“You said that humanity was being punished and that’s why we can’t see them.”
“That’s right.”
“Punished for what?” Sam asked.
Chase and Vance exchanged a look. Chase smirked. “You want me to take this, old boy?”
“Be my guest,” Vance said.
“Have you ever heard of Alexander the Great?” Chase asked.
“He was a general from a long time ago, right?”
“Something like that.”
Sam sat quietly as Chase and Vantana took turns telling him a story that sounded like it belonged in the pages of a fantasy novel. They explained that in the third century BC, Alexander the Great became king of Macedon, a territory in northern Greece. A brilliant military commander, Alexander led his forces across Persia, conquering all in his wake. As his power grew, so did his arrogance. He became so imperious he thought himself a god. To prove he had no rival, Alexander ordered his men to catch two gryphons. He had the creatures tied to a chariot and forced them to fly him toward the sun. Alexander wished to stare into the face of God. But when he reached the very edge of the sky, he saw nothing. When he returned to earth on the backs of the crippled, dying gryphons, he was confronted by an old man who he believed to be his creator. Alexander offered him gifts and welcomed him into his kingdom. But the old man revealed himself to be Phylassos, the king of all gryphons and protector of magical creatures.
“He could change his shape?” inquired Sam at this point in the story, intrigued.
Vance nodded. “So the yarn has been spun.”
Chase continued the tale. “Phylassos was furious with Alexander. For centuries, humanity and magical creatures had lived in peace. But this moment had illustrated the danger humans posed to creatures like these. Humanity’s hubris would only grow more profound, and that meant animals like gryphons and the others would never be safe. Humans would find ways to exploit them and use them to serve their contemptible ways. And so Phylassos cursed humanity: from thence forward, humans would remain blind to the magical beasts surrounding them. Creatures of all shapes and sizes were given a choice: they could follow Phylassos’s order or take on a more agreeable form.”
“ ‘Agreeable’?”
“You now see me as my true self, Sam, but others see me as human,” Chase explained with a modicum of disappointment. “It is our lot in life to never be seen as who we really are.”
“That’s a bummer,” replied Sam.
“I appreciate the sentiment,” Chase offered. “We are not the only species who must hide in this manner. Trolls and others appear as human to those without the sight.”
“And so that’s how it has been? Ever since Alexander the Great?” Sam asked.
The two men nodded.
Chase added, “Over time there has been a select group of individuals whom Phylassos has trusted to help ensure this wall of perception is never broken. Dr. Vantana and I are not the first in our positions.”
“So just because humans can’t see these creatures doesn’t mean that the creatures can’t—”
“See them. Or interfere with them.” Vance completed Sam’s thought. Sam nodded and yawned. “I think it’s time you went to bed,” Vantana concluded.
“He does appear tuckered out,” Chase observed.
Sam had more questions, but Vance was right. He could feel his eyes growing heavier by the moment. After all, he had been awake for well over twenty-four hours, having foregone sleep the night before to plan his desert excursion. It was becoming increasingly difficult to stay attentive, and Sam didn’t want to miss a thing.
Vance tucked him into the bed in Chase’s guest room. The doctor was very gentle when he wished to be, Sam noted. It was the first time he could remember ever being tucked in by someone other than his mother. Sam couldn’t help but wonder if this was what it would feel like to have a father. Vance was strong and confident and caring. He’d be perfect for Ettie, Sam thought. But trying to make a love connection between those two would require an awful lot of explanation. It exhausted Sam just thinking about it. As Vance walked to the doorway and switched off the light, Sam managed one more question.
“Dr. Vantana—where are we going tomorrow?” he asked through the darkness.
“It’s Vance, Sam. And I’ve got a lot of questions for you, about Phylassos,” he replied as he stood silhouetted in the entry. “I need to find the answers. It’ll be the best way to keep you safe. Get you back home with your mother.”
“Who has the answers?” Sam asked.
“Carl,” Vance said assuredly. “Carl can help.”
Penelope Naughton was still adjusting to a life she didn’t remember. Each new day offered fresh revelations that were both mind-boggling and oddly familiar. It was a distinctly peculiar feeling. It was also one that had manifested itself just a few weeks prior at the International House of Pancakes in Eureka when she spotted a troll having breakfast and began questioning her sanity. Ironically, it was the troll, Trevor, who’d been by her side ever since, helping her fit together the jigsaw-like pieces of her past.
“Traybee steps,” Trevor would often say when Penelope recalled aspects of her life. Traybee steps were the first steps baby trolls took when they were learning to walk. Of course, trolls were quite large as infants, so traybee steps didn’t correspond perfectly to human baby steps. They were much, much bigger, and therefore, when Trevor said “traybee steps,” it meant Penelope had made a giant leap in understanding. The last time she had taken a traybee step was the day she returned to the park. After passing out in the woods, she awoke in her cabin, where Trevor explained the existence of mythical creatures and her role in protecting them from humans, and vice versa.
Since then, Penelope had eased back into her role as park ranger at Redwood National Park. The most enjoyable part of her job was tending to the tourists and campers who passed through the legendary gates. She handed out maps, answered questions, and enforced the rules efficiently and affably. But there remained other aspects of her occupation that required further acclimation. Specifically, dealing with the mythical wildlife that roamed the forest. She had come to learn that, like her, many of the nation’s park rangers had been briefed on the existence of mythical creatures and were responsible for their well-being. But Penelope’s responsibilities to these animals went much further.
Science had always been Penelope’s strong suit. Someone once told her the things you’re very good at are often the things you are most humble about. When people paid Penelope compliments regarding her scientific prowess, she was always quick to point to some other scientist, past or present, who was—as she put it—so much smarter than she was. But the fact was, she was an exceptional scientist, and more importantly, she enjoyed her work. She recalled using her skills with the Department of the Interior, but it was this particular morning that she remembered using these same skills for the Department of Mythical Wildlife. She was out making her rounds in a remote area of the park when more of the pieces of that puzzle began to come together.
“Are you going to follow me forever?” Penelope asked Trevor, who was less than a foot behind her.
“Dr. Vantana said I got to—I got to until you’re not sick in the head anymore,” the troll stammered.
“Sick in the head?” Penelope was annoyed by Trevor’s indelicate choice of words. He looked down at her, unsure what to say or whether a reply was even necessary. Penelope noticed his confusion—a response Trevor seemed to display on many occasions. “Never mind,” she added. “And what about him? Is he always going to follow me like a lost little puppy?” She motioned to the woods that surrounded the narrow hiking trail. Trevor followed her gesture and spotted the white winged horse named Gus slowly shadowing them.
“Gus? Well, yeah. He’s kinda like your best friend,” explained Trevor.
Great, Penelope thought. My best friend is a horse. Well, at least he can fly.
“Fly,” Penelope heard a voice whisper. She stopped and Trevor nearly
ran into her. She eyed the troll quizzically.
“What?” Penelope asked him.
“What?” Trevor replied with his requisite confused expression.
“Did you just say something?”
Trevor shook his trollish head. His appearance still took some getting used to for Penelope. He was hard on the eyes, but also sweet and surprisingly gentle. He grew less ugly with each passing day. Penelope considered his answer, peered around suspiciously, then continued on her way.
“Fly. Fly us?” the voice whispered again. Louder this time, and sounding like a question. Penelope froze, and this time Trevor couldn’t slow his forward momentum. He slammed into the ranger and she tumbled to the ground. Trevor panicked.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Ranger Naughton. I’m so sorry,” Trevor pleaded. He pulled her to her feet with his long, hairy arm and went about brushing the dirt off her clothes. He was a little rougher than necessary, and Penelope backed away.
“What did you say?” she asked with authority.
“Sorry?” Trevor responded.
“No, before that. You said ‘fly’ or ‘fly us’ or something like that.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Fly us…,” the wispy voice called out once more.
“There!” Penelope exclaimed. “Did you hear that?”
“I didn’t hear anything, Ranger Naughton,” Trevor insisted.
“What are you implying? That I’m hearing things now?” Penelope asked, incredulous. “I suppose that’s part of the job? Hearing voices in my head?”
“No, that’s not—” And then Trevor’s gaze moved from Penelope to Gus. His purple-red lips curled into a smile and he began to giggle. A low-toned growl of a giggle that exposed his large, discolored teeth, a few of which came to sharp points.
“I know, I know!” Trevor declared in his childlike voice. “You hear Gus. Gus is talking to you. I can’t hear him, but you can.”
“Gus? The horse?” Penelope replied. Trevor nodded happily. Penelope’s eyes darted to the forest, where she spotted the winged creature. He was looking directly at her. When she met his gaze, a rush of memories flooded her mind. Memories of the two of them in the forest side by side, Penelope brushing his gleaming white coat, and of flying. Lots of flying. She could instantly recall riding on Gus’s back as they soared high above the redwoods. But that wasn’t all. There was one other memory that returned.
“My lab,” she said wistfully. Trevor grinned.
“Dr. Vantana said you’d remember and that I couldn’t tell you about it. You had to remember it for yourself. I don’t know why….”
As Trevor rambled on, Penelope closed her eyes and let the memories sweep over her. She could now picture her laboratory perfectly in her mind’s eye. A silvery gray room with lab tables and computers and Erlenmeyer flasks—conical-shaped glass vessels holding liquids of various vibrant colors. She recalled working in the lab, mixing those concoctions, using the computers. The rush of recollections was overwhelming, like being a child on Christmas morning, racing down the stairs and seeing all the presents under the tree. Penelope discovered that she had been the lead scientist for the DMW and had perfected the ways humans were able to see mythical creatures. Her serums, developed from the red blood cells of these creatures, had minimized the amount of blood needed to provide the “sight” to humans. Her methods strengthened the potency of the injections and provided the department’s officials a veritable menu of creatures to choose from. This was important since these injections didn’t merely give humans the “sight”; they also bestowed upon them the magical abilities of the creatures whose blood was used. Diminished magical abilities, of course. Penelope had mastered the formula to ensure there wasn’t too much power, which could prove fatal, and not too little, which would give humans the “sight” and nothing else. And then she remembered her own injection.
“I can hear Gus because he’s inside me. His blood is…” Trevor nodded. “Equavolaxin,” she recalled.
“Those horses there, they talk with their brains,” Trevor added. “And you can also fly with them and go really high. I’ve seen you do it. You once went so high I couldn’t see you anymore.”
“Of course,” Penelope said, realizing, “I can breathe up there because of the injection.” She spun toward Trevor. “Where’s my lab?”
“Where you left it?” he said, uncertain.
“Never mind. I think I remember,” she declared as she stepped into the woods. She reached Gus, petted his silvery mane, and said, “Let’s fly.”
The horse whinnied in excitement and lowered his body to allow Penelope to climb on. She mounted the horse and Gus galloped forward, flapping his feathered wings. As Gus took flight, rising above the redwoods, Trevor heard Penelope joyfully cry out, “Traybee steps!”
—
The anticipation of what another day held was too great to keep Sam London in bed much after dawn. There was also something else propelling him from his slumber: the distinct smell of breakfast. His nose could discern several elements of the impending feast, including bacon, toast, and a dish with onion. The delectable combination of scents crept in under the door and rose a few feet to find Sam lying on the mattress. He slowly sat upright, as if the appetizing aroma had reached out with wispy fingers and pulled him to a seated position.
Judging by the quality of the hot cocoa Chase had prepared the night before, Sam assumed this morning’s meal was likely to be as delicious as it smelled. As he climbed out of bed, he noticed that his clothes had been placed on a red velvet wingback chair in the corner of the room. They were dry and even appeared to have been pressed. The chair and the simple wood-framed bed were the only two pieces of furniture. Sam concluded that cynocephali were minimalists when it came to interior decorating. The entire home was mostly empty and didn’t evoke any particular style. He had hoped to see a few pictures of Chase’s family. He wanted to find out if there were different breeds of cynocephali. He was dying to lay eyes on a man-sized Chihuahua. Unfortunately, the house was devoid of personal effects. Sam considered this an interesting cultural observation. These dog-people must not be a nostalgic sort.
Sam got dressed and followed his nose to the dining room, where he found the large mahogany table set with polished silverware and a smorgasbord waiting to satiate his hunger. Among the spread were several identifiable items and a few that appeared alien.
“Good morning, Mr. London,” said Chase as he entered with a plate overflowing with fried eggs. “Hungry?”
“Starved,” Sam replied.
“Please.” Chase gestured to a chair. As he did, Sam observed a small white patch on Chase’s arm. A single colorless spot. Chase noticed. “Family birthmark. I guess I should be thankful they didn’t name me Spot,” he joked.
Sam peered around. “Where’s Dr. Vantana?”
“He’s having a new windshield put on the car. The hazards of playing with les gargouilles.”
Sam sat down, pulled his chair close to the table, and got right down to business. It was all as tasty as he’d predicted. Chase also indulged, but not nearly with the same abandon. He appeared amused by Sam’s appetite. He explained that they were eating a “full English breakfast.” There were fried eggs, fried tomatoes, bacon, sausage, toast, and a dish called bubble and squeak, which Sam initially believed was fancy dog food for cynocephali. It was actually a vegetable dish, but Chase had quite a chuckle at Sam’s original determination. Yet with all the delicacies to choose from, Sam enjoyed the cookies Chase had set out the most. They were small and rectangular in shape, with a slight coconut flavor and the word “NICE” etched on their face. Chase referred to them as biscuits and confessed that he’d had a weakness for the sugary treats since childhood. The conversation then turned to Sam.
“Why do you suppose Phylassos chose you?” Chase inquired. Sam shrugged as he took in a mouthful of eggs. Chase squinted at Sam and added, almost to himself, “What makes you special?”
Sam was quick to respond.
“Nothing. Nothing makes me special. I promise.” If only Chase could see his room, Sam thought. The cynocephalus would bear witness to all the failed attempts to find that one special skill. Chase considered Sam’s answer but didn’t seem to believe it. As Chase eyed him, Sam looked around the dining area. It was as sparsely decorated as the guest room.
“Why don’t you have any pictures of your family?” Sam asked.
“Observant, I see,” Chase replied. “Cynocephali do not prize familial relationships or any relationship based solely on genetic correlation. It can prove binding. As such, we have no need to make proud or opportunity to disappoint. We see relationships as purposeful, and purposes have beginnings and ends.”
“Do you care about each other?” Sam wondered.
“We care very deeply, but not about any one individual. About all of us. About our collective future,” Chase explained.
“Do you have a family?”
“I have offspring, but when cynocephali children are born, they are raised separately from their parents.”
“So you don’t know your own children?” Sam asked.
“I know of them. But we interact as fellow cynocephali. Nothing more. Enough about us. I have a great many questions about Phylassos. His appearance could mean many things to us as a species.”
Guardians of the Gryphon's Claw Page 7