. She had not one but two tails, one markedly bigger than the other. They seemed a little surprised by her action; the smaller one ducked close to the roof on which he was standing and covered his face with his hands.

Gemma tightened her grip on her bow. It could stand being drawn a few times before breaking, if she could shoot that far with the arrows that she had.

The bigger of the two figures spoke. It was a boy, but Gemma could not understand its pony language. Nevertheless his civil tone gave her courage.

“Hey! You!” Gemma called in her own tongue. “Come down here! What did you do to my papa? I know you have my stuff! Come down here and talk with me!”

The boys on the roof stood close together facing her. Gemma released the bow and let it slide off her lap.

They turned around and headed back into the city.

“Wait!” Gemma yelled, leaping into the air.

The bigger boy pounced from the roof. Instead of manoeuvering Gemma reached for a knife, and was grabbed dragged to the ground.

He had the yellow hands and brown body of a Goldenhand, but no beak. His face was covered in tan fur, and he had a braided mane. On top of his head were two triangular ears. His muzzle was hot and damp.

Gemma screamed and kicked him into the air. Then she rolled over in the snow and extended her wings once more, but an overwhelming feeling of fatigue overtook her. She raised a hand to her neck and felt a tiny patch of sticky blood.

Not again.

The boys were gone. Gemma managed to turn away from the city before the tranquilizer took over.

> Chapter 7
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Shivering in a muddy corner of the room, Gemma stared at the pile of blankets with equal parts longing and dread. They were all thick and well-used, but not by her. She did not recognize them beyond the colorful floral design that was typical of pony-made fabrics.

She had come to in the early afternoon inside the farmhouse. Her captors had taken her weapons. Only the fire kit was left, laid neatly on the table along with lukewarm water in an old steel pitcher, a block of frozen herring and some cold pan bread. Firewood was piled beside the front door, with some dry moss for kindling.

It’s alright, she told herself over and over again. They want me alive for now.

Not daring to start a fire, she pecked at the fish for a few minutes before giving up. The bread she eyed suspiciously, having heard stories of ponies baking ashes into cakes and selling them to unsuspecting griffins. In the end she only took a sip of water.

Looking once more at the door, Gemma made up her mind. She adjusted her cloak and approached the front door. Taking a deep breath, she opened it, and froze.

Five feet in front of her was a rectangular monolith covered with a heavy crimson cloth. A mirror; a very large mirror.

A sudden gust of wind made the shroud flutter. With a scream Gemma slammed the door and sat down against it, digging her claws into the floor.

No! Please, no! Anything but this!

Gemma squeezed her teary eyes shut and covered her face with her hands.

It's over! All over! I'm doomed!

She sat against the door crying and trembling. At any moment she would meet her end.

But as the sun crept towards the horizon Gemma’s hunger grew steadily, while around her everything remained still. The numbness in her limbs became unbearable. Her fear never went away, but the bread and fish on the table beckoned without end. The room was unbearably cold without a fire, and the blankets were not far away.

Gemma put her ear against the door. Outside all was quiet.

She pounced for the blankets and crawled inside. They were dry and surprisingly scentless, and the weight of the pile made her feel safe. Tucking herself into a tight ball so that no part of her body was within a foot of the outside air, Gemma turned around slowly and lifted the blanket just enough to peek at the door. It was still closed, and through the gap on the bottom she could see that there was nothing on the threshold.

Finally mustering up the courage, she dashed to the table. She took a quick drink, grabbed the cold bread and zipped back to the blankets. Still nothing stirred.

Gemma warmed up the bread against her chest and nibbled on it until nightfall. It was a little stiff from lying in the open for so long but still softer than the root bread that she was used to, and though it left her mouth dry it did not taste like ash at all. Before dark she made another trip to the table for water, with slightly more confidence than before. The contents of the pitcher had turned to slush, and she dared not put her mouth against the frosted metal.

The mirror outside remained inert all afternoon. Even so she refused to check on it.

In the warm embrace of the blankets sleep came easy. In the dying light Gemma relaxed. The strange things outside the door became an afterthought.

Maybe if I don’t look at it, nothing bad can happen.

Gemma thought that she was not fully asleep, but she did not notice the door opening. She did not notice the new scents in the room or the sound of water ringing against the pitcher. She woke up instead to see a bright yellow talon resting on the floor inches in front of her eyes.

A small figure beside the door was holding up a most peculiar torch. Made of gnarled brown wood, it gave a steady cool light without flickering. Gemma could see bright yellow fingers wrapped around the handle, but the rest of the figure was obscured in darkness.

She dared not move as she glanced around. She was still hidden under the blankets, but she kept her eyes narrowed. If she opened them fully they would flash against the torch, and she knew that she was being watched closely.

Reared up at the table was another figure, a small boy in a suit of some kind; rabbit skins, judging by the many seams, with fur facing inwards. The brown tuft of his exposed tail waved around nervously. She could just see the tips of long white feathers under the table. He looked so much like a Goldenhand griffin of the coast, indeed they all did, that Gemma briefly considered standing up to greet them.

But they were most definitely not Goldenhands. She would have understood their whispering if they were. Instead they spoke in a flowing dialect unlike anything she had heard before. Gemma could barely make out the syllables, and gleaned no meaning from it.

The boy at the table finished his work, and Gemma gasped.

Up to his shoulders he looked exactly like a griffin. She could see the white feathers on his chest through the collar of his suit, and his yellow hands were exposed and completely unremarkable. But the head was that of an entirely different creature, one that she had never seen before. A creature with the big, flexible ears of a deer as well as the deer’s habit of standing perfectly still and useless when spotted. His face was covered in short, tight-growing, light brown fur. He had a wide muzzle, not a beak. His head was topped with cream-colored hair, some of the strands clinging to his forehead with perspiration. His eyes were unnaturally big and round, almost bulging out of his head. Blue eyes, bright, but it was not a metallic brightness, more like the brightness of river stones.

The one that had been standing right next to Gemma moved its feet, and second later a single jade-green eye was all Gemma could see. With a scream she leapt straight up, and was immediately tangled in the heavy blankets. She scratched through them with her sharp talons, paying no mind now to the frigid night air. 

“You are dreaming!”

It was the voice of a young boy, but the language he was trying to speak was not his own. His words were slow and hesitating, and he was far too scared to be convincing.

With one long swipe Gemma broke free. She had been trapped for only a moment; long enough for a rabbit to flee, but the three abominations had not moved. She forced her wings out of the ragged opening and lifted off, almost hitting the ceiling. The one that had been working at the table had a hand on his temple, making all kinds of odd shapes with his lips as he stammered out individual syllables. The other two were speaking at the same time in their incomprehensible language, their voices growing slowly in volume.

Then a few short words were shouted, and then total darkness. Gemma rubbed her right eye with one fist, keeping the other opened wide. She could see shapes moving about hastily and hear their talons and nails scratching against the floor. Though she was not a night hunter Gemma could sense these big creatures well enough.

Even a fleeting moment of darkness could fill an already disturbed mind with a thousand new ideas. Gemma expected to feel scaly claws closing around her ankles, and then a knife against her neck. They outnumbered her, and she knew exactly what they wanted.

Screeching a desperate cry for help, Gemma went into a dive. Her foot brushed against a stack of flatbread, dragging it off the table and shattering the ceramic plate under it. The pitcher toppled over too. She did not care about any of this, focusing only on her enemy. With one hand she grabbed a fistful of his feathers through his suit, and grasped one of his wings with the other. He screamed in terror, and the sound was like a knife to her soul, and had she been less terrified herself, had she been more experienced, had it been daylight or summertime she would have stopped. But it was a frigid winter night, and she was in a desolate farmhouse, and she was fully committed to what she was about to do.

His joint popped out of the socket with a wet crunch, and Gemma felt pins and needles snaking up through her fingers and rising up her neck. The boy screamed in agony, thrashing violently. She could not hope to restrain him, and did not try to. Out of the darkness came a small hand, tearing out feathers from her face and scraping her beak as it passed. She knew that it was not deliberate, and made no effort to fight back.

He screamed and cried and pounded the floor so loudly that Gemma thought he would bring down the whole house on top of them. She stood over him without moving a muscle. Her eyes had adjusted well enough that she could see the other two standing in front of the door, frozen in their tracks.

She did not notice the eerie blue light that was coming through the windows or the chime-like ringing of the air until an explosion rocked the house. Every wooden board of the wall recoiled, splinters and sawdust and ice crystals rained down, and through the temporary gaps in the structure Gemma saw the great shadow of something on the doorstep.

The door flew open, and the room was filled with dazzling blue light. The tall, slender figure was silhouetted against a slab of pure, heatless radiance. The light seemed to shine through her head at her eyes, and she was crowned with a blinding blue star. 

Gemma scrabbled the floor desperately as she was lifted by some invisible force. The figure stepped into the room, its feet sounding heavily against the boards. The three beast-headed griffins had all gone silent.

It gave an order, abrupt but soft, in a distinctly female voice. The two creatures that were still standing lowered their heads and retreated into the light. The one with the broken wing grunted as he rose into the air. Suddenly he fell limp, and drifted out of the house with no more protest. 

Gemma squinted as the thing approached her. It only seemed very tall with its long legs and slender neck; it was not as big as a full-grown griffin. As it came closer, Gemma saw the outline of a twisting horn within the globe of light that washed out the other features of its face.

“You will come with me.”

Gemma tried to scream, but her beak was being clamped shut by the same force that held her in the air. It restrained her more and more as she struggled until she could not move at all. The mirror came closer and closer. Its light nearly washed out her reflection. Only her eyes stood out, burning like rubble in a kiln, burning brighter and brighter as she drifted helplessly towards the great slab.
> Chapter 8
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	“Eat.”

“No.”

Gemma crossed her arms obstinately for the fourth time in the last two days and pushed herself further into the corner of her cell. When she regained her vision after passing through the mirror Gemma found herself in a hastily-assembled dungeon in the basement of some big building. The bars on the double-wide doorway that served as the only opening to her cell were made of an assortment of chairs fastened together at every conceivable angle. The light from the cooking fire passed through this lattice to cast strange and frightening shadows across every surface, so that Gemma only felt somewhat safe with her back to the wall.

The steaming bowl of rabbit stew sat untouched just inside her cell. She was light-headed from fasting, but each time one of the boys visited she was reminded of the fate that awaited her if she ever gave in.

The unicorn—the witch—had not visited her since the first night. Only the boys attended to her, and they did not speak much. She glared at them when she caught them staring.

Gemma strove to stay awake constantly, but with the warmth of the fire and constant darkness she seemed to sleep more often than ever. She clutched her head every time she awoke, and always found her feathers and beak unchanged save for the incredible messiness of the former. She was sure that no one would recognize her come spring even if she could survive the winter unchanged.

The bowl was no longer steaming when the boy took it away. He poured it back into the cauldron hanging in the blackened stone hearth and prodded the cinders beneath it. Soon the soup was boiling again, and Gemma felt her insides tying into knots. There were onions and cabbage, familiar spices and exotic ones. Gemma covered her face in the smoke-scented brown blanket that was part of her bedding, but even that reminded her of smoked meat.

The boy ladled the soup into eight clay bowls and balanced the trays on his wings. He paused at her cell one last time looking rather sad. She stared back, her beak still hidden in the blankets. She was afraid that if she did anything else she would cry.

He ascended the steps swiftly, and Gemma heard the door close. She was all alone then; lonely, scared, and too hungry to plan an escape. She lay down on her stomach facing the hearth, wishing to be closer to it.

She must have dozed off again, because the next thing she knew Gemma was staring at a pair of ragged hooves, cracked and colored an unhealthy black.

A ball of white fluff dropped right in front of her nose, startling her to full wakefulness. Gemma leapt up and backed into the wall, her nails marking the stones beneath her.

The mare was wearing an ancient black cloak, just like the stories said she would. Bits of blue silk still hung on its hem in a few places, and on her left side a white crescent moon was clearly visible. It had once been quite an ornate garment not nearly so evil-looking.

Her wrinkled, black-blotched muzzle was almost completely hairless. The top of her deep hood fell over her eyes, but from what she could see Gemma got the unsettling impression that she had no eyes at all. She hoped the mare would not draw back her hood. The thought that the unicorn could exist was terrifying enough, and in her presence Gemma dared not move a muscle.

When she spoke Gemma felt all the feathers lift off her skin. Her gums were as black and shriveled as her skin, and there were even slots for her missing teeth. Her tongue had withered into a worm-like thing, yet somehow she was able to speak as fluently as a trained bard in her soft, throaty voice.

“If you do not appreciate our food, eat this instead.”

She prodded the fluffy thing with one hoof, causing it to squirm around. It was a live hare with all four legs bound together with a strip of leather.

“We caught it in a live trap just for you,” the unicorn continued dispassionately. “I have not touched it except to bring it to you. All I ask is that you skin it properly and leave me the pelt.”

With that she left, completely disassembling the barricade with her magic and replacing it as soon as she had passed through.

Gemma sat petrified for a while longer. Sensing the presence of a starving predator, the hare struggled wildly, tumbling and rolling around the floor and grunting aggressively until it was all out of strength.

She sharpened one talon on a stone in the wall and picked up the hare by the back of its neck. Lifting it up to her face, she examined it from its twitching nose down to its comically large feet. It was a completely ordinary hare, just like the unicorn said. She stroked its back until it calmed down, and then snapped its neck in one quick twist. The exercise calmed her enough to dress the rabbit properly.

Hare this late in the season was bony, the flesh tough and dry even without cooking. Gemma drank all the blood she could get, and gnawed on the skull until it was completely clean. She sucked marrow from the tiny bones and even ate the liver, which she usually hated. As she milled the bones of the leg with her beak Gemma began to wish she had eaten the soup instead. The hare had been the only familiar thing she had seen in days, the only sign that the sane world that she had left behind was still out there.

When the unicorn returned only the skin and a pile of broken bones remained. Gemma was still hungry, but the meal had renewed her strength somewhat. Her mind was clearer than it had been for weeks, and when the unicorn placed a mug on the floor in front of her she looked up with an almost defiant air.

“This is water,” said the unicorn as she collected the pelt and bones with her magic. “Drink it.”

She seemed less scary now. Gemma looked into her face, and after a moment she spoke.

“Let me go home,” she said quietly.

“I will,” said the unicorn. “But not immediately. It’s too cold. The road is too hard.”

“I’ll be fine,” Gemma said, getting up. “I got here just fine. I can hunt and put down snares.”

“You left your village with fresh provisions,” said the unicorn. “We have nothing to give you, and the winter has been hard in these parts.”

“Why do you care?” Gemma asked. “If you want me gone, I’ll go! I’ll never come back! Why do you care what happens to me, as long as I leave?”

“I am not evil, Gemma,” said the unicorn, steady and patient as always. “I only wish to be left alone. This city is not yours. Your tribe did not build it, and as long as I am here your tribe will have no part of it. If you leave, you must never return. But I will not cast you out to your doom.”

“I will not stay here,” Gemma said stubbornly.

“You will do everything I tell you to do,” said the unicorn. “I will send you on your way at the first sign of spring, this I promise. And when you go, you must never look back. Tell your tribe that this is a cursed and haunted city. Tell them that no one else will be spared.”

Gemma opened her mouth, but a powerful wind filled her cell. She gasped as the unicorn turned to fine dust before her eyes and flowed through the barricade, rattling against the bars and the stones of the floor. Just outside her cell the countless grains coalesced into the unicorn, and her cloak fluttered for a moment on the tail end of the magical breeze. Then all was still.

“Be good, Gemma,” she said, her cracked lips smiling slightly. “Good night.”

The unicorn did not visit her again, and from that day onward Gemma ate whatever she was given. She also watched the boys more closely than ever. One or two of them did the cooking on a semi-regular rotation. The food was always some kind of stew served with bread. Every second or third meal they gave her something. Perhaps it was punishment for what she had done.

The boys did not know her language, but they spoke freely to one another. One of them, an older one with a grey head and blue eyes, stopped by her cage almost daily. He could speak a few words clumsily, and made many hand gestures. Gemma understood that his name was “Jacob”. At first she found him and all the others utterly repulsive, but as the novelty of their appearance wore off she became more curious about them. Jacob seemed as lucid and alive as any ordinary child; they all did. In the light of the hearth she saw that their eyes were bright and clear, and their voices and movements seemed natural enough.

The third time Jacob came around Gemma replied to him.

“Good soup… salt?” He asked. It was meal time, and after bringing up food for the others he had returned to the basement to eat with her.

“Yeah, it’s great,” she said without looking up from her bowl.

The boy was taken off guard. He stuck his face right against the barrier, resting his chin upon a chair. His shadow fell over her bowl, obscuring its contents completely.

“The spices are nice,” she said. The boy had his mouth open in a half-smile, hanging on to her every word. It didn’t matter that he could not understand most of what she said.

Gemma took a sip of the salty broth and set her bowl on the floor.

“What are you?” She asked, pointing a finger at the boy.

She had not expected him to understand. Instead what she saw in his eyes was a mixture of excitement and trepidation. His ears perked up, and he put down his own bowl and stared at her as he thought over his answer. 

“I’m a griffin,” he replied. “I’m… rare kind… griffin… not pony.”

Gemma missed most of what he said, but those words were from her language. Jacob stared at her expectantly when he finished talking.

“You’re a griffin?” Gemma said slowly, pointing at him and then waving her hand over her own face to emphasize her point. “What happened to your head?”

“I’m a griffin,” he repeated.

“Griffins don’t look like that!” Gemma said, clutching a handful of feathers on top of her head with one hand and pointing at Jacob with the other.

“I am rare griffin kind,” he said, digging deep into his vocabulary. “Only exist here.” He pointed down at the floor.

“Only in Kelp Town?”

He nodded, saying what must have been “yes” in his language.

Their food was lukewarm by then. Gemma was about to ask something else when the door opened upstairs. Jacob turned, picking up his bowl and jumping away from the cell. Gemma picked up her own bowl and emptied it in one big mouthful.

The intruder was a younger boy, six years old perhaps. On one wing he carried a stack of dirty dishes. He had a light brown head topped with messy orange hair, and a sour look on his face. The dishes rattled loudly when he slammed them down. From the conversation that followed Gemma gathered that the unicorn was not pleased. She heard a few names: Joey, Sam… this one was Joshua. They referred to her a few times; she could tell because Joshua would glance at her pointedly.

In the end Joshua was placated with a salted fish on a piece of bread. He took a quick look into Gemma’s cell before retreating up the stairs. She met his gaze calmly.

When Jacob had finished cleaning the dishes he left Gemma with her usual mug of warm water and took the slob bucket upstairs. With no one to keep her company Gemma was soon asleep.

The fire was nearly out when she awoke to the sound of muffled voices.

It was the unicorn.

Gemma sat up and tilted her head. When the cloudiness of sleep was gone completely she realized that she was hearing her own language.

“… Ten long years. Such a shame.”

She flew up to the ceiling, ripping away the cobwebs and pressing her ear to the floorboard, but whoever the unicorn was speaking with replied too softly. The next thing she heard was the sound of hooves: five steps, and then nothing. 

> Chapter 9
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

               Despite doing almost nothing, Gemma was quite hungry between meals. Jacob ignored her when she asked for more, and from the uneasiness in his face Gemma guessed that the unicorn had given strict orders.

               Gemma had investigated her cell thoroughly. There was no shortage of cracks in the walls, but every stone was firmly mortared in place. She could only dig out a few pebbles, and as tools they barely scratched the well-built barricade. She thought about using a ceiling beam as a battering ram, but these too were firmly affixed.

               The smell of spices and cooked meat was ever present. More than her freedom, Gemma wanted food. It did not help that she could see everything the boys did. She knew which barrel contained salt fish and where each vegetable was kept. Sometimes the younger boys would sneak a fish head or make an extra cake for themselves as they were cooking. In hindsight Gemma knew that they did not do it out of malice, but when she had to watch them eat Gemma hated them more than she had ever hated anything.

               The unicorn spoke regularly, no more than once every other night and going no more than three nights in silence. That was the only time Gemma heard the distinctive sound of her hooves. There was a way to hang comfortably from the ceiling beams, and whenever she heard hooves Gemma would cling to the beam and press her ear to the floorboard. Whoever the unicorn was speaking to always replied softly, if he spoke at all. From all the one-sided conversations she heard Gemma got the impression that it was a trader.

               “Leave it here. Jacob, Joshua, take care of it. Do you need anything else? Alright. Wait here.”

               “How is your wife? That is unfortunate. These years have not been kind to anyone.”

               Gemma felt her suspicions confirmed when Jacob showed up one day with a leather bundle on his back nearly as big as himself. He unpacked it by the hearth as gently as if he was handling an infant, with wild excitement in his usually stoic eyes.

               It was the dressed limb of a large animal, with bones in and the entire shoulder attached. In all likelihood an elk, and much too big even for Gemma to hunt.

               Taking out his small steel knife, Jacob looked up suddenly as if startled. He looked straight at Gemma, who was pressing herself to the bars of her enclosure.

               “Do you want the shoulder?”

               Gemma hissed at him angrily.

               “I mean it,” he said, putting up his bloody hands and sidling back a little, genuinely frightened. “Mother said you can have your pick before anyone else.”

               Their communication had become a mix of their two languages. Even Gemma herself found it ridiculous, but it was better than silence. It had taken her especially long to learn the word for “mother”. She had understood that it referred to the unicorn, but a part of her had refused to believe that the unicorn could be mother to anything.

               “Why?” Gemma asked.

               “What part do you want?” But his slight hesitation was definitive proof that he was hiding something.

               “Half the shoulder,” Gemma said. Hungry though she was, she knew that it was more than she could eat. “Give me half of my portion raw, and roast the other half for me.”

               To her surprise Jacob did exactly as she said, delicately cutting through the lean red meat a bit at a time until a sizable chunk came loose. It was partly frozen, and he warmed the raw portion briefly on the fire before handing it through the bars. Gemma immediately tore into the dripping brick of flesh, drooling from the corners of her mouth.

               She watched Jacob carefully as he cut up the rest of the leg. It was immediately obvious that he had never butchered anything of this sort, and oftentimes he dulled his knife against the bone. He seemed to care little about tendons, and on this matter Gemma could not stay silent.

               “Don’t cut like that!” She said sharply, startling the boy. “You’re breaking all the cords!”

               Jacob looked at her like she was crazy.

               “That’s good sinew!” Gemma said. “Don’t waste it like that!”

               He did not understand most of what she just said. Gemma tied an imaginary knot and pointed at the leg. He flicked his ears and cocked his head.

               “Don’t you use sinew for anything?”

               “What’s ‘sinew’?”

               “That!” Gemma said, pointing emphatically at the leg. She was too far away for pointing to be effective, however. “The thing you’re cutting! That part of the leg!”

               She stretched out her own leg and pressed down on the back of her foot.

               “This thing!”

               “Oh.” Jacob blinked. “So what?”

               Gemma puffed up in agitation.

               “It’s useful!”

               “Useful for what?”

               Gemma took a few breath to calm herself.

               “Cut off the whole thing carefully,” she instructed. “In one piece. Leave it above your fireplace to dry.”

               Jacob did as she said. He split the rest of the meat into fifteen generous portions of roughly equal size, and laid them all on top of a big, fire-blackened iron tray. Gemma watched him salt and spice the meat. Her captors seemed to have an unending supply of spices; leftovers from the exiles, probably. Just a handful from any one of the big glass jars that Jacob was reaching into could warrant a major trade negotiation between tribes.

               Fortunately Jacob had some sense of how to cook the meat. Gemma was already feeling comfortably full when he gave her the second portion on a chipped porcelain plate. The smell of cooked fat and pleasant, exotic spices had her digging in as eagerly as she had with the raw meat.

               When Jacob returned Gemma was lying on her back, her half-eaten second dinner sitting on its plate just outside her cell.

               “You can have the rest,” she drawled, feeling so full that she dared not breathe too deeply.

               “I’m full too,” Jacob said through a yawn.

               “Who killed this thing?” Gemma asked.

               Jacob did not answer. It was his way of keeping secrets, but Gemma knew the answer nonetheless. She decided not to pry for the moment. The unicorn must assume her utterly ignorant.

               “How much more of this meat do you have?”

               “Two more legs and…” Jacob stopped himself abruptly, his teeth clicking together. He turned away from scraping the iron tray and glared at her.

               “What, did you not catch the whole deer?” Gemma asked sleepily.

               Jacob finished his work in silence, his tail twitching moodily. He did not say anything when he left for the night.

               Gemma woke to the sound of something heavy falling over. Grit and sawdust showered down as glass shattered and metal clattered against the floor overhead. Then came a heavy, deliberate blow, a burst of splinters, and for the first time since her imprisonment Gemma saw the cold light of the moon through an inch-wide and four-inch long hole.

               The axe head shone in the moonlight as its wielder raised it for another blow, and Gemma held her breath. Then came the supernatural flash of unicorn magic, searing the ragged shape of the hole into her eyes and filling her ears with sibilant whispers. She lay curled in the corner of the cell rubbing her eyes, listening intently, hopefully for the second strike of the axe. She heard only slow, stumbling hoofsteps and raspy sob-like breaths.