(A gryphon is a fabulous beast with the characteristics of two of the most noble of living creatures, the lion and the eagle. It is most easily recognized as an eagle, having the hindquarters of a lion. The following is a tale about one such legendary creature that I knew in the land of Once-Upon-A-Time.)
by guest blogger, Sol 
Once upon a time, there was a farm near a mountain where an old woman of uncertain age lived. She lived there with an odd assortment of animals — a crippled cow, a goofy goat, 13 crazy chickens, 11 cantankerous cats, two dotty old dogs, and a bird named Sol.
Very early one morning while the still-slumbering mountain breathed faint mists over its head, and Blanco-the-Rooster was just beginning to sing The Light into being, a new creature arrived at the Farm. It was a gryphon. His name was Lark.
He arrived alone, striding up the crooked, rutted lane with a quite splendid arrogance. He was a guardian of hidden treasures, he told everyone, and he had many stories to barter, should they be interested. He was very sure of himself, and the only vulnerability he ever displayed was a slight quivering in his long, majestic neck, and an eager intentness in his great dark eyes as he accepted offerings of bread and apples.
He told us many tales, at first only in exchange for the freshest of fruits, but later, as he became more tolerant and perhaps even a little fond of us, he volunteered other stories, which he had always known, he said. The stories I offer to you now were those told by Lark in the misty half light of early mountain mornings. He gave them to us in a rather offhand manner, eyeing us in an amused fashion as we huddled together listening . . . .
One day as the old woman sat nearby giving the older hens pedicures (occasioned by their unfortunate and untidy habit of taking dust baths in the mud, and thereby accumulating large mud balls on their toes), Lark gathered the others of us together and said he would tell us some Sicilian fairy tales. He spit at the notion of the sanitized, modern day fairytales as being children’s pap, and favored the Sicilian versions, in which the wicked stepmothers not only killed their sons and daughters, but then carved them up and served them for supper.
He sent a sidelong glance at the old woman, who shook her head reprovingly and gestured with her head (her hands being full of hen and mud balls) to the young chicks in the group of eager listeners. Lark looked disgusted, but turned back to us and told us the following tale. (Why does he always listen to the old woman? Now that’s a story for another day.) He also whispered that if any of us were interested in the other versions, we could meet him down by the old log cabin, where a variety of disreputable characters hung out.
Lark’s Version of The Ugly Duckling
Once upon a time there was a splendid duck, golden yellow with blue feet and beak, who frolicked and played all day long in the sparkling blue waters of the lake where she lived. One day, just as she was surfacing from a dive she had taken to see a glittering bit on the lake’s bottom, a North Wind picked her up, swirled her around, and dropped her with a great splat back into the lake. Unbeknownst to her, the North Wind had been spewed forth by the Sorcerer of the North, in a snit because his undershorts were too tight and pinching him, and so the wind held a nasty bit of enchantment.
This enchantment was such that the splendid duck immediately forgot who she was. She felt ugly and stupid and quite unlike who she really was. She looked at the other ducks’ cleverness and was overcome with shame, and swam in smaller and smaller circles. This went on for quite some time, with the duck drawing further and further back into her golden feathers, which, if the truth be told, lost a bit of their golden luster, as the duck forgot to preen herself properly.
One day she was swimming listlessly about with a Swan companion who had befriended her. (Having been through a similar experience himself, he Understood her.) Very softly and slowly, a luscious wind from the South, bearing the scents of jasmine and orange blossoms, spread its comforting warmth about her, ruffling her feathers, filling her with a forgotten wonder and peace.
And she Remembered. Who She Was, and who she had always been. Her eyes sparkled, and her feathers gleamed. The duck had come Home.
