From an exercise in my writing course…
The cry is anguished, inhuman, such a painfully lonely sound in that single note – enough that Perry and I stop to listen, panting. An animal. Hurt, by the sounds of it.
The sky has paled to a cold purplish haze, the last dipping rays of the dying sun casting long shadows across the stubbled yellow field. My heart thunders. Perry’s freckles stand out against his pale features, his red hair plastered over a dirt-streaked brow. My hair is the same shade as his but braided down my back.
“Dad said we have to be home before sunset,” I say, swallowing the dryness in my throat.
“It sounds hurt.”
“What can we do about it?” But my chest aches. I know we have to go back. Perry sees the decision in my eyes. “Fine. But stay close to me.” The brambles at night hide deep pits and dangerous snares. I grab Perry’s little hand and pull him after me, crunching as we run back across the harvested field toward the looming forest. I shove my foot on the barbed wire and pull up the top band. Perry bends through, then holds it open for me.
Dad always said to be home before dark. He also told us to be kind. If something is hurt, alone, scared? We have to do something. We have to help it.
I took the brunt of the mangled branches against my exposed skin, feeling the scrapes climb up my forearms as Perry ducked behind me. We moved forward, my ears prickling for any sound. The hoot of an owl; the distant, wild call of coyotes. Perry’s breath, nervous, or excited, I couldn’t tell. We press on. It’s now so dark that the trees have become black monoliths against the grey.
A mewl, somewhere close, pitiful.
Then, a growl.
I drop Perry’s hand and dash for the tiny creature curled in the rotting leaves. “Run!” I cry, and scoop whatever it is into the front of my shirt – wet fur, warmth, and sharp claws. I don’t stop to see what predator lurks in the woods. I run, half tripping over my skirt, following Perry as he scrambles up the steep slope, clutching onto trees for support. I hold the weight close to my belly. The thing mewls again, but we don’t stop. Not until we burst from the trees, through the barbed fence, and into the open expanse of farmer Herman’s field.
Only once we’re safe inside our little farmhouse do I unwrap the bundle in my shirt, spilling it gently onto my bed. Perry stands beside me, still panting, still wide-eyed. We stare at the trembling creature as it stretches out long limbs, its tail curling away to reveal a beaked snout. Fur, but also feathers.
“A griffin,” I breathe. No injuries as far as I can see, but I’m no Vet.
“A baby griffin,” Perry says.
“Put it back,” says a terrified voice behind us.
We whirl. Dad stands in the doorway, his face whiter than Perry’s. He wears his overalls, ripped at the knees. He strides into the room, his eyes not leaving the creature as he takes each of us by the shoulder. His grip is fierce. “I told you kids never to stay out after dark,” Dad says. “Put it back. Before They come.”
I meet Perry’s eyes. Tears already pooling, making shimmering orbs. “We can’t take it back, Dad. Something was trying to kill it,” I say.
Dad sinks to the floor on his knees, his eyes still never leaving the little creature. It cocks its head at him; flicks a small wing. It probably can’t fly yet.
“And now They will kill us all,” Dad whispers.
The griffin opens its beak and lets out a soft, mournful squeak.