Theme: Kitchen Utensil/Drama

Flight of the Gryphon
Ken Chandler Copyright © 2008

The man, dressed in rags and shoeless, stumbled. A weary calloused hand shot out to the cool stone wall, which bore his weight, he paused briefly before walking on.
“I am Simon Barrister. I live at 1421 Belden Lane with my wife, Jo Barrister, and our dog, Mo.” the man recited hoarsely. Lack of use and dehydration made speaking difficult. As Simon paced, he held in his hand a wooden cup. He thumbed the outline of a roughly carved gryphon, which had been cut into the wooden surface. When he reached the wall opposite, he turned and continued his relentless march.

Four days ago, Simon had come to the grim realization that his ability to reason clearly was beginning to slip, and he’d begun to doubt what was real in his 8’ by 10’ world. It was then that he’d begun the practice of reminding himself of little things like his name, and the world outside, telling himself stories of his family, his job, what trees looked like, the feel of grass beneath his feet. These things all became to him a tentative harbor, a safe place, where he could anchor his mind. It was a tedious exercise, and at times he dreaded doing it, but he realized it was his one hope of getting out of this hell with his sanity in tact.

Escape. This singular thought seemed a mockery. “No!” The word sounded like a bark. He gritted his teeth, his fists clenched. “I can’t lose hope. I mustn’t!” He sat down, pulling one of his few possessions, a grey woolen blanket, over his shoulders. He was weary with hunger and fatigue and his mind wandered. I will be free of this place, someday. He thought. Maybe soon. He hoped. Then he amended… and perhaps not for many more years. The hope of escape could not, must not, diminish. More than food and water, he longed for freedom. If that singular dream died in him, then they had truly won. But who were they, his captors? The mystery of why he was here was the most haunting and perplexing of all the hardships he had borne, it was not knowing the reason for this captivity, in this cell, without explanation, that plagued his mind most dreadfully. It was not knowing that caused him to cry out in anger and frustration, or to fall upon the blanket, and weep like a lost child.

A creak of hinges far down the corridor echoed into his prison. And for a moment he sat silent on the wooden plank, which was his bed. What would the guard bring him this time, a rancid piece of meat, or a knife in his gut? Death… he considered. Would death be another form of escape? And would it be better than this? Would he prefer death to seeing his beloved Jo again? He staunched the thought. In that moment he resolved to live, if only long enough to tell his Jo how much he loved her. On this point he would be unyielding.

His thoughts shifted to the day of his arrival. In those first days, he'd almost longed for death rather than the abuses he'd been forced to endure. The last thing he could recall was entering his hotel room, number 221, a hand with a handkerchief clapped over his nose and mouth, then an overwhelming smell that bit into his nostrils, then blackness. When he woke, he was being dragged between two strong men. After they'd thrown his limp body into the cell, both gave him a welcome home present; never in his waking memory had he been beaten with such ferocity. When he at last fell unconscious, under the rhythmic thrum of kicks and punches, it was blissfully embraced. Waking was never less desirable, and he prayed for unconsciousness to fall back over him, it didn’t. In the days following, water was brought, as he ruefully discovered, waking with a shock, soaked and cold; the sound of laughter echoed in the hall as the guard bolted and locked the cell door. Simon realized that he could suck some of the water from his clothes and blanket, though the taste left something to be desired. For hours afterward he was forced to sit naked and shivering as his clothes dried. For food he was brought a slice of stale bread, and a cold watery soup made with a single withered carrot or a hunk of lettuce, browned and limp. At first he resisted eating these, but after a time he ate them anxiously, his stomach growling at him for sustenance.

After an indeterminable time a new guard started serving him. The quality of the food became more tolerable, and the water was served in a wooden cup. A gryphon was roughly etched into the cups side. The wooden soup-spoon, likewise, had a gryphon carved into its handle. When he noticed these carvings, he smiled, and thought longingly of his wife who knew of his love of Gryphons. Fantastic creatures of ancient lore, with the heads and wings of eagles, and the bodies of lions, they were both powerful and majestic. Adorned with razor sharp claws and a beak of iron, these mythical beasts instilled hope and a will to survive into the hearts of men. On his 26th birthday Jo had purchased several skillfully crafted gryphon sculptures, which sat proudly on shelves in his den. He often sat thinking, or pacing the confines of his cell, imagining that a real gryphon would crush the walls of his dungeon and fly with him to freedom. Impossible, He thought silently, laughing within himself. Gryphons don’t exist.

The sound of footsteps nearing the door of his prison roused him from his reflections. The lock lifted, a chain rattled and fell to the floor. A large gruff looking man looked to the left and to the right of the hall before he backed into the room. Simon recognized him as the guard who’d brought him the gryphon carved mug and spoon. The guards cloak billowed slightly as he turned and made a shushing sound as he put a finger to his lips. He approached Simon and conjured a polished red apple from his robe and handed it to Simon. “Eat this,” he said. Simon grabbed it, intent on eating it in four bites, but he hesitated. He looked up into the bearded man’s face and scrutinized it for malice, or an expression that might reveal some hidden intent.
The man looked perplexed than with a dawning expression said, “It’s not poisoned. Eat up, you’ll need your strength.”
Satisfied, Simon shoved the apple into his mouth taking a large bite that crunched and dripped juice down his chin. He groaned rapturously.

The bearded man darted to the door and peered into the torch lit hallway again. When he returned, he pulled a shoulder bag in front of him and began pulling a shirt, pants, leather moccasin-like shoes and a cloak out of it and placed them on the board next to Simon. “Put these on, I've drugged the guards, and we've only got a small window of time to work in, so the time is now. We’re getting out of here.”
Simon stopped eating, swallowed hard, and looked up at the man again, his full attention on the stranger. Tears formed in the corners of Simon’s eyes. He tried to ask how it was possible, but the words couldn’t work their way past the well of emotion.
“I’m a bounty hunter. Your wife hired me to find you and bring you home.” He extended a strong calloused hand to Simon, who shook it. For the first time the bearded man smiled broadly. “My name is Bryson McKitrick, but you can call me Gryphon.”