The Griffin of the Bridge




The Griffin of the bridge likes The Heights, from where she can see her prey from a distance. She knows the way they will travel; there is only one track across the river. Just below The Heights.

Just one way for her two-legged prey to get food into their den. Their den of wood and stones.

She watches her prey a lot, and still, she can’t really understand them. She has learnt to watch, really closely, for the stragglers.

A mistake might be fatal, as it had been for her mate. But no success in the hunt means no food for the hatchlings.

There are only three of them left now.

At first, when she and her mate had built their nest on The Heights hunting was easy. The prey would scatter and scream as the two of them struck from the skies together. Didn’t the prey know they could never hide while making that noise?

And by splitting they were easier to take one by one.

But hunting is getting much harder now. And the hatchlings are getting much hungrier. And this doesn’t feel like when the hunting gets thinner with the snows on the ground. This feels like it will never get easier, whilst the snow will always melt in spring. This feels like the circle of nature has been bent forever.

Some of the prey have grown metal furs. So tough on the claws. At times The Griffin had felt hers getting blunted or broken. This is not just painful and tiresome. Those claws are a vital part of her. The hatchlings need them to be working; at least until they grew their own.

The first time she and her mate had seen the metal furs her mate had squawked with joy, at the way the fur glinted in sunlight showing where the prey was.

The arrogance of the top carnivore.


That was before they found out how tough those furs were. And now the prey didn’t run but grouped together. And suddenly grew their own shiny claws as if from nowhere. What had caused the change?


Sharp sticks seem to fly through the air at her. Unnaturally sharp and painful. That is what had killed her mate. But it was no use giving in to hate. The hunter must strike with precision, not anger.

The Griffin knew that she had been spotted. She could hear their cries, and see them group together, like a wolf pack forming; their many shiny hides, reflecting the sun.

Maybe next time, but it had to be soon, for the hatchlings’ sake

Maybe next time she would find enough food to give the hatchlings strength to move to a new hunting ground.

Richard Stephenson

20/10/18

Issue 2.1




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