A crippling fear of heights is apparently not excuse enough to exempt one from one's duties here at Better Bestiary. Though we fauns like to keep our hooves firmly planted on the ground, when there's a story to be gotten, we must soldier on. Such were the arguments of our editor-in-chief, Zyanya, upon hearing my complaints about my latest assignment, and, as a willing and obedient junior reporter who would like to keep her job, such is my attitude today.

     The assignment was this: visit and participate in The Simurgh School of Flight, an institute dedicated to training riders and caretakers of the mythic and massive bird of prey, the roc. 

     Domesticated in ancient times by military leaders looking to give their forces an edge, the roc has long held a special place of honor among persian cultures. Modern times, however, have seen the sport of roc riding nearly go extinct - no longer viable for military purposes and considered an overly lavish pass-time of the rich, economic downturn nearly put an end to the Simurgh Flight School, one of the oldest still in operation. Unwilling to let this ancient tradition go defunct, it's 46th director, Basir Parande, set out to find new relevance for his floundering flock.

     He found it on the Persian countryside in the form of a lesser-known species of dragon known as the vulturine naga. Nesting in the surrounding mountains, these naga were the terrors of local farmers - feeding off their flocks and frightening travelers on the road. Where others saw an annoyance, Parande saw opportunity. He gathered his small throng of remaining students and offered their services to the dragon-plagued farmers, giving both his birds, his pupils and the farmers a new lease on life. Seeing opportunity for exciting and useful employment, a new generation of students flocked to the school and the art of roc riding began to thrive anew.

      When my partner, Garshasp, and I arrived at the school, they spared no time in incorporating me into their ranks - after touring the eyries and meeting the newly hatched chicks (most of whom, though only weeks old, already dwarfed me) I was thrown into an over-sized flight suit and introduced to my friendly and feathered mount, Bousseh. Less than two hours after arriving I was receiving my first and only flight lesson before going up on patrol. Despite my assertions that I wasn't ready to fly, my instructor, Ramin, assured me that my bird, Bousseh, would do all the flying - I only needed to hold on. With those less than comforting words I was strapped to the saddle and took to the air with a flock of other flight students.

     For me, it was the most exhilarating and terrifying experience in my life, but for the other students it was little more than a routine flight. We soared across the farmlands west of the school, patrolling for naga flocks and chasing off intruders.
     
     It might seem like these roc riders are playing aerial bully to the native vulturine nagas, but the situation is actually mutually beneficial.

     "You want the nagas to be able to live in their natural environment," Ramin explained to me, "but you've got to sympathize with the local farmers. Watching your livelihood be carried off by the native wildlife doesn't exactly endear you to it."

     The rocs, natural predators to the nagas in the wild, make for the perfect deterrent. During my short flight, the mere presence of our team in the sky was enough to repel several flocks of nagas. This constant patrolling keeps livestock safe from predation and the nagas out of the farmer's crosshairs. When presence alone isn't enough to deter the nagas, the rocs put their training to use to herd the beasts to more acceptable hunting grounds. The aerial acrobatics these birds can perform are breathtaking - with awe I watched as Ramin and his bird plucked a straying naga from the air mid-flight, depositing it back with its fleeing flock without a single scratch.

     "People often characterize us roc riders and the nagas as enemies," says Ramin, "but the truth is we owe our very existence to that little dragon. If the nagas hadn't made a nuisance of themselves, we'd be out of a job and our birds would be out on the street. We're happy to see the nagas nest here for years to come."

     And the farmers, from what I can see, are equally happy to see these riders and their birds patrol the skies for just as long. I still prefer to keep my hooves on the ground, but I consider my short duration as a student of the Simurgh School of Flight a (very large) feather in my cap.

     When our editor sent us word that our fellow reporting team, Chimeg and Timeaus, would be departing from India for a tour of the pacific islands by way of the coastal city of Akupara, I begged that we might have leave to send them off. My cataloger, Ren, and I had been in the Indian ocean, observing the behaviors of the ketea indikoi, which we will soon return to - but a chance to meet our friends and to see that famed city once again was not to be missed.

     Named for the mythic world turtle of Indian lore which is said to hold the world upon it's back, the city of Akupara has risen out of a seemingly unfathomable balance between man and beast. Built upon the living shell of the world's oldest known world turtle, Mandara, the city has been growing in beauty and opulence in tandem with its host for over 3000 years. What Mandara's ancient eyes must have seen in the centuries that floated past her, one can only guess, but in seeing the calm in her weathered face, one can be sure she has looked upon them with the wise and unbothered way of turtles.

     We arrived in Akupara a few days ahead of our friends, which was just as well, as I was looking for an excuse to explore. The bay surrounding Akupara is awash with World Turtles of every size - the smallest hurry by with passangers in open-air cabs, ferrying them from shore to shore for business or pleasure. Larger, barnacle-encrusted, turtles carry huts, houses, watch-towers, and even small shops, making something of a floating suburb in the waters surrounding Akupara. But the largest and oldest of the turtles no longer float - anchored firmly to the sea cliffs by their own means, they have become one with the rock and the outskirts of the great city are built atop them. Yet, even these monstrously sized turtles are dwarfed by Mandara, who sits enthroned in the center of her sheltered cove.

     No one knows for certain how old Mandara is. We are told by the local turtle handlers, that most of the turtles they train are her offspring. Training for a World Turtle begins just after hatching - each baby is entrusted to a trainer who will bond with it for next few years. At age 3 the turtles will reach a ride-able size and will work as ferries until they are around 30 years old. At this point, the turtles are large enough to carry buildings. Between the ages of 150-200, long after their original handlers have passed, the turtles reach their final stage of maturity, and meld themselves to the sea cliffs to breed. Here they remain, growing continuously for ages to come.

     As amazing as it is to watch man and beast live so intertwined, it is even more fascinating to see the wordless socializing of the turtles. From morning to night, there is a throng of turtles around Mandara's shell, bobbing their heads and swaying their fins rhythmically in a sort of dance.

     "They are stopping by to say hello," explains Neela, our guide, and a turtle trainer of over 20 years, "they are all family, and the young turtles take great care to keep in touch with the older ones who are nested in the rocks - they will make their rounds to every one before the day is done."

     Mandara returns her vistors' greetings with a slow bob of her massive head and a snort of her nostrils, sending water shooting into the air, showering the turtles, many of them carrying hapless passengers, with a friendly spray. But the people of Akupara take no mind of the turtles' slow lifestyle - a detour and an occasional soaking while making their way through the bay is expected and often welcomed. Many of the city's inhabitants are merfolk, like myself, living in underwater dwellings built onto the lower carapaces of Mandara and the other turtles. The aquatic nature of the upper city makes cooperation between land-dwellers and sea-dwellers especially beneficial, and many merfolk flock here to find work as turtle trainers and ferriers.

     At long last, our friends Chimeg and Timeaus arrive at Akupara harbor. They have had a long trek across the Arabian Sea, but Chimeg, at least, seems energized by the bustle of the city. They had intended to travel by ship for the rest of their journey, but a little goading from the locals convinces them to try the trans-ocean turtle ferries - they are not as fast as traditional ships, but their instincts on ocean currents and storms makes them safer and more reliable. Our guide Neela finds them passage on a 112 year-old turtle named Pankaja, who was trained as a hatchling by her great grandmother.

     "My mother and my grandmother were trainers, too," Neela tells us, "I see the turtles they trained everyday. Someday my children and grandchildren will depend on the turtles I'm training to get them home safely, so I take great care to train them right."

     That sentiment seems to run through all the inhabitants of Akupara. Perhaps living in the shadow of such long-lived giants has had a humbling effect on the people here, or perhaps the slow lifestyle has given them ample time to contemplate the important things in life, but whatever it is, it is refreshing to see.

     Unfortunately for us, we must press on. As Chimeg and Timeaus board their turtle ferry and set out to sea, Ren and I must return to our research in deeper waters of the Indian ocean. But the stay has done us all a bit of good, I think.

     There is perhaps no more dangerous a thing than a creature beyond its ken. I write today of both people and salamanders, the first beyond their depth in knowledge, the second beyond its proper reach in nature, both a source of needless destruction.

     I remember well my first encounter with the salamander invasion. My family was vacationing in the Americas and we had planned a trip through the great redwood forests. But upon arriving, we were barred by locals from even seeing the tree-line - we were fire-breathers, you see, and there were salamanders about. It was a crushing disappointment to a young dragon, to be sure, and such a species-based restriction would hardly be tolerated in today's world. But in my many years since, having seen the blackened forests and charred, soot-stained plains left in the wake of the salamanders' march, I have come to understand such knee-jerk reactions all too well.

     Salamanders, native to the lava-fields of the volcanic islands of the world, are well adapted to their hostile homes of fire and brimstone. They secrete a flammable ooze from glands on their back which, when lit by lava, creates a flame which burns for hours. This flame keeps the salamander's core temperature up, freeing it from the need for an internal flame which most draconids, myself included, require for life.

     But, taken out of that environment and placed into a greener one, those adaptations take a bad turn. The flammable fluid, which the salamanders secrete constantly, is spread throughout their territories, which can be expansive. Nesting sites are especially doused to ensure the eggs get the high temperatures needed to hatch. When this liquid is lit, it is almost impossible to put out, and though it burns slowly, the surrounding brush does not. Entire forests are devoured by flames within days, and the culprits, to the chagrin of locals, emerge unharmed and ready to move to greener pastures.


 
     Though the salamanders withstand forest fires with ease, they are not immune to the fire of vengeance from locals displaced by their flames. Eradication programs are widespread in areas effected by salamander fire, and the slow moving beasts are quickly slaughtered. The problem, however, often proves more pervasive. The secretion left by salamanders, long dead, stays potent for years, and no effective way to purge forests of it has yet been discovered. The populace must remain vigilant to ensure that an errant spark doesn't render their eradication work pointless. Complicating the matter, salamander eggs, thick-shelled and easily mistaken for rocks, remain viable for decades. A heat wave in an area formerly inhabited by salamanders can bring hatchlings crawling out of the woodwork, starting the vicious cycle all over again.

     But the salamanders are not the true villains in this story. One of least intelligent and least mobile of all draconids, salamanders remained safely in their lava fields for millions of years. It was not until the exploration and colonization of their island homes that they were introduced to the more flammable world beyond. Captured and brought onto cargo ships as pets, novelties or ill-devised business ventures, salamanders found their way to nearly every continent. The majority of today's feral salamander populations can be traced back to salamanders imported and bred for their skins. Salamander pelts, being fire proof and attractively colored, made quite a statement in the fashion world of the late 1600s. However, when the toxicity of these skins and the garments made from them was discovered, beleaguered businessmen cut their losses and set loose their salamanders herds upon unprepared lands. And so the salamander invasion began.

     So is there any hope for a solution? If thoughtlessness got us into this mess, it will be the opposite which gets us out. Research studies situated in the salamander's homelands are, every year, yielding new insights into the behaviors and biological functions of these fiery creatures. These insights will, researchers hope, yield new methods of population control and fire prevention more effective than the eradication programs now in place. Whatever inovations this research will bring will doubtless save future generations from a lifetime of headaches, but whether they will come swiftly enough to save the salamander's reputation remains to be seen.

    

     There's more to moat protection these days than a drawbridge and some crocodiles. Today, moat owners require something with a little more pizazz - and something that will fit in with those tricky H.O.A. guidelines.

     "My home owner's association doesn't allow what they consider to be 'dangerous' pets," explains Franklin Belrose, owner of a quaint, but luxurious, cottage mired in a primeval bog, "so traditional moat dwellers were out. They don't seem to mind the plants, though. I got my snapping stars as fingerlings just a few years back and already they've filled out the whole moat. They're beautiful to look at and they keep trespassers at bay."

   And keeping trespassers at bay is precisely what moat owners are looking for. Whether for want of privacy or protection, these land owners look to brute force, or at least the threat of it, to ward off intruders. So why the sudden uptick in form-over-function moat dwellers like ornamental eels and flowering snapping stars? 

   "It's not as wild a world as we once lived in," says eel breeder Mio Oshiru, "We can afford some leeway in what's protecting us. People don't want to feel trapped by their moats, they want to be enriched by them."

   And it would seem she's right. Her eels, which come in every shape, size, and color, sell for astronomical amounts at auction. 

   "They're works of art," says Mio, "and buyers treat them that way."

   But it's not just beauty that moat owners are after, safety is an issue that's close to the heart of many. Anti-moat groups have often cited the dangers of moat dwelling creatures as grounds to ban them from neighborhoods. But castle owners Dan and Sherry Sanden believe they've found a solution in the monstrous leeches they raise in their moats.

   "We've got young kids and you never know what they'll get into. With leeches, the benefits are two-fold: the water levels they need are very shallow, so we don't worry about the kiddos falling in, and leeches are easily trained by scent to know the difference between family and foe. They might not look it, but they're fiercely loyal little buggers."

    But not all anti-moat fears are unfounded. Strings of disappearances in Ireland led to an outcry against the use of kelpies in domestic settings. Though laws were put in place to stem the tide, many moats are still stocked with these insidious creatures.

    "They don't belong to me, I can't be held accountable," explains Cecil Byrnes, a farmer whose bogs are littered with hand-made signs warning of the beasts below the water's surface, "I don't feed 'em or care for 'em. I put up the signs, but I won't get rid of them - they're natural creatures in their natural environment. I'm a conservationist."

    But there's little doubt that his kelpies had some help in getting there. Farmers, looking to keep theiving hands, both animal and human, off their crops, release wild kelpies into their bogs - a loophole around the regulations. No one can argue with their effectiveness - so famous are kelpies for their deadly gile, that even the rumor of them keeps would-be vandals at bay - but nearby families often fear for the safety of their children and livestock.

 

     Proponents of moats are the first to point out that a moat owner's highest concern should be for the safety and well-being of their neighbors and families. Whether they stock their moats for beauty, status, practicality, or protection, moat owners hold sole responsibility for the creatures they keep in their waters.

     Man-eater. That was the word on the street when we began our search for the legendary leucrocuta.

     "It's not fair," whined my assistant Timeaus, a pint-sized, but plucky faun just starting as an field artist for Better Bestiary, "you're only a third human, but it'll eat half of me!"

     That's Timmy's humor for you, nervous and forced. He was hoping we'd do a piece on jackalopes or wild haggis for his first job, but I had my eye on wilder game. 

     We started our search in Ethiopia, on the edges of civilization where the constant encroachment of the wild and lack of modern amenities churn out tales of mythic beasts and dark encounters by the bucket load. It seemed no one was without a friend or a friend of a friend who had come to within an inch of their life in facing the leucrocuta.

     "It sounded like a man calling for help," said one villager ominously, "but when my friend went to investigate he only saw glowing eyes."

     Had he not been quick on his feet, that friend would have been crushed and gobbled down whole by the unhinged jaws of the leucrocuta. Some pegged the beast as the monstrous offspring of a lioness and a hyena. Thrown into the mix were the haunches and hooves of a deer and the head of a horse, or even a badger. It's jaws, rumored to open clear back to it's ears, were said to be filled not with individual teeth, but with bear-trap like rows of sharpened bone. It had the ferocity of a lion, the swiftness of a stag and could perfectly mimic the voice of a man. 

     With such a description, we had to see it for ourselves.

     We trekked two days into the wilderness with no luck. Of lions and hyenas we saw and heard plenty, and many a time I followed trails of cloven hoof prints only to disappointment. But on the third day, as the sun was dipping into the sky and Timmy and I were setting up camp, an eerie and unfamiliar cry shook us. It was a shriek, to my surprise, that sounded very much like a human cry for help. I followed its sound, dragging my reluctant photographer behind me. Just beyond the tree-line, two hulking beasts, the size of large mules, were squabbling over the bones of a long dead buffalo. 

     Hooves of a stag, head of a badger and a set of fearsome jaws that shattered bones like balsa wood: these were our leucrocuta!

     Brimming with excitment (and fear, no doubt, on the part of my brave photographer) we watched the leucrocuta until the dark of evening obscured our view - and through the night, in our camp, we listened to their scoffing and chortling.

     In the next few days we discovered the main pack. Led, it seemed, by a dominant female, the pack functioned with a strong heirarchy, threshing out disputes with human-like whines and snarls that raised the hair on our necks. They seemed to do their hunting nocturnally, and in the mornings we observed them crunching on the bones of their kills - or perhaps the kills of other unlucky predators from which they thieved. They have a taste for bones, an explanation, perhaps, for the wide hinge of their jaws and their rows of bony teeth. They consume a carcass entirely, from horn to hoof to hide, leaving nothing for the beetles or buzzards.

     But a man-eater? In our week of observation we saw little evidence to suggest that these carnivores had any particular taste for man-flesh. On several occasions they warily approached our camp, and I kept a hand on my rifle just in case, but the most grievous loss we suffered was a carelessly placed bag of jerky. I suspect that these animals are scavengers by preference, though it's possible that drought or famine once drove them to seek easy prey like humans, earning them their bad reputation. But I must conclude at this present time, that for centaurs and fauns, at least, they have no taste.

     And my dear photographer, I'm sure, is thankful for that.