“Sleep now my child...”

“But Mother, last night you promised to tell me about the Basilisk... You promised!”

“I did dear one, I did.”

The child nestled herself snug against the warmth of her mother’s side; the mare in turn curled her long legs to embrace her daughter, extending a glossy black, feathered wing to blanket the small foal, both for warmth and security in the cold of the imminent night. Tenderly and with an affectionate smile, she nuzzled her only child.

“There are beings who occupy the wilds of the fairy-tale land called Helovia; strange, wonderful and terrifying, and perhaps one of the most unusual of all is the Basilisk.
Some say they have seen this creature hatched from the shell of a snake’s egg, others claim to have witnessed its emergence from that of a toad! Regardless, fable states that it is only beneath the warm, broody breast of a cockerel that eggs containing Basilisks are incubated.

These creatures are peculiar to look at. They are a mismatched sort, with a grand crest of fowl’s feathers, serpent’s scales, and a reptilian tail which is thick and strong. Many claim that the Basilisk struts upon a pair of absurd, naked legs with claws like an eagle; others describe its form to be the long twisting body of a serpent itself.

One must be extremely careful when in the company of such highly-strung beings though- they are irrational, with wild tempers which are untameable. Their eyes weep acid, and such tears burn anything they touch. They could easily melt the very hoof from your leg!
And eye contact must never be made with a Basilisk, or certain death will befall that fool who looks- it is how they hunt you see, preying upon those who are unsuspecting or imprudent. Indirectly, the beast’s terrible stare will petrify.”

“Indirectly Mother...?”

“If you were to glance into its eyes through a pool’s reflection child, you would be turned to stone.”

“Oh my! How can a Basilisk be slain?”

“Well, there are many rumoured ways to kill one, though only three which I have heard to be successful.
The first is a conniving theory, though Basilisks are not stupid creatures- some have tried luring them to glance at their own reflection, trying as they might to petrify it with its own stare. I cannot tell you how successful this has been; they are shrewd and aware, and I would think, not easily fooled in such a way.
Secondly, to this wretched monster, the crow of a rooster is fatal, a thing that has been tested with success and is riddled throughout history’s coffers.”

“...And the third Mother, I should think roosters are few and far between?”

“The third my child is with the foul odour of a common weasel! Unfortunately though, the animal used to destroy the Basilisk is killed also as it is exposed before the monster.”

“That is terribly sad.”

“Such is Lore, I am afraid.
Now sleep darling Africa, it is late and we both must rest...”

The pigeons exploded upwards suddenly, apparently abandoning their quest to transport the rock, and deserting their feminine equine servants. From the bushes beneath their refuge, the source of the droning roar, the building anticipation became clear, the maternal Basilisk erupted across the milky moonlit hill. Its scales glistened like the starry sky above, and for a moment, Africa’ breath caught in her throat, the sheer fascination and reality of this unfolding legend, almost too much to bear.

Another thing also happened then, perhaps feeding the thirsty enthrallment dancing through her pale golden gaze. A dragon that had not been there only seconds before writhed to life above the bewildered expression of the young reptilian horse to her right, and Africa matched the stranger’s extensive astonishment, her jaw slack and her mouth agape.
As the near vicinity was illuminated by the magical dragon’s fiery essence, Africa trained her eyes to the creature’s neck- well clear of its furious, teary gaze. That was when she noticed the smoke pluming from a small crater below its snaking form. The Basilisk’s tears, she presumed wisely deciding against closer investigation, were burning the very soil beneath her weight.

The mare that had been previously harnessed to pull, leapt in defence to shield Africa and immediately, the young dapple grey felt a mixture of gratefulness and due care swell within her. Although childhood memories had been drawn rapidly from the chambers of the dapple grey’s own mind, thus providing the necessary information about this serpent-fowl beast, the stranger had selflessly straddled herself between life- the group, and death- the Basilisk. She reached forward while the star-kissed, purple mare poised before her and brushed her lips across the other’s warm hide in sincere gratitude.

The creature hissed at them collectively, calling them thieves, accusing them of stealing her baby, and Africa murmured softly, deliberately scrutinizing the Mother’s shimmering fire-lit scales, “Mother! Basilisk’s tend their own young!” Her thought was broken by a sudden retaliation, the fire-breathing filly was questioning the Mother’s nurturing instinct and bond to her baby; testing whether she knew in fact, her own shelled progeny from a fake of sorts. Africa had to laugh slightly, though she concealed it well within an abrupt nod, remembering that her own mother had labelled these creatures shrewd.

Perhaps the youngest of their crowd’s bluff was in fact truth. Africa recalled with narrowed eyes that the eggs of these monsters were alike either that of a toad or a snake- this rock resembled neither! “Perhaps you are right...” She thought aloud, “This rock looks nothing like the Basilisk’s egg portrayed in the stories I have heard.” Her words trailed and were lost beneath a flurry of new instructions.
The purple-tinged mare bounded towards the fire-breather, and Africa’s ear followed with compiling interest, allowing her eyes to remain transfixed on the furious beast.
Each mare it seemed had their own way to kill or distract the Mother from her egg, the next choice being a combination of magic, wielded by those who were in such possession. The young dapple grey was not, and so resigned to watch the display of dancing lights and fire-dragons alike. It was rather beautiful, and quite mesmerizing she thought, waiting back.

The horse with trees growing atop her temples moved next, struck by some wondrous concept perhaps, which was known only unto her. Africa watched in humble amazement as she darted away, clear of the dangerous beast. She could not tell where the pale horse had gone until the sound of her taunting; mocking voice filled the cold, still night air. She was trying to summon the Basilisk to the water’s edge and the grey was certain that it was a hearty attempt to lure the Mother into her own reflection.
Perhaps it would work; perhaps it wouldn’t. Only time would tell, but their ideas were drying up and the Basilisk’s fury was intensifying with every moment they forced her into procrastination.

Africa conjured up her own plot as they waited for the creature to react to the ‘reflection-plan’- or not. It was the last of a withering list of choices available, and although perhaps the most basic of them all, the quiet horse reckoned it stood a relatively decent chance- tried and tested, though not in the manner in which she was going exert it, if all else should have failed.
In a swift action, she snatched the barky branch which she had been previously using as a make-shift broom. Frayed and hairy, the sweeping motion had caused its once emerald tips to fall limp like a long, wispy tail within the gentle clasp of her teeth.

If the creature had alerted to the pale mare’s idea, Africa would step forward and confront the creature personally. She would stand side on, across the crest of the little hillock whose surface was now sullied with various craters, burnt by her acid tears. With a wing drawn carefully to shield her eyes, the dappled horse would peer through the slim gaps between spread, black primary feathers to watch for reaction and response to her warning- always avoiding eye contact.

“Bashilishk!” She would summon the monster’s attention with a bold, brazen call, “In my teeth here, I have a weashel...” She would dangle the replica tail beneath the arm of her stretched wing then to prove her case. “It is widely known that the odour of a weashel can kill a Bashilishk. If you leave ush in peache, I will not bring thish animal near you.” She would lower her voice, to enhance the truth behind her intentions. “The choice ish yoursh- will you rishk your life; or will you live on to birth many more eggsh just the shame.”

And that is how Africa’s variation of events would have unfolded if the chance arose.