Songs_of_the_Satyrs (25 page)

Gladys breathed deep and hard and sighed, the sound of a great beast. She was taller than the stalks of corn, towering over the tassels—she must have grown a good two feet.

What was this great power that had transformed her?

The land changes you, lets the beast out.

The satyr following her—for that’s what he was—gestured at the top of the hill. She followed his finger and her gaze settled on Grandpa’s house. Every light was on. The sun had set, and rectangles of yellow light spilled from the windows onto the grass.

Who had turned on the lights?

She felt a vibration in her pocket. When she removed the object, she found her cell phone. It seemed alien, vulgar. She dropped it and smashed it with her cloven hoof.

Her companion growled and gestured again toward the farmhouse, urging.

She loped up the hill, hooves crunching ginger gravel along the road. She didn’t take the time to open the two gates. Instead, she cleared each by a good foot. Her clothing felt restrictive, and she began to undress.

When she let her shirt and bra trail behind her, she suddenly forgot about Hasbro Clemons. When she ripped what remained of her pants away, thoughts of Bob, work, and the city dissipated. Each piece of clothing shed as though it were her world, her life, her civilization.

She remembered from her childhood, learning in Bible school about Eve’s purity before she ate of the fruit. Gladys realized evil no longer existed for her; a sense of liberating freedom became available. She had lost the knowledge of good or evil. There was only need, hunger, lust, and laughter. In the innocent mind of a child locked in her mythical body, there was no tomorrow or yesterday, only right now.

She approached the house, stepping onto the front porch. The door opened and a familiar face appeared, the body hunched over because of his large size.

She gasped.

“Grandpa?”

He gave her an ornery grin.

Did people have to become angels when they died? Did they have to become ghosts? Maybe people could become damn well whatever they pleased. Maybe some people chose to become satyrs, like Grandpa.

It didn’t matter. All she knew was that her grandpa had come back, and that was enough.

“Welcome home, Sissy.”

She wiped tears from her eyes and hugged him, both naked yet unselfconscious.

He led them to the kitchen, both of them stooping. On the kitchen table was the same type of cup she’d seen beneath the weeping willow.

“It’s a
kylix
,” Grandpa said. “It holds unmixed wine.”

“For what purpose?”

He smiled and stomped his hoof. “To let the beast out.”

He held the kylix out to her, and she took it greedily. No corporations or players trying to get into her pants, no right or wrong, no shame or guilt.

She became as a little girl before Grandpa, drinking the unmixed wine. Right and wrong fled before the intoxication that infiltrated her mind. She heard the music of the forest, the tune of the land. Felt the joy of Luna and the dance of Nature. She began moving her hooves in tempo, a rhythm that had to be felt, not heard.

“What is this, Grandpa?”

He grinned. “It’s the Sicinnus, Sissy.”

“Sicinnus?”

“The ecstasy dance given to all satyrs.”

She stamped her hooves and raised a cloud of dust from the kitchen floor. Then, remembering her parents, she became sad.

“Won’t Mom and Dad be joining us?”

Grandpa hung his head. “I’m afraid they didn’t hear the call of the land.”

He held her hand and she wept for them. Then they left the unnatural farmhouse and went out into the night. There were other satyrs waiting, first ten then twenty. Grandpa said that female satyrs were called satyresses.

“Like me,” Gladys said.

“Like you, Sissy,” he agreed.

Beneath the full moon they experienced the rhythm of an unheard tempo, heard the music of the wind whipping through the trees. Mother Nature sent clouds, and thunder clashed like cymbals. They shed civilization like clothing, until they danced naked before the heavens, no knowledge of right or wrong, their slates wiped clean.

In the Sicinnus they found freedom; in the dance they became one herd, one mind.

Vibration from the earth—the planet’s ecstasy—flowed up her hooves and into her hindquarters.

The satyrs let it flow like liquid night.

Soon she was dancing with her male lover beneath the weeping willow. She made him want her, and he did the same for her.

They both sang Luna’s song, beneath rain falling like unmixed wine, falling from the kylix in cleansing waves.

A shadowy face appeared on the car windscreen. Rain lashed the glass, blurring the contours, but I recognized it all the same. Litter slammed into the image, flattening the three-dimensional lines, before a chilly wind picked up the scrap and tossed it under the car idling next to me. My fingers slipped on the steering wheel, knuckles white beneath freckled skin.

“I can’t help you.” I grabbed the familiar cross resting on my chest. It dug into my palm, and by now it should have scorched the flesh. But of course God didn’t even bother doing that nowadays. The form on the windshield faded, and I released a breath.

The streets teemed with life: people with umbrellas intermingled at a pedestrian crossing, while commuters and buses competed for a path through the maze of peak-hour city traffic. Gathering dusk and a downpour had mustered the crowd to a chilly intersection. The traffic light diffused through the rain, showering the dashboard with blood red, and the engine throbbed beneath my feet. My eyes watched the road—the black soulless ice glaring straight back at me.

Shoppers and workers hurried home. To eat and rest beneath the covers, toes tucked in, warm and comfortable. Doors latched and children safe, their books and games locked away.

The rain pounded on the pavement, trammeling like the echo of drums.

My mind drifted back to the past, memories rising to the surface. Back to the entry of my parents’ house where my older sister’s jeans hung on the circular stairs, inviting me to cross the threshold and discover why seventeen-year-old Jocelyn had discarded them on the banister. Our mother had crumbled beneath my sister’s requests for videos and chocolate and had left her alone in the house. Jocelyn was probably up there with her boyfriend, messing around with the slack-mouthed drummer who watched her like she was his favorite eye candy. The greenish tinge to her face that morning had tricked our parents into letting her skip school. The conniving bitch got away with murder while I always ended up disappointing everyone. Not quite as elegant, not quite as smart, nowhere near as believable in my efforts to show interest in other people.

I spat a curse that would have earned a look of fury from my mother and skipped upstairs, running my fingers over the jeans before poking them over the side of the banister so that Jocelyn would have a hard time finding them. Those extra seconds of searching might get her caught.

In the hallway, Jocelyn’s door filled my vision. I pushed it open, just enough to peer through a gap in the paneled wood. The dried, powdery scent of orange jessamine floated on dust motes. A slice of light shone from the bay window across the carpet. A bed, unmade, lay like an invitation, as white as Jocelyn’s lies. Pillows were gathered up on the padded headboard, cool rectangles resting against a navy leather surface.

The drums beat louder.

The bathroom was halfway concealed by the adjoining door. Inside, the sound of Jocelyn and her boyfriend lingering, touching. The truth was I was jealous of what she symbolized—her smooth red hair and perfect features—and the way she moved through life unapologetically, her attention focused on acting and heading east. Whereas I would probably end up a bored civil servant in local government, buried beneath mounds of forms and paper clips.

Drip.

Water trickled from the spout of the gold dolphin tap, the last drop quivering like silver drool. The hair rose on the back of my neck, but I stood still, transfixed.

I heard a murmur, a muffled scream. My sister’s artist fingers with their long nails lifted from the water and gripped the thick lip of the tub, staining the smooth expanse. At first I thought she’d painted her hand in nail polish. Thick trails of blood-red water dripped to the floor, running in rivulets across the tiles and down the drain. My hand lifted in response, pressing the door wide and the scene froze in a terrible tableau.

Plop.

A huge shape shifted in the mirror and a silver saw blade flashed in the light. Dark hands clasped the disk, the arms long and curved and raised as if in prayer. My mouth opened wide, ready to cry out. The razor-edged blade twirled and lowered in a movement so fast it was a blur.

Jocelyn’s fingers twitched and her back arched, flowing hair trailing like waterweed over the edge of the tub. Crimson sprays of blood hit the white tiles. A tiny noise escaped my throat. I stepped back, eyes darting everywhere, my head filled with a buzzing noise.

“Glory be to Thee, O Lord Abaddon,” a man chanted.

Run. Run. Run.

My sister’s voice screamed in my head and for once I obeyed. I turned, dashing into my room, floorboards silent against the blood thumping in my ears.

“Where are you, Victoria?” The voice was rough and gravelly. Wind whistled in the background, a thousand drums reverberated in the echo, along with my sister’s whisper.

Hide.

I slid beneath the draped covers of my bed, trembling. A sob rose and escaped. How did he know my name? My arm pressed against a sharp edge. I panicked, thinking the intruder waited there, taunting me, only realizing at the last moment that it was the book I’d purchased from the antiquarian store last week.

Please play with me, Jocelyn.
The torn binding admonished me, reminding me of several nights before. I’d taped a triangle on the floor and begged my sister to join me, leading her by the hand into the inner circle, our shoulders hunched close enough for the scent of rosemary to waft from her hair. For once Jocelyn agreed to go along with the game, her eyes filled with something like pity, angering me more than her usual contempt.

I’d droned meaningless Latin from the book, the stench of cremated nail clippings, urine, and crushed snail shells burning my nostrils. “Powers that be, show my future love to me,” I’d chanted. Nothing happened. I folded a small piece of red silk and placed it in the silver cup along with petals that I’d stitched together in nine jagged lines. “By the power of fire, I command thee.” I picked up a black candle and poured wax into the cup.

Jocelyn was smiling but I could tell she’d lost interest. Her gaze drifted to the bedroom door.

“Stupid bastards,” I’d said, reluctant to let her go. “Useless pathetic entities, rotting in hell. What do you know about life—or power, for that matter?”

The silk caught fire, a burning conflagration that sparked onto the rug. Black eyes materialized on the wall, pupils narrowed to tiny pinpricks. They glanced over Jocelyn’s face and body, then flicked to mine. Smoke swirled and a triangular face appeared like ink seeping into litmus paper. Tiny writing marched down the wall, the undecipherable wedges and squiggles chipping the plaster. Jocelyn careened out of the room, screaming. And later our parents grounded me for playing a stupid trick and causing trouble. The stains reappeared no matter how many times I scrubbed and scrubbed.

“I hope you enjoy living with the results for a few days,” my mother said. “Serves you right for being so destructive. You know how sensitive Jocelyn is.”

She wouldn’t listen to the truth, and I wasn’t surprised. The woman had never liked me, and she took Jocelyn’s side in every argument.

“Come out. Come out. Wherever you are,” he said in a singsong voice. “You know I’ll find you.” Deeper, huskier: a guttural growl.

My hand rested over my mouth, hiding a broken whisper. “Jocelyn. I’m sorry. Help me.”

Wisps of black vapor curled around my bedroom door and I trembled, hiding in the darkest corner. The cloud took the shape of a goat and peeked beneath the dangling quilt, finding me under the bed. My sneakers dug into the wooden boards, and I let loose a full-throttled scream, throwing my weight back—but the smoke followed, sticking to my body like boiling tar.

The substance divided, some cascading into my mouth and nose, bringing the taste of rot and decay, while more coiled around my neck, forming a solid chain. The smoke thickened in my throat to an oily consistency, drowning my sobs. An arm dropped from the bed, reaching for the end of the fetter. My shoes squealed as he dragged me out kicking and gasping.

A creature with dark skin covered in flashing glyphs lay on my bed, completely naked. His grin exaggerated the distorted, irregular-shaped skull, a macabre parody of a human face, with horns flowing back from a widow’s peak.

“My summoner. Well met.” He opened my mouth with a sharp claw attached to a cloven hoof, splitting my lip. A long gold chain rasped out of my throat. He kissed the chain and placed it around my neck.

The constriction in my chest eased and I wheezed, choking and inhaling a convulsive breath filled with the scent of wild animal.

He licked his hoof and pointed to the wall. “An entrance to the Underworld. But you’ll need to earn it first.”

Flames danced in his black eyes as he invaded my thoughts, giving cold comfort with a tender stroke of claw against cheek. The sinking sun sent needle rays through the glass, tingeing his skin with an umber glow.

“Let me go.”

“You called me.” He smiled, both coy and modest at the same time. “Thus entering into negotiations. Your sister’s soul awaits a decision. What shall the arrangement be?” He placed a black claw on his lip, as if thinking.

I lay bare before his gaze, his fetid stench diving down into my lungs. My hoarse cries overshadowed the grind of car tires spitting gravel on the driveway. The front door slammed as someone walked into the house and the creature shifted his focus to the greasy saw blade held in his left hand, the edges smeared with Jocelyn’s blood.