The Last Satyr: The Company is Formed Part 1

It was the Elves “Tree Planting Day”, and there was no school when the boy got up. Today, the students would all go out and plant a tree for some future elf's home. Draugo made the derogatory comment that the boy should plant a rock for his.

Of course, even for something as simple as a planting tree, the elves had to make into a major thoughtful endeavor. They could spend hours searching for just the right place to plant it; and then, after that, spend just as many hours deciding which way it should face.

Yet it was a great day for it. The morning was bright, fresh, and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart, and if the heart was young, the music flowed from the lips. There was cheer on every face and a spring in every step. The flowers were in bloom and the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air.

But the boy was not smiling. There was no cheer in his heart as he left carrying his aunt’s basket. His steps were slow and his shoulders slumped as he trudged out of the front door, his gaze fixed on the ground. His normally vibrant eyes were dull, lacking the usual spark of excitement that accompanied his adventures. He was to pick mushrooms and not come back until the basket was full—and it was a big basket and the sought-after mushrooms were small. This was going to be a lifelong sentence of drudgery of at least an hour or two.

The boy was never very fond of hunting mushrooms—probably because he didn’t like dark, shady wooded places. The boy preferred plenty of sunlight and high, wide-open spaces. He had little use for dark, confined woods where only mushrooms and tree moss grew.

The ancient trees were tall, reaching for the sun, and birdsongs came in lulls and bursts, the silence between becoming part of nature's melody. For the elves there is the sense of kinship with the flora, of an ancient soul that stretches into everything that lives. But to the boy, it was place to find mushrooms.

Sighing, he began the search, finding his first mushroom, but it was the wrong kind and he had to throw it away. The boy repeated the operation; did it again; finally got his first proper mushroom and dropped it into the basket. He then compared the insignificant amount of space it occupied to the size of the remaining basket, and sat down on a tree stump, discouraged and feeling blue. He was assigned the noble task of mushroom hunting, armed with a basket that could easily double as a small boat, and tasked with capturing elusive mushrooms the size of fairy sneezes. His poor miserable little life was at an end, doomed to spend his last days of youth filling a bottomless pit of a basket till the end of time—or dinner—whichever came first.

Old Joe came along then, singing songs and hauling another load of ore. Hauling ore had always been work in the boy’s eyes before, but now it did not strike him so. All he had to do was steer the wagon to the crusher. The dwarves would unload it and he’d have somebody to talk to and maybe steal from.

“Picking mushrooms?” Old Joe called to the boy.

The boy nodded.

“Pick me some too,” he said.

“Tell you what,” the boy offered. “I’ll swap jobs with you and take your gold ore down for unloading. You can stay here and pick mushrooms for both of us.”

“Your Aunt Athiel warned me you’d make such an offer. I just passed her place,” Old Joe said. “She said I’m to ignore you.”

And he did. The boy watched him pass and began to think of the fun he had planned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. Soon the free elf boys would come tripping along after planting their trees on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and they would make fun of him for having to work—the very thought of it burnt him like fire.

As a satyr, he wasn’t required to work. He was to be raised as a satyr and, according to his classes, satyrs never worked. Their idea of work was sitting around all day making fun of others doing work. That job could suit the boy just fine. He had even come up with a title for the position—the boss.

The boy wasn’t actually averse to work. He had lugged many a stolen watermelon or pumpkin over many a mile, and was quite strong from doing it. Work was okay to pass the time, but he didn’t want to try making a living at it. It sounded too much like being a grownup. He’d let them do it. Humans like Old Joe and dwarves were always looking for work. They were in need of it. So, if he didn’t do a job, why that would create a job for someone else that needed it. Why he’d be helping them out by not doing it. Indeed! He ought to charge them for it.

Yet he did agree to do things for his Aunt Athiel. She had, after all, taken him in, and she meant well, telling him there were rewards for doing work. Oh! He politely listened, but he didn’t buy into it. Seemed it took three months to grow something that only took one minute to eat. Hardly a good tradeoff. Now if she were to reverse that order, he might go along with it.

But he took up the basket now and went tranquilly to work in his depression. Benoth Roth hove in sight presently—the very boy, of all boys, whose ridicule he had been most dreading. Benoth’s gait was the hop-skip-and-jump—proof enough that his heart was light and his anticipations high. The elf was eating a pear, and studying the ground as elves did, following the boy’s hoof tracks to where he was at, evidently mistaking the boy for a goat in the woods by his prints.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Benoth said. “You don’t come into the woods often. Athiel got you picking mushrooms?”

“She does,” the boy said, adding, “It’s my reward for doing so well in school yesterday.”

“For doing so well? That’s not what I heard about you in Blackthorn’s class.”

“Not at all,” the boy answered. “I didn’t get one wrong. When my Aunt Athiel heard I was the only student in school that could pick out the right mushrooms, she rewarded me by letting me pick her some. She knows I’ll do her right.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re being punished.”

“No! You can ask anybody. I’m the best, most respected expert mushroom picker there is.”

“What? You—respected? That’s a laugh. Well! You have fun with your work. I planted my tree so I’m going swimming.”

The boy deliberately missed a mushroom.

“You missed one,” Benoth said.

“Nope,” the boy answered.

“Yes, you did! See? It’s right there!”

“Shows what you know,” the boy said. “That mushroom’s got the wrong flavor.”

“What wrong flavor?” Benoth stopped to ask. “What are you talking about?”

“Well! If you knew anything about picking mushrooms, you’d know some are better than others, just like some berries are better than others. That mushroom’s been allowed to get too much sun.”

“How can you tell?”

“The top’s dry,” the boy replied.

“Why! You’re right! It is! How do you know about that?”

“Because I’m a respected mushroom picker,” the boy told him. “Everybody knows that except apparently you. Why eating a dry mushroom is no different than eating a dried-up old pear.”

The boy put special emphasis on the word “respected”. Being respected is mighty important to elves. They’ll do just about anything to become respected.

“What else do you know about picking mushrooms?” asked the elf.

“You have to know the feel.”

“What’s feel got to do with it?”

“You’d have to pick some for me to show you.”

“Why, I can do that!”

“Well, I don’t know,” pondered the boy. “My Aunt wants me to do it because she wants the best job and trusts me to do it.”

“Oh! I can do a good job!” Benoth vowed.

“Well, I still don’t know…”

“I’ll let you have the rest of my pear if you’ll show me,” he offered. “I’ve only taken three bites out of it.”

“Well,” the boy feigned reluctance. “Throw in a fishhook and I’ll agree.”

“Done!”

So the boy let him and pretended to show him how to do it so that you never picked a “dry” mushroom or one too wet. And, of course, being a nimble-fingered, sharp-eyed elf; he pretty much picked up a storm of them way faster than the boy ever could.

About this time, Darth Lowellen happened along, having also found his goat tracks, and wondered what was going on.

“Benoth!” he called. “What are you doing picking mushrooms? I thought we were going swimming?”

“I will as soon as I fill this basket. Right now the satyr is showing me how to pick mushrooms.”

“What’s a satyr know about picking mushrooms?” Darth scoffed with a frown.

“Oh! He knows all about it! He’s the best in school. Didn’t you hear? He got them all right in class. He’s showing me how to pick the finest.”

“Really?” Darth asked. “You say the finest?”

“Yes, moist and tender all the way through.”

“That does sound interesting. It must be something only satyrs know. Can you show me how to do it, too?”

“I suppose. It seems simple enough. Ask the boy if he’ll let you do it.”

So the boy showed Darth how and pretty soon he got the hang of it. The boy watched the two nimble-fingered, fleet-footed, keen-eyed elves rooting out mushrooms for him while he dangled his legs from a fallen tree, enjoyed his well deserved rest and juicy pear. About the time they got tired of it, Darth’s sister, Lora, happened along and she wanted to take a turn at learning it too. When she finished, the basket was full, and they all parted happy—the elves because they believed they had mastered a respectable skill and the boy because he had respectfully avoided work.

So now, after reporting to headquarters with mission accomplished, what would he do for play? Go swimming?

No. Wait! He'd almost forgotten. Today was actually very important. Something he'd been planning all week.