Songs_of_the_Satyrs (28 page)

“Hey there, old friend. So nice to see you again.” His wings unfurled and his cloven hooves stomped the ground, pushing Pan back onto his straw bed. “No need to get up. We’re almost done here.”

Satan’s tail whipped through the air with a crack. Black hair sprouted as his hooves scratched into the dirt floor.

“So, you thought you could run and hide from me? You thought you could fuck with my plan?”

Satan’s long fingers reached out, jagged nails dug into Pan’s chest, and he laughed as the claw marks turned black and cauterized with his fiery touch. The satyr yelped in pain.

“And by the way, I never did thank you for that night. While I could have done it without you, you certainly did make it easier.”

Pan shrank back, curling into a whimpering heap.

“That’s right cry, you silly little animal. You were never a god.” The devil leaned away, his roar reverberating in the small shack and echoing down the valley. Villagers later recounted that the sound was like the very earth opening up to bellow.

Bright blue flames engulfed the shack, Hell itself right out in the open, and in a matter of seconds Pan’s flesh seared, blistered, and began to char. His agony was nothing but a brief flutter in the fire as his remains were rendered to ash. The wind howled and flurried around the tempest pyre.

Satan danced in the ashes and sang out in a challenge to the god that had cast him down. For he had succeeded in eliminating yet another of his long-time nemeses. With one wide flap of his diaphanous red wings, he took to the air, and Satan flew off into the night.

***

It was a full month before the young boy who had dared to run errands for the man-beast in the mountains traveled back to the small shack; all he found there was charred earth. Kicking through the black stones he wondered if what had happened to the man-beast had anything to do with the horrible cry which had scared the elders of his village.

Picking up a charred piece of wood, he saw a small black and silver rectangle, softened at the edges.

It was a small tape recorder, like the ones in the American police shows he watched online. He pressed the small play button and was surprised by the hiss of blank tape crackling out of the speaker. He rewound the tape and jabbed the play button again. The distorted voice of the man-beast stuttered from the recorder.

“. . . that seed of greed and lust growing in your guts, the world would be a different place . . .”

He pressed stop again and went down the mountain. His best source of income was now gone. Maybe he could make some money selling the story about the half goat, half man that he’d run errands for over the last eight months.

The recorder was too melted to be worth anything so he chucked it over the ledge and watched it shatter on the red stones below. Thin magnetic tape spooled out into the frigid wind.

He pulled the zipper of his worn jacket up higher and watched his feet trundle back to his village, wishing he had some way to make enough money to get out of that backward collection of mud huts.

Machine gun fire echoed over from the next hill.

Maybe he’d join in the fight against the Americans.

He spun around when he heard someone whistling behind him, a song he didn’t recognize.

A little boy was following him down the trail. He didn’t remember passing him. He didn’t recognize him from his village either. As the boy got closer he saw he had black eyes and a smile full of sharp glistening teeth.

Terrance held the digital camera to his face, ensured that the subject was centered within the device’s LCD screen, and took the picture. The camera beeped, made a clicking noise, then saved the image to a memory card. He lowered the camera but continued to stare at the fountain.

Thirty-two-year-old Terrance Harris was a freelance graphic designer. When he was not working on projects for his clients, the man busied himself with a personal website,
Witchcraft & Devilry.
It was for this website that he came to Birmingham, Alabama; the fountain before him, located at the hub of the historic Five Points South District, was the focal point of his journey.

“The Storyteller,
” he muttered.

Terrance moved around the landmark to capture it at different angles. Within the broad circle of the fountain, bronze animals in green patina, all larger than life, sat on pedestals just above the water’s surface. Five frogs, their faces turned up, spat arcs of water that crossed at the center. Between them were larger sculptures: a lion cub, a hare riding a tortoise, and a tiny deer resting on a dog’s back. But it was what captured these animals’ attention that gave people pause. Though the fountain’s plaque called it a ram-man, anyone who knew their Greek mythology could see it was a satyr.

Sitting on a tree stump, he held an open book in one hand and a staff in the other, an owl perched at the top. The creature had the head of a ram, its large horns curving to the back of his head, and wore a Br’er Rabbit suit.

The scene was whimsical, the sound of the water soothing.

But that is, indeed, a satyr,
Terrance mused, taking another photo.

He first saw a picture of
The
Storyteller
fountain back in his New York City loft while surfing the Internet. The satyr snagged his attention right away, but it was the article beneath the picture that made him want to see it for himself. According to the writer, a lot of the natives believed the artwork to be evil. After seeing the satyr on the glowing monitor and reading this claim, Terrance knew right away he had to document the fountain and post it on his website.

In his quest to secure firsthand information for
Witchcraft & Devilry
, Terrance had traveled to the site of the Salem Witch Trials in Massachusetts and journeyed to Adams, Tennessee, where the famous Bell Witch Haunting was supposed to have occurred.

He never actually witnessed anything supernatural and really had no desire to. The articles he posted online were mostly speculative, given strength with local rumors. Personal encounters with the supernatural were not his goal. He cherished his life too much to tempt the powers that may or may not be. He was just a sucker for a good old-fashioned ghost story.

Terrance circumvented a couple of homeless people who were sitting on the rim of the fountain and took a picture of the subject while making sure to include the Methodist church in the background. That image alone was a contradiction. The Methodist Church was known for their strict adherence to the rules and regulations of the gospel, yet a fountain housing a satyr sat mere yards from the humongous building with its Italian-style architecture. The fountain was situated on one of the intersection’s five corners—city property, true—but it was basically in the church’s front yard.

And let’s say there’s nothing remotely evil about it,
he thought to himself.
The artist who created it has made many more sculptures which are showcased throughout Birmingham and the animalistic carvings are as innocent as they come. This fountain just happens to be the first with a ram-man.

But perhaps this is simply an illustration of Aesop’s fables. I mean, you have the tortoise and the hare, you have a dog, and you have the storyteller. However that doesn’t dismiss the fact that sitting in this fountain is a satyr, a being that represents wine and sexual pleasures, which is a complete affront to the church behind it.

Furthermore, in the satyr’s right hand is a rod, which denotes power. Perched on the top of that rod is an owl, personifying knowledge. Therefore it claims to be a powerful and knowledgeable being. In the satyr’s left hand is a book, symbolizing teachings. As the king of speculation, I can rightfully say that this satyr is supposed to be a powerful and all-knowing being promoting teachings that are in contradiction to the church. Devilry!

Terrance smiled at his conclusion. Even if his findings were totally off base,
The
Storyteller
fountain was going to make a great addition to his website—especially when he obtained some testimonies from the superstitious locals.

He began taking pictures of the surrounding landscape. Even during the middle of a work day, there was a lot of pedestrian and automobile traffic. With dozens of apartments nearby, a gigantic university just down the street, and several hospitals in the area, Five Points South remained a bustling place; the district had a little something for everyone.

Across the street was a barbecue joint. The curb in front of the establishment was lined with cars and there happened to be a steady stream of people going in and out.

Southerners sure love their barbecue,
Terrance thought with a crooked smile.

Next door was a nightclub that wouldn’t be open until later that evening. On the same block was a tattoo parlor, music shop, pool hall, tax preparation center, National Guard recruitment station, and several restaurants. Terrance captured it all on camera.

“This is going to be the easiest story I ever had to cover,” he said to himself, taking a picture of a sign jutting out from a nearby lamppost that read
Five Points South
, beneath it a yellow star.

It could be an ordinary star, but it will sound better if I say it’s an undercover pentagram.

He took a picture of the five corners that made up the intersection. Cleverly designed to represent a star, perhaps? The five frogs in the fountain were probably chosen to represent the Five Points South area, but when Terrance was done the animals and the stars and the intersection were all going to suggest a pentagram—the symbol used in witchcraft and satanic rituals. He might even suggest that some of the locals secretly worshiped the devil.

“Excuse me, mista.”

Terrance turned around. A homeless man stood next to him, his head full of dirty stringy hair, his beard unkempt, and his face covered in dirt. He wore a filthy dress shirt and a pair of grungy denim jeans. He smelled like shit, too.

“What can I do for you?” Terrance said, stifling a gag.

“Listen here, man. I ain’t had nuthin to eat in two days. I’m just lookin for a little change so I can get me sumthin to eat. I ain’t tryin ta get high, I don’t drink, I just need ta get sumthin to eat. You can buy tha food, if ya want.”

“Not necessary,” Terrance said, turning to face the fountain again. “How about this? You give me a little information, and I’ll pay you for your time.”

The man’s eyes lit up. “Well, what cha need to know?”

“Rumor has it that this fountain is evil. What can you tell me about it?”

The homeless man glanced at the artwork and quickly shook his shaggy head. “Shit, ain’t nuthin evil bout dat dere founten. Dat’s Bob.”

“Who?”

“Bob. Da ram-man. Dat’s what us homeless folks call im, anyway. Ain’t nuthin evil ’bout Bob. He just homeless like us. Through da cold weatha, and tha hot weatha, Bob has ta bear it just the same. People call im evil cause he misunderstood—just like us homeless folk. People call us all sorts of thangs, but tha day ends and tomorrow comes and it’s tha same ol’ thang. What can ya do?”

“You got a point.”

Terrance no longer felt able to endure the man’s fetid odor, so he reached into his pocket and struggled to remove a bill from his folded wallet without exposing it. He glanced at the bill he was holding and fought back a groan of disappointment. At least it wasn’t a twenty or higher. “There’s a ten for the information,” he said.

“Thank ya!” the homeless man cried. “And God bless ya, brutha!”

“You have a good day,” Terrance said as he turned to walk away. He wanted to be gone from that heavily homeless-populated area as quickly as possible, before word got out that some fool tourist was near Bob’s fountain handing out free money.

***

Several minutes later Terrance slid the keycard into his room’s lock and waited until the indicator light on the door went green before pushing down on the handle and strolling into his room. Once inside, Terrance kicked off his shoes, then retrieved his black satchel from under the mahogany desk.

He wasn’t normally a paranoid man, but he trusted the shifty-looking hotel staff about as far as he could throw them. The idea that Southerners were the most friendly people in America was a lie propagated by the media. All that separated them from New Yorkers or Californians was their southern drawl.

With the TV on—dispelling the room’s eerie quiet—Terrance lay back on the bed and took out his laptop. He connected his camera to the computer and began transferring the Five Points South images onto his hard drive.

When that was done, he’d start typing up the article for his website. But he needed to interview some more people. The homeless man’s talk about a misunderstood satyr named Bob wasn’t going to cut it for an interesting horror story.

I’d love to talk to some of the Methodists. Wonder how they feel about the fountain sitting on their front lawn? Maybe I can find some locals who don’t consider the satyr a homeless comrade.

He decided to go to the club he saw and do some research there.
Possibly even bring a young lady back to my room . . . to interview.

He grinned as he decided to give the people of Birmingham—the women in particular—another chance to redeem themselves as hospitable Southern folk.

***

Eventually the sun went down and an orange moon took its place in the darkening sky. Instead of going to sleep like a nice, respectable neighborhood, Five Points South came alive, even more so than during the day.

The streets were lined with cars, and more vehicles crept through the avenues looking for places to park. The sidewalks were crowded with women wearing their finest or skimpiest clothing and men showing off their most happening gear. The restaurants were still serving food, and the goth chick stood outside her tattoo parlor talking to the guy who sold guitars. Across the street billiard balls smacked together amidst loud talking and raucous laughter.