Paying My Respects

Delight! The feeling easily overwhelms the last, discouragement, and loosens my expression quickly. The Gryphon is in motion even before my innocent attempt to summon them both forward, so unexpected and so fearlessly that my spine strains to right itself under the burden of wilted muscles; this has never happened to me before. The thought: Ludo’s Woods are haunted, does cross my mind, but intrigue extinguishes my natural wariness, like rain over the flame. It never occurs to me at all that that the pair could represent any being more sinister - such is the nature of my young, gullible heart. The smaller, feathered-furred animal arrives first at my leather-bound feet, and quickly too; a flurry of unbridled enthusiasm and immature sound. They are endearing to say the least, inconceivably friendly, though my nerves do sting with uncertainty. My thoughts, common-sense, rise in unison, willing me loudly to reconsider, to flee, but my body will not cooperate, I know, so I revel in the moment instead like a fool in the dark. The same hand inches lower, as though inviting the small beak upward, my eyes all the while engrossed in the bizarre image before them. However, it is not the Gryphon that arrives in the palm's quivering centre, but the pen which had been lost only a moment before. “Oh,” my throat motions with a start. “Thank you…” At the same time thin fingers wrap around its length and retreat back beneath the shroud of clean tartan; pale green eyes openly examine the almost, almost, human quality of the dog’s eyes. I tell myself with unnecessary harshness: it is wild, Hazel, only another beast. But mine still refuse to leave the other’s captivating blue gaze. Though neither animal has offered a threatening stance (rather the very opposite, indeed), I consider moving to rob Old Mother’s bowl and throw forth the fresh bark to feed them, defer their interest from me; not that I feel particularly scared. Again though, there is the problem of missing mobility. At last my eyes pull free, though the fox’s perhaps had never been so tethered, and I withdraw somewhat into the shadowy warmth of my mantle; once more my face falls into darkness, and though my sharp jawline still wears an amicable smile, I retake the stick (carefully, so as not to frighten either), and recoil two shuffles backwards. Stale breath I'd not noticed was trapped, sighs through the small crack between my lips. “Mother will worry.” I tell them (myself) aloud, again internally scolding the emergence of my glaring stupidity. Mort and his herald would think nothing better of me after this - I am certain.