A Tale of a Mountain Clan
This is a tale passed down for generations, a tale of an age before there was peace between the Griffons and the Equestrians. This is a story of a griffon clan high in the mountains, and of a pony village far below. If an Equestrian were to hear the story, they may attempt to date it around or before the formation of Equestria itself. The griffons know it as the Wild Times.
The story tells of a young griffon. His name is not known, although there are many theories, some suggestions and more than a few ‘adamant certainties’. Not all of the names are kind. It is commonly agreed, however, that the griffon was young, yet not unaccustomed to blood. He held no rank of note in his clan, and hunted for food when there was food to be had.
Of course, there is little food worthy of celebration in the cold mountains. The clan was small, numbering some dozen or twenty in all, and many of them flew out each day in search of resources. They would look for water for their skins, food for their bellies, and for anything that would burn.
The griffon clan was no stranger to the mountains. They had lived there so long that some elder griffins remembered stories of a time when only the mountains tasted snow, and that the valley below used to be green and full of life. There used to be hares that would venture a little ways up the mountain that made for an easy catch, and squirrels that would dart from branch to branch so fast that only the most adept flyers would chase them, and wolves that didn’t much care for the griffons on the account that the griffons didn’t much care for them either.
And then, like the steady chill of autumn after the summer’s warmth, the snow atop the mountains began to creep down. Down past the griffons’ roost, down past where the rock meets the sod, down to the wood. The world began to chill, little by little, and with it the animals in the valley left. The squirrels have no interest in frozen branches, and the hares would rather dig into softer ground. It had been so long since one had seen a wolf that some younger griffons joked about their absence as one would a fable.
But griffons are little without their pride. If there is no food today, then you didn’t hunt well enough, and must try harder tomorrow. That was the griffon way. And food there was, if one knew how to look. The creatures hardy enough to survive the tougher winters, or those too dim-witted to move.
And then there were the ponies. Peculiar creatures, in the eyes of the griffons. As the valley got colder, the ponies became more populous. While the griffons and the wolves ate small things that ran, the ponies preferred to eat the plants that they grew, and smaller fruit from the woods. They built their own shelters from some of the trees. As time went on, their presence seemed to attract wildlife around them. The food the ponies grew was of great interest to many woodland creatures, and the equines seemed content to scatter their excess food in amongst the trees.
The ponies were a conundrum to begin with. They were interlopers in the griffons’ realm, and clearly smart. The consequences for attacking their village was unknown, as the griffons had never dealt with a pony clan before. However, any sightings of a griffon were met with the same reaction; the ponies fled. That made things simple. The prey runs, and the predator chases after.
And so an unspoken understanding was met. The ponies attracted the animals that the griffons preyed on, but the ponies were also themselves prey. If a pony ventured too far from their houses, and too far up the valley, they were considered fair game if the winter had been too harsh. Or the griffon too peckish. But never would a griffon venture forth into the pony hamlet.
It was in the midst of a such a winter, the air clear as fog and the cold sharp as claws, that our young griffon went down into the valley in search of food. He flew from from strath to glen, over rock and tree until the sun touched the mountains. His belly rumbled, but he had nothing to fill it with.
Eventually, his sharp eyes spotted a pony amongst the dark valley trees, drinking greedily from a half-frozen pond on a small plateau, high above the valley floor. Strapped to its back was a bundle of frosted firewood. The griffon couldn’t believe his luck! He had spotted the pony settlement nary an hour ago. To see a pony wander so far from its home and weigh itself down with timber made for an easy catch for any griffon. He licked his beak. A pony would feed a clan the size of his for many days.
The griffon alighted on a rock and called out, “Tell me, what would a feast such as yourself be doing so far from home?”
The pony, started, ears pricked and eyes wide. No horn parted its mane, and had it any wings, they would have been restrained by the firewood. It froze for a moment, watching the griffon, before it turned and bolted. With the firewood strapped tightly to the pony’s back, the chase was over in mere seconds. The griffon’s powerful talons gripped the unwieldy firewood and pulled back. The pony choked on the straps and collapsed on his side, allowing the griffon to land and claim his meal. The griffon hooked his talons around the back of the neck and barrel of the pony to keep it still, expecting it to thrash. Prey always thrashes, desperate to get free. However, other than its heavy panting and pounding heartbeat, the pony was still. Its eyes were closed tight, its ears flat.
The griffon paused. “So little fight in you,” he taunted, almost a whisper on the pony’s neck. “We’ve hardly even started and you’ve given up. Easy prey.”
The pony opened its eyes and looked over at the griffon on its back. “You caught me, griffon, and I have lost,” the pony said, voice quavering. “If I struggle then I die in pain. Please, end me and be done with it.” The pony scrunched its eyes shut, its neck muscles loose but agitated.
The griffon was confounded. This was not how prey acted. Prey squirmed and wriggled in his grip until he stopped them. It didn’t lie still and beg him for death. He hooked a talon around the pony’s neck, causing the pony’s breath to catch, but it didn’t try to lift its head. After a few moments thought, the griffon retracted the claw.
“I mistook you, pony,” he said quietly, uncertain. “I thought only cowards refused to fight, and yet you speak such brave words.” The pony’s eyes slowly opened again at this, breath still shaking. The griffon leaned in. “Tell me, do you wish to die?”
The pony twitched. “No. No, I do not want to die.”
The griffon relaxed his grip. “But you are quick to accept it.” He leaned back. “I will kill you, and you will do nothing to stop me, is that correct?”
The pony searched the griffon’s face, before nodding jerkily. “That is correct.”
The griffon pushed himself up suddenly, wings flared. “Why?” He began to slowly circle his prey. The pony followed with its eyes but otherwise lay still. “You make no sense to me. I can smell you from here. You fear me, but you wait to die.”
Wearily, the pony raised it head, shifting to a more comfortable position. “You caught me, and if I were to run you would catch me again. If I am to die, I don’t want to die in suffering,” he said.
The griffon blinked. He knew of suffering. His clan knew of suffering. With food becoming more and more scarce, the numbers in his clan had dwindled. Meanwhile, the herbivorous equines below almost seemed to thrive, despite being creatures of warmer climes.
The predator kills the prey, that is the way of things. A predator cannot afford to be squeamish. There were those who took pleasure in the deaths of lesser animals, but our young griffon was not one of them. He did not desire to cause unnecessary pain to his food, nor did the wails of his prey affect him. Why then did this pony’s words give him pause?
“Tell me then, what are you doing here, so far away from your hamlet in the valley? Do not you know there are many dangers up here for one such as yourself?” the griffon asked.
The pony nodded. “I am aware, but you see this bundle of tinder on my back. I am tasked with bringing it to the ponies downstream, for their stores were flooded in a storm, and they have little to burn to keep warm.”
The griffon had never given much thought to the things that his prey had in common, and the things that they did not, beyond how he might catch them. He knew that ponies were smart, smarter than any creature which might live amongst the trees or under the frozen ground. They built, and spoke, and farmed, and acted in ways that were not governed solely by their natural instincts. It never made a difference before. If he had to eat, then he ate. But in this moment, the pony’s story made him think.
“These ponies down the stream,” said the griffon. “I have not heard of any such settlement.”
“Do not harm them!” the pony pleaded. “They are hard-working, good and true. They mean the griffons no ill!”
“We hunt from the valley floor to the cold peaks. If I have not heard of them, then they are beyond our territory. Come.” The griffon turned to the small plateau with the half-frozen pond. “Bring your firewood. The frost clings to my feathers.”
As bidden, the pony stood shakily to its hooves, and followed the griffon to the small plateau. There, it removed the bundle from off of its back, and proffered it to the griffon. It was good firewood, the griffon noted. Too good, he thought, to just give away to some ponies who live downstream. Why would the hamlet not simply burn this firewood themselves? The pony he had caught had willfully put its own life on the line to deliver good firewood to another pony clan. He asked the pony, why?
“Because it is the right thing to do. The ponies who live downstream are in need of firewood, and the ponies in the valley have plenty of firewood. Because how would I feel if our places were reversed? I would feel saddened, and cold, and concerned for the health of my kin. I would feel hope that someone might come to our aid. And I would feel joy when I saw the figure walking the path toward me laiden heavy with firewood. It is the right thing to do.”
The griffon took to the air, and broke several branches from the dark trees. He piled them around one of the cut logs from the pony’s heavy bundle. Then he scraped and scraped his talon against a hard rock to ignite the branches. And as he worked, he thought. He thought on the pony’s display of kinship. There was kinship amongst his clan, and griffons would comport themselves with kinship when met with another clan. And then he thought on his other prey. The squirrels and the hares. They did not show kinship to one another. They would fend for themselves and themselves alone. Ponies had always been prey because they ran. It was the way of things. The griffons had to eat, and the ponies could not stop the griffons.
But now, the griffon thought; how different are the ponies and the griffons? The notion of role reversal came to his mind. He looked to the pony, who was staring deeply into the fire near which is sat shivering. The griffon felt empathy deep within his breast.
“Do you fear me?” asked the griffon.
Came the reply, “With all my heart.”
The answer did not please the griffon as once it would. A hunter took pride in one’s ferociousness, but now the concept sat ill with the griffon.
“Have you ever been this high up in the mountains before?” asked the griffon.
“I have not,” said the pony.
“Then look well, pony. Watch as the sun sets between yonder peaks. It is a most beautiful sight.”
And watch they did, together, as the sun set over the frozen valley. Despite the small fire, the pony did shiver when the world was plunged into blackness. So the griffon covered the pony’s back with a wing, offering his own body heat. For, the griffon reasoned, that is what he would desire were he in the pony’s place. The pony leaned eagerly against the large griffon, and soon its shivers ceased.
But the griffon did not sleep. He had much to ponder. He watched over the pony as it slumbered fitfully. He watched as the stars above showed the world their meagre light. He watched as the fire that warmed him burned itself down to embers. And he thought.
And finally, when the fire had gone out, he swiftly slew the pony in its sleep with one motion.
He ponderously ate, filling his empty belly until he was sated. And then he slept.
At first light, the young griffon brought the ample remains to his clan, who rejoiced at the wealth of food he had brought them. The young griffon did not rejoice. After cleaning himself of blood, he returned to the small plateau and retrieved the pony’s bundle of firewood. He then followed the valley downstream, beyond the frozen forest in which he hunted, until he came to a small settlement on an open plain. The ponies ran at his shadow. When he landed, he dropped the heavy bundle to the ground, and without a word, he left.
Many generations of griffons continued to prey on the ponies in the valley, but some who tell this story also tell that the young griffon never partook again from that day forth. He was the first griffon to feel empathy for pony kind, they will say, and soon the other griffons in the frozen valley began to share his sentiment. Many years later, the young griffon’s clan and the ponies in the village would meet as friends, and work together to live in that frozen valley, until the longest winter finally ended.
Or so they say. After all, it’s just a tale.