Songs_of_the_Satyrs (29 page)

Terrance sat on the rim of the fountain, watching the activity, getting a feel for the place. The water splashed in the pool behind him, providing a steady stream of background music to the scene before him.

As the festivities continued without any sign of stopping, the church bells rang behind him. After the final toll, there seemed to be a split-second suspension of time in which everything froze in silence. Then the murmur of the streets rose again, but it was different; the water in the fountain no longer sounded in the background.

He turned to look at the figures in the pool. The steady stream of water that shot from the frogs’ mouths trickled to a slow drip, then ceased altogether.

Ribbit!

It was slow at first, but then the croaking increased in both volume and tempo. The five frogs began moving. They shifted around on their pedestals, changed positions, then came to a dead halt, their faces no longer turned upward. After a couple of final croaks, the fountain was silent and water emitted from the frogs’ mouths again. But the streams no longer flowed in arcs. Instead, they shot straight across, intersecting at just the right points, forming a pentagram, which encompassed the other denizens of the fountain.

A red glow emanated from the pool of water, and the other animals began to stir. The hare shook out its fur and fell from the tortoise’s back as it crawled to the edge of the platform and dove into the glowing water. The lion cub stood and began pacing atop its small pedestal, and the dog nipped at the deer on its back.

Then the satyr rose. He stood tall on his hooves and stretched his metal body as if stepping out of a vehicle after a long ride. With sinister eyes, he looked around at the crowded street, and a small smile touched his ram lips. The satyr banged his staff on the platform, causing the owl to take flight and then return to its perch. The satyr held the book out before him, cleared his throat, and proclaimed in a loud, clear voice, “Let the fornication and inebriation commence!”

***

It was around three o’clock in the morning when Terrance came stumbling out of the boisterous and flashy club Twenty-Seven with his arms around the thin waist of a young lady. The woman did not have the sexy accent of a southern belle, but Terrance discovered something else he liked even more about her—she had less morals than she did clothing.

“Are you coming back to my room or not?” he said.

She smiled coyly. “Where’re you staying?”

“The hotel at Twentieth and University.”

“Well . . . I guess I can make sure you get to your room safely.”

He gave a slight nod of his head. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, sweetheart.”

The pair proceeded down the crowded sidewalk and started to turn the corner, but something in Terrance’s periphery made him stop in his tracks.

He’d caught a glimpse of the satyr wading in the fountain back across the street.

Impossible!

He turned and stared, squinting.

The woman followed his line of sight, but failed to see anything unusual. “What is it?”

Terrance waved her off as if shooing away a fly. “Go to the hotel and . . . go on and wait on me . . . I’ll be along shortly.” He was drunk as he staggered to the curb.

“How can I go to the room and wait for you? I don’t know what room you’re staying in. I don’t even have a key.”

Terrance didn’t hear her, nor did he notice as she returned to the club. He stepped into the street, stumbling into traffic. Cars came to screeching halts. A horn blared and the driver stuck his head out the window, shouting at Terrance.

“Oh, you shouldn’t go through all that trouble to make me feel at home,” Terrance mumbled, unfazed. His sights were trained on the fountain, where the satyr was waving his staff and open book, like a television preacher delivering a sermon.

Terrance received a few more honks and a heap of curses, oblivious to the commotion, before coming to a standstill in front of the fountain. And this time he really saw it, the frogs spraying streams of water in the formation of a pentagram.

I’ll be damned.

The notion that his trumped up story was real did little to comfort him. Had he been sober he would have gotten on the first plane out of there. Instead he did something he would regret for the rest of his life.

He called out to the satyr.

“Bob?”

The dog jumped to its feet, barking at him ferociously, as the deer hopped from its back and stepped aside.

Terrance flinched and was about to run away when he realized the dog was confined to the fountain. He shifted his gaze and noticed all the other animals staring at him.

The satyr, as if interrupted, turned to Terrance, seeing him for the first time. An appalled look appeared on the ram-man’s carved face and as he raised his brow, the sound of bending metal cut the air.

“Who the hell is Bob?” the creature demanded.

“Oh, shit!” Terrance wheeled around and grabbed the first person who passed by.

“Hey!” the woman cried.

“Aye, man! What’s your problem?” the woman’s boyfriend asked as he moved to break Terrance’s hold.

“The satyr . . . it spoke to me!” Terrance said, his breath reeking of alcohol.

The boyfriend scowled, put an arm around his lady’s waist, and the couple hurried away.

Terrance turned to face the angry satyr once more. Then he spun again and yelled after the fleeing man and woman, “The satyr is not sitting on his stump! The thing is walking and . . . he talked to me! I swear!”

Another group of people walked by.

“There’s something wrong with this fountain!” Terrance screamed, alarming them. They hurried away just as quickly as the couple had.

“They cannot see what you see,” the satyr said. “And I do not rightly know how it is that you see the truth. Perhaps you have chosen to see what others prefer to ignore. The question is why?”

Terrance watched in awe as the satyr came wading toward him through the shallow water. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words refused to come out.

The satyr stopped at the inner edge of the jet-stream pentagram and stared quizzically at Terrance. “You’re that man who was out here taking photos earlier. I’m sure you’ve heard the saying, ‘Seek and ye shall find.’ ” The creature held open his arms as if inviting Terrance for a hug. “Well, apparently you have been searching for a devil, and now you have found one!”

“I wasn’t looking for a devil . . . not exactly,” Terrance stammered.

“Now that you have found me, is there anything you wish?”

He thought about the question, then slowly shook his head.

“No? You don’t wish for power? You have no desire to be granted that which the Heavens have denied you? Don’t you want to know the secrets of the universe?”

He shook his head again. However unreal all this seemed, he knew better than to ask anything from the Devil.

“I think I understand,” the satyr said. “Your search is derived from pure curiosity.”

“Like I said, I wasn’t exactly looking for you. I just . . . I think I should be—”

“Wait! Before you go, may I ask you one question?”

“Okay.” Terrance’s heart beat rapidly.

“Much obliged,” the creature said, his eerie smile sending chills down Terrance’s spine. “How is it that you enjoy the pleasures I provide while not bearing my mark?”

Terrance quickly shook his head. “I didn’t . . . I . . .”

“Oh yes, you have. You are clearly intoxicated by the beverages I supply to this area. And I assume you have been enjoying the pleasurable company of my beautiful women?”

“Well . . .”

“You see, Five Points South is like an exclusive club, and in order to enjoy the benefits, you must have the stamp of admission. That way everyone knows you have paid the price and you can come and go as you please. Free to partake of anything your heart desires.”

Terrance was no Bible scholar, but he knew that to accept the mark of the beast (any beast) was to sentence one’s soul to eternal damnation. Living his life in ignorance was one thing, but to know he’d be going to Hell when he died was quite another.

“Well,” he began hesitantly. “I guess I’ll be going.”

“Leaving so soon?”

With his clawed hand holding the book, the satyr indicated the scene behind Terrance. “Why, the party is just getting started.”

Terrance took a step back and then turned around. It had already been dark when he exited the club, but the street seemed even darker now. And though the stygian blackness was enough to unnerve any man, it was not the catalyst for the large urine stain developing in the crotch of his pants. What had really sent him spiraling was all the people. Walking along the sidewalks, going in and out of the club, or eating outdoors at the bistros, they talked and laughed and went about their business as if there was nothing out of the ordinary. They did all this with a red cloven hoof print glowing on their foreheads.

“You see? They have all been marked and they don’t have a care in the world. They are content because I take care of my children. You can be like them, if you would only accept my mark.”

Terrance trembled as he slowly turned to face the looming satyr. “The mark of the beast,” he muttered in disbelief. “I thought I was coming to get a good story, but this is more than I bargained for.”

“THE MARK OF THE BEAST?” the satyr bellowed.

The animals cringed. All except for the dog who bared its teeth and growled.

“EVIL? You know what? I had you pegged all wrong. I thought, surely he can’t be a pious man. He’s drunk off his ass, there’s no way he could belong to that group of imbeciles.”

The satyr looked over his shoulder and glared at the Methodist church. The demonic creature spat. “The mark of the beast,” he reiterated with a bit more calm. “Evil. That sounds like Christian talk.”

Terrance didn’t know what to say. He was afraid that any amount of talking would only worsen his predicament.

“Are you one of those Methodists, boy? No, wait, let me guess. Baptist, Catholic, Pentecostal? Maybe one of those ‘refuse to take a side’ Non-Denominationalists? No? How about Jewish, Jehovah’s Witness, Muslim, Buddhist? I don’t give a rat’s ass what you cling to! None of them are kosher with me! Not a one!”

The satyr’s mood shifted gears as he looked to the other animals sharing his fountain. “We have us a God-fearing man here, boys. What do you think we ought to do with him?”

Terrance’s frightened eyes went from the shrinking deer to the barking dog. His gaze darted to the lion cub, which stalked around on its pedestal, rumbling, then leapt over to the hare. The only animal not paying him any attention was the turtle that swam around in the pool.

Doesn’t he get a vote?
Terrance found himself wondering.

Above him, the owl hooted, and when Terrance’s head snapped upward, it stared down at him with huge eyes.

“It seems the majority has spoken,” the satyr said. “You either give me your soul, or you give me your life. The choice is yours.”

“That’s not much of a choice,” Terrance said. Tears had started down his face. “Now I see . . . I see why they call you
The Storyteller.
That’s just another way of saying
The Liar
or
The Deceiver.
No matter what choice I make, I’m dead.”

The satyr fixed Terrance with a horrifying scowl. “Is that your final answer?”

Terrance wiped away his tears and began to back away slowly.

It can’t harm me,
he assured himself.
It wants me to believe it has that, but it can’t even pass beyond the pentagram. None of them can.

“I guess that is your final answer.”

As soon as he heard these words, Terrance turned to run but stopped short. The crowd of people stood before him, stretching as far as he could see.

With pitch-black soulless eyes, the horde glared at Terrance, the hoof print on their foreheads pulsing red.

Terrance screamed. The sound had the same effect as a starting pistol, signaling the possessed mob to rush him. His bloodcurdling shriek rent the sky.

***

A few hours later, when the sun took its rightful place above the world, the lifeless body was found by a couple of sanitation workers going about their morning routine. The man was face down in
The Storyteller
fountain, floating among empty alcohol containers and a few used condoms.

The artwork itself appeared undamaged. Five bronze frogs sat on their pedestals, with their faces turned up, each sending streams of water that met in the middle of the pool. The hare rode its nemesis, and the lion cub sat on its hind legs, and the dog lay with the deer atop its back.

Overseeing them all was the satyr. The metal creature had reclaimed his seat on the bronze stump. One hand still clutched the nine-foot staff with the owl perched at the top, and in his other hand was the open book.

The only thing out of place was the drowned tourist.

According to both the police and coroner’s reports, Terrance had consumed too much alcohol and passed out in the fountain. With his face submerged in water, it had only been a matter of time before he drowned. The anchorperson on every local news station would announce that it was a tragic accident, ignorant of the fact that Terrance had died on his quest for witchcraft and devilry.

The masked hermaphrodite reclined on the chaise longue in his bedchamber and admired the fauns and satyrs that he had painted on the ceiling. His papier-mâché mask, which his own hands had fashioned, aped
Le Stryge
, except that the artist had given the daemon but a single horn. He had, since youth, been attracted to grotesque, fantastic things. Indeed, it had seemed like a kind of birthright: for his mother had read to him from Greek mythology since his infancy, and by the time he turned seven he was a genuine pagan, intoxicated with the beauty of Grecian things, one who built altars to Pan and Persephone. He had watched the dancing dryads and satyrs in the woods at dusk, and had mimicked that dancing when alone in starlit fields.