Gryffion’s Tidings
Stop that, Etheria!” commanded Atlanta. She grabbed hold of the table for support against the violent tremors shaking the acorn house. “Right now.”
After a few grudging creaks and moans from the floorboards, Etheria settled down to a constant tremble. Rolling her eyes, Atlanta grabbed her mug of tea (which was just about to slide off the table) and moved it away from the edge.
She strode over to the door. Before opening it, she cast a withering glance around the house, as if to say, Behave yourself. Then she lifted the latch.
Facing her in the doorway stood an elegant unicorn, his silver coat tinged with white and his prominent horn shimmering with subtle radiance. Atlanta recognized him immediately: Gryffion, the oldest and wisest of the unicorns. Yet while they had talked occasionally near his home on the Indragrass Meadows, she never expected to find him at her door.
“Gryffion. What a surprise to see you!” For the benefit of Etheria more than the unicorn, she added, “This is a great honor.”
The unicorn nodded in greeting. “Apologies for the loud knock,” he said in his rich baritone voice. “I’m just not used to rapping on doors with this horn of mine.”
Atlanta grinned. “And my apologies to you for Etheria’s little earthquake. She gets, well, carried away sometimes.”
Gryffion’s lavender eyes glittered with amusement. In a voice loud enough that Etheria would be sure to hear it, he said, “You are fortunate indeed to have a house so protective and devoted to your well-being.”
Etheria’s trembling grew noticeably quieter, though the house continued to rumble.
“And I might add,” he said with a wink at Atlanta, “that I take great care to keep houses clean whenever I visit. Besides . . . unicorn manure is much more fragrant than that of horses and other creatures.”
Instantly, Etheria’s trembling ceased. Atlanta could hear the sounds of a new place being set at the table and something being prepared in the kitchen.
“Your manners are impeccable,” she told the unicorn with a smile. “As is your understanding of, shall we say, tricky personalities.”
Gryffion chuckled, rustling his white mane. “You can thank my mate for that! She’s given me lots of practice over the years.”
“Please come in.” Atlanta stepped over to the table, where a large bowl sat next to her mug. The teapot had been refreshed and the woodstove was baking something that filled the house with a delicious aroma.
“Ah, fresh banana bread,” observed Gryffion as he walked in, hooves clomping on the floorboards. “Only a supremely talented house could provide such a treat.”
Every candle in the kitchen flared brighter.
Atlanta almost laughed. “Some tea?” she offered.
“Lovely,” he answered. “With plenty of honey. But,” he said good-humoredly, “no need to fetch me a chair.”
“Then I’ll stand, too,” offered Atlanta.
“Gracious of you, my dear.” Seeing the faery on the tea cozy, Gryffion gave him a respectful tip of his luminous horn. In return, Quiggley nodded and clapped his antennae together, a faery’s sign of high esteem.
Turning to Atlanta, the unicorn remarked, “I see you have a quiggleypottle in your life. Very good luck.”
“Most of the time, at least,” she replied, remembering her big fight with Promi. “But even he can’t protect me from my own stupidity.”
“Our fate as mortals,” said Gryffion with a flick of his tail.
Quiggley promptly flew over and landed on the collar of Atlanta’s robe. As he perched there, she could feel the gentle brush of his wings against her neck . . . as well as the wave of understanding he sent to her.
Pouring some tea into the bowl, as well as her mug, Atlanta asked, “Are things going well with the unicorns?”
“We are blessed. A healthy new colt was born only last week.”
She stirred in the honey. Just then, the woodstove jumped slightly off the floor—just enough to toss a steaming loaf of banana bread onto the table. It landed with a thud and the bread knife slid over to join it.
The unicorn swished his tail in delight. His silver coat gleamed. “Thank you ever so much.”
The walls and floor of the house sighed with satisfaction.
“You are most welcome,” said Atlanta as she sliced some banana bread for her guest. “So what brings you here today?”
“Tidings,” Gryffion replied. He took a swallow of tea from the bowl, then frowned. “Not good ones, I fear.”
Atlanta caught herself just before taking a bite of banana bread. Setting the bread back down on the table, she peered at her guest. “Tell me.”
Gryffion’s lavender eyes looked suddenly sad. “A new unicorn is born only rarely, every thousand years or so. And when that occurs, we have a tradition of reading its placenta for signs of the future.”
On Atlanta’s shoulder, the faery stiffened. Even his antennae seemed frozen.
“What did you see?” Atlanta asked.
“Destruction.” He sighed grimly. “The signs, repeated over and over, predicted a terrible day and night of destruction.”
Atlanta caught her breath. “Those were the same exact words the centaur Haldor said in his prophecy for Atlantis! Until now, I thought that was probably just one of his pessimistic ramblings. But—”
“Now you know otherwise,” completed the unicorn gravely. “As do I. Any prophecy deserves attention—but a repeated prophecy, all the more.”
The kitchen candles quivered, making all the shadows in the room tremble.
“What else,” Gryffion asked, “did the centaur say?”
Atlanta took a long, slow breath, trying to recall that night on Moss Island when Haldor had spoken. “He said this island—he predicted that, too—would touch the wider world. Not through its wondrous creatures and places, or even its magic. And not through its buildings and great inventions.”
She paused, gazing at Gryffion. “No, he said the lasting power of this place would come from its stories. The tales of Atlantis, he promised, would long survive and be cherished by people all over the world.”
“But the land itself?”
“Would be lost forever. He said it would sink deep into the sea and disappear. After ‘a terrible day and night of destruction’—Atlantis would perish.”
The candlelight dimmed further, making the room almost as dark as the forest outside. For a long moment, no one talked. Finally, the unicorn took another sip of tea, then spoke again.
“Something tells me that this will happen soon. And that humans will be at the center of it all.”
“That’s true too often,” said Atlanta glumly. “How can the same species be capable of so much good and so much evil? Create such beauty and powerful tools—and also cause so much damage and suffering?”
The old unicorn shook his head, tossing his mane. “We have a saying about the human soul:
More tangled than the vine,
More mysterious than the sea;
Bright and dark, large and small,
Imprisoned yet free.”
He touched Atlanta’s arm with his horn, sending a warm, renewing tingle through her body. Even the faery on her collar felt it and fluttered his wings. Then, in a voice no less warm, Gryffion explained:
“The tools people make can be powerful, indeed. But what is truly powerful are their choices about how those tools will be used. After all, a hammer can be used to build a neighbor’s home—or to crush that neighbor’s skull. As a gift . . . or as a weapon. And the difference lies not in the hammer, but in the choice.”
Atlanta swallowed. “What then can I do? I’m just one person . . . and the times are so dark.”
“You can be a candle,” offered Gryffion. “Bring some light into the dark.”
He looked at her with compassion. “And try to make the best choices you can.”