Flights of Fancy

Satyr's Moon

I was half drunk under a full moon basking naked in the cool summer winds and swaying to the rhythms of the treetops dancing in the breeze.

When I drink just the right amount, not too little and not too much, I find myself gratefully slipping the bonds of the modern world and painful memories, back inexorably toward my ancient pagan roots. And if I find myself standing in a fragrant wood, caressed gently by the summer-moist air beneath a full and robust moon being softly tickled by the feathery touch of wispy clouds, I will raise my head upward and speak to ancient gods.

I began to spin, as I always do, staring at the evening sky, until the stars become a brilliant set of circular trails dancing in my vision. I shouted out the chants my father taught me. The dizziness began and I slumped to the ground, the world still twirling around me. I collapsed in exhaustion. A voice called to me from within the wood.

"I have not heard the ancient tongue in many years. Stand, so I might see you clearer."

I was startled and quickly slipped on my pants. I looked around, but no one was to be seen. A crackling sound, like dry leaves and twigs being crushed underfoot, became louder. And then he emerged from the shadowy darkness of the forest into the edge of my clearing, bathed in the light of the full moon.

He stood nearly my height, a muscular chest and arms, tattooed in unknown script. Below the waist he was fully covered in fur with the legs of a goat, cloven hooves and all. His face seemed mischievous, a wry smile within his goatee, and sparkling ice-blue eyes. Curly locks crowned his head, with two curved horns, curled one and a half full rotations, framing his face in the moonlight.

"You are a faun, a satyr!" I exclaimed, both excited and frightened at the same time.

"I have been called many things. I ask again, how is it that you chant the ancient tongue?" he asked, still smiling.

"They are words my father taught me, and his father before him. I do not know what they mean." I answered honestly.

"It is a chant of lamentation, a plea into the night. It speaks of despair and loss. But it can only summon the forest spirits if it is genuine and true. You reek of misery."

I was stunned into silence. He was not incorrect, my life was haunted and dark. I wore a mask of simple happiness to all those people that I knew. I did not seek to burden them with my despair. It has been that way since the war.

I was overwhelmed and asked the faun, "You say it is a plea. Is that plea ever answered?"

"That is why I am here, to see if your prayer will be answered. It is the old way, an incantation under the satyr's moon. If you speak your true desires three times from your heart, your boon may well be granted."

"Let me speak them then," I volunteered.

"No," the faun protested, "You must answer my questions and I will decide."

"How will you help me if I succeed?"

"You will be happy."

"Ask your questions then, I am ready."