The Last Satyr: The Company is Formed Part 1
The Boy Meets Graybeard

“So, what’s this business about your sending the boy to school?” Graybeard asked Athiel as she went to get him a mug.

“He asked to go.”

Graybeard eyed her. “No boy asks to go to school.”

“All elves do.”

“That may be, but he is not an elf,” Graybeard reminded her. “The idea to go to school did not originate with him. It came from you.”

“I supported his request.”

“I would say you went further than that and encouraged it.”

“If I did, it was unintentional.” She defended herself.

“Unintentional?” he mused. “My dear, everything a woman does is intentional!”

“I did not force him to ask to go to school.”

“You expect me to believe a satyr asked to go to school? The only enjoyment a satyr would have in attending school would be either as a critic of it or in getting out of it by skipping it!” Graybeard’s pale eyes found the boy again for his opinion. “So which do you prefer the most–mocking your teachers or skipping school?”

“Skipping school, sir,” said the boy.

“And why is that?”

“The fishing’s better.”

Graybeard shrugged at the expected answer as Athiel was filling his mug. “Do you still claim the boy asked to attend school?” he asked her.

“He did.”

“What? With you standing behind him with a whip?” Graybeard responded.

“I admit I encouraged him. But I didn’t use a whip. He asked and he learned. The boy can read Elvish.”

“Really?” Graybeard looked at the boy as he picked up his mug. He gave him a wink with a twinkle in his eye like a hidden constellation, a secret universe of mirth and wisdom contained within. “A satyr reading Elvish, eh? I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

“Perhaps he’ll write a play,” Athiel offered.

“A play written by a satyr?" Graybeard considered that thought with interest. "Now that would be something! What a marvelous idea! Unfortunately, it would also be a terrible waste when the only audience would be you elves.”

He sipped the mug and closed his eyes to savor the flavor. “Ah! Mead! The drink of the gods!” he exclaimed. “If bribery was your intent, you have succeeded. I now agree. The boy asked to go school even if he didn't.”

She started to step back away from the table with the wineskin, but he stopped her and had her set it back down within his easy reach. “You wouldn’t deny an old man his few pleasures, would you?”

“It’s yours. We elves never drink it.”

“Oh! You drink it! You just don’t make it. You don’t want to steal honey from bees to make it because that’s interfering with the bees, which interferes with the flowers, which interferes with the air, and which you elves probably think interferes with the sun and the sky and the moon at night!”

The boy let out a giggle at that.

“Ah! The boy laughed!” Graybeard noted, turning towards him again. “He knows you elves! Tell me, boy? Ever had a pint of mead?”

The boy shook his head. He hadn't.

The old keeper of the elves handed him his mug to try for himself.

“You’re not letting the boy have any?” Athiel gasped.

“I most certainly am,” said Graybeard. “Denying a satyr wine is like denying a horse water or giving an elf paper, but denying him a pen!”

The boy tried it. His eyes popped open and he smiled at the taste. It was like sweet nectar to his lips. Oh! It was delicious!

“Wow!” he marveled, handing it back. “That’s wonderful!”

“I thought you’d like it,” said Graybeard in shared approval. “It’s like drinking the smell of flowers.”

“Now that,” Athiel insisted in disapproval, “was a mistake! If you’re going to be giving a satyr wine, you should be raising him and not me!”

“Oh, fiddlesticks! Me raise him? I haven’t the time, the disposition, and certainly not the good example! Besides!” stated Graybeard. “You’re doing fine. I just like to interfere, stir things up, and see what happens.”

“You know what will happen. He’ll want more.” Athiel sighed in objection, her gaze fixed on the boy.

“That’s what makes him a satyr and me a keeper.” Graybeard smiled mischievously.

“I don’t know why he must learn the bad side of being a satyr.” Athiel’s concern was evident in her voice.

“Well! You see!” Graybeard leaned forward, his face a mask of wisdom. “In order to have a bad side, he has to have a good side.”

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“Does he steal?” Graybeard inquired.

“Yes.”

“Does he tell lies? Miss his chores?” The old keeper asked, refilling his mug.

“Of course!” she said. “He’s a satyr!”

“Does he smoke?”

“Not yet. But he’ll probably drink now, thanks to you!” Athiel’s tone held obvious disapproval.

“So,” Graybeard was curious, “exactly what is his good side?”

“He loves.”

“He loves what?”

“He loves everything, and everyone loves him–leastways the gnomes and fairies. He doesn’t have an enemy in the world.”

“He has one,” Graybeard reminded her.

“Who is that?”

Graybeard leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on her. “Whoever it was that took his parents.”

Athiel’s expression became more worried, nervously toying with her hair. “What makes you think someone took them?”

“Because they’re not around anymore,” Graybeard reminded her. “That’s the reason for my coming today; to find out why.”

“They may have moved.”

“And left a baby behind?”

“You should know what happened to them. You’re with the Keeper’s Council. Ask their keeper.”

“You’re right,” Graybeard admitted with a nod. “I should know, but I don’t. The satyr’s keeper never shows up at the council meetings anymore. That’s what makes this boy here special. He’s the last one. Somehow he got separated from the others.”

“And they lost him,” Athiel said, refilling his mug.

“Yes. Whoever ‘they’ are,” the old keeper agreed before he leaned towards the boy, secretly showing the boy his tobacco pipe and pouch, before asking him, “What say you and I head down to the river and do some fishing?”

The boy looked up at Athiel. “May I, Auntie?”

She nodded. “Go get an extra pole for Graybeard.”

The boy ran off to obey.

“So what do you plan to do with him?” Athiel asked.

“You mean, do I plan to take him with me or leave him with you?”

“Yes.”

“That depends,” the old keeper said, “on why the satyrs disappeared. I figure you know more about that than I do.”

“Why do you think I should know?”

“Because I’m willing to bet you’ve been up there. I can’t imagine that, in thirteen years, you’ve never once been curious enough to climb the cliffs at the mouth waters of Gold Creek, and see for yourself what happened to his parents.”

“I’ve made the climb,” she admitted. “And so have all the other elves. We’re not as heartless as you think. We’ve all gone.”

“And what did you find?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “We found absolutely nothing. It’s as if they never existed.”

“As if they never existed…” Graybeard repeated thoughtfully and with deep concern at the words. “You know,” he said, “often the lack of evidence is, itself, evidence.”

“We know.”

“Then you know only one thing could leave no evidence behind?”

She nodded, saying the single forbidden word, her voice a whisper, “Drow.”

“Yes,” Graybeard said in agreement. “Drow! When people disappear, or bodies turn up for no reason, you know there’s drow about. So tell me. Are there drow about?”

She nodded slowly.

The old keeper’s pleasant mood changed in response to grave, thoughtful contemplation, just as the boy showed up then with two poles. He brightened again to see the boy.

“Ah! Good! You’re back!” Graybeard noted, picking up the wineskin and then turning to Athiel. “Oh! And we’ll need a second mug for the boy. After all, we wouldn’t want to let his youthful enthusiasm for today go to waste, would we?”

He did not ask her further about the drow.

From there, they both headed through the trees to reach the grassy banks of Gold Creek. Sitting amongst the flowers and butterflies, the boy found the old keeper’s company to be quite pleasant with their fishing lines bobbing, their mugs filled with sweet, golden mead, and Graybeard blowing smoke rings from his pipe across the water. The moments with the old keeper soon proved to be like ripples in the river of time, carrying tales and wisdom.

With practiced precision, Graybeard blew out a beautiful, perfectly round ring that drifted out before them without breaking.

Now the boy had seen Old Joe blow smoke rings before, so this did not impress, though it was admirable how long it stayed together before dissipating. Yet then the old keeper blew another after the first. But what he exhaled wasn’t a smoke ring. He blew forth a small cloud of smoke in the shape of a bird with wings outstretched. It was a seagull; the boy thought. No! Wait! It was an eagle, complete with hooked beak and talons. It flew through the smoke ring before slowly floating away off the water as if it were actually flying before it gradually dissipated to disappear.

“Wow!” the boy marveled in wonder. “Can you teach me to do that?”

“If your life was long enough to learn, I could,” Graybeard said. “But it’s not, so let’s not even try. Okay?”

The boy reluctantly agreed.

“So how old are you?” he asked Graybeard curiously.

“Oh! I don’t know." The keeper lowered his mug to answer. "Pretty old, I guess.”

“Which is older? You or these trees?”

Graybeard's eyes twinkled with wisdom and memories. “I can remember when these trees were first planted.”

“Wow! Really?” the boy’s voice colored in genuine astonishment. “That’s amazing!”

“Only to you,” he replied with a slight smile, a hint of nostalgia still in his eyes. “Only to you…”

“So why are you here today?” the boy asked.

“Because of you,” Graybeard told him, his eyes filled with the promise of an untold story. “It’s time to find out why you’re here.”

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