Songs_of_the_Satyrs (3 page)

“Where are you?”

“Is Dad home?”

“Not yet. Where are you?”

“I’m at Maria’s. Mrs. W. is making me stay here.”

“You’re a dead man.”

“C’mon, Richie, cover for me. I’ll be home first thing in the morning.”

“What do you want me to tell him?”

“Nothing unless you have to. In that case, I don’t care, just make it good.”

“You’re playing with fiiire,” Richie taunted.

“Shut up,” Chris said.

“Okay. But you owe me one.”

“Richie, wait. Why didn’t you tell me—”

The phone clicked.

With more levity in his voice than he would ever use with his father, Chris added into the dead receiver, “Okay, Dad. See you tomorrow.”

Mrs. W. was waiting outside the kitchen door. She ushered him back to Maria’s bedroom.

“No funny business, you two. You’re not getting any younger.” She smiled and backed out of the room. She closed the door and they heard it latch. Maria’s cheeks blossomed rosy red.

***

He should have been asleep. He did drift off for a bit, but it was shallow sleep.

How long had he been lying there? An hour? Three? He didn’t want to know. His bedspread and blanket had already been shoved to the foot of the bed. His body wrestled, fighting wakefulness with energetic legs. He felt like he could run a mile or two while his upper half trailed behind.

Chris drew back his sheet, felt a chill as the cool air touched his feet. His ankles extended a little too far out of his loaner pajamas. He’d made her promise not to tell anyone, even if they were only long johns.

He felt the weight of his eyelids, wondering whether he would sink deeper into true sleep. Or should he open his eyes and start all over?

Another position maybe.

He rolled over on his side, rested his cheek on the back of one hand. He felt unsettled. Sleep was the only way it would disappear.

The streetlamp outside set the curtain aglow.

His heart raced. He heard the faint sound of voices—a lullaby or prayer. A rite of passage.

He listened to Maria rustle and moan and then emit a giggle that sounded more like a bleat. Her arm flopped over the edge of the bed, fingertips just inches from his nose. He gently poked the palm of her hand. Her arm retracted.

Chris propped himself up on an elbow, watched as she pulled her arm in. She nuzzled her hand briefly then wiped her cheek with the back of it. One quick sleepy motion, and then her thumb was in her mouth and she rolled over, turning her back to him. She twitched slightly and was sound asleep again.

Some debutante.

Chris giggled, pressing his face into the pillow. No way would he sleep now.

Once Maria’s breathing was steady again, he crept across the room, putting his ear to the door and grasping the brass knob. He gently turned it. The door wouldn’t budge.

He tried the other direction and pulled. No give. Then he remembered, at night, they kept it latched on the other side.

She had told him how they had found her one night, standing on the pool steps. Sleepwalking.

“It was the
shallow
end,” Maria had told him, annoyed at having to be locked up like a caged animal.

“Creeeepy,” Chris had said, shaking his head slowly, looking at her in amazement.

“You’re creepy!” Maria had pushed him away from her, and he had fallen exaggeratedly over on the couch.

He turned away from the door and surveyed the room, then stopped at the window on the way to Maria’s desk. He could barely make out the mailbox in front of the house. Fine points of light radiated from its corners, casting little rainbow halos. Faint outlines of cars lined the street. A figure moved past, a dark blur.

Chris’s heart picked up its pace.

On the bulletin board over her desk, a bunch of pictures were tacked up, photographs and drawings, including one Chris had done for her—a black stallion running wild. He scrunched his nose at it, a moment of embarrassment and an urge to take it down.

Maria’s library card was wedged in the corner between the cork and the wood. He pulled it out, bent it back and forth testing its strength, and returned to the door. He had to work it a bit, but was finally able to wedge the card between the door and the frame, slipping it up and down a couple of times until he felt the latch. He turned the knob, pushed the latch up, and was free.

At once he was assaulted by the heady smell of incense, thickening as he proceeded down the hall.

The voices were coming from much deeper in the house, beyond the family room, beyond the kitchen. The living room, where he rarely went.

The house was dark, but he thought he was familiar enough with it to get some water without being discovered. He waited in the hallway for his eyes to adjust.

He moved toward the voices, toward the source of the smoky scent.

The voices started to thin out, falling off little by little, until there was silence.

He plotted his course.

He now heard music, barely audible, with intermittent, sparse conversation that he could not make out. He looked in that direction, toward the other side of the family room where a short hallway would lead him to the dining room. Beyond that was the living room.

From where he stood, he could see nothing. The arched entrance to the hallway was completely black. Thick smoky tendrils, slowly swirling, beckoned him into the corridor.

He went deeper into the darkness, crossing from room to room, shadow to shadow, ducking behind furniture as he got closer. Farther into the dining room, he saw shades of gold illuminating shadows. Chris crouched down. Flickers of light swayed on the walls, shrinking, expanding, breathing to the rhythm of the music.

He crawled toward the living room. Just beyond the entryway was a table cornered between a large sofa and an easy chair. He held his breath and crawled in beneath it.

From where he sat, it looked like every surface had a burning candle or two or more on it.

Over the edge of the sofa, a well-manicured hand limply held a goblet above him, casting a huge bouncing shadow on the wall and ceiling as amber liquid swirled within it.

There was some whispering, then a giggle.

Across the room two pairs of legs dangled over the edge of a Papasan chair.

Through the beveled edges of the glass tabletop, a distorted pair of legs in brown tights and boots hung over the arm of the easy chair.

A thick stream of smoke rose from the center of the room—the incense, now mixed with the smell of cigarettes and grass and melting wax.

There were small sounds, hushed voices, even one he’d heard before but couldn’t place. A woman laughed with delight.

A single chime sounded and the whispers faded to stifled breaths. Shadows dashed across the room, arms in silhouette reached for seats, bodies shifted, getting comfortable, getting ready. The brown legs pulled out of sight and in their place a hand dropped down in front of his face, inches away, wielding the biggest pearl he’d ever seen,
a jawbreaker,
surrounded by a ring of clustered diamonds.

All he heard now was faint music and a single voice. Mr. W.?

“It’s been a while since we’ve all come together like this. I know we’re all excited. I know I am.”

A murmur rippled through the room.

“To keep things moving smoothly, I will send you out in pairs. Head straight out to the cabana where you can change and don the clothes of our ancestors. Everything you need should be there, but keep your boots on so we can move swiftly. The sooner we arrive, the sooner we can begin. We will congregate on the deck before heading down. Grab a lantern on the way out, one of each for each. It gets pretty dark.

“Remember, once around the room you will all open your eyes and then, on my cue, you can go. Shirley? We’ll start with you.”

“Uh-huh. Okay. Right,” a woman replied almost in a whisper.

The man had everyone’s attention as he began speaking. His voice was hypnotic and droned on, talking about a flame, “. . . keep your eyes on the flame, the dance of the flame, the center of the flame, the heat of the flame, the calm of the flame, the center of the flame, the power of the flame.

“When I count ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, when I count down from ten you will be asleep. Asleep but aware. Aware of my voice. You are in the heart of the flame now, the heat of the flame, the sound of my voice. Ten, nine, eight, lids heavy, seven, six, five, lids flickering as the flame flickers, four, three, lids shut, and two, falling to one, asleep. You are now asleep.

“You can hear my voice. All you can hear is my voice. Shirley, can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Are you asleep?”

“Yes. Asleep.”

The room was filled with heavy breathing, a room full of deep sleep.

Chris let his eyes fall shut. The last thing he remembered was the rest of the room, one-by-one, confirming their sleep state.

***

Chris awoke. The room was dark. He was still underneath the table, curled in a ball, cold in the chill of the abandoned room.

His knees cracked as he crawled out from beneath the table. He peeked over the couch. The sliding glass door to the pool was ajar. He shimmied through the opening and, seeing no one, stole across cold cement.

Water reflected distorted rings of light onto the shadowed wall of the cabana. Once past the deep end he stepped down onto the deck, rough planks of redwood beneath his bare feet. It was darker here. His belly tightened as he reached out for the rail. He walked blindly, hands feeling their way along. A splinter pierced his finger. He pulled it out, sucking the bead of blood. He looked through the tall trees. Golden light shimmered far off in the distance. He descended into the woods.

As he entered the thick forest, cicadas fought against crickets for voice. It was no mere hum; it was loud and electric, disorienting.

Chris carefully stepped through damp bark and twigs toward the heart of the woods. Low-lying ferns brushed gently against his ankles. He knew to avoid veering to the right where the shrubbery was rougher and likely to tear up his feet. The treetops reached toward the sky as the tip of a paintbrush would toward an empty canvas. Down the tall and naked trunks Chris saw snakes where only yesterday thick ropey vines had coiled and drooped.

He picked up his pace, eager to flee the damp and dense forest, toward a small clearing which he knew was nearby. With each breath, he tasted moisture in the air that on this night nearly gagged him. He spat, trying to rid his tongue of the vile flavor.

Upon reaching the open space, he shivered, wiped his brow of sweat. He paused to get his bearings and catch his breath. There was a sudden break in the sound of the crickets and cicadas, which resumed unevenly, overlapping, and Chris had the sensation of the ground shifting.

He continued forward, with only a vague memory of the rich firelight awaiting him beyond.

He moved through a patch of younger growth, weaving his way through the forest with the innate agility of a young deer. Just as his momentum reached its peak he was stopped short, caught in cobwebs. Fighting them, he became twisted up and panic nearly suffocated him before he realized the cobwebs were no such thing but merely cloth draped over a branch.

He unwound himself and looked about. Clothing—shirts, trousers, and frocks—similarly hung over the surrounding branches. The fleeting sense of peculiarity was instantly overcome by the drive to continue on.

The trees were no longer familiar to him. They stood black against the midnight sky, like false trees on a stage setting. And although still tall and slender, they had flattened out, no longer organic, appearing as if their branches were covered with burlap.

A gold fleck shone from one of them and then another. He approached cautiously, afraid of another trap. As he neared these strange trees, they regained their depth and structure and he realized the branches were strewn with black hats. He touched one to be sure and ran his hand along the wide brim, fingers feeling the brass buckle that adorned it.

There were bonnets, too. No mistaking it. His stomach clenched. But as quickly as the feeling had come over him it passed, and though he slowed his steps even more, he could not stop.

Once again the atmosphere changed ever so subtly. The cicadas and crickets re-synchronized, but now the sound was louder, the vibration in his head almost deafening.

He had no idea where he was. But surely this was his forest. He knew it well.

And following this unseen force, he walked on and immediately kicked something, nearly tripping over it. It did not roll but slid ahead carving a path in the dirt. He crouched down and carefully felt before his feet, recovering the object.

It was a boot. A man’s boot, flat and sturdy, with metal rods extending out the top, and as the moon slid from the clouds, he saw a graveyard of similar footwear, discarded carelessly, crude leg braces glinting in the gentle light.

“There you are,” came a whisper from behind him, and Chris whirled around to face it.

Maria had crept up and now giggled at the start she had given him.

“Shhhh,” Chris quieted her. She wore a white cotton shift, one foot still bound, though now covered with earth, the other bare. “Maria, what . . . ?”

Then the moon passed behind the clouds again and she put her hand in his and let him lead her. And through the cacophony of the cicadas and crickets, he was certain she was urging him, hissing:

“Faster, faster!”

And though she was limping, he could not stop, for now he saw a flicker of light, golden orange sparks, and shadows of living things.

Chris ducked behind some bushes and Maria ducked with him. They edged closer, together, until he saw a dark body laying on a spread of leaves and grass. It was a large animal. As he got closer, he recognized hooves and horns. Chris followed its gaze and his attention was drawn to a group of figures moving about a ring of fire. Some might say they were dancing, but it was an awful, awkward dance.

The world went quiet. Maria took his lead. A flute picked up where the insects left off. It was a familiar tune, and as they got closer, he saw there were no goats, for the figures had the arms of humans that swung as they frolicked in the dangerous light. And they had horns and wicked faces and passed a leather sack around and sucked from it eagerly. Maria tugged at his hand and led him into the circle of fire, pushing him into the fray.