“‘Years upon years ago,’ my father would say, ‘before any of us were brought into being upon this green and blue globe we now call home, there was a tree.  It was thick of leaf, heavy of fruit and full of life.  Some cultures believe it was the ash tree from which everything sprung.  Some cultures thought of it as a golden tree with golden fruit for the golden king of Salem. 

“‘One culture in particular believed it was a tree from which stemmed eternity and one bite of its fruit would offer immortality.  This tree, the Tree of Life, it was said, was one of two to stand in the middle of a garden.  A germinal garden from which life grew and thrived and multiplied.  But life was young, men were newly wrought and in their innocence, dangerous to themselves. 

“‘Therefore, a gryphon was formed from the dust of the wine from the fruit of the tree and placed as its guardian.  He was never to eat the fruit but only guard it in shadow so as not to lay claim to that which was not his but only that from which he stemmed.  Years passed and soon the gryphon, with his vast wings and ebony talons, grew egregious.  He felt the sweetness of the fruit was his just due and resented his lack.  In the cool of the evening, he waited until not a sound was heard in the garden.  He knew then all living things were asleep.

“‘Before the first light of dawn, he took his chance and plucked not just the fruit but in his fervor, pierced the bark of the tree intending to swallow its sap.  But before his black talon could puncture its pith and spoil its marrow, a flash of thunder, a slash of lightning clapped the earth and broke the ground beneath his feet.  He tried to fly away but the air above his head broke into a frenzy of storm forcing him downward.  A huge crevice snagged his foot and he realized it was the root of the Tree of Life.  Both he and the tree were flung far, far into the great chasm, flung into a sea of open water and deep, twisting whirlpools.

“‘He was rushing in spirals downward, dizzy, unable to see as the spinning grew faster until the swirling water slowed, folding itself around him, tucking him into its watery bed. 

“‘He came to rest at the bottom of the sea in the needled cushions of a primordial sunken pine forest, the Tree of Life beside him but outside his reach.  He flapped his wings, now gluey with the sap of the pine forests around him, but could not reach the object of his desire.  The harder he flapped, the tighter his prison grew until slowly, slowly the golden sap of the ancient, submerged forest oozed around him, entirely encasing him in its hardening amber cocoon.

“‘The Tree of Life beside him, unable to cry out, suffered the same, silent fate. 

“’Frozen in the waters, sealed away from time, from flight, from the one thing he craved above all else, the gryphon was wiped from the earth, from life, along with the tree from which he was forged.  Soon, both were forgotten in the subterranean mists of the dark waters.  Eternally apart but never released from the soul from which both had been fashioned.’”    

I took a deep breath and said nothing more.

“Tell me,” he said, slowly unraveling his words.  “If you have the gryphon, what happened to the tree?”

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