The Gryphon and John Bailey

Of course, John Bailey didn’t know it was a gryphon.

In fact, he had no idea what the animal in his barn was. At first, he reached for his rifle – "Dang coyote!" – but an instant after, he realized it was sleeping and wasn’t there to harm his chickens. The beast lay, breathing shallowly, sprawled by a small hole in the ground in one of the unused stalls.

A closer look – inching forward – told him it was no coyote. The size was right, the paws looked similar, but the head…. If he hadn’t known such things were impossible, he would have said it had an eagle’s head.

The beast moved – John Bailey jerked back – and stretched across the dirt floor. A feathered pair of wings spread and didn’t fold back; its beak clacked once, and then it was still.

"Missus Bailey," the man called, though the name was more of a drawl than a shout. "Take a look here."

Middle-aged with more gray hairs than she would admit to having, Missus Bailey walked to where her husband stood.

He asked her what she thought it was, but all she could say was "Goodness gracious me," over and over. John Bailey only half heard her as he rested the butt of the rifle on the ground and leaned on the barrel.

She calmed down enough to begin to really talk, and wondered if it was some kind of bird, something migrating from some island near Australia or something, as Marge Elliott’s son had read a book once about strange creatures from islands out that way, beasts that looked like the pieces of many animals clapped together as if by demons, or perhaps by some mad scientist, and hunted by the savages and used for pagan rituals and didn’t he think it might be a bird from one of those islands?

"Maybe," John Bailey said and turned to put the rifle back. "C’mon. The animals need feeding."

The beast didn’t move much, and slept through the morning. John Bailey was content to let it sit – he’d think about it later, maybe over a pipe on his porch when the sun set.

Missus Bailey had no such skill at waiting. She looked in on it constantly through the morning, and at lunch she placed a bowl of water and a few rolls as close to its head as she dared. The beast clacked its beak – Missus Bailey jumped – but its eyes didn’t open and she left a few minutes later.

That afternoon she took the car into town and walked into the library. It has been commented that in tales such as this, some amount of serendipity is required to make it work, and this tale is no exception. For as Missus Bailey searched in the children’s area for a picture book of Australian beasts, her eyes lighted on a particular book cover, propped up on a display table. There, painted flying at night over a landscape of some foreign country, was the creature. The same head and wings of an eagle grafted onto the body of a coyote or lion or something – the same strange mixture sleeping in the barn at home.

The librarian, a Miss Hazel, was walking by, and Missus Bailey grabbed her arm. "What’s that, on that book there?"

Miss Hazel – removing her arm from the other’s grip – picked up the book and held it so both could see. "It’s a gryphon. A magical creature found in many fairy tales."

Missus Bailey’s eyes focused on the title: Cuthbert’s Encyclopedia of Mythical Creature. "Is it real?"

"Of course not." The librarian’s face almost smiled.

Looking doubtfully at the picture, Missus Bailey said she’d like to check the book out. A moment later her sense of propriety returned and she grabbed two books at random from the shelf, sandwiching the Encyclopedia between them. It simply wouldn’t do, she thought as Miss Hazel stamped the books, to be seen in the town carrying such a questionable book.

John Bailey went back into the barn after his wife left. He needed a can of oil for his tractor, but in addition, latent curiosity was beginning to gnaw at him. He hadn’t taken more than three steps before he realized the beast no longer slept.

The creature itself was hidden from his view by the low walls of the stall, but he saw clumps of dirt being thrown into the air. Cautiously, he stepped forward, hand reaching toward the top of the stall as he leaned in to see.

The beast was digging. Its front paws, canine-like, threw the dirt up between its hind legs. It stopped – and turned an imperious, almost menacing eagle’s eye on him. John Bailey straightened in a nervous jerk. "I… just need to get some oil." He forced himself to turn and walk away; he felt with absolute surety that the animal didn’t want him watching.

Behind him, he heard the sounds of digging once more.

That evening, Missus Bailey read the entry out loud to her husband on their porch as he lit and slowly smoked his pipe. He nodded at all the right moments – in fact, he was listening to her more than he usually did.

"It says here that the gryphon is out of India." She read out loud: "‘The gryphon lives in the mountains with a horde of gold, and has an instinct for locating buried treasure.’" She looked up as she heard John Bailey stiffen. His eyes squinted at the setting sun, his pipe in a forgotten hand on his lap, and she waited to hear him speak.

"The digging," he said quietly, and stuck his pipe back in his mouth. No smoke came out, and he moved to light it again.

Missus Bailey sat very still. "Goodness," she said quietly, and even more quietly a word that sounded like treasure. They sat rocking in their chairs, no other sound breaking the evening’s stillness.

"Well," John Bailey said, startling his wife. He tapped the ashes out of his pipe, then: "Time for bed. We’ll check it in the morning."

He fell asleep long before his wife did.

In the morning, they went together to the barn. The gryphon – the word was strange in their mouths, but they needed to call it something – slept beside a much larger hole. Missus Bailey crept forward as close as she dared, but could not glimpse any sparkle of gold at the bottom of the hole. She had an air of disappointment, but her husband set a leg of cold chicken in the stall, which seemed more appropriate than rolls, and refilled the bowl of water.

Missus Bailey clearly wanted to stay, but her husband remembered the look the beast had given him the day before, and guided her out. She had work to do, same as he did, he reminded her.

Throughout the afternoon, he heard the gryphon digging, but he never looked in its direction. He kept his wife away from the barn, and only ventured in himself if he absolutely needed to.

In the evening, Missus Bailey pored over the Encyclopedia while he simply watched the smoke from his pipe drift slowly above his head. He could feel her looking towards the barn every few minutes, but she made no move.

His pipe went out, and they went to bed.

It woke them just after midnight – a piercing eagle’s shriek that had Missus Bailey sitting up straight with a gasp, clutching the arm of her husband hard enough to make marks.

John Bailey disentangled himself and walked over to the window, feet bare against the cold floor. The moon was full and he could see the barn, but no movement presented itself. He peered for several minutes – nothing caught his eye.

He’d check it in the morning, he told her, and presently went back to sleep.

They went together that morning to the stall, John Bailey first with his usual slow gait and his wife hanging behind. Had he looked, he would have seen the battle between fear and curiosity in her eyes, but he never thought to look.

Again, his hands rested on the low wall as he leaned into the stall to see. He drew back moments after, a hand going to the back of his neck to rub it in confusion. Missus Bailey gathered herself up and stood next to him to look in.

The next instant she was talking. "It’s gone! Just like that! What…." She trailed off as her eyes took in the scene.

The hole had been filled back in with dirt, loosely packed and covered with paw prints. In the center lay a single tarnished yet sparkling coin. They both watched it silently for several minutes until John Bailey walked in, picked up the coin, and pocketed it. He turned and walked out slowly. "The animals need feeding."

The coin would wait till the evening.