The Last Satyr: The Company is Formed Part 1
Because of you

“Me?” gasped the startled boy. “What interest does a keeper like you have in me?”

“I’m not really sure,” Graybeard thoughtfully replied, taking another puff. “As old as I am and as long as I’ve been here, I’ve never seen a curiosity quite like you.”

“You mean because I’m so special–being the last satyr and all?”

“I’m sure that’s how the elves view it. They view the last of anything as special.”

“You don’t?”

“No. I’ve seen too many of the last ones before.”

“Then what makes me so curious to you?”

“Humph!” the old man grunted, drawing a tasty sip on his mug in the warm afternoon while the boy enjoyed his pipe’s pleasant aroma while the bees hummed. “Because I don’t know why you’re the last one! Things have been changing, and now you come along.”

“How have things been changing?”

“Things have been changing for the elves. I’m their keeper, and it’s my job to know. There was a time when there were more elves than there are now. I was young then. But since their numbers have begun to dwindle, I have begun to grow old. When the last elf dies, so will I.”

“What’s a keeper?”

“Just what the name implies. I’m responsible for the elves and look after them.”

“Is there a keeper for satyrs?”

“There was,” the old man nodded. “His name was Sar.”

“Why do you say ‘was’?” the boy asked. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Because I haven’t seen Sar in thirteen years,” answered Graybeard.

“Where is he?”

“Dying, I suppose. You’re probably breathing his last breaths. Unless I’m mistaken, when you die, so will he.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No,” the old man agreed. “It’s not.”

“So if you’re not my keeper, why are you here with me?”

“Because,” Graybeard replied, “after there are no more satyrs, I fear next there will be no more elves.”

“You seem pretty certain of that.”

“I am,” Graybeard said, yet then hastened to add, “But don’t let it bother you. You’ll be gone long before that happens. I’m just sitting here enjoying a good mug and a smoke with the last satyr.”

The boy was hoping to be offered a puff while he listened.

“Am I really the last satyr?”

“You are as far as I know.”

“But how can you know for sure? You said you didn’t know what happened to the satyrs.”

“I don’t. Your aunt gave me the first clue. Up until today, I’ve been walking the earth hoping to find them. I’ve walked thirteen years, not long in my time, but long enough. If there were any more satyrs, the elves would know. As the keeper of all the elves, I have all their eyes and ears to tell me where the satyrs are. Yet, except for your presence, they have none to report. And there’s also the fact that I don’t see Sar anymore and then what your aunt told me today.”

“What did my aunt tell you today?”

“Why about what happened when the elves went up Gold Creek looking for the satyrs.” He looked mildly surprised to find the boy hadn't had this conversation with his aunt.

“What happened? I thought nothing was up there.”

“What do you mean, ‘nothing was there’?” The old man’s eyes gazed into his. “Didn’t they tell you?”

“No. They’ve never told me anything about my parents. Why?”

“Well, maybe they were saving it,” the old keeper said to himself. “Although I can’t imagine why.” He shook his head. “All these years and not tell you? That makes no sense to me. That’s dangerous–very dangerous!”

“What’s dangerous?”

“Boy, your life has been in danger since the day Old Joe brought you here.”

“What?” the boy gasped in alarm, the pleasant aroma and the fine mead now instantly forgotten. For the first time in his life, he felt a sense of fear.

“I never expected this,” Graybeard said with a look of concern. “You’re lucky I came along. If your aunt hasn’t told you, then somebody should. I’m not your keeper and it’s none of my business, but I figure Sar can’t tell you or he would if he could. Of course, I can’t tell you why or what really happened, but I can give you the ‘who’. Do you know what a ‘split-half’ is? No. I don’t suppose you do. But a split-half is a keeper that Azazel divided in two to create two different races, and I’m a split-half, which means I’ve got another half. Your other half is your exact opposite. When Azazel split the elves, he split me too.”

“What do you mean, when Azazel split the elves?”

“Don’t you know he split the elves?”

The boy shook his head.

“No. I suppose you wouldn’t,” Graybeard noted, his weathered fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of his mug. “You see, things have been going downhill for the elves for quite a while.” He leaned back, his gaze shifting toward the distant horizon, lost in thought. “An elf doesn’t believe in ruling the earth. He believes in earth ruling him.” His eyes returned to the boy, a hint of sadness in their depths. “That’s why they believe in being one with nature.” His fingers tapped softly on his fishing pole, as if echoing the rhythms of the creek. “They might be right about that, but it doesn’t work when they have non-elf neighbors.”

Graybeard’s gaze turned contemplative, and he took another thoughtful sip from his mug, his eyes distant as he considered the complexities of the situation. “You see, those who invented the wheel have the edge.” He looked back at the boy, his expression earnest. “They will rule the earth, and anybody who rules the earth rules the elves. Since they won’t change, they won’t survive.”

There was a pause of silence between them.

“One of these days, there will be no more trees here,” Graybeard continued, his voice carrying a solemn weight. “They’ll have all been cut down—and not by elves, either.” He let out a sigh, his gaze returning to the mug before him. “When that happens, there will be no more elves.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I forget I’m talking to someone of so little time. I can’t give you the long version or you’d shrivel up and be long dead before I could finish the story. You need the short version, one I can tell between now and before we catch our next fish. It seems I was failing the elves as their keeper. And sometimes, when you’re not doing a very good job and what you’re doing isn’t working, you get the idea to do the exact opposite, and maybe that will be better. Anyway, Azazel—he’s the head keeper of the Council—decided to do the exact opposite with me. He split the elves into their opposite parts. And when he split the elves, he split me too, so that both groups of elves still had their own keeper. I’m the keeper of the Light elves. My split half is the keeper of the Dark elves. We’re each opposite to the other. Which means we don’t get along.”

“You’re talking about drow, aren’t you?” asked the boy.

“That is their unspoken name,” the old keeper said with a nod, “and they might know about you.”

“What do the Dark Elf drow have to do with me?”

“I’m not sure,” Graybeard admitted, his brow furrowed in contemplation. “However, no matter what you call them, drow or Dark Elves, they are a failure.” His fingers tapped thoughtfully on his fishing pole as he listed their characteristics. “They are opposites of the Light Elves in that they live underground and see well in the dark versus the day. Their skin is dark instead of light, their hair white instead of black, the female is bigger and stronger than the male…” He gestured with a shrug. “You get the idea.” His expression turned somber as he delved deeper into their nature. “Anyway, they will kill for self-gain. In fact, they spend more time killing each other than anyone else.” He shook his head in a mix of pity and disdain. “But, in the end, they too reject the wheel. They are just another failure.” His gaze turned piercing as he contemplated the responsibility for that. “But, it is up to their keeper to make them a success. She will do what she has to, in order to make them a success for; if they die, she dies, too.”

“She?” the boy asked.

“Lolth,” replied Graybeard. “My opposite half is a woman. My being a man requires she be the opposite.”

“Lolth the spider goddess?” the boy offered.

“Yes. That is her. She wasn’t always a spider goddess. She was once a very beautiful woman. She successfully seduced Azazel and had two children by him.”

“How’d she become a spider queen?”

“Oh! She did that to herself,” Graybeard explained, his voice tinged with a mix of fascination and repulsion, “deliberately or otherwise.” He leaned forward, his eyes focused as he recounted the tale. “You see, being my opposite, made her evil.” He gestured with his pipe, emphasizing his words. “Eventually, Azazel rejected her for it.” He paused, taking a contemplative puff from his pipe. “That’s when she either turned herself into, or naturally became, a poisonous spider queen. In order that she might kill Azazel herself and rule all others who oppose her.” He leaned back, his eyes distant as he visualized the events. “I’m not sure how it was done, but it has since become her true form, one she is entirely pleased with.” He shook his head in a mix of disbelief and understanding. “You see, her body reflects her dark, twisted mind, and so she finds it utterly perfect, even worshipping herself.” A faint shudder passed through him as he continued, “Now she mates only with other monsters and spawns huge spiders that number into anthills called steeders. In her dark world, they are her drow’s cattle.”

“I have heard of that,” the boy said with an uncomfortable shiver. “But what do her drow have to do with me?”

“When the satyrs disappeared, they left no trace for the elves to find of what happened to them. Only drow could do that.”

“My parents were taken by drow?”

“Or murdered by them,” the old keeper said. “Sorry to be so blunt, but you need the short version.”

“But that still doesn’t explain how I am in danger.”

“Ah! Well! That depends,” Graybeard said as he refilled his pipe, his gnarled fingers carefully packing the tobacco. The aromatic scent of the freshly filled pipe wafted in the air. “If Lolth is responsible, she did so to hurry the demise of the Light Elves.” He reached into his pouch for something to light it with. “You see, a satyr’s duty in life is to poke fun at those who take life too seriously the way the elves do. It is why elves do not take kindly to satyrs.” He paused to light his pipe. “You are their biggest critic by pointing out the folly of their ways. They don’t appreciate that.” He paused to release a plume of smoke. “And now, with the satyrs gone, that criticism is removed. They are free to die off by their own choice without ever seeing the error of their ways.”

The smoke curled around his head as he spoke, accentuating his words.

“You’ve actually been good for your aunt,” he added, taking a fresh puff. “You’ve earned her a passing grade, unlike Duravane. She now thinks beyond her tree.”

“I still don’t see the danger.”

“Lolth does not require that you see the danger,” Graybeard continued, his voice tinged with a hint of gravity. He leaned in, the pipe smoke swirling around him. “You see, by day drow hide underground, but, by night, they want this place–and would kill for it.” He paused, his gaze fixed on the boy. “So long as one satyr lives, there is hope for the Light Elves to see the error of their ways. If the drow got rid of the satyrs to end that hope, they didn’t finish the job. They missed one. You’re still alive.”

While his words hung in the air, the water’s gentle babble provided a soothing backdrop to the serious conversation.

“You think they would kill me, too?”

“Why not?” asked the old keeper. “How difficult can that be?”

“I know a drow,” the boy said in worry. “Actually, a drider.”

“You know a drider? My!” the keeper looked at him in amazement. “Boy, you are full of surprises! More mead?” he offered, holding up the wineskin for him.

The boy nodded and, while the keeper filled his mug, asked, “Are not driders drow cursed by Lolth?”

“They are outcasts–yes. They either failed some test of Lolth’s or were caught in rebellion to her.”

“Then a drider could be a friend?”

“A drider–a friend?” repeated Graybeard, musing lightly at the thought before he shook his head. “Well! I should be very careful about that conclusion. They all go insane eventually, and any drider that brought you back to Lolth would certainly think it would have its curse removed as its reward.”

The boy realized he should get rid of his drider friend. It was the only obvious thing to do.

“So a drider is my enemy?”

The old keeper raised his eyebrows thoughtfully at that before relighting his pipe. Graybeard’s words flowed like a slow, meandering river, carrying tales and wisdom on its gentle currents.

“I wouldn’t reach that conclusion either,” he said. “Any drider cursed by Lolth is an enemy of Lolth’s. And an enemy of your enemy could be a friend. And drow do hate driders for failing Lolth, so that too is in your favor. If you don’t mind my asking, is this drider a boy or a girl?”

“Girl,” the boy answered, now confused on whether to keep her for a friend or not.

Graybeard nodded, drawing another puff on his pipe.

“That could be in your favor, also,” he said. “If anyone can befriend a woman, even a chaotic one, it’s a satyr. And she can’t have been a drider very long, or she’d have gone mad by now. But,” he added, “you might be able to prevent that. If not, be on your guard.” The keeper then shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry I cannot give you the answer you seek. I know little about them and I have never heard of anyone befriending a drider.”

The boy thought this was not a particularly helpful answer. What should he do about her? She was his best friend.

Graybeard read his mind.

“Not very helpful, am I?” he noted of the boy’s disappointment. “That’s what happens if you ask an old fool for advice. They say wisdom comes with age, but I’ve met plenty of old fools to prove that wrong! In my case, if I ever have any occasional brilliance, it’s the mead that’s responsible and not me.” He took a slow puff on his pipe, the fragrant smoke curling in the air. “But if it’s any help, it is always an unexpected source that defeats evil and certainly, a drider’s help would be unexpected. As to whether you can trust her or not, you have a satyr’s heart. If you search it, it will give you your answer. But I would most certainly fear a drow. Ah!” he said as his fishing pole jerked. “I now have my fish and you now have the end of your story!”

“How come,” the boy noticed, having decided to keep his drider, “your mead wineskin is just as full now as when we began?”

The fish now jumped and splashed.

“That’s the difference between a good wineskin and a bad one,” the keeper said, carefully playing the fish with aged old expertise to tire it out and bring it in. “A good one is always full.” Then he added, “Which reminds me, I brought you a special gift for your aunt to give you.”

The boy’s eyes grew wide. What would a keeper’s gift be?

“What’s that?”

“Something I think you’ll need.”

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