A griffon sells street food on Earth. As the holidays draw near, his brother visits all the way from Equestria to spend some Christmas bonding time with him. The griffon has never liked his presence, but maybe he needs the visit anyway.
Garlan, local Manila street food vendor and griffon, sells his wares well into the Christmas season. As December nears, he receives a last-minute letter from his brother Gary: he's coming to Earth along with a couple cousins to spend some Christmas bonding time with Garlan and the family.
With no choice but to accommodate Gary's antics, Garlan puts up with the visit. Perhaps something can be gained from it somehow.
+ A six-chapter fic. Updates every two to one days. Reading of Pamasak-Butas is unnecessary for this story. + Thanks to: Beardman for providing a working outline for the idea, Venerable Ro and KorenCZ11 for pre-reading.
Colorful lights illuminated a cool sunset to hail the Christmas season. Below high rooftops ran a grand train of cars trying to beat the holiday traffic as drivers ache for home.
The stench of gas-guzzling vehicles needling around each other under two overpasses—one highway, one rail—these did not bother Garlan. Instead, he merely glanced at a passing train. Metro Rail Transit’s Line 3 would have its noisy trains every so often. It overwhelmed his ears, but noise pollution was part of the price of doing business on sprawling metro streets.
The glance lasted a second. It couldn’t distract him from his mission: selling food.
Years of gritty experience on the streets left a mark on him, taught him to be focused 24/7: the locals had little concept of lines, not like in those fancy fast food chains. It was only the crowd around him, and it took cold and calculated mathematics combined with deliberate concentration to know who ordered how many whats without an obstructive calculator. Credit must be had to the customers for never forgetting the prices of fishballs, squidball, kwek-kwek, kikiam, siomai, calamares,and his new offering, okoy: little flat fried shrimp pancakes. He’d adopted drinks too: simple sago’t gulaman, a local super-cheap version of boba tea with fragile pearls and all. Garlan had never understood why humans wanted food inside their drinks, but much of human culture eluded him; not that it mattered: it was a cheap cool drink to make, and people liked chewing on their drinks. It made him the hottest businessgriffon in town, not that there was much competition for the title. Most importantly, he earned money from it, and more money was always a plus.
A grueling half hour passed like nothing. It took too long for the crowd to disperse, to give him a break. The city lights got a bit brighter, got a little numerous. The sun had set: twilight had begun.
Garlan took down the cart-attached umbrella and hovered across the busy boulevard with his stall in tow. It was a dangerous technique, but it was dangerously amazing to the humans in their automobiles: an eagle-lion flying his cart of oil and food above them—something truly out of this world. At first, it’d gotten him on newspapers and social media feeds across the country, even a spot at a daily TV show. Now, it was amazingly ordinary. Garlan had become a part of the local city life, a common sight around these parts.
The cart landed with a little thud on the other side. Oil sloshed around in the wok but not a drop of it shot to the ground. He pushed the stall farther down Epifanio de Los Santos Avenue: EDSA for short, a famous avenue known as the stage for peaceful revolutions in the past and the stage for rage-inducing gridlock in the present, complete with a red sea of tail lights at night. Not too far from his original spot was a space chock-full of people: a mall, a rail station, and a hub for buses and public vans lay within fifty meters of each other. It was also rush hour, so Garlan readied himself for jackpot time. Already, some still unfamiliar with him stared at the Equestrian oddity selling ordinary food.
“Hey!”
The voice made him turn around. A familiar face came down the station’s stairway. Though he wore a simple shirt and a pair of jeans, there was no mistaking the man who’d chanced upon Garlan’s cart on a cold and rainy night. His soaked business clothes and his exposed name tag would be difficult to stamp out of the griffon’s mind.
But it was business hours, and a small hungry crowd gathered around him. The griffon gestured to the plethora of people and the public vehicles dropping more potential customers onto the ground. “I’ve got tons of prospects. I hope they’re starving and thirsty. What’re you doing here anyway, ‘Cario?”
“Just on the way home from a college reunion,” Macario said, slowing his speech to think of the English words to say: the human language the griffon was much more comfortable with. “Six years ago now, actually… didn’t have it complete last year kasi… well, because Gorio had Christmas in Canada. Now, he’s here. Went out around the day…”
Garlan nodded, waving his tongs around. “Yeah, yeah, lucky you. Good chatting with you, but don’t you have a place to go? I’m busy here.”
Macario then smiled a little. “Oo nga no.” Oh… yeah. “Wait, almost forgot.”
“What?”
“Our invitation’s still up. Want to come over to my house? December 23: we’ll have a big early Christmas dinner. When I tried some of your wife’s fruitcake—“
Garlan turned the gas back on under the wok and poured frozen foods into the frying oil. “Depends. I was hoping we’d have a simple family affair: just me, Ginger, and the kids.”
With that, they fared each other well, and Garlan was glad to have that finished. The wok cooked on, the food chunks heated up: the craving multitude made their move. “Agila ba’ yan?” one asked another, confirming if the creature was indeed an eagle; he was half-right.
Belching smoke, cackling trains, honking cars, and murmuring masses waiting for a trip home or to somewhere else: these composed the backdrop of skyscrapers and other weird human buildings Garlan served against. It was familiar and it gave him bits, so it was good.
Another profitable evening on the streets.
Tired but with a fat jingling coin purse in his bag, Garlan was on the way home: pushing the cart past boulevards and their tall architecture of commerce. The cars piled up from bumper to bumper, and Garlan overtook them all. Onward to a left turn, away from the main road and past a surprise copse of trees from the sides. Less car smoke lingered here which was a relief: fresh air would remain an uncommon commodity on the big streets for several more years.
Away from the commotion of traffic, he walked into a neat little village within the metro’s heart. The paths were narrow, and the houses and apartments bunched up together: barely a yard in sight, not like the advertisements and brochures he saw for work experience in some American suburb—maybe in Iowa or Minnesota though the names blurred in his head.
A karaoke bar had someone breaking out into Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” badly. The lyrics came from someone who sounded like they’d made it and had taken destiny into their own hands. Garlan believed he got it better than Sinatra himself: at least Sinatra confessed to having a few regrets.
Five more minutes, he was home: a little apartment unit that looked much like a cargo shipping container. Going into the lot, he parked and locked his cart up by the front where a lone security guard would keep watch over it. The uniformed human guard paid him no mind, yawning as he waited for his next shift’s counterpart to relieve him.
Through hallways and past rows of wooden entrances, he flew to that one door of home sweet home. A knock on wood with a balled-up claw later, it quickly opened.
“Oh, there you are!”
The sweet voice of an Elysian angel. Soft feathers and fur, delicately shining under cheap fluorescent lighting. Her beak, curled into a smile, still as charming as when she and he told each other sugary inanities and sweet nothings in their honeymoon. Her golden eyes were gems to behold, something greater than gold: a sight for sore eyes, a panacea for his mind.
The beauty was more than enough for Garlan to loosen up and hug the hawk-leopard of his life. “Yes, Ginger, here I am!” The warmth of each other, enough to relax his muscles and ease the strain of work, to massage the day’s migraine off his forehead—after these, he inhaled something more powerful than any cologne could offer. “And, what is that smell?”
“It’s buko pie again.” Her voice remained dreamy well beyond her prime. “Heated it in the toaster oven. You know how Genaro loves it—”
“The kid loves everything sweet.”
Ginger shook her head in jest. “Well, if you don’t like that, we have some leftover pork blood stew over there.”
That got him licking his beak.
Ginger stepped aside for Garlan to unpack his bags and lounge at the dining table. The apartment was of the studio type: one big room for everything from the kitchen to the beds; only the bathroom had its own space. On this side, he could sense the acrid smell of the pork stew as Ginger carried the pot to the table: a near-black hodgepodge of chopped pork shoulder. He also caught a whiff of that sweet pie baking in the oven.
He winced. Food had occupied his mind so much, he thought an assault was coming on when his kids flew to his side and tackled him to the ground. Amid his kids’ bubbly giggling, he saw the TV still on, airing some educational channel where math was king—a marvel: free education beamed into black mirror boxes around the world. They even showed action movies with crashes and explosions and cool epic fight scenes and explosions and car chases and more explosions: human magic at its finest.
“Daddy!’
Their high-pitched cries filled his heart with joy. They were his clutch, his progeny, his legacy. Genaro: the older rambunctious brother, already in his first school year; Gwen: the younger dainty sister, capable only of single phrases, but possessing an irresistible cuteness, especially with beady eyes so big on her little head.
Garlan got up from their successful tackle. “Alright, kiddos. Say, Gen, how’s the last day of the school week?”
Genaro flared his wings up, fiery with eager eyes. “We added two-digit numbers up! I was top second in all the seatworks and quizzes today!”
“That’s good, that’s good! Your classmates treating you well?”
At that, he folded his wings. “Uh… they still look at me a lot. Asked me questions and everything.”
Rolled his eyes. “You get used to it, and they better get used to you. Just don’t bully anyone, study well, and everything will be alright. Just give it time.”
He let Genaro go to the table. It was now Gwen’s turn to receive his full attention in the form of a tight warm hug. “How’s my sweet little bundle?”
She sputtered spit on his chest, calling out a few Dada’s. She finally managed, “You… so smelly! You… Stinky Pete!”
“Stinky who?”
“Some movie about toys,” Ginger said from the kitchen. “It was on the tablet’s streaming app.”
The train of human miracles never ended. “Well, good for you. Good for us: cinema without going to the cinema, I say. Why’d you go ahead of me though?”
“The kids really wanted to watch it.” She knitted her brows while slicing the pie. “It was a very emotional story. Made Gwen cry.”
“Yeah, not for me, I can tell.”
At the table, dinner was ready: young coconut pie and pork blood stew. The taste of not-so-fast food rolled lusciously on his tongue, a great contrast to the cheap packaged processed food he sold to everyone else. Still, the cooking might not be good enough for his stuffy former neighbor Gustave le Grand over in Equestria. If that made him a poor griffon’s Gustave, no problem; the snooty Canterlot lifestyle wasn’t for him anyway.
The fledglings devoured their food, thanked their parents, washed their dishes, and hopped back to their beds to entertain themselves with the family tablet. It left the two parents dining and digesting alone: the perfect situation for adult talk. The chat ran its usual course: road works popping up everywhere, a roadblock thanks to subway construction, and some feminine gossip with Ginger chatting about acquaintances’ rumors found in the market while buying ingredients for their Christmas feast.
“Oh… and, you got his messages for this year, didn’t you?”
Garlan looked up, looked dumb with a strip of coconut dangling from his beak. “Whose messages?”
“Your brother’s.”
His face turned flinty. “I have not been notified about it.”
Ginger sighed. “Were you not notified or are you just ignoring him?”
“It’s a fair weather affair about the Blue Moon Festival anyway.” He slurped the coconut strip into his beak. “Barely chimes in the whole year, but come this time, he bombards me with online messages. I already showed you last year—“
“Now I know you haven’t been paying attention.”
Garlan smiled with pride. “I wouldn’t know for sure if he sent me messages anyway. I put him on my ignore list last month.“
“I do know for sure,” she replied. “It’s because he’s messaged me.”
Worst-case scenarios of Ginger leaving him for his brother were thrown out of the window: Ginger would never forsake him for not-Garlan. He could take comfort in that. “Let me guess. Gary’s desperate. He thinks smooth-talking with you will get him into my good graces.”
“Well, he also sent a letter, like last time. The messages were all about what’s inside.”
She gave him the envelope. Garlan felt its rough surface and took the letter out without care. “Look, he’s been inviting us to the Blue Moon Festival for two years on, and this is year number three. I’ll tell you, it’s the same old thing—‘Please come home, we miss you.’”
He then focused on the letter itself. Under the keen white light, Gary’s decent claw-writing took center stage.
Dear Garlan,
How are you over there? I know you’re doing great wherever you are. Your grumpy face may not wear a smile, but deep down in your heart is a happy little elf on the inside (an elf is a fantasy species humans made up; they are Santa Claus’s workers in the Christmas stories).
Speaking of Christmas: we’re going to your place for good holiday times tomorrow! You told us you couldn’t come over because you had to work on holidays, and travel to Griffonstone ate up time. So, we will make things nice and cozy for you: the whole griffon experience, delivered straight to you without going to the portal rift and signing your papers all over again! We will shoulder the travel expenses because we are the ones traveling this time!
We will still be here on Sunday to see the rest of the city. Maybe you can come with us then too, but no pressure!
Looking forward to seeing you again! It has been a long time coming!
From,
Gary
“I’m okay with cooking a hearty meal for them,” she said over the letter. “I also think we should accompany them around town. Not a big city-wide tour: just around here, see what a human city is like. If we can, we could take them to Ortigas with the big malls and shopping centers, and then we could treat them to—”
“Why didn’t they tell me?”
Ginger couldn’t suppress a giggle. “You know how Gary and the cousins are. They’re a fun-loving pack trying to spread joy and happy surprises around Griffonstone.”
Garlan exhibited a smile dripping with sarcasm. “Gallant stand they’re making, staying there and all; at least they see something in the place. This, on the other claw: it’s a devious trap. Can’t leave them in the cold without looking bad since they’ve saved their letter up until the very last day.”
Ginger frowned, poking her pie slice with a fork. “Honey, remember that they’re coming here in the first place because we’re not going there. We could go next year—“
“They should’ve given us some heads-up!” He took up a huge bite of stew and pie combined, and dropped a fork on the plate: it rang loud and clear. “And before we talk about going there: travel is no small expense, so we might as well save up more money by not traveling during the most profitable time of the year. Gary is a griffon; he should know!”
“What about the breaks you take during Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve so we can celebrate?”
“We’ve been through this, sweetheart: everyone’s either flocking to the shops and other high-end stuff or staying at home for Christmas. That’s simple market research: saves you from rotten-egg ventures.”
“But what about the kids?” Behind her, the little griffons busied themselves with an online video; in it, a human did his best to explain the history of Equestria in an epic multi-part series. “They could see their homeland once in a while. Plus, Gary’s great with nestlings—”
“Yeah, and Gary’s gonna introduce them to the unnecessary misery that is Griffonstone, eh?” He snorted loud and snobby, lowering his voice to a blood-curdling growl. “And this is how he’ll repay me, huh? He can’t take a simple no for an answer, so he plans to stick his stupid face right up our alley at the worst possible time! And for what? He misses me too much: he’ll drag us across the portal back into that den of chickens all because he hasn’t hugged me in years!”
Ginger poked at her pie again. After more knitted brows, she let go of her fork. “Sorry to be blunt, but you’re missing the point. Griffonstone might’ve been a den of chickens for a long time, but at least someone’s trying to clean it up now. Besides, Gary’s sent me pictures of what they’re doing in Griffonstone, especially with Gilda and Gabby as Friendship Co-Ambassadors.”
“The same ones who went on the news and confessed to accidentally setting a fire to last Festival and were almost thrown out.”
“It was an accident, honey. Plus now, they’re not throwing them out... and look, here’re the photos.”
She’d taken out her phone. On the screen were displayed Gary’s pictures of Griffonstone. Snow back in full-force for the winter was a rare sight for Garlan in this tropical climate, but he saw something else: a couple griffons working here and there in the coarse snowy daylight, posing for the camera behind half-set-up decorations, tables filled with cooking food, and partly-repaired homes with somegriff finally fixing up King Guto’s statue nearby.
Garlan almost scratched the phone out of contempt. Cooler heads prevailed, but he crossed his claws and kept his accent icy. “Let them be. I‘ve seen griffons try that strategy before. Remember what happened after those two Harmony Elements visited Gilda? When she and Greta gave out free scones in the name of friendship and earned not a single bit?”
“But more griffons are into it. Maybe this is the year things start turning around. If not this year, we could go next year for a good Festival to come back to.”
“A Festival which robs honest workers of their time and money.” He stabbed at the plate only to attack empty ceramic: he’d finished his dinner. “And all for what? A better city? Gary and his delusions... he’s insane, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting it’ll work this time.” His feathers flared up around his neck. “You know what? I think Gary’s scheming to get us working for Griffonstone for the Festival. He’s so desperate, but he’s also so blind that he can’t even see that he’s not the problem—everyone else is! But maybe some of my work and bits could help get Griffonstone back... well, we’ll end up poorer, and I’m telling you, they’ll heckle us into shelling our hard-earned cash out ‘for the sake of Griffonstone.’ It’s like a dog returning to his vomit...”
Ginger tapped the digits of her claw on the table. She stood up from her chair, her signal that she was standing down from the argument. “Well, next year is 365 days away. We’ll think about it as time goes on.” Her expression melted into a warm smile. “Did you enjoy your meal?”
Garlan couldn’t argue with her on that. Flatly, “Yeah, it was good. Thanks, honey.”
The table was cleaned up and she did the dishes. As for a tired Garlan, he flopped onto his bed and took out his phone to check the news, watch some random action movie—anything to cool off from a heated dinner.
He checked on his kids in their bed: they were binge-watching the human’s history series. He perked up at familiar words and names: ponies, the Royal Sisters, pegasi, unicorn, Earth ponies, and trade agreements with classical-era Golden-Age Griffonstone. Not that Genaro and Gwen would understand what a trade agreement was, but at least the human narrator had a good voice, sounded enthusiastic, and had done his research.
Hours passed, and after astounding his children with bedtime stories of wingless humans inventing airplanes and going to airports to fly every week, it was time to sleep.
Garlan woke at the first sight of window-filtered sun like a rooster. He got up and hovered to his limited wardrobe: an apron and a baseball cap. He barely used the apron, and the baseball cap made him stand out from the crowd—though being a griffon already branded him unique in a human city.
He held the cap in his claw but put it back in the cabinet. “No, yeah. Who’d even—“
“Guess who’s here?!”
Garlan faltered at the muffled voice from outside the door. He knew who owned that voice. He sped past an already-awake Ginger to the door and yanked it open. “It’s five to six in the morning. Not everyone here wakes up early on a Saturday—“
“Brother!”
A shiny gray-white griffon shook his claw up and down and left and right and in circles too. “Why yes, Garlan, you... you don’t look a year older! You even have the same old grumpy face!”
“You also have a grumpy face,” Garlan said flatly. “You’re just better at hiding it.”
The younger brother laughed it off. “Everyone’s got their dark side, true, but I don’t let it get to me. It’d be bad if I got crabby on our reunion now, wouldn’t it?”
Gary stepped aside and revealed new horrors in the hall for Garlan to grump at: cousins. “Here’s the whole crew! You remember them, don’t you? Gerry from school, Geronimo our most far-fetched relative, and Gladys who improved on Gilda’s scones!”
It was filial chaos Garlan suffered through, shaking more claws and greeting more faces without being too grumpy; at least they weren’t loudmouths who rushed their words out like some ponies. Still, having four visitors would be hectic; it was the most Garlan ever had in this humble dwelling.
Children chuckled as Ginger roused them up from bed. The chaos skyrocketed from there as cousins cooed over the eaglet-cubs and the pieces of human tech they held in their claws. The fledglings smiled and shouted at everything: other griffons and they were relatives? This day had just begun and it was already awesome! To top it all off, there’d be a feast for breakfast too: visitors always meant a special surprise from Ginger.
Garlan watched the hot food cooling off on the table. Poor Ginger: no one was eating her cooking yet. There lay fruitcake, eggs and bacon, corned beef, and fried chicken beside big soda bottles. They got cold while everyone else talked to each other, including—and especially—Gary who had the largest and loudest beak of them all.
Attention finally turned to the food after a few more talkative minutes, and everyone took a seat. Claws gripped spoons and forks, and stomachs rumbled with the first few bites.
Gary stuffed his beak with bacon strips as he turned to his brother. “How’re you, Garlan? Because I think you’re doing well for yourself. Nice place you have here, no?” He pointed his fork around the room, gazing upon the polished floor and the flat clean walls. “Lacks actual nest stuff though, but this isn’t a birdhouse. Human style, yeah? Like the hotel me and my companions are sleeping in for the stay, eh?”
Garlan nodded, crushing the desire to shut him up for now. “It’s indeed a human style. Beds here are sturdier too—some of them. Others feel as soft as down, but all of them are made on machines and assembly lines these days. It’s amazing, really.”
Gary sat back and rested his head on the chair. While the other cousins talked with Ginger and the kids about life here and life there, Garlan knew his brother readied himself for personal sibling time: those moments when Gary would get real with him. “So how’s things going here? Work treating you well?”
“Yes.” Garlan paused to eat a slice of fruitcake; the sugar calmed his nerves. “It’s good to be my own boss and profit from it. Who knew humans were suckers for fried mystery meat balls? We have… did Ginger tell you about the fishballs?”
“Yeah, yeah! I didn’t even know you can turn fish into balls! And then squids into balls! It’s so surreal!”
A hefty smile on Garlan: impressing his impressionable brother with the wonders of human progress.
Gary scratched his beak in curiosity. “True… but, hey, remember when we went fishing with Pa? Catching fish in the river and you managed to get your break stuck in the scales—remember that?”
It was loud enough for the others to hear. Distracting conversation stopped. In their place, polite snickers echoed across the table.
Garlan narrowed his eyes down at his brother. “Hey, I thought this was about celebrating us. Teasing the breadwinner isn’t exactly a celebration.”
Gary held up his claws in self-defense. “Hey, hey! It’s all in good fun! I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m very excited to be in this place too. It’s Earth, you see!” He spread his claws about, holding a naked fork gesturing at every appliance in the room while almost stabbing Gladys in the eye. “Humans managed to make all this and more without magic of any kind! They even fly without magic and wings! This is a sci-fi world come true! And who knew everyone’d treat us with respect? I looked it up: the national animal here is an eagle, so we’re the chosen ones.” He then swished his leonine tail up for Garlan to see. “Or at least the half-chosen ones.”
Garlan rolled his eyes at his rambling brother and continued with his meal. Meanwhile, Gary regaled everyone with story after story about innocent childhood days with his older brother: an intimate if disjointed tale of two ragtag nestlings getting by just like every other nestling in dog-eat-dog Girffonstone. There was bragging about how they both got grumpy at each other, stole each other’s bits, and fought each other once in a while. That was until Rainbow Dash and Pinkie Pie came along, struck something in Gilda’s heart, and Gary saw the light—that maybe giving bits to others wasn’t so bad, after all.
“Hey, didn’t you tell us that story like three times already?” asked Gerry.
“Oh, come on! I owe those three my life! If it weren’t for Gilda and those ponies, what would’ve happened to me?”
“You would’ve done something a little more sensible, perhaps?” Garlan cut in, eliciting dirty looks from his relatives.
Gary shrugged with a smile. “Eh, maybe! But it’s not like you’re perfect, Garlie. I mean... hey, did I tell you guys about the time we messed up with roasting birdseed?...”
Garlan kept on eating the plentiful good food before him. Noise was better than awkward silence, and Gary soon turned to other topics. Any mention of Griffonstone turned Garlan away: Food drives, small-time reconstruction efforts, collaborations with other creatures (even three or four humans somehow), bringing Gilda’s scones to a wider audience and marketing other griffon-made products to the rest of the world—it was all noise, and Garlan changed the station by focusing on the tasty delicious crispy bacon for his beak to rip into shreds.
Breakfast took a long time, but it wound down, leaving everyone to just talk over ice-cold glasses of fizzy drinks. As he sipped his soda, Garlan studied his relatives’ faces. The cousins chatted with Ginger about day-to-day living in this city: “…supermarkets and malls are pretty big. I thought you needed some special clearance to get there like in the terminals, but not really. There were also these elevators going around... but, well, I flew from floor to floor instead. Saves more time.” By Gary’s side, Genaro and Gwen sat oversized on his lap, laughing at his jokes and calling him Uncle Gary.
Their uncle downed the last of his soda. With one sweeping look at the others by a swept-clean table, “Alright, guys! Hope you’ve got your bags and cameras ready! We’ve got some sightseeing to do!”
Ginger had warned Garlan about the long day they’d have pinballing from place to place. It was better than being trapped in one room with him.
The kids flapped their wings in excitement over the trip, so that was a good start. Garlan hoped it was a positive sign that nothing would go wrong.
Public transportation was the first mistake.
Instead of flying like real griffons, Gary opted for land vehicles, jeepneys in particular. Garlan did not mind the jeepneys themselves: a stuffed and sweaty four-wheel can of human and griffon sardines didn’t sound bad if it meant going around without tiring his wings. However, jeepneys were slower than a flying griffon even without the traffic, and a near-Christmas weekend ensured that traffic would be heavy today. Preemptive parties, celebrations, and shopping would reign in people’s travels. Riffs of holiday melodies, hymns, and pop songs sped by them under Christmas-colored bunting, star-shaped parols, and ads for holiday sales.
In the bumpy ride, Ginger, who’d tried a jeepney once and decided flying would forever be superior, eyed her other cousins who were jittery with thrill: they had never ridden a land vehicle before, not even in Equestria. Gary took it to the next level by snapping pictures with a camera in a claw stretched out of the window, putting his device in the danger zone where an oncoming truck might kill it.
Gary then pointed out the little shops and the big markets on the sides. On one claw, sari-sari stores sold everything in tiny pieces and sachets from sodas to cigarettes, shampoos, and snacks. On the other claw, public markets bore fruits, vegetables, and a wide variety of meats especially fish and other seafood. No matter the place, buyers trudged on the sidewalks and pathways, exchanging money every second with sellers weighing items and doling out change.
Geronimo raised his head at yet another market. “It’s all so packed! Is it like this every day?”
“Just about,” Garlan replied. Now everygriff’s attention was on him, which was good. If he had to accommodate Gary and his motley crew, the least he could do was to have them at the mercy of Garlan the Tour Guide.
The lines of stores and apartments with signs and posters and billboards everywhere with the occasional skyscraper—not to mention the Christmas decorations high and low—held the visitors’ attention. However, Gary knew nothing and, with wide eyes, observed everything. “Those plastic things… are they the credit cards I’ve heard a lot about?”
It got Garlan to groan and wonder if the humans didn’t put info about these things in their brochures.“Yes, those are credit cards. I don’t fully understand it myself, but credit cards... you loan money with it from a bank through those ATM machines. It’s like free money anytime and anywhere, but you must pay it back after a while or else the interest goes up… or worse.”
“Huh. That’s pretty cool! Hey, we could set a thing like that up in our place, I think. Those ATM things, yeah?”
“...why? Equestria’s the reason why Griffonstone isn’t bankrupt yet. You want griffons to borrow even more money?”
“Then we ask them for more ATM’s. Doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”
Garlan rolled his eyes at the lack of understanding on display. Turning right into a big boulevard, more things emerged for Gary to lock onto other than money dispensers. They only raised his curiosity and his voice; they didn’t keep his beak shut like Garlan hoped they would.
“Look at all these vehicles!” Gary shot his head out the window and received honks from nearby drivers not expecting an eagle face to pop out of a jeep. “I’ve seen them before, but I now see that there’s so many different types and flavors of them. They even have super bicycles!”
“Those are motorcycles.”
“And they’re—blech!” He yanked his head back in and coughed into his claw, waving it off and shooing nearby human passengers away. “Oh, boy... now that really stinks!”
Garlan didn’t bother seeing his face. “Welcome to the world of fossil fuels, and I thought ponies hit it big with the little oil they had. Humans took the whole dead creature industry to a whole new level.”
“D-dead creature, y-yeah.” He coughed one more time, scaring the teenager across from him before the human took refuge in his phone. “Okay… well, by the way, that reminds me: Sushi’s a big thing here, right? It’s an Asian country, so—”
“That’s Japan.” The constant looks Garlan got from the human passengers tested his patience. “Japan’s the one with sushi. There are Japanese restaurants here though.”
“Yeah.” Gary wrapped a claw around Garlan, unaware of his brother recoiling away. “I thought about sushi because one of them came over last month and he made us some sushi. I know it’s a hippogriff thing back in Equus, but wow, it was delicious and—”
Garlan tuned out for the rest of the ride to listen in on his cousins’ conversations.
They got out of the jeep and flew about the city. The flock of huge cat-birds took many locals off guard. Fast drawers got their phones out and took pictures of the griffon surprise, some of them selfies.
Their tour began with checking out the “very big and advanced schools only the big pony cities got” as Gary said: colleges, some of which were open and more than welcome to entertain inter-dimensional visitors. Students greeted the griffons and had small talk with them while Gary shook their hands without going full strength lest he be arrested for breaking people’s body parts. A polytechnical sort of university even offered on-the-job training trips to cities in Equestria’s world, but Gary grilled the students so much that security told him to back off. The look on the guard’s face told Garlan the patrolman had experienced his share of over-enthusiastic Equestrians.
After the college trip came more general flying and pointing out of interesting buildings. “And over there is a church.”
“Did you try one of them out?” Gladys asked, looking down at the cross on its structure. “I heard human churches have lots of versions.”
Garlan shrugged. “It’s a good place to be in once in a while. I mean, do not covet? Do not steal? The meek inheriting the Earth? I’m sure that’s pretty relevant.”
Gary pointed both claws at him. “Gotcha! Does that mean we should invite motivational speakers to our fair nation?”
He slapped himself on the forehead. “They’re priests. Or pastors.”
“Well, I called them motivational speakers because the ones we got taught ethics and things like that and the—not coveting thing too, let’s add that… I think they’re called missionaries, right? Most of us… uh, well, gave them the cold shoulder because they didn’t like not coveting,but a few stayed around and helped out... like two or three.”
The flight went onward to see a cockfight. Ginger kept the kids busy with some shopping so the rest could pay the fee and see a blood battle between two fighting roosters. No complaints from Gary about how sweaty or stuffed the little arena was; he bought peanuts and soda while betting money on the red-ribboned chicken to win. Garlan shook his head and laughed on the inside: Gary was too blind to see the griffish similarities in those brawling bird-brains.
The rest of the trip was smooth sailing for Gary and his troupe at the expense of Garlan’s ears and peace of mind. They forayed into a public market for the buzz of human merchant interaction while comparing human produce with their Equestrian counterparts. They talked of bars, but Garlan shot that down: “Went there once, and they’re nothing like pony taverns. At least rowdy ponies behave once in a while.” After that, the concept of moving pictures as entertainment caused a hoopla in Gary’s brain—“Like, wow, big coincidence that there was one of those cartoon thingies with us and the ponies! Why didn’t they call it My Little Griffon, anyway?”
“Because we’re not little and it’d be ridiculous for human kids to brush our feathers.” Garlan pleased himself with the laughter he wrought. “It’s biased towards the ponies, but ponies are too cute for their own good anyway. No wonder their toys make a killing here.”
“Do Genaro and Gwen watch it?” asked Geronimo.
Garlan shrugged again. “Some of the time, but it’s weird. Inter-dimensional scientific mumbo-jumbo, big stupid coincidences… I’m glad the kids don’t know any of it.”
For lunch, they decided to move upscale: Ortigas Center, a land of grand business, high-rises, malls galore for hundreds and hundreds of meters with dozens of fields’ worth of parking lots at the helm. Droves of people walked in and out of these massive edifices, and it got the children flapping their wingsat the hustle and bustle.
There it was: a mall that resembled one enormous shoe box, cars coming and going under the rectangular behemoth. Stretching from one side to another, across two blocks, it almost made Gladys faint at “how fat that thing is! Is that even a building?”
Once they entered through the glass doors, cool conditioned air blasted them and banished the tropical heat away. A grand atrium lay inside, introducing visitors to too much fashion, food, and furniture while pop music played over speakers. The little griffons beat their wings as fast as insects, hankering to go everywhere, but Ginger restrained them with a click of her tongue.
Gary whirled himself around, giving himself a well-earned headache in the process. “Wow! This place is... I’ve never been to a mall, not even in Equestria, but this is… wow!”
Garlan flew to his side and set a claw on his brother's shoulder. “These humans, Gary: they’re something, aren’t they? Built all this from the ground up and everything else. You must’ve seen buildings like this on the way to our place, right?”
Despite the dizziness, Gary shook his head up and down like a happy dog. “Yeah! I remember flying around the skyscrapers!”
“Yeah, we said hi to some board of directors or something in one of those!” Gerry broke in. “They closed the windows right away, but it was nice to see them so high up.”
“Heh, that’s nothing compared to other cities around the world,” Garlan said. “It’s a good life here, but there are cities more advanced than this: Tokyo, London, Paris, New York... it’s all there and more, but this city’s got its own tricks.”
Garlan led them through the rest of the mall and its boggling range of shops: clothes, books, comics, galleries, printing services—the electronics section stunned the Griffonstoneians with things they’d never seen with their own eyes, alarming phone salespeople who hoped their touchy customers wouldn’t scratch the screens with their razor-edged claws.
To his relief, Garlan’s family enjoyed the trip too, taking up his role as tour guide to explain more Earth and human things to his cousins and brother. That didn’t stop his guests from irritating store owners by never buying a single item. Still stingy like any old griffon, hm?
They flew out of the mall for lunch outside, soaring above slow human feet and traffic past the plethora of skyscrapers: artistic statues where humans lived and worked in, an idea still fresh and novel to Gary and his kind despite the stink of car smog ruining the vista.
A local fast food chain that was not McDonald’swas their destination, much to Gary’s initial disappointment. The line was quick, and Garlan ordered on everyone’s behalf because he knew the ropes and, secretly, because he didn’t want Gary to embarrass himself any further.
A minute later, they got their burgers, fries, and soda thanks to the smiling cashier. They huddled at a table to the cursory glances of several humans. A family of ponies waved at them from the corner, enjoying themselves with sundae cups. Genaro and Gwen waved back, and for a few seconds, foals and fledglings united from afar.
“I gotta say,” Gary said as he chomped off another bite of the burger, “for food made on the cheap, this is pretty tasty! I already knew you could fast-cook hay, but fast-cook beef? Garlie, is every fast food place like this?”
It took great patience to accommodate Gary’s exhausting curiosity. “Not every one of them, but meatburgers are everywhere these days.”
As if ignoring the answer, Gary drizzled ketchup and mayonnaise on the patty and crammed his beak messy with too many condiments and too much good meat. He wiped everything off with tissue, but that was a mess too and Garlan turned away for a moment.
A few minutes later, Gary belched after downing three burgers and a couple packs of french fries.
“Yeah, I see why you love it here,” he began, tapping his belly. “I mean, look at everything in this place!” His outstretched claw pointed past the window walls and onto a busy car-jammed avenue, humans walking with purpose along with the occasional pony, hippogriff, or other Equestrian here on business or pleasure. Signs of technological progress in the form of great buildings rose to the top, garnished with an airplane leaving trails in the sky. With trees on the avenue’s islands and the sidewalks, the image was complete: a snapshot of the future, today.
So thought Gary as he opened his beak and eyes in wonder. “Yes, this looks like a very nice place to be in. No wonder griffons went around Earth for a while.”
Garlan let his brother be drowned out by laughter from a joke his son made—the cousins, his mother, and his sister laughed. Gary took a break from the conversation to join in the laughter.
When Gary kept looking at him for an answer, Garlan gave in. “That’s true. My living conditions aren’t luxurious, but life here has been the best.”
“Yes, exactly! And… alright, this is a city full of ideas and potential, and this isn’t the only one, right?”
“Many cities out there are cleaner, faster, and bigger than Manila.” Garlan leaned back on his chair; he almost propped a paw on the table before realizing he was in public. “Some places move too fast for me, New York especially. I’ve seen videos of people walking there like they’re always in a marathon.”
Gary nodded with an absent mind. He spotted colorful star-shaped decorations hanging off the streetlights. “And Christmas too... or their version of Hearth’s Warming. They’re already talking about happy times, times to slow down and be thankful—that’s what’s on the radio thingies.”
Scenes from last year’s Christmas with the family—these scenes rushed into the elder brother’s mind: sweets for the kids, a peck on the cheek for Ginger under the mistletoe, and flying around as a family to the tune of holiday melodies. “It’s a lot like Hearth’s Warming but it’s still a lot different. Family reunions, gift-giving, and getting thoughtful about souls and church. Giving gifts with the root cause of a good afterlife and salvation—not because ponies banded together. Something like that. Heh. Giving gifts, generosity, ‘giving is better than receiving—’”
Gary jerked a digit in the vague direction of home. “Just like Hearth’s Warming! They’re thankful because they didn’t die in the blizzards, and they’re still here because of that gift of friendship fire. To think our winter holidays have a lot in common: the Snilldar Fest with communal destruction, the hippogriffs’ Three Days of Freedom thing with celebrations in different locations, the dragons’ Feast of Fire with the gem prize, and then we have yours truly…“
Garlan took another bite of the burger. His beak was already full. He knew where this was going. “‘Yours truly...?’”
“Heh-heh. To be honest, I’ve no idea how or why we got the Blue Moon Festival in the first place. There are scraps from the history books in the broken library. Now that I think about it though, that may be why the past Festivals were just… dead. We forgot the why, so why bother? Not even Grampa Gruff remembers why.” He flopped a claw onto the table. “Sad, isn’t it? Everyone else remembers their whys, even the dragons, thanks to oral tradition! We just… don’t have it.”
Flatly, “Sad indeed.” Garlan took another bite of his burger, occupying his beak to signal his unavailability to Gary.
For a while, it worked, leaving a forlorn Gary to ponder on the tragedy of the holiday. He then tapped Garlan on the shoulder, sounding eager again: “Hey, didn’t they bomb this place back in the second worldwide war? And now it’s like this from all that destruction?”
The change in topic was welcome. “They threw worse bombs on Japan at the end of that war, but look at it now.” The ludicrous amount of progress prompted a snicker. “What’re you suggesting?” That the United Nations or something bomb Griffonstone so they’d become the new center of Equus? If it fails, at least there won’t be much to miss.
Gary slammed a claw into the air. “Tenacity!” It made his brother rub his temples and groan. “If places here can get back from bombs and thrive just a few decades later...”
Garlan sighed, sucking on his straw for soda to numb his ears while enduring a litany of his brother’s ambitious fantasies. His family couldn’t eat any faster to save him from this torture.
Five minutes later, Gary had to use the restroom. The suffering was over, lunch was finished, and Garlan would’ve left the place without his brother were it not for basic decency. He just had to endure the rest of the day with him and he’d be free.
He ordered a big cup of soda for take-out. Something to distract himself with, something with which to numb out Gary’s words some more.
Past an afternoon of shopping and the griffon pastime of haggling, evening came and it was time for dinner at home. To Garlan’s chagrin, they did not fly back to the apartment but instead rode a jeepney there to, in Gary’s words, “capture the authentic commuting experience.” How desirable the authentic hot, sweaty, and jam-packed experience was remained another matter for Garlan.
Beyond heavy traffic and colorful city lights turning on for the winter holidays, things got quieter: less traffic, less noise, less of that smoggy stench. The buildings shrunk from skyscrapers back to stubby compounds and complexes while trees and other greenery sprung back to familiar numbers.
When they got home, Ginger prepared for dinner at the lot: took out a long table and set up the chairs and drinks. As was promised, it wouldn’t be Ginger doing the cooking but the street food mogul himself: Garlan with the dirt-cheap sidewalk bites his adoptive country offered.
With the stall unlocked and taken out, Garlan put on the wok, turned on the gas, and poured liters of oil into the frying bowl. Before his relatives and family, he put on a show: throwing food packs up in the air, juggling them before dumping the contents into the scorching hot cooking pool. Fishballs, squidballs, and everything else sank in that ocean of oil, heating up from frozen stiffs to sizzling morsels of gut-busting flavor that made beaks salivate. No apron and no hat: it was how Garlan rolled at his best.
“So this is what you do every day, huh?”
“That’s right, Gerry.” Garlan took out his tongs to stir the food. “Almost right, though. I would’ve worked every day, but my wife convinced me that a day-off per week was good. I still disagree: more days you work, more money you make, but even I appreciate rest once in a while… especially if it’s with my honeybunch.” A glance toward said honeybunch made her cheeks blush, and his cousins teased the lovely couple; even the children joined in the fun.
They stood by the cart to watch food golden into fried edibles. When all was fried to perfection, Garlan took out the sticks. “Here you go, everyone. Poke everything and eat your heart out,” in his trademark flat and non-caring voice, topped off with his standard serious grump face. It had its uses: it cut down on people trying to eke conversation out of him; conversation on the job chipped away at his concentration, and mistakes happened when he wasn’t focused.
They jabbed the sticks into the tasty bites, building up their queue of food on the stick to create a stacked skewer. With sauces prepared ahead of time, they dipped their food sticks into them. Only after that informal ceremony came the actual eating.
“Wow!” cried Gladys with huge eyes and a loud gulp. “Is that... is that really fish? It really does taste like fish!”
Though pride swelled in his heart, his voice stayed flat: “It’s mostly fish. It’s balled-up fish paste, ground out globs of super-crushed fish. But if it feels like fish, tastes like fish, and smells like fish, it’s fish to me and the hundreds of customers I get every day.”
That sparked a bonfire of questions about his wares: what made them up, what the foreign terms meant, how they were prepared. He answered in short bursts, keeping an eye on his fledglings chowing down on the food: a rare treat to have when he always admonished them on lean meat and less fat.
With Ginger mingling with the cousins and his brother, peace lay in his soul: a good family, a good life, and a good path to a bright future here. In his self-indulgence, he imagined it to be a good life fashioned by his claws and paws: a good apartment, with an eye forward to move eastward and find a nice house with nicer neighbors too. Living was stuffy in the middle of the capital metro, so relocating to proper suburbs would—
“Hey, Garlie?”
Almost dropped a plastic pack of fishballs straight into the oil. He scratched his beak, made himself look busy, silently grateful he hadn’t splashed scalding oil onto his brother’s face. “Yes, Gary?”
The brother chewed on an empty stick; he’d turned it into an enormous toothpick singling out specks of food from inside his beak. He then shot the stick to the cart’s attached trash bag and cozied up to Garlan, leaning on his cart while reeking of beer. “Well, I was thinking of...”
Griffonstone again, hm? He kept his beak shut. Gave his brother a second to compose himself, not to derail his train of thought.
Gary took a clean stick and gestured at Garlan with it. “Yes, I think I know what you’re thinking.” His smile turned sheepish, but his voice stayed confident. “See, I was wondering if—“
Cut off with a sigh. Garlan stirred the wok some more: no time to wait. “If it’s about Griffonstone, drop it.”
That froze Gary right in his tracks.
Dealing with his younger and more ambitious brother was a delicate process, so he breathed another sigh to draw out the time. Then, slowly, “I had a feeling you’d bring it up sooner or later. You talked about it a lot: Griffonstone, how things seem to be getting better back in the old country. But things are better here, better for me and my family, and that’s that.” Another sigh as he racked his brain on what to ask. “So… okay, do you need bits? I heard they can go a long way in propping up Griffonstone—“
“It’s not just the money.” Gary stood straight and held himself up on a claw against the cart, trying to look cool and casual. “We’ve had that going for a while from Princess Celestia herself when she was still in power… but you know the story: we just hoarded ninety-five percent of it. Things got worse when she tried to prop us up.” Garlan had read it on the news: local towns criers announcing the new injection of bits into the treasury, only for their kingdom’s before/after pictures to match each other and prove nothing happened.
“Then what do you want?” he asked, dumping more frozen food into the wok. “If it’s bits you want, if it’s bits everyone else wants—“ he threw a claw toward the cousins enjoying their stickfuls of food, cracking open beer bottles and cracking up at jokes “—then fine. I’ll do my best to find places and jobs for you here or some other city on Earth.”
Gary scratched his semi-fluffy head. “More bits won’t fix it. You know that. I really think you know that, because it’s not just the bits but it’s everyone, and if we can get everyone in this together, then—”
“Did you come over here because you miss me?”
Outed. Gary’s head dropped, but he perked up just as quickly. “I won’t deny it. I do miss you, Garls.”
A blank look was all Garlan would give: flatly staring as if he saw a ghost but cared none for it. “Had an inkling you’d say that.” He hung his tongs and crossed his forelegs, hovering to keep balance. “So you miss me and you want me to come home. That’s what this is all about?”
“Well… it’s not just that either. I’m…” Shook his head, claw on his shaking head. “Look, I… I tried my best to make Griffonstone a better place.”
Garlan wished Gary could get a move on: the food was getting hot. He could manage a minute before reaching for his tongs. “I saw you try before I left. At least you’re not swindling anybody, so good job, I guess.”
“That’s the thing!” Gary pointed at him, at his own revelation. “I… I didn’t want you to leave, but you were leaving because it was a bad place, so if I could make everything better there—help Gilda and her crew, clean up Griffonstone’s trash, get friendship going and start a griffon renaissance or something, then maybe you would—“
Garlan’s claw stopped his blathering. Gary obeyed, looking up and down and everywhere else in shame. The wok sizzled and the cook took his tongs.
Back then, Gary had pushed himself on Gilda to sell more cones and to improve his recipe with the help of Gladys. Coupled with his aggressive volunteering in reconstruction with a power tool injury every so often while cooking stew for the young and old without accidentally concocting poison—it was a dreadful sight. Gary hadn’t been home as much: the house would be empty all day, with Garlan out in the streets selling venison and small meats while his brother was out in other griffons’ houses doing odd jobs or in Gilda’s hut making scones.
Gary leaned closer, pleading with his eyes. A nascent tear welled up. “They… these cousins miss you too, but I…” Closed his eyes to stop that tear from showing up. "I… I want you back home more than anyone else. That’s the truth and nothing but the truth!”
He leaned back, knowing the personal space he invaded. “When the portals opened up, I thought it’d be one more way for Griffonstone to improve. A whole other world with magicless creatures inventing wild new technologies? They could help us a ton! I devoured the news, asked outsiders if they went to Earth and how’s it like there… they didn’t need idols filled with magic or whatever: just a desire to do good, make their own lives better, and bam! lives got better. We had human volunteers in Griffonstone and still have a few now, but they came much later, after some time and after… after you left. You… did Ginger show them to you? All the photos?”
Garlan tapped a talon on the cart, eyes fixed on his brother’s. “I saw like ten.”
“I sent forty through the week.”
“I was working through the week. I didn’t have time—”
“You’re always working! You never have time!”
Garlan’s claw stood still, frozen over boiling oil, close to dropping his tongs. A quick look later, Gary shrank away.
“S-sorry about that, Garlie.” He flapped his wings, rolled his tongue. “Yes, it’s not up to me whether you stayed or left, but I had to be here somehow, somewa: to go heart-to-heart, face-to-face, because… because it looks like you’re staying here for good without a plan to visit us—m-me. To visit me.” Looked back up to him, twiddling with his claws, pitiable but hopeful.
“You’re making just things worse,” Garlan said right after, accusing him with his pair of hot-end tongs. “Sentiment’s nice and good, but sentiment won’t pay the bills. You’re asking me to return to a pecking order of short-sighted pigeons who see nothing but bits.”
“But then all the good griffs would leave!” He counted on his claws: “Gustave, Giselle, Gallus, Gunter, Gordon, Vermouth Roux—even lords like Goldstone are talking about leaving for cleaner skies. Meanwhile, everyone’s called me crazy for staying there—“
“You still are.”
“—and I wanted to help them see that, maybe... just maybe, with Twilight’s friendship lessons and every other creature’s help, we could rise from the ashes and be good again… or at least not be a dumpster fire.”
Gary then leaned his weight on the cart and sulked, contemplating.
Garlan sighed one more time, popping a piping hot fishball into his beak: battled the stress on his burning throat. “I let you in this house so we can have a good time, not to guilt trip me into bailing you out.”
“It’s not a guilt trip and you’re not bailing me out, I swear.” Gary stood up again, though looser now: alcohol taking hold. “It’s... well, it’s me asking you to search your heart, your feelings—”
“You’re guilt-tripping me now.”
“You’re here making a name for yourself around here... but, the Griffonstone back there isn’t so bad anymore. You could go there, serve your food there—they’ll be over the moon to give you bits fer’ good food, and you can take pride in making their day better. I’m sure the hatchlings over there would turn your product into a grand salami!”
“It’s grand slam.” He paused as he made his own stick of food. Pointed the stick towards a six-pack of beer lying by Gary’s chair. “You’re getting disoriented. I suggest you head back to the table with your cousins, knock yourself silly, and forget this ever happened. If you keep doing this, you might say something you’ll regret.”
“I’m completely of sound mind tonight!”
Garlan paid him no mind. He put his claw over the wok, picking something up with the tongs and turning it over for his stick. “I’m set for life here, Gary. This country, this world, has treated me good, given me a chance to move up in life. Wherever you go in this world, there’ll be people who’ll help you up or at least do decent business with you.” Garlan held on to the wok, the frying bowl and its dumplings dividing the pair of brothers. “What has Griffonstone done but turned me into a sniveling gold-hoarder?”
“But don’t you miss home? Your childhood? Your old relatives back home? Don’t you miss me?” Before Garlan could snap something at him, “We used to have good times even after Mom died and Pop left—“
“Mom died because she refused to give her coins to a wandering medicine merchant, and Pop never returned from enacting ‘revenge’ on said merchant for ‘abandoning’ Mom. For all I know, he’s rotting in a Canterlot dungeon for a life sentence’s worth of murder.”
Gary hung his head over the wok, risking oil splashes on his neck. “We can change Griffonstone so none of that has to happen again! There’d be no more orphans like us if we can do this. We won’t be destitute anymore if we unite, join forces, band together—”
“And risk ourselves as potential casualties in your little crusade? Gary, Griffonstone can die in a ditch for all I care. Even if we did find that stupid hunk of metal, what’s stopping one of us from pawning off the Idol of Boreas for a hundred bits? Apologies to the Princess of Friendship, but trying to shore up Griffonstone is as useless as beating a dead horse.”
“Then we’re doing miracles because we’re resurrecting a dead horse!” Gary took out his phone, holding it perilously above the round oil vat. His claw scrolled through innumerable photos of Griffonstone, wobbly in Garlan’s eyes as they sped by. “I know it sounds impossible, but much of Equestria sounds impossible too: defeating Nightmare Moon, Discord, Sombra twice, the Legion of Evil—“
“Because ponies’ friendships are literally magic,” Garlan said, moving his tongs around, close to hitting Gary’s face with its scorching hot business end. “Harmony’s on their side, not ours. We’ve got nothing but a contentious clutch of creatures.”
That made Gary turn the phone off, pocketing it away.
“Look, Gary, you’re forgetting that two Element-bearers went to our place, and the Princess of Friendship herself did a few friendship summits there too! I tried being friendly with my fellow neighbor… and, well, no wonder some of the pony volunteers dropped out by the end of the week. If my neighbors can’t accept a friendly griffon like me, what’s the point?”
“B-but… what about just coming back? Just to visit?”
Seconds passed. The sizzling continued. Garlan took up sticks and stuck more food onto them: an effort to shoo Gary away without a word. “After lying to me, turning this whole innocent visit into another plea to return? I doubt it. You should’ve come clean about it. Your heart’s in the right place, and it’s different without you here.Now, yes, I do miss you... but I don’t know. I’m just not coming back.”
Only hissing oil remained. The griffon poured more frozen pieces into the mix, kept stirring with his tongs. Food turned around, spinning in a spectacle of sweltering heat without any of his brother’s hyper-optimistic delusions.
Gary had been a great nuisance leading up to the departure, either with his never-ending smiles or his pursuits to save Griffonstone without sticking to something tried and true, something like selling food. That had provided a steady stream of bits, even if meager. Yet here came Gary, trying out everything from working at the royal palace which had rotted from royalty centuries ago, through rebuilding houses for a fee only to be rejected nine times out of ten, to wishing for an Element of Harmony to personally help him out somehow even though they had their own business. In other words, he’d scammed himself.
The grumps too. Humans were much different from ponies; they didn’t share the pastel horses’ enthusiasm and energy, but they still smiled more than griffons. The humans at the Equestrian embassy and the portal terminal had been happy to bring him over with grins and everything. Maybe it was the special feeling of being chosen; they’d said more humans came over to Equestria’s universe than Equestrians to Earth’s.
No matter: he lived and worked here with a happy family. A good future too: colleges and universities would accept his children and boast about their griffon graduates. The possibilities proved endless too: he could sell food like this forever, add more items to the menu like ice cream, eventually set up his own restaurant. Even jump to another industry entirely if there’d be more money to make there.
His face set in stone, focused forever on the frying wok.
He heard a sigh from across the cart.
“Alright, Garlie,” he began, limp. “Maybe I was in the wrong about all of that. Y-yes, I think so… but I’m here. I’m still here. Call me stubborn, but I am here, you’re here with me, and so I ask you to visit us just once—to go this one time. I’ll cover your stay—I’ll even renovate the old family house so we can all stay there for the week!”
Too loud: the partying stopped and everyone’s eyes were on him and Garlan. The cook swallowed a gulp but not his pride. How long had they been listening to this? None of them were strangers, fortunately, but Genaro and Gwen—too innocent and too young for this—witnessed it too. Maybe they’d heard everything. They’d probably ask about everything when all was said and done; hopefully, they’d be too tired to ask and they’d just sleep when it was all over.
The look on their eyes: Gerry, Geronimo, Gladys. Their eyes silently spoke not of anger nor disappointment but of memories. Their beaks mouth ancient memories: the times we met, the times we went around, the times we argued our heads off, the times we thought so much about our bits, the times we were still together and still saw each other every day and could trust each other a little in the chaos that was home. You still remember them all, Garlan… don’t you?
Ginger looked too: her face, unreadable. Disappointment? Fatal anticipation? Secret joy over him finally handling this pest of a brother? Then again, the kids with their confusion and their searching eyes: this Gary, their Uncle Gary, saying loud desperate words—it all looked like a big problem, and they hoped their Dad would fix everything like he always did.
Garlan closed his beak and saw Gary alone. Could’ve sworn he closed his claws, crossing them together and pleading for him on his knees to come back. He was not on his knees, but the pleading shot through faintly.
The cook poked a fishball with his stick. He didn’t pick it up: he forced the stick down, pinning lifeless food to the oil’s seafloor, squashing the cute thing under his grip. The stick’s sharp end began blunting, flattening—it was his instrument of reflection, of wondering what to say knowing full-well his decision.
A pair of grumpy eyes had its beak open, armed with a dull but expressive voice that was firm and final. “I’ll consider it. A visit, not a stay.”
And Gary lit up with glee, smiling and nodding all around with wings in happy flap mode. He wrapped a claw around his brother’s shoulder, extending himself over the wok again without thinking about becoming fried chicken and crispy cat in one go.
“Alright!” His shout caught the far-off human guard off his guard. “They’ll be super happy to see you back home! Hey, remember Greta? She’ll be over the moon about this!” He took out a stick and picked as many morsels as he desired in rapid fire, topping it off with a huge and dirty bite to wipe the stick clean.
Gary regaled his victory to the griffons on their chairs, proclaiming the triumphant tale of how he brought his brother back into the fold. Good cheer spread across the table, and they watched Garlan in renewed hope. As Gary said, “He’s a grumpy face and a bit of a jerk, yeah, but deep down, he’s got a heart of gold, you see?”
As that went on, Garlan focused all of his energies on serving up food and nothing else. Ten fishballs, seven squidballs, eight kikiam, five pieces of okoy, nine of those quail eggs in orange batter and some of those onion rings too for good measure—just looked at what he had, studied their faces, and estimated what to cook next. Dinner was far from over; this family reunion was just getting started.
As oil bubbles popped and food fried to culinary completion, he did not notice a concerned Ginger observing her forever-frying husband.
Past eleven in the evening, things tapered off. The children had been sent back to the apartment room, and everyone else had downed several more beers.
The smell of alcohol had convinced Garlan to give in to the fun: everything tasted better as grain-fermented nectar washed it away. Gary got tipsy as more beer spilled. His last words before dinner ended was about wishing Garlan a happy birthday months before it’d happen.
The reunion wrapped up. The cousins got up from their chairs, wishing the family well before heading westward to the hotel room they were staying in—a holiday-discounted offer, naturally, for the money-conscious griffons. Stuffed and full with great food and drink, Gladys suggested that Garlan sell beer at his stall for maximum nightlife profit. Garlan’s cooler head prevailed.
Ginger waved them goodbye as the visitors disappeared into the night sky, the three cousins keeping Gary steady in his flight but were otherwise alright.
With the festivities finished, Ginger brought plates and beer bottles into the kitchen to wash them clean; the bottles could be recycled for a profit. The kids would be checked on to see if they weren’t damaging any of their new-fangled human gadgets.
A claw turned off the cart’s gas. Garlan washed the wok and poured the leftover oil into the garbage bin. Inventory to check: counting and re-counting just to be sure. Last thing to do was fold up the wheels and store the cart on the side to clean with a damp rag. Halfway through the wiping, his cart shone under the lot’s dim orange lights.
It’d be presentable enough for tomorrow. Never worked much on a Sunday: he hit the streets on Saturday for weekend vendor duties. Sundays, on the other claw, were slow in the mornings; many in the area would be at church, and lazy siestas would cut short an otherwise bustling afternoon. At night, people would try visiting fancier establishments to get something really good before Monday beckoned them back to work.
Garlan kept wiping the cart. Though it shone, it wasn’t the cleanest nor the most stylish of them all. It had wheels for moving, and its pantries had enough space for all the supplies he needed. The umbrella on top was essential in the tropics where rain would come and go without warning, though it’d been something to get used to since he’d never needed one in his cold dry home.
Home: a place before time. A time marked by murky streams, by climbing up a ladder with its bottom stretching into an eternal void. He could fly, but he’d felt that someone might cut off his wings, someone like happy-go-lucky Gary. What was important was reaching the top. Gustave le Grand got to the top by leaving the griffons behind and cozying up to ponies who’d hail his hauteur tastes. Now, he worked in Equestria’s capital while pony nobles praised his culinary genius.
Rainbow Dash and Pinkie Pie had come and gone, and Princess Twilight herself had dropped by for friendship summits with Griffonstone’s remaining de facto leaders, but Garlan’s eagle eyes had seen better things, higher heights. It was him and the few other griffons racing to escape that sinking ship.
Their number dwindled when that Gallus kid returned from the friendship school and rallied the griffons to fight against the Legion of Evil thousands of miles away. The valor of those who heeded the call of duty couldn’t be denied, but Garlan saw them as asylum psychos: holding on to a stupid hope of building something out of nothing back home. At least those griffons got rewards for saving the world.
A eureka moment had hit him: he could come over to Equestria and make his bits there. All he’d had to do was change his fare from fried meats to fried hay: ponies would swarm him with their hard-earned coins for good food on the cheap; not just anywhere too, but a place for big shots like Canterlot or Manehattan where big money could be made. However, they were a curious bunch too: they might ask him questions about who he was, where he came from, and why he’d left home.
News of Earth came next. The details of first contact had escaped him, but what hadn’t left his notice was the promise of another world, the promise of a whole new universe to settle in. A place without any magic would be a terrifying prospect for a creature used to a world full of it, but it’d seemed that humans had somehow got through all of their magicless history without going extinct, compensating with science fantasy miracles and other technologies like satellites and the Internet. Cross-dimensional portals cropped up across Equestria, carrying the hope that every kingdom in the world would have one just as every Earth country had those airport things.
Soon, news of Earth-Equestria relations came about, of humans moving here and Equestrians moving there, with Equestrians—especially ponies—stirring up a buzz in places like the United States and Europe. He’d already considered moving to Earth by then, and while such a tactic would be daunting, he could endure the locals gawking at him if it meant they’d leave him alone and get to business.
So he’d moved. In this land, Garlan was a pioneer, a griffon making bits in a place where no other griffon had done so. Life was good.
Wing flaps snap him out of remembering. Might be a relative coming back to get something they forgot: wouldn’t be good since they’d strike up some midnight chat and things would get emotional—maybe they’d cry on his shoulders because they still miss him—and he wanted to get to bed already. No worries: he had work tomorrow, so that would be his reason. There was work to be done on the morrow with a new week’s worth of money—
A feminine sigh. A familiar sigh.
“Ginger?”
He turned around to see Ginger under those faint orange lights, sharp shadows cast upon her face. Her eyes shot down, facing the concrete ground. She smelled of sweet dish soap and other detergents; leftover suds glimmered on her claws.
Her husband took a long look at her, waiting for her to make the first move. Then, “So, honey… how’re the kids?”
Garlan scrubbed up the cart’s last scraps of dirt. “Then what is it?”
She crossed a foreleg on the ground, shy for a moment. Eyes back up, leveled at his. “What were you thinking when you said we’d visit, not stay?”
A dull blink was what he could manage. “The usual. We had a fun party, but you know how Gary is. My cousins are good enough for company even though they’ve bought Gary’s tripe wholesale.”
“What are you calling tripe?” Ginger groaned as she shook her head, wondering. “And see, that’s the thing: you acting smug while Gary came here as he was.”
“Not everyone can be that optimistic.” He put away the rag: the cart was clean, ready to go in the morning. “I’m certainly not like him. I was my same serious self through the night. I’d be lying if I tried to smile every waking minute of the day.”
Her tail flicked around. “He’s too happy for his own good, but he certainly didn’t harm you. Annoying, yes, but you’ve faced much worse back home.”
Especially back home. “So? What do you want me to do? Apologize to him right now?”
“Well, you could certainly do so with your phone.” Her tail stopped thrashing about: it sagged. “But it’s not just your attitude. You’d also have to apologize for lying.”
That got his goat, but he stayed stoic. “What exactly did I lie about?”
“About going back home for the Festival.”
Garlan opened a claw for emphasis. “I said it as clear as crystal: we’re visiting, not staying. Gary heard me, the others heard me, and they’re happy for me anyway.”
“But your heart wasn’t there.”
Garlan raised his claw. Put it back on the ground. Ginger walked a few steps away, back turned to him with that sagging tail.
“That’s what’s going on: you say it, and then you let it waste away in your head until you forget it. You meant it, but you also wished it’d slip from your mind.” She planted a claw on her hip. “By the end of the week, you’ll regret saying it, tell them that something came up, and anything becomes a good excuse to not go. I bet you’ll use Macario’s generous invitation just to get away from it all.”
“And what makes you think I’d do something like that?”
“We’ve been married for eight years, Garlan. I know you too well.”
And Garlan gestured to her, Yeah, now defend yourself too. What is this, a firing squad and the leader’s my wife?
Ginger took the silent challenge. “There’s nothing wrong with visiting Griffonstone for the holidays. It wasn’t all good, but it wasn’t all bad either.” Her eyes fluttered for a moment, reviving that youthful energy of honeymoon and romance. “Don’t you remember our first Blue Moon Festival together?”
Coolly, “It was the exception, not the rule. Besides, even if we can stand what’s going on there, what about Gwen and Genaro? There’re too many bad influences in that place. Griffonstone hatchlings are too rough for their own good, scamming pony visitors like taking candy from a foal.”
“As if any child isn’t capable of such evils.” She rolled her eyes to stress the point. “And before you say anything: you could teach them. If someone tries selling our children beer or scams, tell them about it.”
Ginger rubbed her eyes before looking back at her weary husband. “This isn’t some random airplane trip. This is their home—our home—we’re talking about, the home of griffons like them.” She noticed the security guard moving his head somewhere else; too far away to listen, but he’d sensed the spouses’ heart-to-heart. “They know this place isn’t their real home, no matter how much you say otherwise. They don’t see other griffons aside from us, you teach them things that wouldn’t fly in Equus, and… well, magic doesn’t exist in this world too.”
A claw placed itself on a nearby wall, cushioning some of her weight. “You’ve seen how they are, Garlie.” That took him back years to the day she called him Garlie as they sat under a burning red dusk in Griffonstone, back when he was only a hungry griffon aching to leave home. “Genaro... he’s not having a good time in school because everyone treats him like an exotic animal. Gwen... she’s not in school yet, but remember the crayons we bought for her a week ago? She’s… all of her drawings are just humans, humans from the shows she’s watched and the cities we’ve been to. Not a single griffon… she hasn’t even squawked or screeched for a year—that might’ve slipped from your mind too, but I remember it far too well. I’m… I’m not even sure if they’ll call her a griffon anymore—”
“But things are better here on Earth!” Garlan flared his wings up, reaching out for her. Inviting her to join him. “There’s always a way to fix things here: I’ll be here, you’ll be here, and we’ll raise them up as good and responsible griffons just like we’ve done all this time.”
Yet Ginger left his claw open, left him hanging. “Things may be better here, but I still don’t get much of the local language, and neither do the kids. Though I don’t speak a lick of it, I can tell you still stumble with it outside of business.” Her stiff wings ruffled. “Barely anyone flies here too. We can’t just go around meeting new faces in the sky anymore.”
“But you’ve heard the news about inflation, haven’t you?” He spread his claws about like an over-excited tour guide. “Records for the national stock market, triumphs about a booming economy—the news pundits are prophesying about this country becoming the newest Asian Tiger. In a few more years, things will get a lot better, and you won’t regret staying here when we jump from third-world to second-world and then to first—just in time for me to find a more lucrative job and for the kids to get into a good high school or college. They’ll get great jobs from the get-go, and they’ll be set for life—”
“But these humans are also big on what’s theirs.” She steps forward so he couldn’t escape her face. “They ask a lot from us: another language, another cuisine, another culture altogether. Fitting in isn’t easy; you know that very well with your language dictionaries for this country.”
Garlan shrugged over past study nights for those dense booklets. “That’s the price we must pay. There’s no such thing as free lunch. Besides, the long-term pay-off is what matters in the end. We can stick anything out, honey, as long as we keep the end in sight.”
She ruffled her feathers more. “But for what? I… I know why we had to move back out, and I was excited to be here.” The look on her face back then, the thrill of a whole new world—something new, something scary; a new start, a restart, in a better place—none of that appeared on her shadowed face. “But, to tell you the good truth, honey, I miss it. I miss our old home. I misshome.I can’t even call this place our home: we’re renting apartment space! What will happen if something bad happened to you and you couldn’t work anymore? Back then, at least we had our own nest with our own roof over our heads.”
She set her eyes toward the sky. The stars and the constellations she could find, beautiful. She strained to hear the imaginary sounds of griffons back home: the flapping of wings, the occasional screeching and squawking and crowing of neighbors, the strong cool wind that would grace the peaks of their place.
“Ever since the humans gave them a stack of phones and internet things, they’ve sent me pictures of how life is like back there. Do you… do you get them too?”
Garlan’s sigh: his defenses lowered, a confession to make. “I’ve scrolled past them. I was still focused on work in the afternoon, and then I made smooth talk with the landlord over the phone. Speaking of, we could get another discount from him to get more savings—“
“Things weren’t so bad.” Her glance had no bite to it: her softness stung. “I… I miss them all. I’m… I know I haven’t said much about any of this, and I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, but… I miss them. I miss everyone back home. I miss home.”
The night remained silent. Ginger kept to the stars’ dark canvas.
“At our worst, we could still have each other to complain to, to talk to… but here, it’s a different set of names, a different set of problems, and they’re solving them quick too. The humans here are already faster than us, and I find very few familiar faces here.” It wasn’t entirely true: tourists would brighten her day, though Garlan would sometimes sneer at a day-tripping crayon-colored pony.
His heart jumped: he hadn’t noticed the light grip he had on her shoulder. He saw her tears coming up, could feel her sweat from being outside for too long without taking a bath. She’d never cried over home: always about something threatening the family, threatening their lives, but Garlan the guardian angel would shelter her and their precious hatchlings beneath his wings.
The guardian angel had vanished. Tonight, Garlan caused his wife’s sobbing and sorrow. Nothing but tears flowed from her eyes, down her hawkish face. She bore the body of a fierce leopard with its tail of dominance, owner of a wide set of wings which, in ancient times of war, would’ve led a squad towards the death of a pony battalion, with a sword raised high. However, just as she knew him, he knew her too. An ancient warrior had her fellow griffons to fall back on, but not so for a homemaker who didn’t feel at home.
This familiar world became strange for a blink. He stepped closer to her, disoriented.
Seconds or minutes or a quarter of an hour. How long Garlan had been out there, silent to caress his sky-staring wife, scanning the stars above, feeling her feathers as they grow rough but tender under his scratch, as he coddled her head and nuzzled her neck—
A sober voice gnawed inside. Told him that affection alone wouldn’t solve everything. That sentiment alone wouldn’t save the day.
At the end of what felt like an unwanted eternity, she stepped away from his grip and his hug. Her eyes, puffy and unbefitting a ferocious-looking griffon. “I… I don’t know why you’re so against home. It wasn’t all bad.” A sniffle; snot dripped from her beak. “With some… hard work and good-hearted griff... it could become a great place. You should know, helping the people here like that...”
He did not look away from the sky. He blinked stupidly. The cart faded from his mind: only Ginger and her happiness, her joy, her purpose—
“I’ll see to the kids, Garlan... but, well, tomorrow’s a Sunday. They can sleep late. As for you—” she stopped to swallow the snot building up “—you have a good night. If you decide to... change your mind about the Festival… d-don’t be so gruff.”
A kiss goodnight, a peck on the cheek, warm and exciting just like their honeymoon nights: drunk on love and whatever bargain-counter drinks they could afford. They’d kiss and nothing could stop them in their romantic prime.
Ginger disappeared upstairs. In a minute, the kids would hug her. They’d ask her about the red eyes, so she’d drink some water to fix that up.
Only the stall remained. His pride and progress lay under the night sky with its abundance of shining heavenly bodies, the moon reigning over them as queen of the night.
In the distance, two men stood at the security stand. Must be midnight already: one going in to start his graveyard shift, the other leaving for home and sleep.
Garlan took the cue. He rose up and flew, headed for bed.
Sunday arrived with another beautiful sunrise flanked by high-reaching offices. Ginger was fast asleep, given there wasn’t much to do on the weekend. Genaro and Gwen were asleep too, their wings flapping in short bursts like angels in their dream land.
Breakfast was a quick affair: a bowl of cereal and a microwaved burrito from Wednesday. Breakfast scarfed down, it was out to work.
As expected, the morning was bad for business: few came for early snacks. He didn’t buy much inventory for Sunday, so the real expense he’d pick up was propane: couldn’t turn the wok off during work hours. Anyone could come up to him any moment now especially in the busy underpass connecting Shaw and EDSA. Between the malls, the transportation hubs, and the hectic commercial districts around it, the underpass had become a favorite haunt of his.
The words he spoke to the early risers carried a sense of other: pronounce the words as is, a raw down-to-earth sound compared to the English or Ponish he was used to.
Garlan spoke first most of the time, calling others to him. A peculiar thing he noticed when he arrived in this place: daytime vendors like him would let the crowd come to them; nighttime ones, on the other hand, were loud but not obnoxious, shouting the names of their wares like everyone’d gone deaf—including fertilized duck eggs which creeped him out to this day. By going aggressive in the daytime, however, he’d guarantee himself customers: they’d have a harder time leaving someone who specifically pointed them out.
And call others out he did: advertising his foods, letting others know that cheap snacks were frying. If he cooked it, they would come, some out of curiosity over a griffon selling food in a human country and others for morsels that wouldn’t kill their wallets. Customers came, food was stabbed, and sticks attacked the wok as quick bites floated in the oil like boats in a crowded bay.
Everything became mechanical no matter who he served: a college student messaging his classmates about a thesis, an elderly woman looking for childhood comforts in a fit of nostalgia, a local man trying to impress his foreign wife—British or American, Garlan couldn’t tell because both spoke English—and the look on the woman’s face said it all. The weekend brought out a somewhat different set of people, but everything blurred in his work-focused concentration.
Right outside a convenience store, children ran out, playing and running with each other. A parent herded them back inside, but the youngsters continued their game indoors. While staff worried themselves silly over catching uncatchable children, Garlan watched: half a brain with his tongs and his food and his smells, half a brain on those human fledglings having fun.
Garlan had fried and grilled venison and other meats to sell. They’d sometimes char but he hadn’t expected to cook for a living while growing up. With Gilda selling scones like crazy, though, and other griffons mindlessly following her model with more pastries, a bright idea had struck him, pinned him down on the floor, and silently cast the blessing of exile on him: sell cooked meat! Sure, everyone hunted for their own game and prey, but it took time and effort, and cooking them required yet more time and effort—so why not commercialize it? He would hunt as much as he could on weekends so on weekdays, he’d cook them in the marketplace and give his fellow neighbors food. For bits, of course.
Fish, rabbits, warthogs, squirrels, marmots, foxes—these and more deliciousmeats he grilled out in the open. The smells alone would madden griffons’ rumbling stomachs after a long workday. Stingy they might be, a cooked meal loosened bit-clutching claws.
Yet today wasn’t a good day. Several griffons insisted on haggling over the price of a smoked rabbit. He did sell, but the profits felt meager, barely breaking even at times. He could’ve gotten better from scrounging up change from the homes of griffons leaving town for good.
The sun started to set, its orange sky looking like fire. He heard from some ponies that an orange sky would portend the final days, and the sky looked very orange this time of year.At any rate, it was a mid-air inferno, and nothing would’ve gotten Griffonstone to look as painfully beautiful as it did now: a gasping breath before the end, before everyone left this place for better skies. It was the wise thing to do; everyone here would wisen up sooner or later.
“Are you Mister Garlan?”
Garlan saw nothing. Could be going insane now, surviving as the only sane griffon left in this pigsty.
He looked down to see a clutch of fledglings. Their eyes went wide while they sniffed the mouth-watering smells of freshly grilled meat.
“We’d like to buy five rabbits,” their representative declared, pointing at the rabbits hanging from a skewer. “One for each of us!”
Garlan dropped some of his grouchy self; they were fledglings, after all. “That’d be twenty bits, kiddo.”
“Hey, hey, what about seventeen?”
And Garlan sighed. Kids these days. “Nineteen.”
“Eighteen.”
“Nineteen and no more.”
The lead chick grunted and fished out a pouch of bits. Others chipped in, and then it was nineteen. “Fine, whatever, but thanks, Mister Garlan.”
The cook pulled up some freshly-grilled rabbit, giving the fledglings those heavy skewers. He pinched each bit just to be sure before letting his young customers go.
When he put the bits in his pouch, he glanced at the kids. They hadn’t flown away but stayed behind, chewing on the rabbits, surprised at their good taste. The salted rabbits were an instant hit with the kids, and it warmed his heart to see them eat without complaint—to feed them and make sure they wouldn’t go hungry, all while getting money too.
The bits were nice, but still.
Church hours ended as cars clogged the highways. Those who didn’t bother with the morning mass or sermon service had gone up to shop or otherwise spend the day with family and friends. It meant more potential customers on the streets. If Garlan positioned himself in the right places at the right times, he’d catch windfall after windfall.
A van drove to his side of the pavement, braked, and flung its doors open. Garlan glanced behind him, surprised that people would socialize inside a vulcanizing shop. The van’s tires didn’t look flat or anything.
A big family stepped out of the van, bursting with kin here and there and everywhere.
“Oh, hello there!” said the woman at front. Not a foreigner, but the English accent—or American, he couldn’t tell the difference—was too out there to be local, not to mention her garish clothes and her pair of shades. “Is this…?”
Best to assume otherwise. He wasn’t sure if this was an Indonesian or Malaysian or Singaporean or another nearby country neighbor. “Yes, it is. It’s pica-pica. There’s fishballs—“
“Oh, buti nga!” She got giddy like a child in a candy store orthat chocolate factory he saw in a movie on the tablet with the family. “Is… yes, what could I get for two-fifty?”
Two hundred fifty pesos or around five dollars: a big dumb amount of cash to give away when two fishballs were one peso, squid balls were around three to five per piece, and his most expensive item, okoy, net him fifteen to twenty pesos over the years. Still, big dumb amounts of cash were what he’d come here for: “Up to you, ma’am. I’ll keep track of the money.”
“Alright, alright! That’s good!”
She fired off her order like a machine gun, something he’d learned about from one of those war movies. It’d been a spectacle: humans fighting each other with weapons war-hardened dragons couldn’t have dreamed of, only for them to stop fighting and be cool with each other some decades later. Humans were weird, but so were ponies. At least humans were much more relatable.
No doubt her accent changed when she spoke two Filipino words though. She was simply local. Her family and relatives gathered around her, all chatty while pointing to one or two things for the children to see and have explained to them.
“Oh, you see,” the woman went on rambling to the griffon she verbally held captive, “we’re visiting, coming back from L.A., you know? Hollywood’s nice, but nothing beats the Christmas here! It was getting so cold out there, and we don’t want to miss our kapamilya, you know?”
They held family in high regard here: sticking together, with children possessing a metaphorical debt to their parents for the nurturing they’d been given, coupled with the parents’ fierce protective spirit over their young. Feasts were plentiful especially Christmas feasts where anyone with the same blood as yours would come over from all four corners of the world to dine with you and enjoy your presence.
She mumbled something about being taken back decades with this old food. Garlan busied himself with rechecking his money, but decades wasn’t the right word.
Garlan was busy counting his bits in their decrepit family home: a little shackatthe kingdom’s edge, close to the gate welcoming non-existent visitors to the griffon heartland. A candle lit his way, flickering against the mountains’ gale.
The door opened and a squall vanquished his focus. “Hello, Garlio! How’re you doing there?”
Half the things Gary did made Garlan grimace, not least of which was coming in at the most inconvenient of times. At least he could remember the number of bits he stopped at. “I’m doing fine, thank you very much.”
Gary closed the door and slumped on the chair, one of the few pieces of furniture that wasn’t worn too much. It therefore became a status symbol in the entire kingdom and would sell for hundreds of bits.
“What is it now, Gary?” Garlan couldn’t ignore his brotherly instincts though he sometimes wished to shut them off; errands had to be done. “Someone got your goat?”
Gary opened his claw and punctuated it with a sigh. The candle’s fuzzy lighting dramatized the act while he scratched his chin. “It’s difficult, you know?”
Garlan humored him anyway. “What’s difficult? The neighbors finally got you losing your cool?”
Gary scratched his feathery goatee patch. “I must admit, it’s difficult when nine out of ten griffons just don’t wanna give up their pride. I’m out here with Gilda, Gabby, and Greta trying to do things like the Elements of Harmony on friendship missions, but… yeah, it’s difficult.”
A little smile crept up Garlan’s beak. Finally, Gary understood the message: leave Griffonstone or stay at his own peril.
“Which is why… well, sometimes, I have thoughts about it being a lost cause. To be honest, it does look like that some of the time…”
There it was. Garlan brainstormed on how to invite his brother into a food enterprise far away from this hovel. They could be the griffon grilling brothers, maybe even the griffon grilling bros since ponies liked to shorten words. The partnership would be most profitable; their power and riches would know no end.
All he had to do was pose the question. If Gary was at the edge of the cliff, Garlan would give him the push that’d send him falling back into reality.
With a calm smirk, the older brother asked, “So you’re finally considering my offer to join me?”
“...but what if we make another Griffonstone somewhere else while we gather our resources for the old one?”
The problem with pushing griffons off a cliff was that they could fly back up. Garlan was understandably annoyed at this immediate revelation.“Gary, look. You’re, what, busy wiping the floor at the lords’ palace?” He rapped his claw on the table, unafraid to show his impatience. “Two bits a day is a pathetic wage, and you’re still hard-headed enough to donate bits to the treasury when they’ll do nothing but hoard it until the gold tarnishes. You’re better off somewhere else with me.” He then took out a light stack of papers decorated with signatures. “I’ve already settled the documents for my family’s move to Manehattan. They have a sizable griffon population over there. You’ll fit in in no time.”
“Then let’s give this a few more months,” Gary said, tapping his own claws on the armrests which were another rarity in the kingdom. “By the end of that, I’ll have thought of something. Maybe I could do favors for the lords! Yes, favors for them all!“
“But they’ll refuse to give you money because they want your work for free.”
“Then I’ll give them such a good time, they’ll regret taking my services for free!”
Garlan turned away from his dear brother. Griffonstone and Gary were lost causes. “Well, you do your thing and I’ll do mine. We’ll see who prospers more.”
So he went back to recounting his bits.
The number left his mind, so he slammed the table and almost cursed. Time to count them all over again just to be sure.
Early in the afternoon, he traveled to the other side of the city, heading west with the posh high-rises behind him.
A village lay near the river, neighboring a ferry service for people beating the traffic that way. It resided close to an industrial district which he’d sworn was falling apart the last time he was around. Now, thundering metalwork clanged and banged from inside, man and machine forming a single breathing being.
He entered the village, passing by tall narrow houses in colorful paint jobs. It was a tight-knit if cramped community: little stores sprinkled everywhere, potted plants by the road and windows, and families eating outside with take-out tables along with neighbors and friends for the meal. However, the alleyways had told a different story: slums behind the brightly-painted facades, living spaces whose interiors could fit inside his own room, terrible stenches belying unspeakable things. Yet, from the local news and word around the street, the area had slowly become a tiny knock-off paradise. Proper houses with good water, electricity, and other modern-day amenities.
Garlan took semi-welcome looks; he was a familiar though infrequent face around these parts, garnering the moniker of Mang Agila for looking too much like someone’s uncle though he wasn’t thirty yet.
He stopped the cart and dumped food onto the wok. A little crowd formed around him as expected, and he took orders and pesos left and right. Still, things rang different here: in a town where everyone knew everyone else, people tended to hang around and catch up with their lives by vendors’ carts. Food became an excuse to talk, to socialize, to wait things out as Christmas neared: glaring overhead green-red-white decorations livened the siesta-filled afternoon.
He slowly pushed the cart around, approaching the alleys. They were still too small for his cart to get through without blocking the way, but his twenty/five vision brought to light happier times within: vivid colors, construction scaffolds, and the people who now wore whole clothes instead of tattered fabrics.
“Long time, no see.”
The voice took the form of a bespectacled man in a well-clad polo shirt. Middle-aged Father Cocoy, a more recurring face around these parts. Priest and Catholic, Garlan remembered from the whirl of denominations and new beliefs he’d encountered in this world.
“Yes, long time, no see.” Something tugged at him: an empty space that hadn’t been empty before. “Um, sir, what happened to your little food table?”
“You mean the outdoor soup kitchen?” he said in a mellow accent, waving a hand to the former slums. “These people have gone beyond soup kitchens since their basic needs are secured. They can now provide for themselves, which is part of what I came here for.”
Garlan turned back to the still empty space. “So you’re... what? Not needed here anymore?”
The priest allowed a chuckle. “Their souls still need caring. It is just that I was brought here when this blessing was but a seed in barren soil. I watered and others took care of the sapling, but it is God who made this plant grow.”
Last time Garlan had come around, Cocoy stood at the table, preparing rice porridge for a dozen families’ worth of people who couldn’t afford anything. Those same people were now enjoying more than three proper meals per day. “So no soup kitchens here anymore? Ever?”
“No, though I would say that, in time, they shall be the ones setting up soup kitchens in other places.” Cocoy gestured to the former slums once more. “I’ve been to worse places than this, yet the poor do not squabble or complain much. With each other, they have already learned how to love, how to give. Know that they had no means to go anywhere else, so here they made their stand.”
Garlan sighed over the stirring of the tongs, claw moving on autopilot. “Easy for you to say.”
Cocoy permitted a smile. “Easy for me to say, not as easy for me to experience.” The smile gave way to mindful eyes. “Is something troubling you?”
Garlan groaned, put on the spot by this thought-reader of a priest. He stirred harder, oil becoming a slow-dance whirlpool. “Well, what if the people you’re tending to… what if they kept fighting? Kept squabbling with each other?”
He tapped his chin with a thin finger. “Hmm. A hypothetical scenario, given how my flock has rarely had problems with each other.” He turned to Garlan slowly, his black-and-white hair glinting under the afternoon sun. “But still, hope remains there if that is the case.”
“Let me guess: a miracle?”
Coccoy hung his head high. “God has often used the seemingly tiny acts of individuals to deliver ripples of change everywhere. It may take a long time, maybe even a time beyond your life, but no good deed is done in vain. The harvest comes when it comes… though it is good if you join in.”
Just then, the priest was called by one of neighbors, and he went. A family wanted him to bless their new house.
Garlan first noted that Cocoy hadn’t bought any food: it meant a lost sale. Still, with people lining up to buy from him, he couldn’t go after the priest to ask more questions.
Sure, it was nice to do good things to others, he thought. Whether they deserved it or not was another question.
It would take a miracle for him to return.
He said that the night before leaving: the very early morning, actually, when most were still fast asleep. His wife pestered him with questions about giving back somehow—sending bits back to Griffonstone through some inter-dimensional money transfer service. Garlan didn’t want any part of it: he’d be building a pyramid of bits so they’d drown in graves of gold to eat nothing but scraps.
“But what about Gary?” she asked more, sleeping hatchlings in tow. “You didn’t tell him about us leaving at all!”
The decision had been sudden, and that’d been part of the plan. No drama, no fanfare, no Gary declaring more of his stubborn brain-dead ideas.
“We’ll leave him be,” Garlan said. “It’s his town now, not ours. He wants to fix it more than we do anyway. Best we leave it to the crazies staying here. At least he’ll try.”
Belongings jangled in their bags: a tiny fortune of cash to nab them a frail bungalow in a rural hamlet or a decent big-city apartment, food and water to last them the whole trip, and space for the many papers and forms they had to fill out in Canterlot’s Earth-Equestria Embassy. They’d still have to select the country though, and from there on, what city or town to live in—to think there were over a hundred and ninety countries to choose from. While the documents get processed, he would sell grilled hayburgers in Equestria’s capital to make money out of idle time.
But before all that, he had to take the first step: leaving Griffonstone. They passed by dilapidated houses in which strangers slept on rickety nest-fodder beds. With broken windows and nigh-absent guards, it was a miracle crime hadn’t skyrocketed. Not that they’d want to steal each other’s bits. They’d keep to their hoards;gold was their life.
Under the cool shining company of stars over broken hay and weathered rooftops, they approached the gateway that’d welcome visitors to the Kingdom of Griffonstone. In another time and age, the arc greeted visitors to the world’s crown jewel, of griffons welcoming each other and wearing hearts on their sleeves. They believed in themselves, and they could do great things for themselves. As pony historians would put it in scrolls and textbooks, they combined the indomitable pride of a lion with the forward-looking vision of an eagle: a recipe for successpersonal and beyond.
But that wasn’t the Griffonstone of today.
Garlan left the kingdom. First stop after the mountains: the abandoned railway station to wait for the Manehattan train.
“I didn’t know you’d be here on a Sunday!”
Macario stayed late in the afternoon, once again Garlan’s one and only customer at the spot where they first met. In the few years since, gentrification renovated semi-abandoned buildings into start-up businesses, complete with a parking lot crammed full across the street.
“I didn’t know either. We had relatives yesterday so I took a day off then.”
“But doesn’t that mean you’ll work for seven days straight this week?” asked the human. “Sunday to Saturday?”
Garlan gave him his order: as many fishballs as possible on one stick. He’d learned the human’s preferences over the years. “It puts cash on the table, so why not? I don’t get tired of this if it means getting paid.”
“Fair enough.”
They hung out idly, wiling away the dead hour as cars and people breezed by. Garlan had the hours to wait, and Macario had the whole day to do his own thing on his off-day. He’d talked with him about his new managerial job at an up-and-coming ice cream company. The bigger salary was, naturally, the first thing Garlan had asked about.
“So what about my invitation? It still stands.”
That made Garlan look. “What invitation?”
“For Christmas dinner at our house, remember?”
Almost forgot it, but he didn’t want to say. “I’ve been thinking about it, but there was another reason why my relatives came over: they invited me to visit home for the Blue Moon Festival.”
“The Blue Moon Festival? That’s… the griffons’ version of Christmas, right? Like with the ponies and Hearth’s Warming.”
“Yes, the festival is our thing.”
Macario doubled down on his stickful of food, leaving Garlan happy with a gain in coins. “So what do you do there?”
Garlan sighed. “There’s feasts for one, mostly feasts at home though there’s the big dinner outdoors and then… then there’s also giving each other gifts, something you’re familiar with.”
The sky kept Macario distracted, his mind ruminating in the clouds. “Why Blue Moon, though? I thought Princess Luna controlled the moon. I’ve also never heard of her turning the moon blue herself.”
“Metaphorical, literal, I don’t know.” The shrug seasoned his feelings. “History books don’t know why, but that’s the name and we’re sticking to it.”
The human took another piping hot bite. “So you won’t be around come Christmas?”
Garlan stopped stirring. Kept his mind busy, kept himself looking busy by recounting his sales. “Not sure. Blue Moon starts two days after Christmas or Hearth’s Warming, so we’ll see.”
The apartment stood at the end of his day. He stored the cart at the lot and locked it up under the guard’s watchful eyes.
The front door opened to the smells of good fish and salted small meats, his loving wife there to greet him with a peck on the cheek. She told him about taking the kids to the nearby zoo, impressing them with the falcons and lions and hawks and tigers and eagles. They’d even gotten to meet a fellow griffon and a couple other Equestrians there; so excited to meet them, the other griffon had scooted away from their flood of questions about who he was and why he was there. Garlan then asked the kids how they’d been: would want to go to the zoo a dozen times again and see all the exotic Earth animals some more.
Dinner was so good, they wolfed it down like a hurricane. Next thing he knew, he was helping her with the dishes. They shared one or two stray kisses as they calloused their soapy claws at the sink.
The both of them looked out the window, stared at the stars as they flew to the roof outside and perched there.
The city landscape lit up toward the future: the small structures of today with the work-in-progress skyscrapers of tomorrow—cranes, scaffolds, construction workers, everything and everyone. The near future boasted of so many gadgets and techs, so the couple talked about the nonsensical things humans kept inventing and selling to death: airless tires, 3D-printing, and magnets levitating trains. Science seemed more like fiction with each passing year, and it was moving fast.
Many lovely compliments and kisses later, they flew down and went back inside. It was getting late, yet her presence still emanated warmth: youthful desire had matured into aged passion. Cars honked less as the clock ticked to midnight.
She decided to take a shower, leaving him alone in the apartment with the kids. They lay in bed, watching something.
He flew over to them, lying down beside Genaro as he held the black gadget box. “What’re you watching now?”
An excited Genaro pointed at the phone, careful not to scratch it. “We’re watching a documentary!”
“Documentaries, huh? Not those cartoons anymore?”
Genaro went on to defend himself and Gwen by claiming they’re now grown-ups all of a sudden. They could certainly comprehend the documentaries’ big complex words, they said.
Their father didn’t pay attention to them.
On the black box’s screen, footage rolled of a human sitting in a dark room, all business with his fancy clothes. He had a bulky microphone in hand, bringing it over to his guest.
“So, tell me, Your Lordship, what was it like growing in your kingdom as a child?”
The guest on the other chair was also all business with his clothes. As he mused on the question, plain piano music played in the background. It played over a montage of the human’s travels in craggy heights and rocky peaks, meeting up with pony tourists and the locals Garlan had thought he’d never see again.
The griffon lord, a surviving remnant of the once-mighty Griffonstone aristocracy, opened his beak to answer.
Most Festivals were bad. They ended up in painful arguments and memories. But they could’ve been better. Much better.
Then there was the first Blue Moon Festival he had without his parents. There’d be no arguments, no exhortations, no grumblings, no half-hearted gifts. There’d also be no mother nor father to cling onto. Love was lost. The brothers survived the ordeal without a word: making food for each other, sitting there, and eating alone while whole families quarreled like tradition. They weren’t the only ones like this though they had the decency to not intrude on other orphans’ “celebrations.”
But things would be different this time. The love of his life now lived with him in a house they’d gotten on the cheap, the old owner too eager to leave. It was built on a barren tree; the topmost branch could hold a good nest for perching to overlook much of Griffonstone. They sat on the branch, watching the kingdom stumble into more tragedy. Neighbors fired off on arguments while verbal—sometimes physical—fights happened on ground and in sky. Today, this couple would not be them: today was a day for love, so they nuzzled each other, pecked each other on the cheek, preened each other’s feathers—no one would stop them from confessing their love to one another.
The venison was good. She dared say he was the better cook some of the time, and he wished she were drunk because a husband cook might doom their marriage. Prepping food wasn’t the first thing he thought of; it was just how he dug into her heart. Now that he was in her heart and she in his, they lodged together at the nest, together into the night.
Ginger pointed to the shining stars above like she was seven years old again. She’d read scraps of pony literature and from a romantic mule writer by the pseudonym of Donkey Hoe Tay. She said something about being starstruck: how they lived under the same stars without knowing each other until destiny tied them together. In her philosophizing, creatures from opposite ends of the world lived under the same starry sky, and love would bring sweethearts together no matter the distance. To her, that was more certain than a pony’s cutie mark.
It was a sweet inanity, but it was a true inanity. He pecked her on the cheek, and she giggled at the kiss. She waddled to the side, uncovering the egg she’d laid weeks ago. It was warm, bursting with life and ready to see the world.
Garlan forgot about Griffonstone. There was only a happy family to look forward to.
Garlan lay awake in bed, an open window by his side. It was an hour past midnight.
He’d keep the window closed for security reasons, but now, it wasn’t. He knew he should be sleeping. It was Monday tomorrow—today, in fact—and there was no excuse to hobble around on the job. He could burn a claw, someone else’s hand, or worst of all, a banknote.
But he stayed awake, watching the stars. The sweet inanity remained true: he and Ginger lived under the same starry sky, and the hatchlings, growing up to be good griffons some day, had that sky as their far-reaching canopy.
Yet something was amiss. The stars weren’t the same, and the constellations were different: Gemini, Aquarius, Cancer, Sagittarius—he hadn’t seen them in Equestria. That astronomy-obsessed pony in Canterlot with his ramblings about aligning stars hadn’t mentioned any of those names. Not just the constellations: to think the stars, the moon, and the sun rose and fell not by Celestia’s and Luna’s deep alicorn magic but by over-complicated astrophysics principles and equations. Back then and there, the stars were closer too. Though he didn’t care for Equestrian royalty, he’d appreciated the artistry of the night sky: a canvas Luna had made daily paintings out of.
There were a couple ponies who’d told him about that living-under-the-same-sky drivel when he sold hayburgers in Canterlot. He scoffed at them internally, never letting his venom loose in public.
In the end, love abided in his mind. Addled by the romance of the past thanks to that perchtop session, he saw love as the driving force that united them together under one sky. Under one sky, love softened his heart to care for young griffons by having his own, gave him others to care about so at least he wouldn’t die alone in a foreign land.
But it wasn’t under this sky.
Minutes later, he turned to the stall. It sat alone in the lot. One guard wasn’t much for security, but it was enough for the griffon’s livelihood.
The holidays could bring in lots of money, and lots of money would help a long way under the sky.
Good thing the cart wasn’t too heavy to carry around.
It was the night before Christmas, and everything illuminated in green, white, and red. Star-shaped decorations lit the roads, holiday music blared from the terminals, and gift boxes lay in car trunks and public halls.
Ninoy Aquino International Airport: at the country’s premier airfaring front door, planes arrived and departed in rhythmic flow. In all terminals, Christmas music kept playing: venerated chants from centuries ago, traditional songs from crooners and other oldies, and the usual pop tracks hitting this year’s charts.
Macario sat at a bench in the second terminal: the grand window walls displayed a clear black night sky. With family along, he waited for distant cousins from Vancouver. Talking to them online had been nice, but nothing would beat meeting them in the flesh.
The next stream of people showed up with wheeled luggage in hand and loved ones to meet: hugs, kisses, selfies, conversations, and tears. Cars, many of them taxis, lined up outside to whisk happy travelers away to midnight dinners or hotel rooms for much-needed sleep.
“Hey, Mister Macario!”
That got his family and a few others to look that way. Macario turned first, seeing a surprise guest turning up at the airport.“Garlan?”
And it was the griffon himself, carrying several bags on his person to leave his family free of their luggage.
Garlan achieved a smile on his tired face. “Yup, it’s me, and this time, I brought my family too. You wanted to meet them, no?” He checked out the group of new faces closest to Macario. “Come to think of it, we haven’t met your family either. Good to see everyone here, eh?”
From there, greetings arose and hands shook with claws. Macario’s parents had a pleasant eye-opener in Ginger with how she was so familiar with the local cuisine. As for Genaro and Gwen, they sat in awe of Macario’s younger siblings who boasted much knowledge for high schoolers and collegians; on the flip side, the human youngsters were immobilized by the heart-stopping cuteness of griffon young.
With their families occupied, Garlan and Macario had the floor to themselves.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Macario began. “Are you waiting for friends and relatives too?”
His smile grew an inch wider, turning into a tease. “Well, no.”
“Huh. The Equestrian-Earth stuff’s still at Terminal 5 anyway. Why’re you here?”
Garlan flapped his wings, hovering to meet the human on his level. “To tell you something: I won’t be seeing you for the rest of the year.”
Macario almost stepped back. “Really?” He scanned the griffon up and down, taking him in so he wouldn’t forget a single detail. “Should’ve seen that coming since you declined the Christmas invite.”
“Maybe next year.” Garlan’s wings slowed down, but he still kept eye-level with him. “Bringing the family to visit the other side, you see.”
Macario furrowed his brows in disbelief. “Ha? Feels like you’re moving out all of a sudden!”
Garlan shook his head, gentle wing-whooshes calming the human down. “I’m not moving out, though my brother would gladly drag me back there kicking and screaming.”
“Alright, then... but what about the stall? It’d be like Fermin after he went off.”
The name shot off a second of memory for the griffon: the deceased name he was told of when he first scouted for good locations to set his cart up in. However, there wouldn’t be much to miss for long: “If it pleases you, I temporarily gave my spot to a prospective hippogriff from one of the wet markets around here. He has odd ideas about sushi, but I think he can adapt well. Maybe we could even collaborate once I return.”
Outside, the parade of cars continued, stopping to drop off many antsy locals waiting for their own reunions. Rare were the departers-to-be.
“Why all of a sudden though?” Macario asked. “You didn’t give us any hints. I only know because you’re… well, here.”
Garlan plowed a claw over his ruffled head. “Like what I said years ago, I came here to find a better life. However, seeing how things have progressed here… it told me to at least give my old stupid home a shot. The cash I make helps the people here, but maybe the griffons back there can do something good with my cash too. And hey, if they prove me wrong and grab my throat for not giving enough bits, we’ll fly out of there and never come back for good.”
Macario could do nothing but nod. “You’ll always be welcome here, you know. Lots of good people have already helped you with your business.”
“True.” He drew a long sigh, taking in the processed conditioned air. “Still, sooner or later, a nestling must learn to jump off the nest and fly. Giving back to Griffonstone... it’s risky just like jumping off that nest. But I’ll try. At least to shut up my brother once and for all.”
A while passed. Macario stared at the floor and the other people in the terminal. “You’ll still come by here, right?”
“I hope so,” said with a smile. “It’s just that I feel too different here. Not that you’re trying to push me out, but if I had to choose between my pride and your acceptance, I’d choose my pride. It’s a win-win either way: if Griffonstone’s good, then good for me; if they’re still a dumpster fire, then I was right from the start.”
Macairo’s father shot a finger toward the distance: the Vancouverites were coming home. They dropped their baggage as faces unfamiliar to the griffon opened in shock. Legs hurried them closer to hugs, kisses, and tears.
Macario turned back to Garlan one last time. He extended an open hand to the griffon vendor. “So, see you around?”
Garlan took his claw out and shook appendages. “Sure, and if you come to our place during the Blue Moon Festival, stop by for some food. My treat.”
“It’ll be for free, then?”
“Pay up or I’ll kick you out.”
They had a good laugh over that, but it was cut short. Macario had greater family moments in mind.
The man silently bade the leaving Garlan and his family a Merry Christmas.
Terminal 5 was the airport’s latest addition, a large complex spanning the space of three hangars. It held dear to Garlan’s heart for it’d been the gateway to paradise on Earth, for in this terminal lay the portals between worlds.
Once he entered the terminal, a tingle rushed through the air: background magic. Mingling and interacting with human staff were once-frequent creatures: ponies, hippogriffs, dragons, breezies, yaks, Abyssinians, Diamond Dogs—every creature under the sun, Celestia’s sun in particular. On the walls, posters screamed holiday discounts for Christmas/Hearth’s Warming vacations in Equestria’s world.
Garlan went through the motions, turning over papers painstakingly filled and signed through much of December. Machines scanned his bags, and they gave him a ticket to be paid for at the final station: one last fee to pay for the portals’ upkeep.
The papers and the fragrance of human money told him of his first time here: it’d been a sweltering summer afternoon. The sight of cars zooming around, the clamor of airplanes flying everywhere, and the cramped city threw him off. The human officers and tellers treated him well through the transition: a comfy solace, a sign that his caustic past was dead for a new future to be forged.
The first Equus staff member came up, and she was a pink unicorn. Her name tag read Canter Crowhop, a familiar trace of ponish absurdity. The unicorn smiled at him, waving for the griffon and his familywhile saying something sweet in her cutesy voice: “Enjoy your trip! Welcome back to Equestria, sir!”
In the portal hallway, there was no fancy vortex or universe-breaking hole here. It was just a hall, stretched to the other side with shops, quick-meal stops, and inside patios for creatures to lounge in and enjoy. His ticket ensured him an optional three hours’ stay in this hall. Still, the portal was there: nigh invisible. He stood on Earth, but the other side resided in Equestria.
Their flight was slow and steady, hopefully without ponies stopping him midway to chat about everything. Ignoring potential friend requests from the chatty horsies, the whole family hovered together.
His ears popped. Felt funny for a few seconds before his senses crashed back into the air. Those seconds felt long, slowly speeding up to normal. As he regained his bearings, he knew what everything meant: the magic, now fully back in the air, surrounding and permeating his being, re-welcoming him into the harmony of creatures in Equestria.
Garlan held his head with a claw, making sure he wouldn’t get dizzy from the crossing. Ginger too, holding her nauseating temples.
The hatchlings, however, looked the worst. They looked close to puking, stumbling in the air as their cheeks went green. Gwen had to land to handle the magic influx without vomiting or crying. Genaro could still fly, but he rasped, “Wh-what… what was that?”
Garlan rubbed the feathers on his son’s head. “That’s magic, kid. Lots of it. That’s how it is in Equus.”
“But it feels weird.”
It only made Garlan ruffle his feathers into an adorable mess. “You’ll get used to it over the week. Those amateur humans with their birthday party magic shows can’t compare.”
Outside the hall, pink and yellow walls filled the space, adorned with the occasional heart and flower on the ceiling and columns. Tacky, but ponies had always been tacky even in fancy-snooty Canterlot. The personnel were very nice too which was a given when ponies held most of the positions in their adorable uniforms.
They reached the lobby, almost the same as the human one but the tints and shades shone brighter. Humans became rarities, and the posters changed to ads of slashed prices on tropical Earth vacations in paradises like the Bahamas. Once out of the building, they saw Princess Luna’s moon and stars: they lit the sky up bright, painting a colorful horizon for the evening.
The Fillypine Isles were much smaller than their Earthen counterparts, but it was still a vast and romantic archipelago with exotic fruits and spices. Little houses bordered stone streets as Hearth’s Warming Decorations went full blast: wreaths, mistletoes, streamers, bunting, and flashing colorful lights as pony choirs sang holiday songs heavenly. From there, it was a short trip to the pier for a ship headed for the mainland. Genaro talked big about flying across the sea, but Ginger shot the idea down: would he like running out of energy and drowning at sea? Gwen, unaware of what the huge fuss was about, simply cooed and laughed and said nice words about the ship and its passengers.
Maybe Genaro had a point though: ships were slow. With his vision, Garlan could see glimpses of the city on the other side. He could fly to the other side with his family, carry the kids on his back, get this over with. Still, Ginger would shoot his idea down too: didn’t want to set a bad example for the children. Water splashed onto the deck thanks to seapony pranksters, but nopony got mad at them.
Near the end of the trip, as they approached the glowing city and as the lighthouse spun its yellow beam around, a tap came on his shoulder. It was Ginger again. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
Garlan thought of flying again. It’d be a short burst to the ground. He kept his wings closed. “Ginger, what… what if something bad happened along the way?”
“Like a train crash?” she asked but then said nothing for a while, horrified at her own words.
Garlan shook it away with an uncaring claw. “No, not that. But what if it happens again?”
“What happens again?”
Garlan spun his claw around, motioning to the sea and beyond. “If the Blue Moon Festival becomes a disaster again. If things go bust this time, I won’t be surprised if griffons just up and left en masse. If that happens, it’ll all come crashing down, griffons will just leave... and Gary might just drag me to its broken crater and tell me to perform an actual miracle.”
Ginger massaged his shoulders, half-relaxed his nerves. “I don’t deny the possibility. It may even be likely. But we’ll be there. Gilda and Greta are some of the better griffons out there; they’ll do their best to keep things civil.“
“And there’s stupid Gary.”
“Yes, and there’s your brother who’s way too excited for his own good but still has his heart in the right place. With all of them, we’ll still have something to look forward to, no?” She saw Garlan’s scowl, but it melted into a sober blank expression. “At least we’ll have tried.”
At least it was a try. One paw out the door: an easy exit if things went awry, and his old self of so many years would be proven right. He could finally be vindicated as the wise one, and Gary would be outed as the perennial fool.
Then what? Nothing. It’d only mean a fallen kingdom fated to rot and burn.
But Gary believed in resurrecting dead horses.
It didn’t hurt to help. To try. Just this once.
They made it to the city and got onto a train. Barring any delays on the coastal railway, they’d make it on time for the Festival.
Far from the deep south tropics, snow sprinkled and reigned in Equestria. Hearth’s Warming decor had spread everywhere: train passengers carried gifts for their loved ones, families enjoyed the train ride to a big city for winter extravaganzas, and mouth-watering scents of festive foods wafted into the air as they were served with stomach-warming drinks like peppermint tea, eggnog, and hot chocolate which Ginger paid for a cup of. The train stopped by each village brimming with banquets of ponies wishing each other a good day amid harmonious carols. It spun Garlan’s poor head around, and now he wanted to sleep. The fledglings saw these villages and got excited, asking any pony within range about the holiday, how they were, what their life was like as ponies, and so on. They even flew around once in a while and did loops too: something they rarely did back on Earth. Perhaps it was that harmony or destiny magic getting to them, or maybe the joy of ponies was just that infectious: he couldn’t tell.
A pegasus father ahead of him told his foals the story of Hearth’s Warming, how it all started when a blizzard crashed into ponies fighting each other for survival. At the mention of ponies scuffling until they didn’t, Garlan raised his head.
It wasn’t long before they left Equestria proper. By then, the passengers’ make-up had changed. Rare was the pony who journeyed eastward still, so the seats were soon occupied by homeward griffons.
Garlan stayed his claw at first. He had nothing to say, but his children did: watching other griffons from afar, they introduced themselves to them before raining questions upon the unfortunate passengers. Garlan and Ginger kept a wary eye on them in case a tiger-hawk in a bad mood threatened them, but nothing of the sort happened. Some were curious, others yearned to return, and still others hoped that something good would finally happen this year. Griffonstone united them all.
Pony cities and towns faded into obscurity; they were replaced by grand forests, unoccupied plains, and rugged alpines where pegasi and other winged soldiers perched on outposts watching over the rail.
They crossed the Ponish Channel on a long bridge. An arch received them on the other side, welcoming them to the land of Griffonstone though the kingdom itself would still be hundreds of miles ahead. Two griffon statues flanked the vault colored vibrantly with recent paint.
An uphill battle was the final stretch. The ground slanted upward, the turnpikes turned sharp, and the air thinned to comfy levels. No more stations to stop by: here lay the long and uncomfortable calm before the storm. Here, nothing could be found but vast tracts of land: virgin tundras where vegetation was scant and everything felt cold and empty with intermittent patches of thin snow. No buildings to speak of: just the ground and the infinite horizon above.
Silhouettes flew in the sky. As the train gnawed the miles away, they got closer: griffons. Gwen shouted and pointed at the griffons in the sky; they flew together in an orderly formation shaped like a V.
Garlan looked up, yawning after rising from an hour’s nap.
“Pa’, look, look!” Gwen yelled, tugging at his wing. “There’s griffons… griffons out there! There’s griffons out there!”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get yourself asking, ‘Are we there yet?‘”
“But there’s so many! It’s like… it’s like a… it’s like a flock!”
That tore his eyes wide open. “What?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Garlan looked out the window.
The horizon uncovered mountain ranges as wide as the eye could see. Overhead, flocks of griffons swarmed onward, banded together as they converged towards their sole destination. With its houses around The Great Tree extending skyward, higher than any skyscraper could dream of, with The Griffish Castle Palace of Lords at the peak of the world—
The train slowed down. Passengers stood up, jostling their way to the doors. When it stopped, they spread their wings and flew out of the train and into the liberating expanse above. The pony conductor waved them a goodbye, wishing them both a happy Hearth’s Warming and a happy Blue Moon Festival.
He stepped out of the train only for the station to startle him. Somegriff was actually managing the site now. A new paint job covered it, trimmed with blue and white decorations to wear that festival spirit. Garlan didn’t bother to greet the station’s griffon; for all he knew, he might get roped into small talk, declare friendship after a few minutes, and cry on each other’s shoulders in less than a week in ponish fashion.
Still, the path upward would be exhausting especially for the fledglings. It was a test of endurance. The cold tough winds drained their energy, the distance broke the hearts of the unfit, and a single misflap could slam a careless griffon against a tight rock formation. Yet they bore through it together, and not just as a family: couples, friends, other families charged on with them. Not much talk was had, but he heard some of it and it wasn’t all doom and gloom.
Close to the entrance arch, there was squabbling which stalled griffons on the way. Some headed onward to avoid the trouble; others stayed to watch things unfold. An old griffon not unlike Sir Gruff had gotten in a spat with a young-looking eagle-lion in the dark before the kingdom’s holiday lights. Garlan held his children tight. Things could get ugly fast.
“I told you to not bump into me, you whippersnapper!” shouted the elder, ready to pounce at the youngster. “Who are you to boss me around, telling me what to do when I’ve got fifty years more than you?”
The other griffon whispered back, trying to coax the senior to cease, but the old griffon replied, “Well, sonny, you bumped into me! Let me tell you, I can handle all of these possessions myself! These are my things, sonny! Didn’t your mother tell you not to snoop on other griffs’ business, you overgrown baby? Bah, why’d I come back here if you just won’t square up like old times? Come on! Show ‘em up! I may be old but I still have the blood of my ancestors—“
Got knocked out cold.
Past frozen-surprised onlookers, Garlan flew closer, hoping the assailant wouldn’t beat the oldster to a pulp. Wasn’t too bad upon closer inspection. He’d be unconscious for about half an hour, and the purple eye would be gone in a week’s time. Enough fights in childhood had informed him much about knocked out creatures.
The young griffon brushed the dust off of his claws and shoulders. “Surprised to see I’m both a lover and a fighter?” he said before he blushed. “Not that I have an actual chickfriend or anything like that, but yeah. Just because they say I’m some goody two-shoes doesn’t mean I’ll fall like cardboard in a proper fight. By the way, did I tell you about my half-hour-long exercise regiment? Helps with self-defense and keeps me in shape, heh-heh. You see, Garlan, I start with a hundred push-ups—“
He shook his head and stepped back, gasping so much, he could’ve broken his jaw. “W-wait! Garlan? Y-you’re... you’re here?!”
The griffon in question nodded his wind-ruffled head, patting the luggage strapped around his torso. “Yes, Gary. We’re all here.”
Gary’s beak opened and closed like the mouth of a blubbering goldfish. “B-but you didn’t say anything! Oh, no! You don’t have any arrangements! I didn’t even prepare my house for you or a special greeting or a good breakfast—“
“Just as planned,” Ginger said with a wink. “He wanted to keep it a surprise until the very end.”
Gary stood there stupidly, onlookers moving on now that the fight had long been over. “So you weren’t going to Los Angeles for Christmas? No Hollywood movies or anything?”
“That’d be fun,” Garlan admitted, “but this… this better be good, Gary.”
As if on cue, the two kids assaulted Gary with hugs and hellos, excited to meet their funny uncle again. Gary hugged them back, embraced Ginger too.
Letting them go, Gary flew to his only brother for the longest hug, taking him off guard. However, in the moment—the sky had turned pink; no wonder the lights were starting to turn off—Garlan patted back and tightened his own hugging grip on Gary.
“Alright, alright, s-stop suffocating me in love!” and Gary took a huge breath when Garlan let go. “Now… well, look at the time! Look at the sky! Festival’s about to begin! Sorry to goad you into big favors Garlie, but would you be okay with the honor of serving your scrumptious cart meats for the morning market buffet? I said it before, and I’ll say it again: your food will be a hit here!… oh, but before we do that, you need a bird’s eye view of the place. It’s changed a bit… not a lot, but, eh, you’ll get it when you see it!”
Gary led him and his family along. They soared high above the swathes of buildings, peaks, and griffons flying underneath. Meanwhile, the two kids enjoyed the unbridled view in the cool twilight air. They stopped at the top of a nearby mountain, roosting there to see the kingdom’s darkened silhouette against the dying night.
The night then died. The sun ascended, its rays striking Griffonstone into glory. New half-constructed houses glimmered under the rising dawn, clean dirt roads showed themselves under solar illumination, and the feathered-furs of griffons glimmered in the morning light. The uncommon pony and other non-griffon creatures helped out with the festivities as they set up last-minute decorations, but his eyes were lured to the houses and stores in the kingdom’s outskirts: life slowly expanding back to old golden-age boundaries.
The screeching and squalling of every griffon everywhere. Garlan covered his ears at the alarm, but it wasn’t an alarm. Ginger squawked in pride, and so did Gary. Though feebly, his children mimicked the sounds as they raised their heads high to the rising sun—the first time they’d cawed since infancy.
Griffonstone wasn’t much. Too much construction and cleaning up had to be done before it could be much. Still, under this gorgeous sunrise, he had to admit its fiery splendor. Once the early morning majesty faded away, it’d be tacky and ugly again.
A few minutes later, he looked at Ginger. She already took note: about to ask a question. Garlan spotted a little house in the scabrous peaks, much more fixed up than the last time he’d seen it. “Honey, that’s our family home. Best you help Gary out with the accommodations. We’re staying here for a week, so we have to be as comfy as possible.”
Then, the fledglings who looked up to him: under the sunrise, Garlan became a superhero angel to them, surrounded by a celestial halo. “And kiddos, enjoy yourselves here. You’ve seen this place in the videos, but now you’re trying out the homeland for real. Make the best of it while you can… but don’t get into trouble, you hear?”
And for a few more minutes, Griffonstone remained beautiful. Nothing to do but sit there and drink it in while it lasted.
But maybe he could help make it last a little longer.
