Little by little the griffin learned to fly. It had been half spreading its wings to sail down the stairs for some time now, but that was more like parachuting or hang gliding than real flying; Mariellen had never seen it even attempt to take off from level ground. She was beginning to doubt that it could.
But in these morning romps with Hawk the griffin kept extending its wings as it ran and one day it achieved just the right combination of angle and groundspeed to take to the air. It was only up for a moment, so astonished at itself that its legs kept running as it flew. Mariellen laughed aloud. It looked like a cartoon character that hadn’t yet realized that it had run over the brink of a cliff.
When it landed in a tangled heap of wings and claws, she lavished praise and reassurance in equal measure as she helped it get its mismatched parts reorganized. “What a good griffin! What an exceptional griffin! Here, that’s your foot holding your wing down. Let me just—that’s the way! Better now?” The griffin picked up a strand of her hair and preened it absently, as if returning the favor. But its eyes had a distant look and it kept turning its head, now this way and now that, to look up at the sky.
Sure enough, the next morning it began practicing in earnest. As soon as it began to run its wings were in motion, angling against the wind for the magical combination of speed and thrust that would bear it aloft again. Every now and then it would spring straight up from its muscular hindquarters, wings flapping futilely.
Not until it had reduced itself to a state of panting, glassy-eyed exhaustion was Mariellen able to approach. “You’re trying too hard,” she told it. “We all know you can fly.” The griffin bowed its golden head, ruffling its crest to ask for petting. Its wings stood out from its body as it tried to cool itself; Mariellen could feel the heat rising from its breast.
What must it be like, she wondered, to have a gift and not know how to use it? To be defeated by the very arduousness of your attempts?
She stood for a long time stroking and soothing the griffin before she called Hawk to be leashed and started back home.
It said a lot for the griffin’s intelligence, Mariellen thought, that it seemed to pace itself after that. It still tried to fly, but there was no frenzy now. Watching it was like watching an athlete in training. It put itself through a sort of exercise routine, stretching, flexing, and beating its great wings before it tried to get off the ground. Sometimes it succeeded, sometimes it didn’t. But it always left time to play with Hawk before the sun got too high and they had to go home.
The sun was rising later now. In no time at all it was going to be too cold in the mornings to stay out very long. But as the darkness gradually closed in, Mariellen was able to prolong the griffin’s outings in the park without too much worry about being seen.
They had been incredibly lucky so far, she realized. On the few occasions on which someone had actually seen the griffin the reaction had been one of startled disbelief. No curiosity, no overtures of friendship, no panic: just a quick double take followed by a casual saunter across the street. As if, Mariellen thought with amusement, putting a double line of parked cars between you and the big, wild beast would do any good.
But no one had screamed, no one had alerted the police… no one had made trouble.
In fact, the nearest thing there had been to “trouble” had been Mariellen’s friends, who couldn’t understand why she never wanted to go out and do things with them anymore. “What do you mean, you’re going to bed? It’s only eight-thirty, for God’s sake! Are you sick? Do you want me to come over? I know you have to be at work early, but you never used to go to bed at—oh, all right. I’ll talk to you Saturday, okay?”
Sometimes Mariellen thought she should just tell them about the griffin and get it over with, but somehow she never did. Working with animals, that was okay, that was her livelihood. Owning Hawk—well, that was okay too: Hawk was, theoretically at least, her protector. But sharing her home with a griffin… What do you need it for? she imagined them asking. It’s big, it’s expensive, it’s damned inconvenient—hell, it’s probably illegal! Mariellen smiled. It was all true, no question about it. But they’d have it backward if they put it like that. The real question, the only one that mattered, was not whether she needed a griffin but whether this particular griffin needed her.
Besides, Mariellen happened to love her particular griffm. But she was quite certain that her friends wouldn’t understand that either.
Four-thirty. They had almost two hours before the sky grew light. Mariellen turned Hawk loose, watching his breath stream behind him in misty banners as he ran. The griffin skimmed along in pursuit. He was getting pretty good at this, Mariellen noted. His air time was longer every day. He still lost altitude from time to time, but all he needed to do was kick off with his strong lion’s legs to be aloft again. Now and then he’d make a playful dive, talons reaching for Hawk’s hindquarters, and Hawk would yelp and put on more speed. He’s not really frightened, Mariellen thought. He knows the griffin would never hurt him. And indeed, the next time the griffin dove, Hawk flung himself to the ground and allowed his friend to “catch” him, striking up with his forelegs and snapping at the air as the griffin parried with its beak.
Mariellen felt as if she could watch them forever.
They were resting when the sun rose. The summer chorus of birds had been silent for some time now: without young to rear and territories to defend, the birds no longer heralded the dawn. Against the slowly lightening sky the trees took on form and color, shaggy clumps of yellow and scarlet now instead of green. The wind picked up, blowing leaves like confetti.
It was going to rain again. The gulls had assembled on the lake as they always did before a storm. As Mariellen watched, one detached itself from the flock and winged toward them, keening.
Suddenly she felt the griffin tense under her hand. She glanced down just as it sprang away, eyes fixed on the gull. It leapt once, twice; then the huge wings beat down against the solid air and carried it out over the lake.
Hawk was on his feet, whining excitedly.
In slow motion the griffin rose, wheeled, hovered over the gull, and plummeted to strike.
A flurry of feathers exploded from the griffin’s talons and was carried away by the wind: white leaves flecked with red.
“Griffin!” Mariellen called. “Griffin! Come back!”
But this time there was no awakening, no warm griffin snuggled in her arms to comfort her. She screamed again, her throat tight with unshed tears.
The griffin flapped heavily to the shore. There it crouched, oblivious of Mariellen, mantling over its prey. When she tried to approach, it turned to face her, hissing like a cat. Its eyes were wild.
Oh, God, what am I going to do? She pulled her bag of meat strips out of her pocket and waved it temptingly, but the griffin showed no interest. It had the gull torn open now and was ravaging it with its hooked beak, tearing and gulping. When it lifted its head its cheeks were sticky with blood. The sun is up, Mariellen thought. The sun is up and people will be coming.
“Griffin,” she pleaded. “Please!” The griffin paid no attention.
The first spectators arrived.
“All right, calm down. Where is he now?”
Mariellen blew her nose and clutched the receiver as if it were a lifeline. “Here,” she said, “with me. They wanted to shoot him, but I wouldn’t get out of the way and when they grabbed hold of me, Hawk—” she choked.
“I know,” Dr. Saunders said, “they had it on the news. He’ll be all right; it was only a tranquilizer dart.”
“But they took him away!” Mariellen wailed. “He’s waking up somewhere in a cage, all alone—!” She started sobbing again.
“He’ll be all right,” the vet repeated. “He’s licensed, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then they can’t keep him when you come to claim him. Anybody can see he’s not a vicious dog.”
“He was trying to protect me.”
�
��And he did. He did a great job. Was that when you got the griffin away?”
“Uh-huh. He—after they sh-shot Hawk they picked him up to put him in a cage and while they were busy I took the gull away. He was almost finished. He didn’t care anymore.”
“And then he followed you?”
Mariellen nodded. “Yes. He was still hungry. I showed him the meat.…”
“Right through all those people, huh?”
“Yes.” To her surprise, Mariellen giggled. “They got out of the way.”
“I’ll bet they did.”
“But it’s no good,” Mariellen said, suddenly tearful again. “They know now. They followed us. Everybody knows.”
“I know.” There was a long pause. “Look, I can’t stay on now. People will be coming in.”
“Who’s going to clean all the—?”
“I will. Don’t worry about it, you’ve got enough to deal with over there. I’ll call you back at eleven, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Sit tight.” And he hung up.
Marielien moved over to the window and pulled a corner of the curtain aside. They were still out there, all those people. What’s the matter with them? Marielien asked herself angrily. Don’t any of them have jobs to go to?
She missed Hawk, missed his solid dependability, the way he would suddenly be at her side waiting humbly for her to notice him. She missed the feel of his warm, flat forehead under her hand.
She let the curtain fall, turned, and nearly fell over the griffin.
“This is all your fault,” she told it, “do you know that?”
The griffin chirred and stood on tiptoe, stretching its long neck to put its head on her shoulder.
“Oh, leave me alone.” She turned her back on it and went to sit on the bed. What am I going to do? she wondered. How am I going to get Hawk back? What if the police come with a warrant and break down the door? How am I going to keep them from taking the griffin away? What’s going to become of us all?
There was a shuffling sound from the living room, followed by a thud. Mariellen went to look. The griffin had squeezed behind an armchair and was huddled in the corner, moaning to itself. Mariellen had thought the morning could hold no further misery, but in that first instant of utter panic she knew how wrong she had been. Was the griffin sick? Had the gull somehow poisoned him Pushing the chair aside, she knelt beside the griffin, lifting its head in her hands. It looked up at her with one golden eye and a tear slid down its beak onto her wrist.
“So that’s it,” she whispered. “You miss him too.” And she pulled the griffin close and held it in her arms until it slept.
The ringing of the telephone awakened them both. Untangling herself from the griffin, Mariellen made her way groggily across the room and lifted the receiver.
“Dr. Saunders here. Sorry I’m late.”
Mariellen yawned. “That’s okay.”
“I’ve been making some calls. How would you like to work for an animal shelter? In the country?”
“I don’t want to put him in a shelter!”
“What?”
“The griffin. I’m not putting him in a shelter.”
“No, no. The griffin will live with you and Hawk. In a trailer.”
“Oh.” Mariellen came fully awake. “Would you mind starting over, please?”
“There’s a no-kill shelter in Pennsylvania looking for a full-time caretaker. They only pay minimum wage, but you’d get a trailer, free utilities, a big garden.…”
“Do they know about the griffin?”
“Their consulting veterinarian is an old classmate of mine. A very good vet, by the way. I’ve told him everything. He feels you’re exactly the sort of person they’ve been looking for. Overqualified, of course….”
“Would the griffin be able to—to run free there?”
“Not during adoption hours. But the rest of the time—yes. The nearest town is about ten miles away.”
“I’ll take it,” said Mariellen.
The vet laughed. “So fast? Don’t you want to know how big the shelter is? What you’ll have to do?”
Mariellen shook her head impatiently. “It doesn’t matter. It’s the only way, don’t you see?”
“Yes. You’re right, of course. If you stay here, they won’t let you live. I—you do have other options, you know. I’m sure any zoo would be delighted to—”
“You know damned well that I wouldn’t put the griffin in a zoo.”
“I didn’t think you would.” The vet’s voice was warm. “I’ll tell the shelter manager to call you and make all the arrangements, then?”
“Yes. Please.” Mariellen took a deep breath to steady her voice. “I’m going to miss working for you, Dr. Saunders.”
“I’ll miss you too. Those people in Pennsylvania don’t know how lucky they’re about to get.”
“Thanks,” said Mariellen. And then she hung up because she was afraid she was going to start crying again.
The trees had already lost their leaves up here and it was cold. Mariellen-swung open the trailer door, breathing deeply of the forest-scented air. Hawk bounded down the steps, cocked his leg against the nearest clump of weeds, and danced back to her, barking excitedly.
“Yes, yes, we’re coming.” She glanced into the dim interior of the trailer. “Well, lazybones?” The griffin’s head appeared in the doorway. “Spoiled rotten, that’s your problem. What do I have to do, start waking you up at four o’clock in the morning again?” The griffin shook itself, ruffling its feathers. Its long tail trailed behind as it descended the steps. “Disgraceful, that’s what you are.” Mariellen moved the griffin’s tail out of the way so she could close the door. She had to admit, it was nice not to have to get up in the middle of the night anymore. Nice to be able to sleep until a reasonable hour, like a normal person. Not, she thought ruefully, that her life was ever likely to approximate what anybody would call “normal” again.
By now the griffin had relieved itself on the same clump of weeds Hawk had used and was starting to perk up. Hawk barked in its face and tore away, inviting it to chase him. The griffin stretched, first one wing, then the other, shook itself again, and galloped clumsily after the big dog.
Mariellen settled herself on the trailer’s steps to watch.
Twice they circled, three times, and then the griffin took to the air, spiraling upward. Into the brilliant morning sky it rose, golden in the sunlight. And even when it was visible only as a bright speck against the blue, the sound of its voice came faintly back to them, crying out its joy.
About Elisabeth Waters and “Weather Witch”
I like to end my anthologies with something short and amusing, and since Elisabeth has been my live-in secretary for the past fifteen years, she’s right there when I need a story in a hurry. This one, however, was already on hand, having been part of the short-short issue (9). Elisabeth is currently working on another story about Jan, who grew up to become a stage magician.
Elisabeth, in addition to writing, ice skates and takes flying trapeze lessons. (Maybe she’s suicidal.… ) Her first novel, Changing Fate, came out in April 1994, and she is just starting her second one.
Weather Witch
Elisabeth Waters
It was all Peter’s fault. If he hadn’t given me How to Become a Witch in Twelve Easy Lessons for my birthday, none of this would have happened. And he didn’t want to weed the vegetable garden yesterday.
Well, maybe some of it was my fault, too. I didn’t want to weed the garden either; it’s really not a fun way to spend a beautiful Saturday morning. And I am nearly two years older than Peter, and Dad is always saying that a big sister should set a good example for her little brother. And I was the one who looked up at a sky with only a couple of puffy little clouds high up in it and remarked, “Gee, if it were raining, we wouldn’t be able to weed the garden.”
Peter’s face lit up, the way it always does when he gets one of his bright ideas. His “bright” ideas always g
et us into trouble we could never have imagined when he came up with them, and if I’d had any sense at all I’d have run for the garden and started weeding. “Jan, I’m pretty sure there’s a rain-making spell in that book I gave you.”
I guess I don’t have much sense, because I followed Peter up to my room and helped him look for the book. He was the one who found it, shoved under my bed with eight other books I’m supposedly reading, including my history textbook and two library books—one overdue, one miraculously not.
As advertised, the book was divided into twelve lessons, and it did say on the first page to do them in order. But Weather Magic was lesson seven, and we didn’t have time to do lessons one through six and still make it start raining before Dad found us goofing off.
So we took the book and went outside to our favorite place down by the stream where we hide when we don’t want to do chores. Bruce, our collie, followed us, but he just lay down and went to sleep, so he wasn’t in our way. Peter held the book and told me what to say and I cast the spell. I think I did just what the book said to, and Peter says I did, too. And at least part of it must have been right, because it did rain. But, honest, the book said “rain,” not “tornado”!
I was standing there with my eyes scrunched closed, concentrating on making it rain, when Bruce started whimpering and scrambled to his feet. I opened my eyes to see what was bothering him, and saw all those dark grey clouds piling up. I yelped, Peter looked up from the book, and the wind hit the tops of the trees with a great rushing roar. We ran for the storm shelter under the barn as fast as we possibly could and made it just as the storm hit. I got pretty wet during the last few seconds before Dad, who had been watching anxiously for us, got the door closed behind me.
Peter was smart enough to hide the book under his shirt before Dad saw it, and Dad was so relieved we were safe that he didn’t ask too many questions about where we had been and what we’d been doing that we didn’t notice the storm coming sooner.
It was a pretty bad storm, but at least nobody got killed or badly hurt, and most of the crops are okay. But it went straight through the place where we cast the spell, and it only missed our house by about ten yards!
Best of Marion Zimmer Bradley Fantasy Magazine, Volume 2 Page 23