The Last Satyr: The Company is Formed Part 1

The satyr boy's spirit had died.

In the heart of a silent forest, where even the birds’ songs have been hushed by the weight of noonday heat, the boy sought the tranquility of the woods to ease the heaviness in his soul. Betrayal had woven its way into his world, turning the once cherished bond of friendship into a bitter memory, a fragile glass ornament shattered by a careless hand.

The boy dodged hither and thither through the woods until he was well out of the track of the other returning elf scholars. Then he fell into a moody jog. He crossed a small creek two or three times, leaving ripples of uncertainty in his wake, that he might baffle any elf pursuit as he sought solitude. Half an hour later, Linthiel was so far off away it had disappeared in the valley behind him. He entered even deeper into the dense wood, picked his pathless way to the center of it, and sat down on a mossy spot under a spreading oak. Nobody would look for him here.

These were hardly satyr surroundings. This was a dark wood when the boy preferred open spaces. Yet serenity flowed here as smooth and cool as creek waters. There is something about the quiet, a melody without a rhythm, music without sound. Above waved the great arms, clothed in the greens of every palate to paint the verdant hues of nature’s free dreams.

There was not even a squirrel stirring; the dead noonday heat had even stilled the songs of the birds; nature lay in a trance that was broken by no sound but the occasional far-off hammering of a woodpecker, and this seemed to render the pervading silence and sense of loneliness even the more profound. The boy’s soul was heavy in melancholy; his feelings were in total agreement with his dark surroundings. He sat alone with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, meditating. It seemed to him that life was but a trouble, at best, and he envied Erawin, so lately deceased. If he weren’t in the belly of an ogress, he’d still be lying peaceful, he thought, slumbering and dreaming forever and ever, with the wind whispering through the trees and caressing the grass and the flowers over his crypt, and nothing to bother him and grieve about, ever anymore. If he only had someone to miss him besides his aunt, he’d be willing to go now and be done with it all.

Now, as to the source of his troubles—Leradien—how could she have done that last night? Had she finally gone insane? He had meant her the best in the world, and she had repaid him with trying to kill Ronthiel. He felt like he had been treated like a dog—like a very dog! She was his most trusted friend and now this! Oh! She would be sorry someday when he was dead. Ah, if he could only die temporarily in order to witness her grief!

Amidst the shadows of doubt, a new notion began to take shape, like a fragile seed pushing through the soil of his mind. The heart of a satyr cannot dwell on grief for any length of time, a minute or two at most. The boy began to consider what he should do about her betrayal of him in this life. What if he turned his back on her now and disappeared mysteriously? Oh! Yes! What if he went away—ever so far away, into unknown countries beyond the seas—and never came back again!

Why he could escape the drow and teach Leradien a lesson at the same time! How would she feel if he did that? Hah! She’d have no one to play with and, when he died, there’d be no more satyrs for her to marry and, with no elf willing to have her; she’d go mad with grief and loneliness. She’d go insane just as Ronthiel said. That would teach her! And, if it didn’t teach her, then she was lost already to him and all others. By El, he would do it!

Of course, the problem of how to support himself in leaving eventually occurred to him. He certainly didn’t want to work for his keep. He needed something quick and easy. Maybe he’d be a fierce warrior—a soldier of fortune carrying his sheathed knife on one side and his bow and arrow on the other. He’d slay trolls (little one’s mind you) and rescue other villages. No, that was too dangerous—even with little trolls.

He could join the orcs though and go on the warpath with them, but then—no—they might eat him and they’d been losing all their wars since forever, anyway. Instead, he would become a thief! Ah, yes! Of course, that was it! What more obvious way to support himself than that? He was already an expert at it.

Now his future lay plain before him and, with his solitude now forgotten, he eagerly dreamed with unimaginable splendor of imagined glories. How his name would fill the world and make people shudder! And he didn’t always have to be sly about stealing, either. With his knife, he could rob treasure caravans in broad daylight. Sure! Why not? He’d collect a vast fortune and come back to the schoolhouse with his riches and gold and stomp into class in his fancy clothes, his blonde hair long and uncut, his belted knife from Graybeard still bloodied, decked in silver and gold and all a swashbuckling as he bowed before the girls while they all gawked at whispered in envy, “It’s the goat boy! The one we never thought would never amount to anything!”

Yes, it was settled; his career was determined. He would run away from home and enter his new living of piracy. He would start the very next morning. Therefore, he must now begin to get ready. He would collect his resources together, what little they were.

The boy set off and found his old rotten log, a marker for what lay beneath, and began to dig under one end of it with his knife for the gold nuggets he’d stashed here for this very occasion. He soon reached deep enough and put his hand in and scraped away the dirt, expecting to find the gold. When his hand came up empty, the boy looked for what lay beneath. There was nothing there. The boy stared in wide-eyed astonishment.

He’d been robbed!

He stood up in shock and deep thought. Now he knew he’d put the nuggets there after stealing them from Old Joe, just in case he ever needed them, as he did now. It was true that most of them he didn’t keep and gave away to the fairies, but his aunt had been advising him on the need to save for a rainy day and this seemed as good a way to start as any.

But now he’d been robbed of his just deserts!

Why, that was unthinkable! Who would stoop so low as to thievery? What kind of person would do that?

It was downright humiliating that his careful hiding place had been found and irritating at the same time that there were actually thieves about.

He ran down the list of suspects. There were the fairies, of course, and Leradien, the gnomes, or even his half-brother Sith.

There were too many suspects and not enough clues.

In fact, in spite of all his care, any sharp-eyed elf could have tracked him here, spotted where he’d buried the gold, and dug it up to take it.

The boy’s whole faith in the world was shaken to its foundations. To think there were thieves in this world! What low life scoundrel would stoop to steal? Why, if he ever caught who did it, why he’d—huh—Well— He’d sure give him a piece of his mind. That’s what! Why he ought to tell the elves so that they could form a search party, find the thief, and teach him a lesson. Why the boy would even help. Thieves around here! A place of good folk! Who’d have thought?

That’s when he saw someone far off in the wood. It was a boy about his size. Curious, the goat boy drew closer. Was this the thief, he wondered.

As the boy looked clues of the thief, his troubled thoughts were momentarily interrupted by a figure moving through the trees, a boy of his own size. The air held its breath as the tension grew within him. Was this the thief who had dared to pilfer his most prized possessions? With his determination in his eyes, the goat boy ventured forward, ready to confront the unknown and unveil the truth hidden within the tangled web of suspicion.