The Griffin

She lies amongst the roots of the trees, broken and bleeding and breathing heavily. Her wings, once glad in a glorious sheath of golden-brown feathers, lay limp and mangled around her wounded lion’s body, feathers scattered about the forest floor. Her Panthera legs twitch as her talons clench around the dirt below them, trying to rise from the moss and leaves, the rest of her hybrid form stubborn to comply. At first glance, she could have been sleeping. But she was suffering.

I approach the beast with caution, weary of what her fight-or-flight instinct will instruct her to do in her vulnerable state once she is aware of my presence. I only wish to help her if I can, but she may not know that. There is a lot of blood, but she is a giant; perhaps she can still live. Her nostrils flare with her strained breaths, wounded, frustrated grunts escaping her throat as growls of despair. If she tries to flee me, I only hope she does not hurt herself in the process.

A twig snaps under my foot. Her sharp eyes snap open and drill in to me. I freeze. So does she. After an impossibly long, tense pause in which neither of us dares to breathe, I slowly advance toward her again, hands raised in peace. I don’t know if this incredible being has a blind spot or not, so I only sidestep twice when approaching those sharp, golden eyes. If I leave her line of sight, she may try to strike out. I don’t want to alarm her, only assist her if I can.

“Whoa, beastie,” I speak aloud calmly to the creature, still boring her eyes into mine. I stop next to her, asking silent permission to help her. She does nothing does not even blink, just stares at me. I hesitate a moment more before kneeling next to her and place my hand on her feathered shoulder.
By God, she’s strong. Below the soft feathers lies stone-hard muscle, toned and built as a hunter’s should be. Beyond the feathered torso lies the desert fur of a lion, and here I can see the valleys and peaks of the strong creature’s physique. The hind legs have stopped fighting the ground for dominance, and the front talons have relaxed; I imagine so she will not accidently harm me. Those strong eyes nave not averted from me, and I wouldn’t expect them to. For all she knows, I could intend to kill her. I make eye contact with her again and pet her feathers comfortingly.

“I don’t know if you understand me,” I start, “but I just want to help you. You’re hurt pretty bad.”

Her eyes soften, resembling more a lion’s stare than an eagle’s now. You have heart, I think. No, wait, those aren’t my thoughts. I mean, they’re in my head, but they are not self-generated. She thought them, and I heard them. I look at her eyes and heard it again. You are brave to approach something unknown with intent of helping. But it is no use; I am dying.

“I can help you,” I insist, “I just need to stop the bleeding.”

The arrowheads struck my side with great speed and force. I fear the crash knocked one into my bloodstream. I can feel it moving. And the rest have caused irreversible damage. I cannot heal myself.

“Arrowheads?” I questioned. Who would be using arrows to shoot down something this size? I pondered a moment before realizing. The last time she must have had interactions with humans was likely during the old ages, when the primary weapons were bows and arrows, hence her confusion. The holes in her hide are clearly the result of bullets, but she probably doesn’t know their name. “We can get them out, the arrowheads,” I use comfortable terms for her, “it’s possible. Then we can patch you up. You can still live.”

There is no time, she tells me in my own mind. I will die an honorable death. I fear not for myself, but for the life of my child.

Her wings fight to lift, and I catch the extraordinary tan egg that slips down her back. Bigger than my skull and weighing approximately fifteen pounds, I feel something stir on the inside of the warm shell. My eyes widen in disbelief.

I managed to save just one when my cave was raided. You wished to save me; this cannot be done. But you can do me the favor of ensuring the survival of that egg. It will hatch a male, and he will need to be protected from the monsters that would have him slaughtered. In your breast beats a heart of sympathy and love. Save him for me, and allow me the honorable death of sacrifice for one’s children.

I look at her, jaw slacked wide, and cradle the egg against my chest for warmth. “I will.” It is, of course, preposterous of me to take on such a task when I am only fifteen and living with my parents who would gladly kill the mutant cub if they ever found it, but I could not let this creature die in vain. She rescued her baby; if she died and it hatched alone, it would surely die before its time.

He will learn on his own how to hunt and use his wings, but being taught to fear the humans that govern this realm is something that will keep him alive, something I will not be around to teach him. He will grow fast, and then he will leave you. We are independent creatures; you need not look after him for long. But he will remember you always, and remain loyal to your memory if you deem yourself worthy of it.

I am crying now. I am angry and upset. The greed of man sent these creatures into hiding for survival, and now the dying wish of a sentient being is for her offspring to live. This is not right. Who are we to say that we deserve life and prosperity more than any other creature? These glorious animals, though fierce in appearance in nature, are proving to me now that they are gentle and caring and intelligent, so wonderfully intelligent. Ever since I was young I always imagine what the skies would look like if Griffins soared amongst the eagles and the birds. Instead, upon first meeting one, I am taking on her child so she may cease being in such pain.

Shed no tears for me, she asks of me, I have lived a long life, longer than many of this day. If he lives, my life and my suffering were worthwhile. There are few males left; he will be needed if we are to ever thrive again.

“I will take care of him,” I promise her, “and he will know to be weary of humans. He will grow to be as glorious as his mother, and he will produce strong, beautiful children, the king of beasts, just like him.”

His name is Aeton, she says. He knows this already. Talk to him as an egg; he can hear you. Now I need to ask one last thing of you, hominid. I ask that you end my suffering.

“No,” I breathe. I cannot kill this magnificent being. I know it will be merciful and I know that it is her wish, but I am not a killer. Many find killing animals simple enough as long as they are not human, but she is a living thing, and she is capable of conscious thought just as a human. “No, I will not kill her.” Having this beautiful beast laying in front of me, injured or not, is a dream come true. The stories she could tell. The life she could bring. The life she has brought, and deserves to be a part of. I can’t be the one to end the life of something so rare.

Yes you will. This is the circle of life. My time is over, sacrificed so that my son may thrive in my stead. You will kill me so I may die the most honorable death the animal kingdom recognizes. I smell the stainless steel in your pocket. You will sheath it deep in my heart. It will be fast. You must do this for me, hominid.

“Nathan,” I whisper as I reluctantly recover the pocket knife her keen nose detected at my side, shifting the egg in my arms to retrieve it, “my name is Nathan.”

Artemis is her response. And that is the last I ever hear of her powerful wisdom, the velvet of her thoughts never to influence mine again.

I flick the knife out of its folded position with skill, the result of practice when bored. My hand trembles from the knuckle-whitening grip I keep on the handle, and soon it consumes my whole arm. I bore my eyes deep in to hers again, weeping silently as the difficulty of the demand tugs at my heart. She musters the will nod once to me, assuring me once more that it is alright, and then she rests her head on the cold September moss, eyes closing, countenance calm in the face of her own demise. My jaw clenches as I hold the knife above where the new information presented to my brain instructs me of the location of her heart inside her grand chest. I’m not even certain the small, three-inch blade will be able to reach it through the built muscle and cage of bone. But she laid eyes upon the small weapon and said nothing; surely it will serve the purpose she requests of it. I pet her glorious head once as a goodbye to the marvelous beast, and then, placing her future son next to her to she may sing it one last lullaby, I grip the handle with both hands.

The moment is quick, but I still scream as my arms force downward. I feel the flesh and muscle part and give way to the merciful steel, burying itself smoothly into her hide. I feel fortunate in the sense that I found a gap between two of the ribs, for I doubt that I could will myself to do that a second time. The thrust is fueled by as much power as I can muster in this emotional state, but I am unsure of its effectiveness. If it did not reach her heart, I have only pained her further. But then my hands are soaked with a warm liquid, gushing from the wound I have caused, and I know the cardiac wall has been damaged. I will myself to open my eyes. Aside from clenched eyelids, she still retains an air of tranquility. I can hear the song she is singing to the child, loving and melancholy, the last time he will ever hear his mother’s voice. I twist the knife to speed up the process; the faster she bleeds, the quicker it will be over. Finally, I yank the weapon free of her dying body.

I stay with her until I am certain she is gone, hugging the egg Aeton securely against my torso, crying shamelessly as her already faint song becomes weaker and weaker. I don’t care what she said, everyone deserves to be mourned. And since her son is not yet born to grieve the loss of his mother, I will for him. And every year we are together, we will come to these woods, to this very spot, and weep for her. Perhaps it will allow him to feel close to the mother that died saving him.

“I didn’t know her for long,” I say to the egg through bursts of sobs, “but she was the bravest woman I have ever known. She loved you, Aeton, that’s why she gave you to me. She trusted me to take care of you in her wake. I’ll make her proud. You’ll make her proud. You’ll grow up to be as strong and beautiful and honorable as she was.”

No one ever comes to this part of the national park. That’s why I prefer it. But I cannot risk anyone finding the body. Putting Aeton down next to the head of his deceased mother, I gather enough moss and leaves from elsewhere on the forest floor to cover her grand form. It looks awkward, like a rock that was caught in an autumn wind, but it should suffice until the earth takes her back.

I walk away with Aeton tucked into my jacket for warmth, tear trails turning cold against the wind in my face, leaving part of myself with Artemis, just as she left part of herself with me.