by Chrys Cymri
‘I’ll find out where we’re staying,’ Morey said. I watched him fly towards the far end of the tents. The missing feathers still made him list slightly to one side, but he seemed to have found how to compensate for the imbalance.
Peter and James joined me to untie our luggage from the orange-skinned dragon. The men hoisted their backpacks and took another sack besides, leaving me with only my own backpack to carry. I thought of registering a protest, but then decided to let them have their moment of masculine superiority.
Morey returned, circling over our heads as he told us, ‘Follow me.’
One of the tents was arranged as an entranceway. The front and rear flaps were tied up, allowing us to walk through into the square. The sand was much firmer here, and my ankles breathed a sign of relief. A number of gryphons lazed on carpets, either inside a tent or on the square itself. Our own accommodation was near the entrance. I pushed the flap to one side and we stepped in.
The air was warm, and smelled of leather and wool. A small table sat in one corner, with an earthenware jug and mugs resting on the wooden top. Otherwise the carpeted area was bare.
‘We’re all sleeping in here together?’ Peter asked Morey.
‘So we are.’ Morey strode across the floor. ‘The grŵp rhyfelwyr stays together for the final challenge.’
James dropped his bags at the far end. ‘Any idea what that’ll be?’
‘The matriarch will tell us tomorrow morning.’
‘And tonight?’ I asked.
‘Tonight, we have a feast. And dancing.’
‘Dancing?’ James repeated. ‘Gryphons dance?’
‘Of course we dance,’ Morey said. ‘Make sure you have your swords with you.’
I stared at him. ‘For a dance? Is your clan Scottish?’
‘“For we're no' awa' tae bide awa', for we're no' awa tae le'e ye.”’ Morey said, sliding from his normal Welsh accent into something virtually incomprehensible. ‘Of course not. Just bring them, you’ll see. Actually, if we go outside the camp, you’ll be able to see several gryphons already practicing.’
‘That sounds great,’ James said. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Just before you do,’ I said firmly. ‘Let’s get one thing straight. When you leave the camp, right dune is for girls, left is for boys. Okay?’
‘What for?’ James asked.
‘What do you think, we bring a toilet out into the desert?’ Morey asked as he fluttered up to my brother’s shoulder. They left the tent together.
Peter looked at me. ‘Are you okay with this, Penny? I could ask to bed down in a different tent.’
‘You and James can be on one side.’ I scooped a spare carpet into a small bed, and let Clyde crawl into the centre. ‘I’ll be on the other, and Morey and Clyde between us. Plenty of chaperones.’
‘Sounds like it. Penny, I need to talk to you about something.’
‘Oh, you’ve heard?’ I turned away from him and busied myself with spreading out my sleeping bag. ‘Well, it had to be said. Child labour is just wrong. It doesn’t matter that they can’t ship my things back for several weeks. It’s not like I don’t have spare clothes at home.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’ve been dismissed.’ I lowered myself to the ground, my legs suddenly weak. ‘The congregation didn’t like my sermon, and the churchwardens have told me to leave Saint Wulfram’s.’
Peter took a seat several feet away. ‘That’s a bit quick. Would they really fire you because of one sermon?’
‘When it insults their patron, yes.’
‘Lord Willis?’ Peter smiled ruefully at my nod. ‘He runs everything in that town.’
‘Don’t I know it.’ I shuddered. ‘But you should have seen them, Peter. He has pufflings chained up under his house to provide the heating. And young weres and unicorns work in the textile factory. Who knows what else is going on? I only toured a few of his businesses. There might be far worse.’
‘Our country used to have child labour.’
‘And we outlawed it.’
‘Lloegyr is a much younger country.’ Peter reached over to pat my knee. ‘These things take time. So, when do you have to leave?’
‘By tomorrow. So when we leave here, I’ll be going back to England. With James, Clyde, and Morey.’
‘I’ll have to see about joining you. My contract was for three months.’ Peter rose to his feet. ‘Ready to watch some gryphons dance?’
I stared up at him. Although I couldn’t quite say how I’d hoped he’d react to my news, this was not what I’d been looking for. ‘You go. I’ll be along in a minute.’
‘Fine.’ He bent down, and retrieved his sword.
Clyde uncurled from his shell after the tent flap had dropped back in place. ‘Sad?’ he asked me.
‘Yes, Clyde. But there’s no point in moping, is there?’ I found my own sword, and dug out my brother’s. ‘I think I’d better take you in your case. Sand probably won’t feel very good against your foot.’
I joined Peter and James outside the camp. A half dozen gryphons had paired off to perform a very stylised series of movements. I found myself reminded of some bird courtships I’d seen on nature programmes. Each pair faced each other, then moved in unison. To the left, to the right, one thrusting forwards whilst the other pulled back, then a counterthrust and retreat. Sand churned under their clawed feet, and the sun glinted on brown feathers and tawny skin.
Beyond them, a number of gryphons were adding wood to a fire. A large carcass hung on a metal spike, just beyond reach of the flames. The smell of pork overwhelmed that of hot fur and feathers. I felt my stomach rumble.
‘Hog roast,’ James said. ‘I love hog roast.’
‘Talking pig,’ Morey reminded him from his perch on my brother’s shoulder.
‘You really like ruining my appetite, don’t you?’
The pair of gryphons nearest us broke off and laughed. ‘Boar,’ one told us. ‘Not pig.’
‘Does that make a difference?’ James asked hopefully.
‘No one’s ever heard a boar speak,’ Morey admitted. ‘At least, not in Welsh or English.’
‘I’m certain it’s being cooked just for us,’ Peter said. ‘I think we’d better eat some, or we might offend our hosts.’
Whales and slippery slopes came to mind. And how hungry I was. ‘All right. We’re all in this together.’
‘In for a penny, in for a pound?’ Morey suggested.
I glared at him. ‘That’s beneath you, Morey.’
The gryphons had finished their dance, and strode off towards the camp. We made our way to the roast. Aodh and his small black dragon stood nearby. I gave Olafor a closer look, but saw no sign of chains or other restraints. It looked like he chose to stay with the blacksmith.
‘Father Penny and company,’ the dwarf greeted us. ‘Knives and plates I have for us all. And even a few potatoes.’
‘Chips?’ Clyde asked hopefully, poking his head out of his case.
‘Not quite, young snail.’ Aodh prodded at a mound of sand near the fire pit. ‘You’ll not be wanting this cooked meat, at any rate. You and the gryphon can join the others at the buffalo carcass.’
Clyde’s eyespots looked up at me. ‘Eat here.’
‘And I will, too.’ Morey hopped down from James’ shoulder. ‘Can’t be any worse than Penny’s attempts at a Sunday roast.’
Aodh served up slices of well cooked meat and baked potatoes. The plates were of some heavy metal, and I rested mine on the sand in front of me. The pork was delicious, but I did find myself wondering how I’d manage to get my five a day whilst living in the midst of gryphons. They didn’t strike me as species that valued fruit and veg in their diets.
The sun was setting as we scoured our plates with sand and handed them back to Adoh. I pulled a torch out of my pocket to help light our path back to the camp. As we neared the entrance, I turned it off. Light poured from the lanterns and flaming torches set up all arou
nd the inner square. Gryphons stood just outside their tents, a few preening splashes of blood from their feathers.
Ercwiff was sitting at the opposite end to the entrance. I tried not to gape. A chain of gold rested around her neck, around which were woven colourful swatches of silk. Golden bracelets rested around her forelegs. Several earrings pierced her left ear, and a large pearl dangled from the lowest one. Both fore and hind claws had been painted purple. The term ‘suited and booted’ came to mind.
‘It is time!’ she declared. Conversations trailed off, and the fifty or so gryphons of the clan turned their attention to their matriarch. ‘Time to test the mettle of the humans in Trahaearneifion’s grŵp rhyfelwyr!’
‘Hasn’t that been already happening?’ James muttered in my ear.
Aodh stepped in the centre of the square. ‘May I have the honour of the first dance, Matriarch?’
‘Cewch, wrth gwrs.’
The dwarf pulled out his sword. A tan and orange owl-tiger gryphon strode out to face him. They bowed to each other. Aodh raised his sword, and made a lunge to his left. The gryphon echoed his move. Then a lunge to the right, repeated by the gryphon, neck extended so that beak and sword were nearly parallel. Aodh centred himself, then lunged forward. The gryphon drew back before the blade could touch her neck. Then the gryphon thrust forward, and the dwarf leapt back, the sharp beak just missing his throat.
Aodh and the gryphon repeated their moves several more times, and then the dwarf raised his sword and bowed. ‘Your turn,’ he told James.
My brother bit his lip. Then he pulled out his sword and stepped forward. A brown eagle-lion gryphon came forward to meet him. Slowly, awkwardly, James repeated the movements we’d watched Aodh perform.
‘More, James White,’ Ercwiff commanded. ‘You have greater reach than the blacksmith. Use it!’
James centred himself. Then he increased the length of his thrusts, forcing the gryphon to stretch to her full extent. And his sudden lunge forward caught her unawares. Metal connected with feathery shoulder, and blood welled from the cut.
‘Sorry, so sorry,’ James said, sounding mortified. He dropped his sword to the ground. ‘What can I do?’
But the gryphon was striding forward, head high, eyes gleaming. She swiped her yellow beak into the wound, and wiped a red line across James’ forehead. ‘Gwaed sy’n galw ar waed.’
‘Blood calls to blood,’ I quickly translated for my brother.
Peter was called forward next. At the urging of the gryphons, he didn’t hold back. His sword flashed as he lunged and turned, but the eagle gryphon opposite him evaded every lunge. Then Peter was too slow when the gryphon thrust forward, and the sharp beak nipped at his ear. Peter bowed, and I handed him a tissue to press against the cut.
My turn. The gryphon who faced me was a mixture of osprey and white panther, the black and white head and neck fading to the monochrome spots. I tried to remember what I’d seen the others do, and to forget how much I’d always hated gym class.
Thrust left, thrust right. I straightened, then jumped back as the gryphon lunged towards me. The carpets snagged against my left boot, and I nearly lost my footing. Memories of jeering class mates made me both embarrassed and angry. I kicked back against carpet and sand, and threw myself forward.
The gryphon tried to duck, but my blade connected with her left foreleg. I watched, aghast, as blood bubbled from the wound. She lifted her head, studied me for a moment, then dipped her beak into the red stream. I held still as her beak scratched across my forehead. ‘Gwaed sy’n galw ar waed.’
‘And now,’ the matriarch announced in Welsh, ‘we all dance!’
I retreated from the centre as gryphons surged into the square. They lined up in two rows, facing each other, ears pricked forward, beaks open. Then they started stamping their forefeet, right, left, right, left. They chanted in Welsh, ‘We hunt! We live! We die! We live! The hunt is life! The hunt is death! The hunt is life!’
James leaned in close to my ear. ‘It’s like the Maori Haka, isn’t it? I saw this in rugby matches in New Zealand.’
The gryphons leapt to their right, then to their left. They bowed low, beaks nearly touching the rucked up carpets. ‘All is the hunt! All to the hunt! Blood calls for blood! Blood will have blood!’
I had been translating for Peter and James. But now my mouth dried at the fierce words. The large beaks, the sharp claws, the muscles sliding under feathers and fur, all reminded me that I never wanted to face a hungry gryphon.
‘We are the clan! We are the hunt!’ Fifty gryphons jumped into the air, and the ground thudded as they landed. ‘We live for the hunt! We live for the hunt!’ The yellow light from the lanterns and flares played across their bodies and cast twisting shadows across the ground.
‘Wouldn’t want to meet any of them down a dark alley,’ Peter muttered in my other ear.
James yelped, and I glanced over to see Morey climbing around the back of his neck to bring his beak level with my head. ‘I don’t like this,’ the gryphon told me. ‘They’re preparing for a hunt.’
‘I think we’ve figured that out,’ James said.
‘Not just any ordinary hunt,’ Morey continued. ‘The clan doesn’t do all this jumping around when they’re just planning to go out for their next meal. And if they start to wrestle--’
‘And enough!’ Ercwiff called out. The gryphons halted. The matriarch kicked herself from the ground. Her wings blew the hair away from my face as she hovered over the clan. ‘Now we’ll discover who are to be the chosen three.’
‘Wrestling,’ Morey said before I could translate from the Welsh.
For a moment the gryphons stared at each other. Ears lifted high, beaks opened, tails lashed. Then they threw themselves at each other. I backed up quickly as one gryphon was quickly dumped to the ground, hind claws scrabbling only inches from my boots.
‘We might as well retire to our tent.’ Morey spoke loudly to be heard over the sounds of the roars and grunts rising from the square. ‘They’ll be at this for hours.’
The air inside the tent had cooled off. James and Peter propped the flaps open and took seats on the ground to watch the gryphons. ‘A tenner on the owl-tiger one,’ James said to Peter.
‘Really? Looks like the eagle-lion one’s got his number.’
‘Tiger against lion? I’d go for tiger every time.’
‘Oh, why not,’ Peter said. ‘In for a penny--’
‘And that,’ I told him firmly as I lowered myself to his side, ‘is enough of that.’ I rested the case on my lap to give Clyde a comfortable base.
‘Any alcohol in this joint?’ James asked. Then, as the osprey-panther gryphon threw her opponent to the ground, he shouted, ‘Gotcha!’
‘My fellow clan members stick to beer,’ Morey said. ‘But not before a hunt.’
‘A dry night,’ James said morosely.
‘And I thought you knew me better than that.’ I pulled a hip flask from my trouser pocket, took a swig, and passed it on. ‘It’s only Oban, but it’ll clear the dust from your throat.’
We shared out the contents. I poured a very small amount onto my palm for Clyde, well aware that anything more could have disastrous consequences. The gryphons were down to just a few wrestling pairs when I decided to call it a night. Morey was still muttering about unusual hunts and worried about wrestling contests when I crawled into my sleeping bag. Despite the bright light and the grunts of gryphons, I fell asleep within minutes.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Carpets on sand, much to my surprise, made for a very comfortable mattress. When I woke, the tent flaps were down, the square was silent, and pre-dawn light was just a dim grey in the gap between leather and sand. I wanted nothing more than to turn over and go back to sleep, but my bladder had other ideas.
There had to be a good term for needing a trip to the loo, but not wanting to get out of bed. As I pulled myself out of the sleeping bag, I decided that I’d simply have to invent one. My trousers and fleece w
ere near to hand. I put them on, and crept out of the tent.
My torch helped me to negotiate the now uneven floor of the square. I made my way out of the camp and trudged up the left sand dune. A quick glance around showed that no one was in sight, and I did what I had to do.
I straightened, and kicked sand over the toilet paper. The sky was growing lighter. A movement in the distance caught my eye. A green-black dragon was landing on a dune several hundred feet above me. Even in the dim light, I could see the saddle which marked him out as Raven.
His head was angled in the direction of the rising sun. I tightened the laces on my boots, and began the trudge up the sandy incline. Minutes later, I was beginning to sweat and wondered why I was bothering. It seemed one step back for every two steps forward. Sand was a slippery beast. I put my head down and concentrated on gaining altitude.
My lungs were burning by the time I reached the forked end of Raven’s tail. I braced my legs on the peak of sand, trying to ignore the drop off on either side. ‘Raven--’
‘Watch.’
I lifted my eyes. And forgot all about my aching calf muscles. The sun had lifted past the horizon. The sand dunes glowed orange in the dawn light, shadows falling gently between the wind-sculpted folds. A few passing clouds slashed red and yellow across the pink and blue sky. ‘“The heavens declare the glory of God,’” I found myself saying. I glanced over at Raven. ‘Morey would know what psalm that comes from.’
‘Psalm 19.’
Surprise nearly sent me tumbling down the dune. ‘How did you know that?’
‘I’ve had some education.’ Raven snorted. ‘Actually, a missionary dragon came to our settlement several years ago. She was interesting enough that we didn’t eat her.’
‘I'm relieved to hear that.’ Although, I thought to myself, that option would rid me of doorstep evangelists who thought a vicar wasn’t Christian enough. ‘Anyone convert?’
‘None that I know of.’ He shifted cautiously, sand spilling away from his feet. ‘We did like parts of your holy book, though.’