The Moon was imprisoned, and her visage showed on the nightly orb, everybody knew the tale. Even far from Canterlot, far from Griffonstone. At the border of the forever snowing Frozen North, where the news took weeks to reach and steam engines were a distant novelty.
However, it was not a desolate place. The town had a few of the new manufactories too. Gone were the days of small family farms and independent production. The farmers and artisans would work in the stead of a rich griffon for a wage. A novel idea born in the massive pony cities like Manehattan. Specialize, focus, expand, profit. Grow!
The local industry focused on woodwork. Many of the locals already had a substantial understanding. Convincing Griffonstone of the feasibility went without issue. They cut the abundant trees in the valley beneath the cliff and turned it to economically viable products. From planks and wood beams for construction to little pet houses and toys. Everything a griffon could need, and which could come from wood.
Some hundred thousand griffons lived there. While it couldn’t compare with Griffonstone’s thrice million and more, Thunderpeak was a local reference. Business boomed and griffons either moved there or to the smaller villages and hamlets nearby. And where griffons would mass, other services became necessary. More work became available and workers flocked.
Perhaps too fast, Thunderpeak had made a place for itself in the map. Specialists came. Doctor ponies from Manehattan’s Bay County University. Rich griffon magnates from Beachhome too. There, those ideas had already proven their worth. Progress fed the Kingdom of Griffonia with produce from the sea and vast farms born out of pony know-how and griffon entrepreneurship.
Thunderpeak had no time to waste. New houses were built, more and more griffons were expected to move there. Greatness was its future. Folk spoke of steam-powered machines riding on rails and they were coming. The coffers in Canterlot opened and flooded the region with golden coins bearing Celestia’s face. Papers flew from the most powerful desk in the world, signed with Her Highness’ elegant hornwriting. Inflamed discourses echoed in the Hall of Friendship and in the Chancellor’s palace back at Griffonstone. The griffons of Girdershade worked tirelessly further south, where the pines gave way to beeches, making the land amenable, laying the rails. Fleets of ships sailed from Fillydelphia and Manehattan, across the ocean and through the hippogriff islands. Pirates and sea monsters stood no chance against the hippogriff merchant navy. The world moved and stirred the great griffon nation onward.
A great railway would connect the rich iron in Snow Mountains to the fledgling industry in Fernland, and Thunderpeak was to be the center of the operations. Griffons and ponies working together, what was a small village next to a cliff with fell stone constructions grew into a successful city. Soon, it would connect north and south. Like two halves of a heart. It would make Griffonia into the second industrial ticker of the world, owing nothing to the mighty titan that was Manehattan.
Griffons finally had something to feel proud of again.
But life on the frontier is rarely easy. A visiting griffon, hailing from a small local village and trying to sell game, could be overwhelmed with the charms of the big city. Money flowed fast and there was good wealth to be made by hard-working griffons. One might find themselves entranced by the warm hearth and smells of ale in the establishment next to the butcher and the inn. Even a griffon mated to a beautiful lady back home might fall. Enthralled by the promises in the hips of dancing griffonesses offering easy pleasure for a few coins. Especially when a griffon’s purse weighed so heavily after selling his wares. There was a reason courtesans hawked next to places where alcohol flowed as much as the coins, after all.
A griffon who poked into things he shouldn’t have could feel guilty. They might aspire to good deeds. The kind which would help them forgive themselves. It was a good thing there was an orphanage on the other side of the street.
A gloomy, gray building made of mossy stone, barely lit by the torches and oil lamps outside. Large as a warehouse, with double doors made of heavy dark wood and iron. Little colorful cubs made a game of shoveling the snow from the sidewalk. Mostly ignored by passing carriages and griffons busy with their own lives in the busy street. Above the doors, a plaque had been stuck to the stone and under the dim light of a lamp. ‘Clouded Nest Orphanage’ it said.
Later that night, three hearty knocks rattled the iron fittings on the door. It drew a dozen colorful and overexcited griffon cubs. They jumped, pirouetted, and squealed. Hopping in place and tap-dancing excitedly. A cacophony of little tapping feet on the cold, stony floor.
The flash of lightning outside didn’t bother them, nor did the thunder. But they all quieted and sat next to the door when their caretaker approached. Her white paws walked silently on the stone, and her gray feathers shone with a million stars under the flickering light from the torches. A blue satin cape swayed with her confident gait and the delicate iron chain clinked, holding her cape around her neck.
Following in her wake, a large male hurried along. He maintained a hastened gait to keep up with her elegant swiftness and subservient obedience before her majesty. The bracelet of iron links in his yellow paw was much less elegant. His green coat and feathers held little of his companion’s brilliance, despite the clean and preened appearance they both shared.
Stopping near the cubs, she sat on her haunches, letting her cape rest on the stone. Her presence made the cubs straighten their backs and stop their giggling. They mimicked her regal poise, and majestic presence the best their little selves could. With her beak pursed, she waited while the green male walked past and spun the heavy keys he brought around his neck.
Effortlessly pulling the door open, the green tom walked out of the way. The wind pelted their visitor with snow and the outside air crept inside to make the cubs squeal and shudder and hug themselves with their tiny wings. The lights of the street entered around the shape of a griffon carrying a doe over his shoulders. Red blood had stained her chest where a pair of stumps stuck out of the musky pelt. A gash through her neck stained the griffon’s heavy wolfskin cloak with red.
“Hello. I am Gainor.” A youthful voice said. “I brought a gift. Ah, a donation.”
“Do come in, Master Gainor.” The old griffoness greeted above the whistle made by the nearby buildings. They made her cape dance and put on display her muscular body of fit build and immaculate white fur. “Don’t stand there like a bovine, Galvin. Help him.”
“Oh! My apologies, Master Gainor!” The green male wearing the iron bracelet gasped and reached to grab the dead doe from the other’s shoulder.
When he stood without the weight, the cloak revealed a griffon covered in a vibrant and steely blue with fierce gray eyes. He smiled as his shoulders squared and the female with the blue cape inspected him. Her piercing gaze was enough to make him uncomfortable.
“Thank you, Master Gainor.” She finally spoke. “We will remember this.”
He adjusted his cloak and hood with a coughing stammer and waved at the excited cubs hopping around them. They simply ignored the cold. Then he addressed the older female again. “I hope this is enough. A blasted wyvern is scaring the game away. I… Wanted to give more, but I need the money.”
“Then someone ought to drive the beast away.” She responded and an awkward second passed in silence before she smiled at him again.
“A wise one would not complain to whom they receive charity from, tom.” She turned her stare to the green male who hurriedly examined the dead deer. When he returned a grinning, excited nod to her, the old griffoness smiled at the hunter. Holding his paw, she let five golden coins shower to his paw.
“Ah, no.” He muttered. “It is a… Charity. You know… I… Ah…”
She shook her head with a knowing smile, closing her paw around his so he would hold the coins. “Something is due for anything. I am Galfrid. They call me Madam Galfrid. It is a pleasure to meet you, Gainor.”
With a smile pulling at his beak, he offered his fist for her to bump. Instead, she held her white paw open for him to hold. A pair of heartbeats passed, but he eventually understood and shook her paw with a renewed, if sheepish, smile.
Finally, he bowed at the female and stashed the coins inside a pouch on his hunting garment. Turning, his hurried movements stalled. “Harmony guard you and the little ones, Madam Galfrid. I should go now.”
“I take you yearn to return to your mate back home at Whiteford?” She smiled at him, walking next to him the few steps he took into the great hall. Decades of experience and understanding peeked from behind her smiling beak. Enough to unsettle a king, much more a humble hunter from a small forest settlement.
His eyes shifted for barely a second to the other side of the snow-covered street. A three-story building, ample as a hotel, showed a warm, inviting light from beyond its windows. A pavilion protruded from the entrance hall, rowdy voices and chants flowed from it with the smell of roasting meat. The musk of easy griffon ladies lured him like a moth to the flames more than the sizzling fat. A small hearth by the entrance past the door let griffons passing by sample the sights of beautiful dancing hens and their exuberant headdresses.
A young and alluring dancer swirled on her hindlegs, letting her wings show her caramel and black stripes. Her stout thighs shone under the fire with her leopard rosettes. A caramel tail, covered in silky fur and stripped with black rings, swirled around her.
An immeasurable moment passed, and Gainor’s eyes met the old griffoness again. The younglings had already retreated further inside, after the green male with their dinner. When her eyes met his, he let out a cough and smiled weakly. Her gaze pierced his soul and purged the lie from him like a doctor pulled out a parasite from a rotting wound before he even said it.
He still tried to save face when the wind slammed shutters across the street and thunder cracked furiously above. “I should go back to Gleana right away, yes. The weather, though... It is dangerous. I need to find shelter before… Well…”
He smiled again. Another weak smile and his eyes fled from hers. There was no lying to that venerable old griffoness. Galfrid may not have noticed, though. As she smiled candidly and offered him her paw white like the snow. “Then shield yourself, young tom. There are many dangers outside. But inside these halls, all you must fear is what you bring with you.”
He winced. The clouds rumbled and lightning flashed, soon followed by crashing thunder. She offered her paw again. “Come. Supper with us. We have happy cubs, a loyal servant, and an old priestess of an old faith with stories to tell. We could do with a loyal tom for the cubs to practice some thankfulness.”
His thoughts slipped. Something compelled him to agree, as though her words had left a hole he could only fill with compliance. He held her paw and walked inside when she encouraged him. Before he knew, the doors had closed and the smell of burning ash filled his nostrils. Warmth enveloped him and Gainor left his wet cloak on a hanger by the door. He also undone and left his hunting garment, made of light leather, but heavy with the tools of his trade. He pretended not to see it, but the old griffoness smiled at his pristine blue and fit build of a hunter.
He followed her through the hall. A hearth at the deep end, next to the wall, provided the warmth. High above, a chimney drained the smoke. A large cauldron sat above a creaking fire. The green griffon with the iron bracelet occupied an improvised kitchen with a balcony and its tools. He expertly cut the doe apart before the excited little cubs.
Little cubs of all ages, from ones so small they should be by their mother’s teats and others so old they could almost work, milled about. Running, dancing, play-fighting, and causing a ruckus among two long tables flanking the center of the hall. Eyes shining with the light from the fire under the cauldron and cheering happily at the working adult in between bouts of excited play.
“Ah, this is some good meat!” The green griffon cheered back at the cubs as his knife slitted through the dead deer. “When we are done, I’ll get this salted! It’s gonna last us some days! How about that?”
One would not think such little cubs could make so much noise, but they all silenced and turned around when Madam Galfrid approached along with Gainor. She smiled at them. “Make yourselves behave. We have a guest tonight. Master Gainor is to share our supper.”
After a few happy and excited hops, they spoke in a dissonant unison of squealing voices. “Welcome to our hall, Master Gainor!”
After their greeting, and telling Gainor to make himself at home, the old griffoness retreated past a door at the back. Cubs old enough to work brought wooden bowls and clay pitchers with water, along with white towels. Like a small army of organized young griffons, they laid the tables to be used by all twenty of them. Soon they all sat by the tables, leaving the inner sides free, banging their fists on the wood, and making a cheerful racket.
Just as soon as the food was ready, the green griffon laughed and hurried along. He pushed a cart between the tables, serving each bowl a generous helping of a lean broth. Chunks of meat, dissolved potatoes, carrots, and several seasoning greens smelled something divine. As did Gainor, they each thanked the servile green griffon and washed their paws with water from the pitchers. Rinsing paws and talons with the towel, Gainor mimicked them. As though he did it every evening.
Gainor could find no spoons, forks, or any kind of tableware. The older cubs plucked the meat from the broth and drank straight from the bowl. The smaller ones used their talons instead of beaks, and Gainor followed the example of the older cubs. How poor could an orphanage be? Surely The Royal House funded them. It could not be that they couldn’t afford tableware. But it was not his place to ask.
“Now, I know it is Master Gainor’s first time providing us with tasty game meat. Straight from the woods, yeah?” Galvin returned what remained of the supper to the cauldron after separating some for him. “But Madam Galfrid would be cross if we were remiss in our gratitude!”
With that, he led the younglings in a chorus, gesturing with his paws so they would follow. “Thank you for providing for us, Master Gainor!”
“Ah… It’s okay, kids. I… Uh… You know, Kindness and stuff, right?” He gasped, overtaken by a silly shame. It became even worse when they giggled at him. “Madam Galfrid paid me fairly for the meat.”
Sweet Harmony! The point of charity was to give for free. He had to resist the urge to slap his face in front of them.
“Now, that just isn’t true, Master Gainor.” Galvin smiled broadly and took his place next to their guest.
Gainor smiled at the green male with the iron bracelet. His voice carried with a strange, pained timbre of one who had gone far deep, but somehow found a way back. A quiet calmness, soft words. “A whole, cleanly slain animal is worth much more than a few Eagles! Even if not all establishments in the region will take Eagles the same as Bits.”
Their sitting pillows by the table were not the most comfortable, but they served their purpose. The little cubs had theirs on a bench. But Gainor truly paid little mind to any of that. The warm broth, although not as strong as he would prefer, tasted something divine.
“Oh, no.” Gainor shook his head after taking a gulp from his bowl. “Thunderpeak Bank will take Eagles, just to encourage businesses to accept them. They are quite valuable. Some businesses in town prefer Eagles over Bits.”
The meal fell into a relaxing mood. The softer sounds of griffon cubs eating reigned. Barely a word to be heard other than a few discreet conversations among the older cubs. Until Gainor spoke. “Say. I don’t see Madam Galfrid.”
“She don’t eat, mister!” The absolutely cute pink grifflet next to him squealed. The light from the fires gave her metallic pink pelt a mystifying, exquisite gleam. Her large red eyes, filled with childish mirth, jumped at him as she opened her little paws in a mysterious gesture. “She a witch!”
Another cub, black like coal, shiny like the stars flocking around the Mare in the Moon, almost hopped off the table and flared his little wings. “Madam Galfrid’s stronger than The Mare. She can blink behind you like the pokeheads and rip your neck open. She can move faster than crossbow bolts and her talons shoot lightning! Bzaaap!”
He shot his diminutive talons at the white cub next to him and, after a second, caused him to convulse and faux scream until a dramatic fall to the stony floor. The final twitch before his tongue lolled out of his steel-shiny beak almost made Gainor applaud.
The other cubs filled the hall with giggles and guffaw, while the older ones hid their malcontent frowns and rolling eyes behind their bowls of broth. It all concluded in silence when Madam Galfrid returned from the room behind the back wall. She sat on a chair behind the cauldron, which Gainor had not yet seen. But instead of serving herself some of the broth, or ordering Galvin did so, she smiled.
Lightning and thunder exploded outside. For an instant the tall windows turned white, and the flash banished the shroud of darkness. Polished stone made sturdy walls, and a statue gleamed in the back, hidden under the shadows now banished.
A great griffoness, made of white and black marble, comfortably laid on her stomach with her wings turned upwards. Small niches seemed empty, like adornments were lacking in the statue, and her eyes were gone. The plainness or lacking pieces diminished none of the statue’s grandeur. Instead, it kept the visage of a beautiful griffon lady looking down at the hall with a stern expression. Witnessing and judging.
“Please accept our hospitality, Master Gainor. We will share with you our favorite time of the evening. I will tell the little ones a story and you are welcome to listen and hold it in your heart. Or share it with others. Do with it what you desire, for every griffon is responsible for the choices they make. But remember that wisdom is a form of wealth in itself. The greatest of treasures, for when given to others, it multiplies. And above all, wealth is meant to serve a need.”
Griffons are mighty creatures. They are meant for the mountains, hard, inhospitable, and tall as their pride. High above the land, the proud lords of the skies could perch at the entrance of their caves and survey their domain. They could spy the movements of their prey and the eddies of the weather. It allowed them to keep watch on what other griffons were doing and the cold of the altitude bred a special kind of strength. They would fly from the peaks and hunt amid the prairies and forests. It put a distance between them and the prey. It brought them closer to the sky.
But as they left their first home in the world, griffons faced many new challenges and dangers. They had to adapt and find new places to live, ways to deal with the new creatures they found along the way. And when the Windigos came to the north, too many griffons distanced themselves too much, and forgot more than they should have.
The lands to the south of the Snow Mountains were wide and diverse. From the marshes of Fernland to the hills of Griffonland and the verdant plains of Greenland. The land presented new challenges, but from the mountains to the shore, griffon settlers prospered and made new homes.
The sea posed a more difficult challenge. Most of Griffonia’s shores were unstable cliffs. Beyond them, the treacherous currents powered by the Maelstrom made sailing dangerous. If griffons were to have easy access to the sea and the fruits it bore, they would have to avoid most of their new nation’s coast. With the magic of the Frozen North encroaching on them and the Maelstrom to the south, precious pieces of coastal land seemed viable.
From the shore, the first griffon settlers saw only water. But closer to the north, something gave pause to the violent currents of the magical whirlpool. The waters abounded with edible fish, coral, and crabs, so they stayed. Soon wood and stone became little griffon homes in the absence of mountains and hills. Others came, for there was work to do and a life to live.
They called their hamlet Happyfish Wharf. It stayed days of travel from the nearest settlement, but it provided fish and the bounty of the sea to their brethren in the region. Much later, it would become the great port of Beachhome.
But for a while, it was a little hamlet with a few dozen griffons. Some of them fished. Bits or Eagles didn’t exist, and griffons better understood the value of work. Go out on your boat and throw your net. Cast your hook, check your traps. Return to the beach and offer your fish in the market. Make sure your mate and your cubs ask enough for the beautiful crab, and wince when your mate yells that they know how to sell the stupid fish. If you are lucky, there may be a pearl inside your oysters. The wealthy ladies in Griffonstone will take it for a small fortune.
In the afternoon, do that again. And as the pale moon takes the sky with its glimmering children, make sure you are back home. Along the way, feed the poor, and offer them a job. Don’t let a fatherless child sleep on an empty stomach, or under no roof. Ensure no family starves and keep from the bed until you have resolved your quarrels.
A community is as strong as its weakest member, and the sea holds many dangers the Children of the Storm are not prepared to meet.
Life was hard work, but straightforward. Day after day, the Fishergriffon would take his wooden boat from the sturdy docks and brave the waves for the bulkier, meatier fishes. Some employed the nets for the shallower waters or the line and hook for fishes worthier of their time. A good fishergriffon would adapt and if the whitewater wouldn’t provide in the morn, they’d hook a worm or two and let them bring their dinner from the depths.
But the deeper water was distant from the shore. Far from the rocks which guarded their natural harbor. The currents from the Maelstrom could pull a boat adrift. Always keep a bank of sand or rocky outcrop close to your beak. And beware the time. As the Dawnbringer brought the day, the Nocturnal brought the night. And the sister of the moon loved to catch a griffon unawares. Fishes were supposed to feed griffons, not the other way around.
And if luck was on his side, the Fishergriffon could catch not one, or two, but three basses. Two cubits, thick and shiny, worth of fish each. Enough to bring a grin to a griffon’s beak and the hook to the water again a fourth time. Because the Children of the Storm were a greedy bunch. They always wanted more and better than what they had. And sometimes, they earned a score of fishes. If an exultant cry of pure joy didn’t escape them, that was a dead griffon inside.
When a head popped out of the swaying water, he dropped his fishing line on top of the wiggling fish. A magical beast like which he had never seen. A strange creature with soft lines in their rosy face. Ears like a deer’s and a gentle snout holding a mellow smile. Deep eyes of strong magenta and shaded with purple. If that was not enough, it also had delicate fins for eyelashes. An exuberant sea flower for a mane, and glamorous fishy plumes for headdress.
She smiled at him and giggled at his wide, surprised eyes. Her voice caressed his ears, soft as silk so fine that would never make it to his town. Her necklace of pearls and coral, vibrant like flowers, chimed around her neck.
“Are those enough fishies, master Fishergriffon?” She asked. “I require your assistance, unless those are too few.”
The sea rocked his boat a few times too many before he understood she spoke to him and stopped gapping at the creature. “I must bathe under the sun before the Dawnbringer retires and my home is far from here. But I cannot untie my tail.”
Solicitous and gentlemanly, the Fishergriffon jumped off his boat and his wings clumsily propelled him in the water. Paws made for running and grabbing made for poor rudders, but what fishergriffon would not know how to swim? His skill barely kept him from drowning, so amazed he was at the sight his eyes presented him with.
Under the water, the creature had the sleek shape of a dolphin. Sleek as to swim as the bird flew. Her fin-like wings kept her from drifting in the current. Instead of paws with talons, her limbs ended in what a fish’s idea of hooves would be. Delicate things made for swimming, they too helped her stay her place in the current. And lavish as her swimming tail was, like a delicate set of thin petals, the Fishergriffon found it entangled with a net stuck to the rocks.
He came to the surface for air and gulped a mouthful before telling the peculiar creature he saw the problem.
“I will set you free, sea dweller!” He grinned with confidence and a thumb to the shrunk plumage in his chest. “Those fish will feed a banquet and earn my mate the silk that she wants.”
Blundering, but determined, the Fishergriffon dove again and propelled himself to the rocks. Wings were made for flying, not swimming, and his muscles cried at him because of that. But a lungful of air must be sufficient for him to fulfill his part in the bargain. Thick as the rope was, decay had claimed it, and his sharp griffon talons made quick work of it. Careful though, as not to etch at the rosy, delicate scales.
Triumphant, he returned to the surface for air first and for a celebration second, but the sea creature shared a hurray with him. She clapped her alien limbs together wetly and giggled like a finely tuned harp.
“I thank you again, master fishergriffon! I am elated at thy brave rescue!”
He laughed and his griffon cheeks flushed. Unflatteringly wet and bent feathers hid themselves. “I thank you for the fish. What should I call you?”
“I am Selkie.” She piped, wrapping her hoof-fins together.
Before he could tell Selkie his name, her long body jumped off the water with the agility of a sailfish and vanished beneath waves. Gasping, both surprised and for air, he found her swimming so fast under the surface she would shame the fastest falcon in the air.
Curious as he was, he would never catch her and the fish in his boat would not wait before starting to go bad. Holding to the edge of his boat, he gave the silvery stash a good, long stare as his grin grew larger and larger. Better be back home early; those ‘fishies’ needed some salting. His family was going to eat like the village elder!
Overflowing with bounty, his boat cut deep into the waves. Wind permitting, he grabbed his boat and flapped his wings to push it forward. The excitement trounced the tiredness out of his wings. The sooner he came ashore with his bounty, the sooner he could see the smile on his cubs and his mate. Although the sun and her height in the sky gave him apprehension. All the more reason for excitement at how soon he could return.
Soon enough, he sighted his home. The mighty white cliffs protruded and protected the beach beneath and their wooden wharf from the currents. Jagged rocks jutted from the water, but they marked the limits of their shallow, safe bay. Beyond them, boats floated above an abyss of dark and capricious water. From the golden stripe of beach, guarded by jutting rocks, a winding path made a way for a griffon too tired, or with too heavy a load to fly up the rock face. At the top rested the griffon homes of Happyfish Wharf. Columns of smoke raised, and on a good day, one could even make out the market and the elder’s home.
Eager, the Fishergriffon renewed his efforts. Still aware of the dangerous currents, he steered his boat skillfully. The rocks which flanked their haven were known for ending the lives of incautious fishergriffons aplenty. Even the circle of guardian spikes was liable to break a boat. He was an old acquaintance to the churning waters, though. One day, when his daughters became old enough, he dreamed of teaching them the same closeness to the salty water, as his mother had taught him.
The villagers hadn’t assembled the guiding bonfires yet, so early was the hour. But griffons flew down from the cliff to the beach. Families congregated on the sand when someone sighted the single returning boat. Their agitation was born of worry rather than excitement, as one wouldn’t return before the job was done. Unless something was wrong.
Rather than taking it to the moors, the Fishergriffon beached his boat, eager to hug his cubs. Two kittens hopping on the white sand, trying to keep up with their mother’s forceful landing and anxious gallop. Pink and blue as the cranesbill, with her perpetual frown in her brow. He didn’t know if she was angry he had returned too soon, or worried something might have happened. Her raspy voice cried at him as he hopped off the boat.
Grinning, he responded with a wave of his wing, revealing his bountiful catch.
Holding from the edges of the boat, his cubs cheered and whooped. Flapping little wings and soaring into the air. The others, once they noticed it was not a family matter requiring they don’t intrude, approached. Griffons of all colors and builds gasped and gawked at all the fish.
Not his Geranium. His colorful as a flower mate glared at him, with cyan eyes hard as the stone. “How is this possible? Griffons only come ashore with a dozen or less such large catches, and by the night’s hour. What did you do, my mate?”
“Mother above! Are you never ever happy, hen?” He flapped his wings at her, but she ignored his outburst, still expecting an answer. And it better be a good one.
Soon, not only the families which lived off the sea gathered, but the entire village had come, attracted by the commotion. Griffons shoved each other aside and hovered above to gawk at his catch and make shocked comments of theft and black magic. The village’s elder, so old he had gone silver and missed his funeral, yelled. He cried griffons into submission and silenced the inane murmuring. His hag for a mate, yet another walking corpse with missing feathers, had just finished examining the bounty.
She stared at the Fishergriffon with her good golden eye, as the other had already gone white and opaque. “Geranium is correct. While I would never accuse you of theft, such a catch is unheard of. When the offer abounds with excess, the wise griffon will mistrust.”
“For feather’s sake.” He huffed and puffed. “A fair sea creature paid me with them for a service.”
Geranium, even before the elder griffoness spoke, screeched at him. She scratched the sand with a hind leg, and her vibrant plumage puffed until she almost doubled in size. “Treachery and deceit! Throw these cursed fishes to the sharks and the crabs!”
“Have you lost your senses, hen?” Not only did the Fishergriffon tap his head with a long primary feather, but the crowd’s angry protests supported his shock at the suggestion. “No! Absolutely not!”
“I will not throw away perfectly fine fish.” He frowned, full of the certainty and authority of the righteous. “Is it not fair to be paid for saving a creature? Her tail had tangled in an old net, and I saved her. I claimed payment for my service. We shall all eat like kings tonight and the village will have plenty of fish to trade!”
All the clamor his words caused died fast as the flash of lightning.
“And yet, you are not a king. And I am not a queen.” The elder’s mate raised her crooked beak. Speaking with the wisdom and arrogance of far more decades than a griffon ought to accumulate. “A griffon’s life is not meant to be easy. The sea is not our friend. Its creatures are prey, and prey will lie and cheat. That Our Mother in the Storm has said.”
The popular judgement of the Fishergriffon and his catch had concluded, despite the old griffoness’ words. They decided the fish were to stay. His Geranium acquiesced to the decision and their daughters celebrated. They salted the best fish and took them to the fishing community’s stall. So much there was, and such good fish, it was enough to share. All the fishergriffons and their families saw good trades that day.
They solved their differences and agreed. The Fishergriffon and his mate spent a happy couple’s night, and their daughters hid under the pillows because of the noise. In the morning, the Sun was on time with her duty. Before her, the fishergriffons of Happyfish Wharf had started on the day’s routine. A meek fleet launched into the sea and families set the fruit of their labor on their rickety stands. Fish, plentiful or not, didn’t trade itself.
However, the Fishergriffon, alone in the sea, stared sadly at the empty hook and the couple of less than glorious basses on the keel. He then smiled, though, taking heart that they had plenty of fish to survive for days. He deserved some rest. Adjusting his fishergriffon hat of seagrass to cover his eyes, he laid his back on his trusty boat.
He woke to the jerk of his boat coming aground and crunching against the sand. He yelped and jumped off his back. His hat, the wind of the evening had taken back to the sea long ago. Fortunately, the boat was undamaged, and he recognized the small island with a rocky outcropping. It was the Rock, one of the many islands which guided fishergriffons back home.
He laughed at his own foolishness. Were he less lucky, the sea would surely have claimed his life. At least, a ship on the sand was easily returned to its place among the waves. He hopped to the wet sand and shouldered the bow. A quick shove and he would be homebound, for the Dawnbringer should soon retrieve her sun, low over the horizon.
Singing. Someone shared the islet with him, and their precious voice gave him pause.
Many griffons sang. Often because they were happy. Usually harmonious, singing griffons transmitted pure joy with their singing. But on that little island, what reached his ears was tantalizing. More like a maid from the legends of the Stormy Eyrie and the Stormborn than anything his Geranium sounded like. Or any griffon maid in his village, for that matter.
How could he resist? He left his boat on the sand and climbed the rocks. Sheltered behind the jutting rock at the top, he could see the beach on the other side of the islet. The beautiful sea spread in all directions, and the cerulean above matched it like a loving mate. A large storm cloud hung over the distant land, but out in the sea, little grains of sand sparkled with the low sun’s evening light. The salty aroma of the sea was the same as his home, but the creature laid on the sand was not.
At first the Fishergriffon saw an immaculate griffon maid. Her beak was delicate and smooth like that of the finches and her visage soft like a hummingbird. Magenta eyes adorned by the most graceful of lashes, like bristles, and pulling back to give her an elegant aspect of delicateness. A pair of ears, thin and fluffy, long, and elegant like a cat of the mountains. The little tufts at the tips danced in the sea’s breath. None of that compared to her plush mane of fluffy feathers like the petals of a purple flower also swaying in the salty air. Much less her crest of cyan plumes, long and dancing like kelps in the current. What was she?
Plumes like the foam of the breaking waves covered her long neck and thin barrel, shimmering wetness and sand under the glorious sun. One long and delicate forelimb held her from the sand, swaying like the coming and going of the grass to the sound of her music. The other she held aloft like it guided the divine notes out of her, with fluffy feathers dancing right under her delicate paw. Like a griffon’s, but her talons had less of the fearsome sharpness or threat. Delicate, like adornments rather than weapons.
But most distracting of all, where griffon ladies were felines, she was an equine. Her paws had been changed for hooves. The powerful muscles of a hunter altered into those of a runner and the lioness’ tail was a lush clump of purple and pink feathers among long cyan plumages.
She finally ended her song with a playful crescendo. Singing chirps turned to happy tweeting. She giggled and wiggled her cute hooves in the air after turning extravagantly on her back. A delighted sigh escaped her, limbs relaxed on the sand and under the warmth of the sun.
Was it curiosity or lust that kept the Fishergriffon’s eyes on her exposed belly? Her delicate nipples, not unlike his Geranium’s, were plumper and only in one pair. Also exposed to the eyes of any passersby, which was an indignity Geranium would never suffer. His beak hung open like his mother had told him not to do. He stood hiding behind the rocks, averting his eyes from her showing lady bits.
His beak clicked a couple of times, and then he wasted no time. Stumbling his way down the rocks and grabbing one fish he had caught, he held it in his beak. Wings flared and eyes wide, he galloped around the rocks before he sent the sand in the air with an abrupt stop. He brushed his crest of sandy feathers before walking with all the confidence of a mature adult.
The wind grew stronger and undid whatever fancy he had achieved. Dark clouds had come out of nowhere and the thunder cried at him. But the Fishergriffon heeded none of it, sauntering across the beach. The creature laid on the sand noticed his arrival and turned to him with a smile. It grew bigger, but not her modesty, as she stared down her upside-down beak at him.
“Hello, Master Fishergriffon!” she pipped and smiled. Her eyes shone at the fish he held in his beak. “That is a nice fishy!”
He didn’t answer. The colorful shine of the corals in the sand drew his eyes. It was Selkie’s collar, laying on the sand, with its colorful coral shards and shiny pearl. He tilted his head, eyes bouncing between the collar and the alluring, unusual-while-familiar hen on the sand.
She raised to sit, closing her hind leg over the other and the heavens opened in the smile her beak held. “Is it for me?!”
He coughed the fish to his paw and remembered to smile. “Yes! It is for you! You are very pretty! And different. Who are you?”
Busy swallowing the fish whole, with a gurgling noise and her beak to the sky, she didn’t answer. Until he asked again, albeit slightly less fascinated. Until she smiled again, and her eyes lit a fire in his chest. “I am Selkie!”
With a trapped ‘but’ in his beak, his confused eyes still delighted in her shapely and delicate avian half. Lost in curiosity and second intentions about the latter half, her abrupt manners surprised him. She clicked her collar of coral and pearls around her lithe neck and scanned the dark, convulsing clouds with a sweeping, exaggerated arc.
“Goodness me, a storm is brewing! I must return home!” She jumped to her feet and spread delicate wings with fluffy feathers.
Before he could urge her to wait, she hopped with a flap of her elegant wings. But rather than using them to fight gravity, she jiggled her collar in between her fingers. Before his eyes, the unique griffon lady turned to the fishlike Selkie he had seen yesterday. And she was gone again, with little more than a splash.
“Selkie! Wait!” He cried and raised his paw. He didn’t see her again for a second before her head popped out of the water.
Gasping, grasping at the opportunity, he jumped closer to the wafting foam on the sand. A wide smile came to his beak and an excited gleam shone in his eyes. “Come with me! I can give you all the fishies if you will help me catch them! All the villagers will love and praise you! Won’t you be my mate? I will share my home and the wealth we will make with you.”
His eyes filled with more than excitement. All the fishes in the world and such an exotic beauty to call his mate. He would be the next village elder! But Selkie’s eyes emptied of her bubbly happiness and her luxurious fins folded. “I cannot. The sea is where I belong, and it calls to me. I must be under the waves, or my heart would turn to stone and my smile into prickly thorns.”
Then she waved her fishy fin-for-a-paw at him, with her smile bright again. “So long, Master Fishergriffon! And thank you for the fishy!”
Jumping off the surface, she vanished under the waves not to return despite his calls. The stupid fish-brain didn’t realize she would live by the sea! His shoulders slumped with a sigh and his griffon feathery crest deflated. Oh, well… It was not like his Geranium would suffer the cute thing in her house, anyway. And since he was there, he might as well check the crab traps, too.
Instead, sat on the beach, the Fishergriffon stared at the bobbing surface of the sea. Its soft weaving had turned to an angry whisk. The first raindrops struck his beak and pulled him from his daze. The thunder screamed at him again. If anything, the Fishergriffon knew not to trifle with the storm.
Finding the traps empty, he shoved his boat back into the sea. Drenched in rain, he hopped into it and rowed his way around the islet, for the wind was too violent for flying. Soon he joined the other boats, hastily on their way home. At the end of the day, he had a large fish aboard. But only one. It mattered little; they still had fish from the previous haul.
Dragged back into the routine, he joined the rest of the fishergriffons. They pulled ropes and tied moorings with tight knots. Their mates and older cubs joined the work. Fish safe on the land and boats secured, cheerful griffons fled the rain across the beach and ran the winding path up the cliff. The market was already closed; no produce remained on display. The griffons of Happyfish Wharf rushed inside their homes as the storm threw fury in the shape of gale and downpour.
Geranium barked urgent orders, and their daughters obeyed, orderly as a marching army. They locked doors and tied windows. Once having secured their home and relegated the storm to the outside with the dark and thunder, the two cubs giggled at all the excitement.
Then came supper. Across from his mate, the Fishergriffon listened to his daughters chirp excitedly about the day’s happenings. He watched his mate. Geranium plucked a piece of fish from the broth. He was not sure why, but his smile to her felt insincere and demure. She paid it little mind, though. Her eternally frowning aquiline face of fierce lines spared him an acknowledging, tired nod.
“The storm will chase the fishes away from our shores.” He told her mindlessly.
“Worry not. We have plenty from the previous haul.” Thunder crashed outside and his cubs jumped and then giggled. “Mother’s wrath is fleeting to her industrious children.”
The Fishergriffon avoided his mate’s frowning gaze. His bowl was easier to face. The pieces of fish held no notion of his shame. The vessel cared not where the fish had come from and certainly wouldn’t mind if a more delicate and alluring lady would clean it later. His thoughts died in a frown of his own before he brought the bowl to his beak. But he drew slowly from it and before long, the broth went cold. Slowly drawing from it was easier than an idle conversation with his mate while his cubs played with their dolls.
Hail shredded past the thatch roof. It crashed against the wooden ceiling, rivaling the thunder, and leaks made themselves known. A sudden rush to move the bed out from under one of them brought some further excitement to the cubs. And, for better or worse, it was easier than pretending his mate wasn’t there, or that his thoughts were not on Selkie’s smiles.
As it always did, the storm calmed, and the night passed. Before the Sun rose, the fishergriffons of Happyfish Wharf had already left to retrieve their prize from the ocean. The storm had wreaked havoc though, and repairs delayed two of them. They remained on the beach to fix their boats. Another remained to assist their friends. The rest of the village joined to repair the damages to their friend’s homes.
Not the Fishergriffon, though. His boat soon vanished in the mist. He remained close to the beach that morn. Many times cast, his net was too light every time he pulled it back aboard. It mattered little. He was merely going through the motions. His thoughts were of delicate beaks rather than fish, and Selkie’s smile haunted him from the water.
Hours passed before he noticed there were no fish there. But the mist lifted, and the sun hung high in the sky. Dozens of cubits apart, his friend Golin fared a similar luck and so did the other two fishergriffons further away. The closest one, covered in shades of green, winced, retrieving his own net into his boat. When they had joined, he didn’t know, but his friend showed an empty net and laughed.
“The fishes are getting smarter than us!” He laughed again, despite the toll from the storm. “I suppose it is time for deeper waters.”
“Aye!” The Fishergriffon responded. He frowned and his eyes drifted away. In the distance, he found the islet. Finally, a smile graced his beak. “Aye! I’ll check the traps by the Rock!”
Golin nodded and told him to do that, just as his wings gave his boat momentum. The Fishergriffon too pushed his boat and spared his friend no more stares. Distant from the wharf, none would see his meeting, and his heart became lighter with that thought on the way.
Ran aground, instead of on the waves where it belonged, his boat waited for him the whole day. The hours passed, but his strange and alluring friend never appeared. When the sun touched the horizon, the Fishergriffon decided he had waited too long. His boat took him, and only him to the wharf. The last to arrive, he saw Golin and his family unloading a couple of fishes from his boat.
The others too had fish for market, but he had none. The Fishergriffon had his mate’s frown and her worried stare. She needed not to say it. He knew they still had fish. Then the days passed, and they had fewer fish, but a fishergriffon who spends his hours waiting instead of fishing makes for a poor fishergriffon. One day, they traded all the fish. In the next, his mate and daughters had to help the young maids in the market clean another’s fish, lest they spend the night with naught.
“Would it kill you to smile? Every once in a while?” She looked up from her bowl and said nothing, but she deepened her frown at him from the other side of the table. Their little cubs minded none where their fish came from, but that night, the broth gritted like ash in the Fishergriffon’s tongue.
Perhaps it was his guilt, or her reaction, that infuriated him further. She finally reacted with a soft smile, like a pittance. “Worry not, my mate. We will not starve. Our community is strong and a fishergriffon’s luck is riddled with vicissitudes. Everyone understands that.”
That night, they slept apart in their bed. Even if she approached him.
A new day always brought a promise of change, but it also brought chance with it. The Fishergriffon would look for the mythical creature one last time. If he found her, she could fix everything. He excused himself with the others casting nets or rowing to deeper waters, for the wind was strong that day. The traps ought to be checked, after all. So, he rowed toward the islet with the jutting rocks while they did the work of fishing for their dinner and that of the entire village.
There she was. Selkie, the amenable griffoness. Laid with her back on the wet sand and showing her belly to the sun. Rather than singing, she slept, and the Fishergriffon approached. The sun crawled down through the sky and when she awoke; she stood and looked one side and the other. Brow heavy with worry, she saw the Fishergriffon sitting on the rocks.
“Oh, Fishergriffon, have you seen where my collar has gone to?” She asked with a smile.
“I have hidden it. It is mine now, as are you.” He told her, gently and calmly. He walked from the rocks, and he offered her his paw. “You will live with us, and I will take care of you.”
“I am left with no choice. I cannot return to my home without my collar. But I will not suffer the weather or loneliness. I beg you, though, to return my collar to me, for my place is beneath the waves.”
He didn’t answer, but she smiled at him and held his paw after his silence. He took her to his boat and his boat took them to the wharf. There, the griffons of Happyfish Wharf met them with shocked gasps and worried stares. The mothers took their cubs inside and the fathers distanced themselves from the mooring. The Fishergriffon’s cubs hid behind their mother’s legs, and Geranium had her perpetual frown to greet him.
In the clouds, the thunder raged, but no storm came. Griffons watched and kept their distance, watching the Fishergriffon presenting Selkie to his family. It was a family affair, and they would let the family deal with it as they must. Then, they watched Geranium with her cubs follow the Fishergriffon and the stranger into their home.
The night passed and then the day. There was shouting and angry talons pointing. Pottery flew and insults, too. Cubs cried. And Selkie smiled. Before the night fell again, Geranium walked out of their home, carrying her youngest cub cradled with her wing, and the other following fast.
“I will not share a roof with this creature! I will not suffer the stares you give it!” She shouted back into the house, her perpetual frown a scowl of sorrow. “You curse the entire village with your foolishness. You are blind and insane! And her hinds look like a disgusting blobfish!”
With the door slamming shut, the Fishergriffon sat in the middle of his home. He massaged his brow and his nervous tail whipped at the broken pots of clay. But Selkie smiled at him obediently and patiently.
“She will see. They will all see! I will catch more fish than the village can eat.” He growled and pumped his fist in the air. Angry at what he knew not, for he knew what he was doing and how right he was.
Geranium needed only to see it. She and all the others would gawk at the astuteness of his idea. And if Selkie lived in his home, nothing more just than she too should be his mate.
“In the morning, I will fish, and you will help me.” He told Selkie, triumphantly.
“Fishergriffon, my mate, to find the fishies, I must have my collar, else I cannot swim. Wings are for the clouds and fins are for the kelp.”
And Selkie smiled at the Fishergriffon.
He loathed the thought that she would escape. He would be alone before he proved his resourcefulness. It didn’t matter. He was a fishergriffon and catching fishes was what he did. Selkie would still be his mate and work in the market, as did all the mates of fishergriffons. Sure of his wisdom, he shared his bed with Selkie that night.
When the sun brought the day, the Fishergriffon left to fish and Selkie went to the market. The griffons of Happyfish Wharf accepted it. If such was how the Fishergriffon’s family would resolve the situation, such was to be. Griffons minded their own families, and Selkie cleaned the fish and traded it when her mate brought it from the sea.
Soon, the Frishergriffon was sure. She would understand it was better that way, and he could trust her not to leave him. And then Geranium would return with his cubs. It should only take a few days. Or perhaps a few weeks. Perhaps a year or two. But eventually, they would all nod and smile at the Fishergriffon and his wisdom.
One evening, he moored his boat at the wharf. The other fishergriffons ignored him. Jealous that they were of his most obedient and lovely mate. The best one in the village. A storm brewed in the sky and the thunder rolled, but Selkie and their cubs were not there waiting for him. Not at the market with the stand, nor the beach with the others.
He ignored his soaked feathers under the rain. He flared his wings and flew to his home as fast as he could. Under the table, he found a plank missing, and so missing was the collar of coral and pearls he had hidden in there.
“Selkie!” He cried when the thunder yelled at him. “Selkie, where are you?”
He flew above the house and the wind tried to land him, but he saw she was not there. Griffons ran around the town, and they screamed. A confused mess of frightened griffons took over the town. Movement drew his eyes to the cliffs. And there he found Selkie and their cubs, walking to the stone edge above the entrance of their harbor.
His heart sank and his paws trembled. Griffons flew above the houses, but the wind was mighty, and they knew not to trifle with the storm. The bravest ones flew to the cliffs after Selkie and her strange cubs, but they did nothing. They kept their distance when lightning crossed the sky. There was nothing good a griffon could get approaching the slippery stones and the cliff’s edge. Much less daring the storm and Mother’s fury.
“Selkie!” The Fishergriffon cried, though.
He made to fly to her, but the wind dashed him against the wood of his house. He stood, and he galloped against the wind as the thunder roared at him from the clouds. When he reached the cliff, Selkie jingled her collar and transformed. She jumped off the cliff and so did her cubs.
He screamed and almost fell off the cliff. Amid the churning waters he found Selkie and her five fish-cubs, vanishing under the white foam.
“Selkie! Don’t leave me!” He cried, tears and rain in his eyes, reaching for her.
His paws pushed against the stone and slipped. The world spun around him. But a griffon held his paw. Geranium and her perpetual frown, stricken with sorrow, held him from the edge by a foreleg.
“No, my mate!” She frowned at him, as she always did. Her eyes pleaded. Her voice begged. “We will work this out! Please!”
Other griffons joined her, trying to reach him. Golin, his fishergriffon friend, held her, so his weight wouldn’t drag her past the edge. His eldest daughter too crouched at the edge, next to her mother and a young tom. Strong and gray as the rocks, his paw flailed in the air. Desperately trying to reach the Fishergriffon hanging from his paw.
What happened? His eyes darted with confusion from one to the other. When had his daughter gotten so big? Where was the little cyan grifflet hanging from the side of his boat? When had his little kitten met that handsome tom, and why didn’t he know his name?
He found Geranium again. Wrinkles made her perpetual frown deeper. She talked to him with her raspy voice, but her words never found his ears. Her plumage had taken an elderly silver around her beak. His friend Golin had his shades of green speckled with white. The village’s elder never appeared, and neither did his hag of a mate.
And then, he found only pain in Geranium’s cyan eyes. But it was not hers. It belonged to the old fool she desperately tried to save. The clouds wept above. Thunder rumbled, distant and melancholic.
“I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.” His heart weighed too heavy. He let go of her paw and slipped from her talons.
She screamed. Geranium howled and grasped at the air, coming short of leaping after him. But more reasonable griffons held her. Others screamed too. They became small while the wind rushed past the Fishergriffon’s ears and the cliff grew taller. Rushing wind became water. The sea claimed him mercilessly and to the depths dragged him. A furious current tossed him in the dark and the rocks ended that old fool’s pain.
Old Galfrid closed her eyes as her finishing words left her beak. The wind sang outside, and the thunder offered a counterpoint. The fire crackled and warmed the hall. It smelled of burning ash and of cooked meat. The older of Madam Galfrid’s cubs stared silently at the wood of their heavy table. A young queen between them sniffled. Gainor stared into his empty bowl, holding it in his paws.
A younger cub at the table, with a greasy beak and harboring her empty bowl between her little paws, snorted, and giggled. “Her fanny looked like a blobfish.”
Delighted, laughing cubs surrounded the young hunter. Next to the cauldron, the servant griffon stirred the wooden spoon around it. Too thoughtful to laugh with the little cubs as was the Huntsgriffon of Whiteford. At her seat, the old griffon lady smiled quietly, hiding her beak behind her white paw and wicked talons.
“Galvin.” Galfrid finally spoke again once the cubs calmed down. “Make the guest room ready for Master Gainor. I believe he shall weather the storm with us this night.”
Obediently, the green griffon let the wooden spoon go with a clung to the cauldron. Excusing himself with a bow, he rushed past the door behind Galfrid’s seat.
“Thank you, Madam Galfrid. For your hospitality.” The hunter told her quietly.
Come the morning, the sky was as clear as it would ever be in that region bordering the perpetual winter. Gainor’s conscience was clearer.
