Scilly Seasons

by Chris Tookey

  Wyrd overheard persistent rumours that the ferocious King Vitalinus was conquering land to the north and calling himself Vortigern (or High King) and that hundreds of miles away, in the east of Albion, Angles, Saxons and Jutes were seizing the best of the land and killing any Britons who fought or protested. Nevertheless, these threats seemed remote enough for King Otto to devote himself to his main enthusiasm, which was hunting.

  Many interior walls of Castle Otto were adorned with tapestries of King Otto’s military and hunting triumphs and the heads of creatures the King had slaughtered: sea serpents, wyverns, werewolves, even a minotaur, and dozens of dragons, of every colour and size. Wyrd had been frightened of these at first – especially the werewolf heads, which were human for much of the time but became wolfish on nights when there was a full moon.

  The wyverns were huge, vegetarian dragons that had become so cumbersome that their relatively tiny wings allowed them to fly only a few yards at a time, like enormous chickens. They were easy prey for hunters, and Wyrd once overhead King Otto complaining that there weren’t enough to be found these days. Wyrd suspected the reason might be that hunters like King Otto had killed them all.

  There was one minotaur head. King Otto claimed to have clubbed it to death on an expedition overseas, but Wyrd suspected that he might have purchased it. If you looked closely at the beast’s left ear, you could see the faint imprint of a price tag. The head was half-human, half-bull, and looked as though it must have come from a beast at least twice the size of a normal man.

  The heads that Wyrd admired most belonged to the gryphons. Wyrd had seen only one gryphon in his life, but for some reason he had assumed that all gryphons would be huge. However, the heads that adorned the great halls of Castle Otto varied. Some were no bigger than a mastiff’s. Others were ten times the size. Even in death, the gryphons’ heads had a fierce nobility and grace.

  Wyrd never thought deeply about the ethics of hunting until one day when King Otto returned from a hunting party with a huge, dead gryphon. Wyrd recognised it immediately, and sorrowfully, as Matilda, the gentle creature that had saved him from the bugbears.

  “We shall feast well tonight, lads!” bellowed King Otto. And his knights roared their approval.

  Mrs Scraggs, who had always fancied herself a connoisseur of gryphon meat, pronounced this one to be in its prime. This led to another cheer.

  Normally, she liked to hang gryphon meat for a week or more in one of the castle’s coldest outbuildings, to improve its flavour.

  “If you leave it for long enough, the meat falls off the bone,” she said, licking her lips and running her tongue over her one remaining tooth. “Lovely!”

  But the King ordered that this gryphon must be cooked for that night, so Mrs Scraggs instructed Wenda on how to prepare and stuff the gryphon so that it was ready to be spit-roasted. This was to take place on an enormous barbecue that Wyrd and the other minions had to set up in the castle’s kitchen courtyard.

  It was while Wenda was stuffing the gryphon with herbs that Wyrd heard her give a little cry. Wenda brought her hand out of the beast, gave a little gasp and hastily wrapped it in some coarse kitchen material that served as a towel.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Wyrd.

  “I’m not sure,” said Wenda. “But I think something bit me.”

  Mrs Scraggs had left the kitchen to supervise the lighting of the barbecue, so Wenda and Wyrd were alone.

  “What do you mean?” asked Wyrd. “Are you bleeding? Let me see.”

  But Wenda shook her head. She seemd to be in a state of shock. She pointed to the gryphon with her cloth-covered hand.

  “If you don’t believe me, look!” she said.

  So, Wyrd took a long, wooden spoon and prodded inside the gryphon until, yes, he felt the bowl of the spoon jerk. He brought it out and there was a chunk missing.

  “Oh, no! What are you doing, Wyrd? That was one of Mrs Scraggs’ best spoons!” wailed Wenda.

  But Wyrd was already reaching for a sharp knife. He cut the gryphon’s stomach near the point that the spoon had reached. He jumped back as the flesh of the gryphon seethed and a tiny, golden gryphon’s head popped out. In no time at all, the little creature – no bigger than a child’s hand – was battling its way out of its mother’s body, waggling its little batwings experimentally and flying off into a corner of the room.

  At that point, Mrs Scraggs came in, and instinctively Wenda and Wyrd decided to say nothing.

  “Have you finished stuffing that gryphon?” asked the cook.

  “Yes,” said Wenda. “But I used one of your spoons and a bit of it broke off.”

  Wyrd smiled gratefully at Wenda. He knew that if he had owned up to damaging the spoon, he would have come in for harsh words and probably a beating. But Wenda was Mrs Scraggs’ favourite, and the old cook’s features crumpled into a benevolent if slightly scary smile.

  “Never mind, dear. These things happen. Now, I need help to carry this over to the fire.”

  It took ten of the castle’s kitchen servants to carry the dead gryphon to the barbecue, under Mrs Scraggs’ direction, and another two to spear the beast through and keep it turning over the fire.

  When Wyrd and Wenda returned to the kitchen, there was no trace of the baby gryphon.

  “Maybe it flew away,” said Wyrd.

  Wyrd felt a surge of sympathy for the tiny creature, alone in a strange world without parents to protect it.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure,” said Wenda. “It probably thinks you’re its father.”

  “What?”

  “That’s how gryphon families work,” Wenda explained. “The daddy gryphon is usually the hunter, but he’s always there when the mother gives birth, so that when the baby comes out it knows who its parents are, who to follow, who to imitate, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh,” said Wyrd. He didn’t know what being a gryphon’s father entailed, and he wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to be one. “What do gryphons eat?”

  “Well, when they’re grown up, it’s mostly fish and meat – even people, so they say,” said Wenda. “But baby gryphons like mice, rats, that kind of thing.”

  “Well, there’s plenty of vermin in this castle,” said Wyrd with feeling, since one of his nastier jobs was to bait the traps and dispose of the mangled corpses. “But the poor thing doesn’t have a chance. Someone’s bound to kill it and hang its head up on a wall.”

  “I dunno,” said Wenda doubtfully. “Gryphons are quite good at hiding and this one’s very small. I don’t think it was really meant to be born yet.”

  Just then, there was a fluttering sound, and the golden gryphon flew down and perched on Wyrd’s left shoulder. A long tongue protruded from the gryphon’s beak and licked Wyrd’s ear.

  “Look!” exclaimed Wenda. “It likes you!”

  “Won’t it bite me?” asked Wyrd nervously.

  “Not if he thinks you’re his father.”

  “How do you know it’s a he?”

  “He has sticking-up ears. Only male gryphons are born with sticking-up ears.”

  Wyrd nervously tickled the gryphon’s stomach, and the gryphon’s tongue licked his ear again.

  “You see!” said Wenda. “He’s adopted you! What are you going to call him?”

  “I dunno,” said Wyrd. “What do you think?”

  “Mmm… He’s very small,” said the girl.

  “That’s it!” said Wyrd. “I’ll call him Small.”

  Suddenly the gryphon disappeared.

  “Where did he go?” asked Wyrd.

  Seconds later, Small reappeared a few feet away, in a puff of green smoke. Then it spun round and round and adopted the shape of a very old woman.

  “Look!” said Wenda. “He’s trying to be Mrs Scraggs!”

  The gryphon squeaked with pleasure and changed into a reasonable facsi
mile of Wenda.

  “Have you ever heard of a gryphon,” asked Wyrd, “that can do impersonations?”

  “I’ve heard that some of them can shape-shift,” said Wenda. “But I’ve never seen one do it.”

  Small spun round again and turned back into his normal, gryphon shape. He opened his beak and orange flame shot out, narrowly missing Wenda’s ear.

  “Bad Small!” said Wyrd. “Wenda’s our friend.”

  Small hopped on to Wenda’s shoulder and snuggled up against her. When she stroked him, Small gave a little “baaa”, like a newborn lamb.

  “That,” said Wyrd, “is no ordinary gryphon.”

  ***

  For several weeks, Wyrd looked after the gryphon. They played together in his octagonal room; and Small loved to do nothing more than impress Wyrd with his latest shape-shift. Wyrd noticed that, as Small got older, he was able to change shape and size for as much as a minute at a time, though this seemed to sap his energy and he would have to spend most of the next few hours asleep.

  One day, Small flew all the way up the chimney, and Wyrd thought he had gone away forever. But the next morning Small was back, looking well fed and pleased with himself. Even though the gryphon could not speak, its large expressive eyes radiated unconditional love for Wyrd. Wyrd remembered his old feelings for his sheepdog Rulf, and loved him back.

  As the weeks passed, the gryphon grew rapidly, until it was almost as big as Wyrd and it had turned a shade of coppery bronze. Wyrd knew its days at the castle must be numbered. There was no way that it could continue to live there without being noticed. It was already too big to fly up the chimney without shape-shifting first.

  One day, Small tried to go his normal route and became stuck. It took over an hour of pulling, flapping and sweating (on Wyrd’s part – gryphons don’t sweat) to bring the gryphon down. For a few minutes, the exhausted gryphon flopped in the fireplace that was Wyrd’s bed. Eventually, a tear dropped from its eye and splashed to the floor.

  “What’s the matter, Small?” asked Wyrd. “You can still get out. We’ll just have to think of another way.”

  The gryphon shook its head and another tear rolled to the floor.

  “I see,” said Wyrd. “You think you’re getting too big to stay here.”

  The gryphon nodded.

  “Well, it’s right that you should want to leave. If anyone found you here, they’d kill you. Your world is out there. I mean, your real father is probably out there right now.”

  Small shook his head and nestled against Wyrd’s body, for warmth or comfort, or possibly both.

  “I can’t look after you forever,” said Wyrd, wiping a tear that had come to his eye. “I’d like to, but what am I going to do when you start breathing fire or wanting to eat people? I know it’s what gryphons do, but… I don’t know, in a castle it’s just not… acceptable behaviour.”

  There followed three days of incessant rain. On the third day, King Otto called together all the children in the castle, whether royal, knightly or – like Wyrd and Wenda – menials.

  “I have decided,” he announced, “to organise a game of hide and seek. Princess Melisande here will be the seeker and the rest of you will hide.”

  “Can’t I be the seeker?” asked a spectacularly ugly child. This was, Wyrd surmised, Melisande’s younger sister, Beatrice. Though only seven years old, Princess Beatrice already showed signs of growing into a decidedly unpleasant woman. She was as spiteful and aggressive as Princess Melisande, but without any of her charm.

  Wenda used to say that all the bad blood of the Atlantean royal line had somehow or other found its way into Princess Beatrice.

  “No,” said Melisande, “you can’t. Because I’m going to be.”

  “Why you?” asked Beatrice, rudely.

  “Because I am older than you,” said Melisande, who was seven years her sister’s senior. “And considerably prettier.”

  This remark, though true, caused Beatrice to burst out crying.

  “Beatrice, I think you’re a little young for all this,” said King Otto, through gritted teeth.

  He turned to one of his knights.

  “Take her away, would you?” said the King. “The child’s a nightmare.”

  Beatrice was led away weeping, with an impressive amount of green, slimy snot pouring from her nose.

  “Where was I?” said King Otto.

  “I’m to be the seeker,” said Melisande. “And everyone else is to hide.”

  “Ah yes,” said King Otto. “You may hide anywhere in the castle. Then the first person Melisande finds will become the searcher, and Melisande will hide. Until the searcher finds a new person. And so on.”

  Wyrd flushed as he felt the eyes of Prince Artorus upon him.

  “Well, here’s a game that you should excel at,” sneered Artorus. “I’ve never seen anyone as good at disappearing as you.”

  “I’ve heard you might be a wizard,” said Melisande, gazing at Wyrd. Was she fluttering her eyelashes, or did she have something in her eye?

  “No, ma’am. I’m not,” stammered Wyrd, flushed at suddenly being the centre of attention.

  “I’ve heard you were brought here by one,” continued Artorus. “Merlin, wasn’t it?”

  “I think so,” said Wyrd, evasively. “But I was very young. I don’t really remember.”

  “And I hear he told Mrs Scraggs that you might be a mythic hero,” said Artorus, laughing. “I mean, really! Look at you! Everyone knows that princes are meant to be mythic heroes.”

  “Lots of princes aren’t,” said Wenda, who had been listening. “They just wander about, being unpleasant.”

  “Well, I certainly intend to be,” said Artorus, who was too vain to notice Wenda’s implied criticism. “Osprey tells me he’s never seen anyone as handy as I am with a blade. When this ghastly weather clears, Father tells me he’ll take me out hunting gryphons.”

  “Why do you attack gryphons? Do you kill them to protect people?” asked Wyrd. “Or do you slaughter them for the sheer joy of killing?”

  Artorus considered for a moment.

  “Both,” he said. “Anyway, it’s the natural order of things. Gryphons eat people. People eat gryphons.”

  “But there are hardly any gryphons left,” said Wenda.

  “Excellent,” said Artorus. “And the more I wipe out, the merrier I shall be.”

  “Stop all this shilly-shallying! Are you ready?” boomed King Otto, who always became irritable if anyone questioned the ethics of hunting. “Princess Melisande will count to fifty!”

  Queen Elinor instructed Princess Melisande to cover her eyes. Wyrd could not help staring at the princess. He wondered if she remembered who he was. Probably not. She was far too beautiful to take an interest in him.

  This was the second time that Wyrd had seen her at close quarters, and he still found her an enchanting sight. Her skin was so free of blemishes that it might have been precious porcelain. Her clothes, even for playing in, were finer than any Wyrd had seen on anyone else. The delicacy and perfection of her features made Wyrd feel even coarser and more uncomfortable than he did usually.

  “Why are you looking at my sister like that?” Artorus asked him.

  Wyrd blushed, and went even redder when he saw the princess looking at him with a strange little smile on her lips.

  “Run and hide, kitchen scum!” ordered the prince. “And make sure I don’t find you, or I’ll give you a good thrashing!”

  So Wyrd ran and hid in the place he knew best, which was the octagonal room at the top of the castle. He discovered Small there, with a rat’s tail protruding from the side of his mouth. Small licked his lips appreciatively and the rat’s tail disappeared.

  “Quick!” Wyrd told him. “Hide! There’s a game of hide and seek. If they find you here they’ll kill you!”

  Small pull
ed himself up to his full height and breathed fire with an aggression that Wyrd hadn’t seen before.

  “That’s very good, Small,” said Wyrd, dodging the flames from the gryphon’s beak, “but honestly, you’ve got to leave.”

  The gryphon peered up the chimney and shook its head.

  “I know,” said Wyrd. “You’re too big to do that now. Follow me up to the roof.”

  The gryphon nodded eagerly and vanished.

  Wyrd turned to go up the stone spiral staircase which would take him and Small up to the roof but found Artorus blocking his way. Artorus was an impressively built young man, almost six foot tall and broad-chested. Width-wise, he was twice the size of Wyrd.

  “So what have we here?” said Artorus, unpleasantly. “Is this where you’ve been living – if you can call it living. And what’s that smell?”

  Wyrd looked over his shoulder to where the gryphon had been. There was no sign of Small, but Wyrd knew that the gryphon was able to disappear for only a few seconds at a time. He hoped Small had been able to magic his way past Artorus and up on to the roof.

  “Have you been burning something in here?” asked the prince, sniffing. “That’s against castle regulations. I should give you a good kicking for that.”

  Artorus pushed Wyrd to the ground, and – true to his promise – delivered some hefty kicks to Wyrd’s stomach, arms and legs. Wyrd had suffered this kind of thing before, but Artorus’s kicks this time were harder than ever.

  “Had enough?” sneered the prince.

  Wyrd did not reply but covered his face with his hands.

  “Oh, you don’t want your face kicked in! Well, it’s no more than you deserve, looking at my sister like that! A cripple like you…”

  Artorus drew back his boot to drive it into Wyrd’s face and was laughing so loudly that he didn’t hear the gryphon as it reappeared behind him. But the prince did see the green smoke envelop him and felt a tap on his shoulder. He swung round and came face to face with a gryphon that was quite a bit taller, stronger and angrier than he was.