Songs_of_the_Satyrs Read online

  ***

  Bourne heard water, and realized that he had never stopped hearing it. He was in water, floating, but when he attempted to stand, his feet found the bottom easily. He rose into darkness—into the night. A crescent moon hung low in the sky. Artemis’s bow, he thought. He stepped out of the pool and found his legs strong, the thick hair on them saturated. The joints seemed different, as did his feet, which felt hard, almost numb, but he adjusted to the change without difficulty. His arms, his chest—his cock—were large, bursting with life. Something weighted the sides of his head, but his neck was thick enough to bear it.

  In front of him, Pascal and his five accomplices were prostrate on the ground, uttering words in a language he shouldn’t have been able to understand but did. They were welcoming him, imploring his blessing. They were the reason for the shape he had assumed; their belief held him to it. It would be simple enough to shuck it, to assume the form of a horse, or bird, or tree, or reed—of anything, of all. Pan.

  For the moment, this form would do. He caught Pascal by the neck and lifted him one-handed, bringing him face to face with what he’d summoned. Pascal’s eyes bulged. The acid stink of urine filled the air. He supposed he owed him a debt of gratitude. He lowered but did not release Pascal. He opened his mouth. It was full of enormous teeth. They bit through Pascal’s skull with ease. It crunched like a crisp, fresh apple.

  The rest of the men were shaking. Their fear clouded the air. He inhaled it, then brought their god to them.

  — for Fiona

  Casting Lots

  By Jodi Renée Lester

  “Oh, Chris, you must come. Mom and Dud are having their meeting tonight. They’re reading the Big Book and I’ll be confined to my bedroom. It’s soooo dull. I mean, really.”

  Chris had the picture-perfect image of Maria as she carried on, stretched out on the couch, cord twisted around her finger, putting on airs. Twelve-year-old debutante, with a princess phone to her ear.

  As if she had to convince him.

  “. . . and we’ll steal snacks. I can already smell something yummy in the oven. Baked goods . . .”

  Chris tied his sneakers, grabbed his jacket, and left the house. Though it was shorter through the woods by distance, the trees would only slow him down. He kept to the street, walking along the flat and winding road that skirted the woods until he reached the other side.

  Outside Maria’s house, outside her window, a streetlamp flickered on, a yellow glow asserting itself in the slowly fading light. No cars on the street yet. He may not have to meet any guests.

  Chris climbed the flagstone steps and pressed the button that had long ago lost its luster. Muffled chimes sounded inside and grew louder as Maria’s mom opened the door.

  “Chris. What a wonderful surprise. Now you come in here.” She ushered him into the house, turning on the light in the foyer.

  “Thanks, Mrs. W. Maria didn’t say I was coming? I’m sorry . . .”

  “Never. That’s quite all right.” She clamped her hands on his shoulders and steered him toward the back of the house. “I think she’s in her room.” Her broad smile looked painful.

  Chris politely loosed himself from her clutches and headed down the hall. As he came to her doorway, Maria looked up at him and smiled from her bed. Propped up on a pillow was a walking cast where only hours earlier she had worn a shoe.

  “What happened to you?” He joined her on the bed, staring at the fresh white plaster. “Is it broken?”

  “No. Only a sprain. Good thing Dud’s an orthopod, otherwise I would’ve spent the entire afternoon in an emergency room.”

  “So?”

  “I fell out of a tree. You know the one I like. I was sitting on the big branch up there and here came your brother lumbering along. I was all prepared to scare him when I lost my footing and fell. Poor Richie, not only did I scare him, I practically landed on him. He didn’t tell you?”

  She grabbed his hand and put it to her head. “Anyway, I’ve got a knob now, too. See?” She laughed and kicked out her injured foot, then handed him a felt-tip pen. “You can be the first to sign my trophy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You smell that? Mom should be in soon with a plate for us. She’s been fussing all about me. She thinks missing a practice or two will ruin my skating career.” She rolled her eyes.

  “How long do you have to wear that thing?”

  “Not long. Not long at all.”

  Mr. W. breezed into the room with a tray. “Chris, you mind the time. It’s getting late.” He tilted his head toward the window.

  “I will, Mr. W.”

  “Looks like there’s one of each for each.” Maria’s dad set the tray on a footstool. Two milks and an assortment of freshly baked cookies, bars, and cakes.

  “Thanks, Dud.”

  He left the room nodding wearily as if the nickname took a little bit out of him each time she said it.

  Maria giggled and Chris joined her. He knew she only called him that to get his goat.

  “Sign.” She thrust the pen at Chris.

  He put the pen to his lip, visibly working out what to say. Finally, he shrugged and, on the bottom of the cast, wrote:

  Dear Maria, your first cast. One heck of a milestone. Maybe Dud can make one for me, too. One of each for each. Ha-ha.

  He added two dots and a grin and signed it, “Yours, Chris.”

  “What does it say? I can’t read it from here.” She stretched and leaned until she could see it, then smiled and raised her big white boot, giving his shoulder a hard push. As her foot fell back to the pillow her eyes widened, noting the green ink smear left on his shirt by the sole of the cast. She grabbed the tray. “Let’s eat these things.”

  He looked out the window. A long, dark car pulled up to the curb. Steam swirled in the headlights just before they blinked out. The windows were shaded and it looked as if no one was in there.

  “Is it time yet?” Maria asked.

  “It’s getting close.” He would wait until people stopped arriving. He took her hand and held it in both of his. “I really am sorry about your foot, you know.”

  “Don’t be. I’m just glad I didn’t land on Richie. We’d both still be lying there, turkey vultures picking our bones clean.”

  They each grabbed a cookie and looked to the window. Night was moving in.

  ***

  “Oh, Chris. You weren’t watching.” Mrs. W. swept right in.

  “It’s okay. I’m leaving right now.”

  “Oh no you’re not. You go call your father. Tell him I’ll send you home first thing in the morning. I won’t have you running through the woods on my watch. You don’t want to get caught there at night.”

  “It’s okay, I’ll run real fast!” Chris protested. He jumped up and headed for the door. “I’ll take the road, I swear.”

  Mrs. W. followed him out toward the foyer, then gripped the top of his head and turned it like a lid on a one-gallon jar.

  “Phone,” she said, using his head to maneuver him in the direction of the kitchen. “And make it fast. I have a meeting to get started.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He took slow heavy steps. Hopefully Richie would answer. He crossed his fingers. On the fourth ring, he heard it pick up and turned his back to the doorway for privacy.

  There was a long pause, a sound of fumbling as the person at the other end took time to get the handset from cradle to ear.

  Richie. Chris sighed relief. He looked down at the countertop to conceal his conversation. “Richie,” he whispered as loudly as he could without being heard.

  “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.