For the Greater Beasts of the surface world (dragons, unicorns, griffins, etc.), passage has been made more difficult than for smaller beings. This is because their presence in the human world is more easily detected and thus potentially more disruptive. For these creatures, certain key places can act as passage points. A sacred tree, for example, may function much the same way as a church, with a trip about it three times widdershins opening the way. Also, some caves open onto both worlds: Enter from one world, walk through, exit into the other. However, most of those passage points have been sealed over the past century as the two worlds continue to grow more separate.
It is rumored (but not confirmed to the satisfaction of this writer) that reaching a certain velocity of flight—one that stretches the flier to the absolute limit—will sometimes pierce the barrier.
Another method requires an act of courage or faith, as in flying headfirst at full speed toward a stone wall that has been designated as a passage point.
The problem with this method is that it requires not only the right spot but also sufficient belief. The lack of either of these can result in a very painful failure and, usually, death.
Sunday, June 28 (continued)
So unless I can find one of those magical trees or caves that the book talks about, to reach the human world I will have to fly headfirst into a stone wall, believing while I do so that I will magically pass through it!
This reminds me of a story Mom used to tell, called “The Little Griffin Who Could.” I should probably chant “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…” while I fly at top speed into a sheer rock wall!
If I “think I can” hard enough, I will make it through to the human world.
If I don’t believe hard enough, it’s SPLAT! and good-bye Gerald.
Probably I should just stay home.
Here is today’s poem, which is pretty depressing:
Stay at home, never roam.
Just a stick in the mud,
Gerald, a mighty griffin,
Turned out to be a dud.
NO! I will not let that happen. I must go!
It is not just that I need to be away from my stooopid siblings, who think I am timid and fearful. What they do not understand is that my heart is wild and free and longs to roam far beyond what they can begin to imagine, just as Izzikiah Wildbeak does in The Griffinagria. Of course, my sibs wouldn’t know about that, for the simple reason that they are not readers. Of the three of us, only I know the full story of the most wonderful griffin of them all.
Silly siblings. They have no idea what they’re missing by not reading.
I must make plans.
From the Journal of Bradley Ashango
(Summer Assignment)
6/29 (Mon.)
Yesterday I left the city for my grandmother’s house. I went on a Greyhound bus. It was smelly.
The bus left from Port Authority. Three hours later it got to Vande Velde’s Landing. My grandmother was waiting for me.
I hope I will have a good summer. I love my grandmother. She has raspberry bushes, but her farm is in bad shape.
(3 paragraphs, 3 sentences each, including 1 compound sentence.)
From Brad’s Real Journal
6/29
The bus ride to Vande Velde’s Landing was about as enjoyable as week-old meatballs with cabbage sauce. That was mostly because the whole process made me feel like a little kid. To begin with, since I am “underage” (according to the bus company), Mom had to fill out an Unaccompanied-Child Form and take it to the customer service window, where we had to wait in a long line. The clerk gave us that look I am so tired of seeing, the one where I can tell he’s trying to figure out why someone as white as my mother has a kid as dark as me. It was so annoying I wanted to scream.
When we were finally done with the UCF we had to stand in another line so I could actually get on the bus.
Mom had to stand with me, of course, and she kept fretting about some appointment she had to get to. So I guess she wasn’t that worried about sending her firstborn (not to mention her only born) off on a bus full of strangers. Okay, I wasn’t worried, either. But aren’t moms supposed to fuss at times like this?
It made the good-bye kiss I had to endure before she would let me climb on the bus all the more ridiculous.
Before we started out, the driver made a speech about how everyone had better stay quiet and not play loud music or talk too much. She made it clear that if she didn’t like the way you were acting, she would throw yer butt off the bus. I had a feeling she could do it, too…even to some of the big guys!
I was sitting next to a not-big guy, a skinny dude from India who was heading upstate for a summer job. His name was Aamir and he’s been in America for less than a year.
This was the best part of the trip, since Aamir didn’t mind when I pestered him with all kinds of questions about Mumbai, which is where he came from. I liked talking to him, especially because Bibi and I are huge fans of Bollywood movies. They are kind of wack but sometimes totally amazing! Dad was the one who got us into them. I told Aamir that, but now I’m afraid that saying it might have seemed dorky.
He asked why I called my grandmother “Bibi,” and I explained that my father had been from Kenya and that “Bibi” was Swahili for “grandmother.” He thanked me for the information.
Bibi herself, all stout and smiling, was waiting at the bus station.
She had come alone, which made me happy. I thought she might have her boyfriend, Herb, with her. Herb is all right, but I wanted Bibi to myself for a while!
On the minus side, she had to show photo ID before the Overlord of the Bus Terminal (that is, the driver) would release me to her. I know there are valid reasons for this. Even so, it was fairly humiliating.
Bibi was driving her pickup truck. The thing is plenty beat up, but I love it. We threw my bags into the bed, then I climbed into the cab and we headed for the farm. This required driving through town, which is a weird experience, since Vande Velde’s Landing has an amazing number of yards crammed with garden-gnome statues. Well, I suppose it’s no surprise if you consider that gnomes are the town’s official tourist attraction. The gift shops sell all kinds of tacky gnome souvenirs, including a document called the Charter of the Gnome Protective Association. It’s handwritten on brown parchment paper, and you can buy it framed or unframed.
I think all that might explain the crazy dream I had when I was so sick last summer. So much wacky gnome stuff probably put it into my head.
Soon enough we were out of town and jouncing along the back roads. I liked the way the truck bounced and rattled on this part of the trip. Something about that felt very real.
I’ve been here a couple of hours now and I’m a little worried about Bibi. She’s as wonderful as ever, of course. And it was no surprise that she had a big batch of cookies ready for me. But though she’s obviously happy to see me, she seems nervous and upset. I kept asking her about it, but she never gave me a straight answer.
What could be bothering her?
Despite that worry, I’m happy to be here. This afternoon I plan to go for a ramble in the woods. Bibi showed me the way around last year, so she doesn’t worry when I go out there. I’ll toss a book and a bottle of water in my backpack, and it will be great.
The Charter of the Gnome
Protective Association
When in the course of human and nonhuman events, it becomes necessary for one people to shield another from discovery and persecution, then those of goodwill and stout heart must step forward to take a stand.
That time has come for us in Vande Velde’s Landing.
The very name of our society is reflective of what this declaration is about. We now have among us a contingent of gnomes, tiny folk, intelligent and highly moral, who came here from the home country and need our assistance.
Though our gnome neighbors are in large part self-sufficient, there are certain things they need from us and certain services they are willing to per
form in return, as is appropriate in a good Dutch bargain.
What they most desire, profoundly and intensely, is privacy and protection from prying eyes. Thus it is that we, certain elders in the village of Vande Velde’s Landing, have gathered to pledge our aid and give our assurance of secrecy to these, our tiny but most worthy neighbors.
The gnomes have vowed to provide similar aid to us as they are able—especially in medical matters, where they have great skill and knowledge.
With this charter we decree that we will do all in our power to shield our small neighbors from the prying eyes of the world. We will respect their privacy and give no sign or hint that such folk live among or near to us.
To this we pledge our sacred honor.
Furthermore, as the continuance of this promise and pledge is of utmost importance, we vow to bring into our membership only the most honorable and trustworthy of souls, generation to generation, so that this pact might go on forever.
Thus it is, thus may it ever be.
Signed July 12, 1732, by
Monday, June 29
I am leaving tonight and that’s that!
After what happened today I can no longer stay. The humiliation is too great.
Oddly, the final push to send me out on my own did not come from Cyril and Violet and their relentless teasing.
It came from my father.
The only good thing I can say about this is that Dad did not intentionally hurt my feelings. It was only because I overheard him talking to Mom that this boiling pain is cascading across my heart.
I honestly did not plan to eavesdrop on my parents. It was just that when I came back to our cave to fetch my diary I heard them talking.
Had to put down my feather for a little while, as I was too overcome with grief to continue. Little did I anticipate how agonizing it would be to write this entry!
Deep breath.
All right, here’s what happened: Returning from sky ballet practice, I landed on the ledge outside our cave. Before I could enter, I heard my father exclaim, “Cecelia, I am so worried about Gerald that I am starting to molt!”
This hit me hard. Part of me wanted to flee, but even stronger was the desire to hear my parents’ conversation.
Mom’s first words were comforting. “Now, Reggie, let’s not be overly concerned.”
“I am not ‘overly concerned’!” Dad shouted. “I am realistic. You know very well that in only two weeks Gerald has to add a treasure to his hoard. You know equally well that Cyril and Violet have already worked out what they want for their tenths, and how to obtain the treasures.”
This was a surprise, and a distinctly upsetting one. Neither of my sibs had mentioned anything about this to me. I felt terribly left out.
“Do you have any sense that Gerald has even considered the problem?” continued Dad.
I wanted to shout, “Of course I’ve considered it! I think about it every day!”
Unfortunately, you shouldn’t shout at someone you’re eavesdropping on.
“Now, Reggie,” said Mom. “Have some faith in the boy.”
“Faith?” cried Dad (who has always had a powerful temper). “Give me one good reason to have faith!”
I waited for my mother to answer, but she remained silent.
Even she could not find a reason to give him hope!
As if her silence had not blasted my heart hard enough, the next sound to come from the cave was a hammer blow to my heart.
My father began to weep!
“I had such hope for the boy,” he sobbed. “He should have been first-hatched, first in my heart, first to take wing. But always he has hung back, always delayed, always been in fear. Always shamed me.”
“Not always,” said Mom gently. “There was the first hunting of the rabbits. He took the lead in that.”
“They were rabbits!” exploded Dad. He let out a heavy sigh, then said, “Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to face the other fathers? They boast and brag of their children, especially their first-hatched, and their mighty deeds. When it should be my turn, all I can do is shrug my wings and say, ‘Gerald has yet to come into his own.’ Then I feel like a fool and wish I could slink back to our cave and hide.”
It is one thing to endure the teasing of my siblings. It is another thing entirely to bring such pain to my father, whom I love more than I love the sky and flight itself.
It is indeed time for me to run (or fly) away.
Therefore, tonight is the night.
I must be as brave as Izzikiah Wildbeak in The Griffinagria. He is my hero, and I want to act as he would act.
How I wish I could write poems with the power and strength of the verse in The Griffinagria!
Here is my poem for today, the longest and saddest I have ever written:
Gerald the Griffin
Has let down his mother,
Also his father
And sister and brother.
Gerald feels lonely,
Gerald feels bad,
Gerald is sorry
He’s made his dad sad.
Gerald is leaving,
Gerald can’t stay,
Gerald is packing
And flying away!
I suppose that’s kind of self-pitying, but it’s the way I feel right now.
Besides, it’s not for anyone else to read.
Clearly as a poet I still have a lot to learn. But here is the one thing I do know. Tonight I will be flying at full speed headfirst into a cliff.
If I do not survive, this will be my last entry.
From advertisement and solicitation for Edgar Winterwings’ new translation from the original Griffin-Italian
The Griffinagria is generally considered the greatest artistic achievement of the griffin world. Written by Josiah Cloudclaws approximately two thousand years ago, this epic poem chronicles in exquisite verse the origin of the griffins, their early years of struggle, and, most important, the leadership of Izzikiah Wildbeak in the great war with the Arimaspians.
Within this vast and wondrous work, which is filled with wisdom and adventure, can be found all the truths needed for a griffin to lead a good and proper life. Indeed, it is the source of the Code of the Griffins.
No aerie is complete without a copy of this magnificent epic. We now offer a gorgeous leather-bound edition, featuring over one hundred original illustrations, available for purchase from our offices in reasonable monthly installments.
PARENTS SHOULD NOT LET THEIR GRIFFLINGS ESCAPE THE AERIE WITHOUT READING THIS CORE TEXT!
So you’ll know what The Griffinagria is like, here is a typical stanza.—G.O.
And in those days of rage did Izzikiah,
Who was, of griffins, greatest in all ways,
Spread wide his wings to cool rise of a fire
That if not quenched might set the world ablaze.
But, O! the price he paid for his harsh blow
Would haunt the high-flown warrior all his days.
For his own child, who caused his heart to glow
(Egg-born, first-hatched, his image on the wing),
Now deep into forbidden realms needs go.
And from those dark and fearful haunts must bring
Sweet balm to soothe the broken heart’s sharp sting.
Did you catch the rhyme structure? It’s ABA, BCB, CDC, DD. Unfortunately, it’s a bit weak in the first stanza (“Izzikiah” and “fire”) due to translation issues.
Anyway, this is called terza rima, and we griffins taught it to the Italian poet Dante, who used it as the form for his Divine Comedy. Speaking for myself, I would give two talons and several pinfeathers to be able to write like this!—G.O.
Tuesday, June 30
So much to write about since my last entry!
To be painfully honest (and why should I be anything but honest in my own diary?), I must start with this: Despite my vow to leave last night, I once again backed away from the idea.
This was not mere cowardice. It was the realiza
tion that I had no idea which stone walls might be “designated points of passage”! The idea of running (flying) away felt simple when it first came to me. That was because back then I had no idea how dangerous it would be to attempt to leave the Enchanted Realm!
I was trying to sleep but not having much success. Just as I did finally start to drift off, I was pulled back to wakefulness by a tug on one of my ears!
It was Master Abelard. He was sitting on my head, his favorite place for delivering instruction. Speaking softly into my right ear he said, “Gerald, I know you have been thinking about running away.”
“How could you know that?” I yelped.
“Not so loud! Get up and slink out onto the ledge so we can talk.”
I did as he ordered, using the “thistledown on the breeze” technique Dad taught us when we were first learning to hunt.
It was a clear night, illumined by a bright half-moon. The air was cool and crisp. The canyon that stretches so deep below the ledge was mostly in shadow.
Once we were safely away from my sleeping family, I repeated softly, “How did you know I was thinking about running away?”
“Because I know you, Gerald. I understand the way you think, even if you don’t always understand it yourself. If you truly want to go, I am ready to accompany you. I believe I can give you considerable help with life on the other side of the Transcendental Curtain.”
This was such a remarkable statement that I could barely contain a squawk.
“You’ll come with me?” I asked, voice low as I was able.
“Yes. The fact is, I need to get away from the university for a while. And, as your tutor, I feel this journey will be a good way to continue your education.”
I took a deep breath, then admitted my fears. “Master A, I read an article on how to enter the human world. I don’t know where there is a cave or tree that will work, and I don’t think I can do that flying-straight-into-a-stone-wall thing!”
Hatched Page 4