The Last Satyr: The Company is Formed Part 1

Once upon a time, there was a child with the same name as yours, and who might even have been you. One day the child wandered too far into the woods, where the trees grew denser and the shadows cooler. The quiet felt heavy, and every rustle made the child’s heart beat a little faster. After what seemed like forever, just when the child feared there would be no way out at all, a warm glow appeared between the trunks. Following it, the child stumbled upon a cozy little cottage nestled beside a babbling brook.

At that very moment, the forest behind seemed to suddenly step back, quieter, watching, waiting.

On the porch sat a bearded old man in a pointed hat and a gray robe, savoring a warm pie. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he looked up and smiled, beckoning the child closer.

“You look hungry. Would you like some pie?” he asked kindly.

The pie smelled too good to refuse. The child, both curious and ravenous, approached and accepted eagerly. “Thank you. I’m lost. Can you tell me where I am?”

“Lost?” The old man smiled and chuckled, his gentle laugh like the rustling of leaves. “You’re not lost. You found me. What you mean is you can’t find your way back.”

“I want to go home.”

"Everywhere here leads home. What you mean is: you don't know how get there."

“How do I get back?” the child asked, feeling a mix of hope and confusion.

“To get back, you must know where you are. You’re in Durham Forest. All children eventually find their way here to learn the things they need to know in order to forget.”

“Forget?”

“Yes,” the old man said, his voice becoming more serious. “There’s a catch to coming here. You have to grow up to leave this place, but when you do, you’ll forget everything about it. You won’t remember me, this cottage, and all the wonders you’ll see here. You’ll think it was all just a dream. That’s the price of growing up. You stop believing in wonders and imagination. Grownups can’t believe in what they can’t see. For example, see that tree gnome over there?”

“Oh, yes, I see it,” the child said, familiar with them. “They’re everywhere.”

“They're everywhere now, but when you leave here, you’ll never see another tree gnome again.”

“But I see them all the time,” the child insisted, eyes wide with wonder.

“That’s because you still believe in them. But when you grow up, you won’t. Oh, they'll still be here, but you will no longer see them. That’s the sad truth of it. The world has no magical places for grownups. One day they just cease to believe. That day is the day you leave this magical forest and go home.”

The child frowned, troubled. "My parents don't believe me when I see tree gnomes."

"Which means they were here once themselves, the same as you." The old man set aside his pie and leaned in closer.

The child blinked, feeling the weight of the question. “But I don’t want to stop believing.”

“That's the price of leaving,” said the old man. “But if you can find your way out while still believing, you won't forget this place, and will still see the gnomes. And to find your way out, you must first know where you are. As I said, this is Durham Forest, where the satyrs used to live.”

“Satyrs?” the child asked, intrigued. “What are satyrs?”

“Ah, what are satyrs?” He reminisced. “You don't know about satyrs? Ah, but I can see you don't,” he sighed. "If only you could have seen them back then, back when the world was still young, and the waters were fresh and full of life. The satyrs lived just over there above Gold Creek, where they played and danced the sikinnis, pounding their hooves to a lively strain. Their voices, laughter, and the music of their flutes once floated down from those heights above, yet now are only a distant memory.”

“They're gone?”

He looked sad for a moment but then brightened for the child. “Their song may be gone, but their story lives on. It’s a story you never knew you longed to hear.”

“What’s a satyr look like?”

“Well, I can’t show you all of them because they’re all gone from this wood. But,” he added, “I can show you one, the last one, they say. I knew him well. And quite the satyr he was too.”

“How can you show me one if there are none here?”

“I’ll show you how,” said the old man and produced an ancient volume from behind himself out of thin air as if by magic. “This is an elf’s book written about him. Wonderful things, elf books. They allow you to see what you’re reading through the pages just as if you were there.” He paused to adjust his slouch hat as he opened it, his eyes gleaming. “Like you, he had to find his way out too. Would you like to hear the greatest adventure ever?”

The child nodded with eager interest.

“I thought you might. Ah, here are the first words,” he read aloud, raising his voice as if crying out in warning. “‘Kill the last satyr!’ screamed the bloodthirsty orcs, charging with clubs and swords in hand.”

The child’s eyes grew wide, able to see on the page the action of the ugly orcs actually moving and chasing after someone, weapons in hand just as the old man described the book would do.

Then he confided to the child, “And the orcs will do so, or at least will try. Otherwise, there’d be no tale to tell. This book will reveal the secret of why they wanted him dead, and why they’d stop at nothing to get the job done. Are you ready to listen and see?”

The child nodded eagerly, leaning in closer to hear more from the old man and see his ancient, magical book, questions already waiting to be asked.

The old man’s eyes shone with the promise of excitement. “Let’s find out what happens next,” he whispered, turning the page.