Songs_of_the_Satyrs (27 page)

“Did you know Mr. Allison before Woodstock?”

“I knew his type. The sixties in America was my time in the New World, you might say. Men like Andrew were projects of mine, they needed to be of the time, not just pass through it unchanged.” That Pan felt some kind of emotional tie to this Andrew Allison was not lost on Keith.

“You might be wondering what a guy like Andy was doing at Woodstock. So was I that fine summer evening. It wasn’t the music or the revolution. It was one thing and one thing only that brought him to that field in upstate New York. Same thing that makes men do damn near everything from wage wars to earn wages. God’s gift to Man. I love some of the names you’ve come up with over the years: furburger, cooter, muff, the old pink taco. Whatever men want to call it, pussy is the great manipulator. When you look up the definition of manipulate, your dictionaries say ‘to change by artful or unfair means so as to serve one’s purpose.’ Do you know of any women out there who can say they’ve never used their pussy in an artful or unfair way to get something they wanted?”

“Not personally, no.” Keith shared a laugh with his host, like two regular guys talking in a bar.

“Where was I?”

“You were talking about Andrew.”

“Yes. Andy at Woodstock was as out of place as tits on a turtle, as they say. Now isn’t the English language a beautiful thing? I mean, it can be so descriptive. For communicating what is going on in a person’s heart or mind, I don’t think there has ever been a better language. There I go again. I’m a bit preoccupied these days . . .”

Keith leaned into the recorder. “I should add that, earlier, Pan mentioned being hunted and that his time is growing short.”

“Yes, but back to the story you came to hear. With his close-cropped hair, well-defined muscles, and bright white teeth, Andy was better suited for the polo field than Yasgur’s back forty. But Misoula Robinson was a hard thing to talk out of an idea. See, Misoula was a tall, dark, and very sexy waitress at a jazz club Andy frequented. Most of the regulars and employees at Parlay’s Lounge thought Andy was a narc, but Misoula hadn’t judged him. At first he didn’t give her a second look. She was a negro after all and for some reason Americans thought very poorly of blacks. If only you humans had known back then that you all came from the same stock, if you traced it back far enough.

“Misoula was drawn to Andy, went out of her way to get his attention, and eventually she started to worm her way into his head. She was as forbidden as that apple Eve plucked down in the garden, maybe even more so if Andy wanted to keep his name and birthright of wealth and power. Eve ended up in a pretty bad place after all, right?

“A few heavy-petting rounds in the alley behind Parlay’s, followed by late-night rendezvous in her fifth-floor apartment in the Village. Andy tried pot for the first time, drank gallons of Mateus, and watched Misoula’s hips sway as Miles ran the voodoo down. I love Miles’s music, it is similar to mine. Very similar.

“The exotic smell of her sweat . . . and her dark foreign skin. She was enchanting. When Misoula said Andy should drive her and two of her friends upstate for that hippie music festival, there was no way he could say no.

“So flash forward to Saturday. Our good friend Andrew was three hits into his first acid experience, loving every psychedelic minute. Released from the pressures of his family, Andy was cutting loose. Misoula was happy to see her white buck following her down the path of enlightenment. Despite her airs of free thinking, sex, and society, she had a drive deep inside her to make something of herself.”

Pan stood up and paced across the small shack several times before continuing.

“As our players assembled in a small grassy field beyond the stages and crowds, an idea started to form in my head. What if these were the new children of Eden? What if, with a little help from their friends, as old Joe sang, a real change could start right there?”

Keith interjected, “The sexual revolution was long underway. What else were you interested in?”

“Love, man! It isn’t just about sex with me. Humans always think it is, but really I’m all about love. Love for yourselves, for those around you, for the world you inhabit.” Pan’s ears twitched and a big smile crossed his face. “So there I am watching Misoula and her two friends, Karen and Selma, and the man of the hour, Andrew Allison. For once in a long while I have a little faith in what a few kids like them could achieve. So I start playing my song and sure enough those kids start stripping off what few clothes they were wearing to dance among the cattails and high grass. The night animals circled the field, as they often do when I play my song, and joined in the festivities. It had been a long time since I found enough motivation to play my music. I was on fire that night.

“Fornication wasn’t my idea, but it sure was what my music was meant for. Man, woman, beast, they all engaged in the procreation of their kind, with my tune as the rhythm behind their hips. I was caught up in it as much as anyone else, tail twitching in time to their undulating hips, breath blowing hot over sweet Syrinx.”

Pan glanced over to where his pipes were stored. “I never noticed him in that field, that badass motherfucker who had something else in mind. When that old slanderer got an idea in his head there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.” He looked around his small shack seeming to wish for someplace to go. “I thought I was kin, but in my heart I knew I was no kin of his; he had used me before. Sure, you stupid humans confused me for him all the time . . .”

“It’s the horns,” Keith said, rubbing his own scalp.

“The horns.” Pan leaned over and grabbed the two curled horns perched above his ears. “So I have horns and that subterranean cocksucker has horns too. That doesn’t mean we’re related, you dig?” His nostrils flared with a huff, and he stopped to collect himself before continuing.

“There I was getting down when Satariel started laying down his own unrighteous groove. Let me tell you, when Mr. Cifer gets rolling, stand back. He’s one bad mamma jamma. My dream dissolved and his took over from there. Karen and Selma didn’t pick up his intentions right away, but Misoula and Andy did. I saw it in their eyes, glowing like some irresistible fire.” Pan leaned onto the table, close to the recorder, and Keith leaned away from him.

Pan was seething, but there was something else too.

Keith wrote down one word: guilt.

Pan leaned back and closed his eyes. “That was how it all started. My intentions weren’t for the whole damn planet to go off the fucking reservation, man. I wanted that love, that groove, that last chance boulevard to become their chosen path. I felt like the Bard’s Hamlet in that field, watching those four kids pick up what that deceiver was laying down. Alas, poor Humans! I knew them, Horatio.”

Pan sprang out of his chair. “I may have let the boogey man in, but those four invited him to sit down and stay a while. And so he did. But you already know that, don’t you? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You ask all the time, how did it happen? Where was the wrong turn that ended in the fucked-up world you’re living in now? Killing yourselves with your proud looks and lying tongues, hearts devising wicked plots as fast as your feet run into mischief. Hell, you know the rest of those seven deadlies, and you know how they weigh on every one of you forsaken sheep.

“I’ve been watching the whole damn world go right down the drain. That world I love so much, all the creatures great and small, all the lovely plants, and all those fantastical creations you dismissed as fable, those were the first to go, as blind greed and lust stole your imagination.”

“So, are you blaming yourself for letting . . . well, I assume you’re talking about Satan, right? For letting Satan take control of humanity?”

Pan was silent a long time.

Keith couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The half goat, half man Greek god of antiquity was taking the blame for turning humanity into a bunch of self-righteous, greedy murderers.

“Those four kids sucked up every last drop of the Angry Man’s song, hook, line, and sinker, as they say. The rest is your history, the reason you’re all in the predicament you’re in.”

“But how can four people have caused all the problems which have been visited upon humanity since the summer of 1969?”

“They weren’t just four regular people after that night, don’t you get it? They were sycophants, toadies, minions of the devil, fucking kiss-asses to the universe’s biggest asshole. When Satan is driving the tour bus, you’re a fucking rock star. Anything can happen.

“So those kids, led by Andrew Allison, fueled by the devil himself, and initially funded by Andy’s 3.8 million dollars bequeathed to him by his dead grandmother, changed the course of America. And we all know: as America goes, so goes the world.”

Pan had a wild look in his eyes, and for the first time Keith was sure about the creature’s identity.

“Those kids left Woodstock before the moon set that night and the screws began to turn. The girls worked on pushing babies out, little incarnated spawns of the devil, and sired some of the most successful land developers, bankers, lawyers, ad men, and corporate executives the world has ever seen. Thirteen total, when all was said and done, and no I’m not going to tell you their names.”

“What do you mean you’re not going to tell me the names?” Keith leaned forward and clicked off the recorder. “Without names how can you expect me to check up on anything?”

“Without the names, Keith, you’ll be protected. Just tell the story, that will be enough. You can guess who those rotten spawn are anyway, and so will those who read this story.”

“And then what, Pan? What do you think will happen?” Keith stood up.

“We’ll get to that later. Turn that thing back on please.”

Keith set the tape in motion again.

Pan nodded and continued.

“While all this was going down, Andrew was investing and making millions, funding weapon manufacturing, despots and madmen, medical and pharmaceutical research—you know those pills baby boomers are popping like candy to make it through the day for whatever ailment du jour? You can thank Andy for them.

“He had all those big-time icons of the age off’d too: Hendrix, Joplin, Lennon, Elvis, Morrison, the list goes on and on. It was all part of the plan that started when the Deceiver laid hands on that loon who orchestrated the Tate and LaBianca murders. See, that rat bastard had thought old Charlie was going to be his son to walk the earth. But crazy is as crazy does. Charlie got the ball rolling against the whole revolutionary movement with those killings in California, and as Andy worked his possessed wonders on the icons of that era the dream faded faster than a sheet in the sun.”

Keith had to hold back a laugh: it sounded ludicrous.

Pan settled down into his straw bed and let out a sigh. He looked like a tired old animal, laying down for the last time. When he glanced up at Keith, his eyes were distant. “Here is the thing though, man, are you ready? Are you really sure you can handle this?”

“That’s why I came, to hear this story.”

“I may have started the party, but Satan’s plan never would have worked if dang near every last one of you hadn’t
wanted
it to work. If you hadn’t had that seed of greed and lust growing in your guts, the world would be a different place. If you had managed to really, truly give a shit about your environment, about the resources given to you, about your fellow fucking man, that rat bastard’s plan never would have worked. Andy and his long line of progeny and partners would’ve just been another group of assholes in the history of mankind.”

Pan leaned forward, his face twisted into a mask of distress.

“That’s the thing with the devil. He knows just what to serve up, just the right ingredients to make you belly up to the chow line and eat his shit. You’re here though. Maybe you’re the one who can bring this whole ship back around a hundred and eighty degrees.”

“I’m just a reporter, Pan, a journalist. Not a revolutionary. And to be honest, I don’t think people want to change. Is there anything happening right now that is all that bad or all that new?”

“Oh it’s happening, Keith, and it is getting worse. I have to have faith in Man, now more than ever. My time is almost up and we’re getting close to the end of the story. Don’t leave me wishing I had done more. I can’t have that be my last thought.”

“They don’t have faith in you anymore. You’re just a myth, an old dusty story.”

Keith stood up and turned to look out the small window at the darkening valley. A tiny flare arose in the fire, the sizzle of sap filling the air. He turned back to his recorder and stopped the tape. “So tell me, Pan. What is it you want humanity to do? Hardly anyone believes in a god anymore, let alone a god like you. And if they don’t believe in God how can you expect them to believe in the devil?”

“I don’t expect you to convince anyone. But some will believe, some will hear the truth in this story and maybe trace the changes back and see those that have turned the tide. What culture has whipped around in a brodie like this—ever?”

“Humanity has turned on itself over and over. You’ve been around to see that, haven’t you?” Keith walked around the table and sat down on the bench across from Pan’s straw bed. The fire crackled, and Pan lowered his head to let out a breath.

“I have been around a long time, but I tell you now that the devil is to blame. Bring my story to light, put the wheels of change into motion once again—but for good this time. Let nature lead the way. That’s all I wish.”

Keith stood up as a blast of air rushed through the small shack, causing the fire to gutter. Pan settled back against the wall, looking up at Keith’s eyes.

“Wish in one hand, shit in the other, though, right? You know which one will fill up first, Pan. You know all too well, don’t you?”

But those eyes were not Keith’s anymore. They weren’t even human. They were the black eyes Pan had been dreaming of—the ones chasing him down.

Keith’s face melted like a ball of wax.

The fire grew larger and the air in the shack grew so hot that the straw under Pan began to smolder. The king of all satyrs tried to get up as the transformation was almost complete. Satan, deep-red flesh stretched thin over sharp bones, face contorted in laughter, sharp teeth glistening, black horns rising from his bald head, stood looking down at him. His voice boomed toward Pan.