The Last Satyr: The Company is Formed Part 1

The sun rose upon a tranquil world and beamed down upon the peaceful tree village like warm butter. With breakfast now over, Athiel had the family look their best. This meant that the boy had to clean out yesterday’s stolen corn husks from his goat fur while she brushed his hair. They had a special guest coming – Graybeard, the elves’ keeper. This was unexpected.

Now, normally, Graybeard only came by once a year. As the keeper of all the Elves, he represented them before the Council of Azazel. Since their future was in his hands, the elves always watched for Graybeard’s arrival with some concern, and for him to show up early like this was an unusual occasion.

Even more unusual was when the old keeper bypassed all the treehouses of the elders and, instead, rapped his wooden staff on the door of Cedar House. The Lady Athiel expected him, for she showed no surprise at all to see Graybeard standing there before her with his slouch hat, scraggly old beard, and big black boots.

“Good morning, Graybeard. I see you are early?”

“My dear woman,” Graybeard replied, stepping in. “I am never early! And even when I am, it’s because others expect me to be late! And as to whether it’s a good morning or not, that depends on if it’s a good morning for Durham Forest, or a good morning for Linthiel, a good morning for Cedar House, or a good morning for me?”

“And why not a good morning for all?” Athiel asked.

“Well, yes! I suppose anything’s possible if it comes to that. So where is the young whippersnapper?”

“He’s waiting for you in the library.”

“Ah, yes! The library! Which reminds me,” Graybeard remembered. “When are you going to write your book?”

“It’s carved into every flight of the staircase.”

“Ah! Yes, so it is! But I wasn’t talking about your husband’s life. I was talking about yours.”

“My life is my husband’s life.”

“If by that you mean you’re not going to write your own book, good for you! If you ask my opinion, those things are a great waste of time! Most are not worth the paper they’re written on.”

“It’s all we leave behind when we die.”

“That’s the trouble with you, elves,” Graybeard chuckled, shaking his head in disagreement. “You leave nothing behind but paper. Here I am to judge you, and every year I come here, I find there is nothing to judge but piles of paper. You do nothing else!”

He looked around his surroundings for the boy. “So where is he? Or do I have to find him myself?”

“He’s hiding there behind the bookcase. He’s frightened of you.”

“Really?” Graybeard replied as he poked the boy out from behind the bookcase with his staff to have a gander at him. “Frightened of an old keeper, are you?” he asked the boy. “Well! At least someone shows me a little respect! So what’s your name, boy?”

“He doesn’t have a name,” Athiel answered.

“He doesn’t have a name?” Graybeard repeated, his brow deepening in curiosity while looking the boy closer in the eye. “Doesn’t it seem rather queer to you that you don’t have a name?”

“The elders thought he should have a satyr name,” his aunt explained, “and not an elf name. So they’re waiting for the satyrs to find and name him.”

“What you mean is,” Graybeard said, “Is that they didn’t want to interfere?”

He looked at the boy again and asked him. “So what do they call you? ‘Hey, you’ I suppose?”

“Everyone calls me ‘boy’,” answered the boy.

“Boy, eh?” the old keeper said. “Well! I suppose it could be worse. They could call you ‘it’ or even ‘that’. I guess you can consider yourself lucky. So what do you know about satyrs, boy?”

“I know they look like me.”

“You know they look like you? What else?”

“That’s all.”

“You know they look like you, but that’s all?” Graybeard asked, turning back to Athiel. “Is the boy always this stupid, or is this a special occasion?”

“There are no other satyrs for him to learn from.”

“But you elves have known satyrs. You can teach him satyr ways.”

“He’s a true satyr, Graybeard. The boy dances and plays the flute, and he’s lazy and won’t work. He falls in love easily and has no use for fighting. And all the forest folk and animals love him—even me. What more do you want?”

“But he doesn’t know why satyrs exist, does he?” Graybeard guessed of her.

“No.”

“And why not?” demanded Graybeard, tilting his head to hear her answer.

“Graybeard, you know the answer to that. It is because satyrs are an annoyance to us. You actually thought we would encourage him to be himself?”

“I thought you elves, of all creatures, would understand the balance of Nature. And which is why the satyrs lived so close at hand!” Graybeard exclaimed. “Why do you suppose I demanded he live here? I could have sent him to live with humans or dwarves. But no! I put him here in your house and right in the midst of you, so that you might finally learn the meaning and purpose of your own lives. And what do I find? He doesn’t even know who he is!”

There came a knock at the door. It was Duravane, chief of the elves’ council of elders.

“Is this a private meeting?” he asked. “Or may I come in?”

“Let him in,” Graybeard consented.

“Thank you,” Duravane said, coming in. “You’re early this year, Graybeard. What brings you?”

Duravane, with his sharp, observant eyes, always seemed to be prying into matters that were none of his concern. His well-groomed appearance belied his nosiness, his coal-black hair meticulously combed to perfection. A perpetual frown etched on his features, he carried an air of disapproval that seemed to be directed at the boy. His posture exuded a sort of haughty self-importance, as if the world should bend to his expectations.

Graybeard, on the other hand, regarded him with a mix of disdain and annoyance, seeing him as little more than an inconsequential obstacle, unworthy of the old keeper’s valuable time.

“It’s the boy’s thirteenth anniversary of his arrival here,” Graybeard answered. “It’s time that I judge his care and his future.”

“Well! I don’t think you should judge all of us elves for his care. You know this is all Athiel’s doing. The council opposed this from the very beginning! You shouldn’t hold us accountable for him, particularly when Athiel ignores our every piece of advice.”

“And what advice of yours has she ignored?”

“She sent the boy to school. We obviously opposed the idea. We did not wish to interfere with his natural upbringing by teaching him our ways. It seemed to us that teaching him our ways would make it more difficult for him to return to his kind.”

“I see,” Graybeard said. “And exactly how many of his kind have you observed for him to return to?”

“Why, none!” replied Duravane.

“And has it ever occurred to you that there may be a reason for that?” Graybeard demanded. “And that he’s the last one? The very reason I had him brought here?”

“Naturally!” said the other. “But we have no way of knowing that for certain.”

“You could have sent scouts to look for them. You’re trackers. You have keen eyesight. If you had wanted to, you could have found them or learned their fate.”

“My dear Graybeard,” Duravane told him. “The fate of satyrs is not a concern of elves. We did not ask for the boy. We did not want to interfere. May I remind you that we are not the satyrs’ keeper? Would that, by chance, be you?”

“No. I am not the keeper of the satyrs, or I should know their fate. They answer to another keeper.”

“Perhaps Azazel has judged them, and that is why they are gone?”

Graybeard nodded slowly and gravely. “Perhaps,” he said. “But, if so, the council never discussed it.”

“And if judgment is why they’re gone,” Duravane added. “Then by taking in this satyr, we are interfering.”

“I am the judge of whether you are interfering or not!” Graybeard retorted. “I shall not judge you for taking him in. But I shall judge you for what you do with him!”

“Any such judgment would be unfair,” Duravane noted in opposition. “The responsibility for the boy lies with Athiel. She is responsible for him and not us.”

“And you wish to be certain that none of my judgment of her reflects on you? Can’t have my impeccable judgment rubbing off on you, can we?”

“I was thinking of the other elves,” Duravane stated with a bow.

“I have, indeed, judged Athiel. And, considering those she’s surrounded by, I judge she’s done quite well. Is that what you came to learn?”

“It is,” was the reply.

“Then I conclude your business is finished in this house?”

The elder elf straightened and nodded. “It is indeed. I wish you a good day, Graybeard, and to you too, Athiel. Congratulations on your passing judgment. It seems the rest of us have much to learn from your example.”

Graybeard’s eyes followed Duravane’s exit, his gaze lingering on the doorway for a moment.

“Much to learn,” he muttered. “He actually feared I would pass judgment against him.”

“Which now leaves only me fearing that,” she said.

“Why look worried? I told him you passed,” the great bushy eyebrows furrowed and asked, “Am I that unpleasant?”

“Everyone fears you—even the boy,” Athiel replied. “And you’re not even his keeper.”

“Well, perhaps I should not be quite so unpleasant, if someone offered me a drink,” he suggested.

“I know just the drink to quench the thirst of a parched soul,” offered Athiel.

“Ah! You have some mead?” he guessed, his gray eyes brightening, his ears perking, and his tongue licking his lips. “My dear, have you been holding out on me?”

The boy watched, wondering what this all had to do with him and wanted to ask. It would prove a short wait.