LOST

Mr. Trent was not the outdoorsy type and so when Zachary told him just where they would be looking for a satyr, he was not at all thrilled. Trudging through the dense forest in the middle of November wasn’t exactly his idea of a good time. But he owed Zachary for not calling the police when he caught him and Mr. Scott breaking into his previous hideout four years ago. Instead of turning them in, he decided to hire them as his personal henchmen.

“Are we setting up camp sometime soon? I’m starving.” Mr. Trent exclaimed.

“Yes. The next clearing we come to, we’ll stop there for the night. It’s beginning to get dark, anyway,” Zachary replied.

“Not just dark,” Mr. Trent noted, seeing some clouds gathering in the distance. “We might get some rain. Is this tent waterproof?”

“I don’t think you need to worry about anything, Mr. Trent,” Zachary replied calmly. A few minutes later, they found a clearing and Mr. Trent did not hesitate to stop, remove his pack and sit down. But when Zachary’s disapproving eyes fell on him, he immediately stood up and began unpacking one of the tents. Zachary stopped him, “I’ll take care of both of the tents. I need you to go find some firewood. And make sure it’s dry.”

As soon as he was gone, Zachary walked over to one of the tents, held his hand over it and watched it assemble itself, floating a few inches above the ground. He then walked over to the second tent and did the same thing. With both tents hanging in midair, he looked at the stakes lying on the ground and watched them rise and distribute themselves to the sides of the tents and then drive into the ground, securing their shelter for the night.

He could have gathered firewood himself without lifting a finger, but he needed Mr. Trent occupied away from camp for a few minutes. He reached into an inside pocket of his long coat and pulled out a black, leather pouch. He went over to a box of camping supplies and as he bent down to pick up a teakettle, he heard Mr. Trent return with firewood.

“I found some firewood, Mr. Di Corvo,” Mr. Trent said, slightly out of breath.

“Good. After you’ve built us a fire, I’ll put on some tea,” Zachary responded.

“Damn! You’re already finished? I didn’t realize you were such an expert at pitching a tent,” Mr. Trent exclaimed as he started arranging a few logs in the fire pit.

“There’s plenty you don’t know about me. Move out of the way. You are far too slow. Can you grab that jug of water, please, and fill up this kettle?” He bent down over the wood in the fire pit. A half second later, a flame shot up from the side of one of the logs. Spreading quickly, they soon had themselves a campfire. “I think it’s pretty well lit now.” He pointed his hand toward the grate that was attached to the pit by a hinge and had it bring itself down over the fire. “Kettle, please, Mr. Trent?”

Mr. Trent, amazed at his boss’s skill, handed him the kettle. “That is…”

“Cool, huh?”

“Yeah. I was looking for a better word, but…”

“It’s quite all right. You just lack the vocabulary. Would you care for some May Apple tea?”

“Sure. I guess so,” Mr. Trent replied, humbled by Zachary’s demeaning comment.

As the water heated up, Zachary prepared two tea infusers—one with Mandrake leaves from his leather pouch and the other with regular tea from the box of camping supplies. The kettle began to whistle and Zachary handed Mr. Trent a cup and the tea infuser with Mandrake.

“Fill the cup and let it steep for a minute or two. You might need some sugar to sweeten it up a little,” he instructed.

“Thank you,” Mr. Trent said.

Zachary prepared his own tea, careful to sit himself downwind and not let Mr. Trent smell his regular brew.

“You know… it’s a strange thing, immortality. Sometimes, I find myself asking, ‘Am I a god?’ By Greek standards, that seems to be enough. But back then, there was always someone around to tell your story in epic fashion,” Zachary noted, while Mr. Trent began to sip his tea. “What’s the fun in being an immortal if you’re not remembered? Then, again, that’s all that’s left of the Greeks—stories.”

“Whoa… I feel kind of funky,” Mr. Trent interrupted. “What proof is this tea, Boss?”

Zachary continued, ignoring him, “No one believes in the Greek gods anymore. The same goes for the Romans, Egyptians, and Celts. Sure, some people these days are calling themselves Neo-pagans and they recite the names of old in their so-called rituals and spells. But do they actually believe in them? I doubt it very much. And do you think Ares, Venus, Ra and Dagda are sitting around in some cave, pyramid or temple, waiting for someone to believe in them again? No. They’re dead. Well… not dead in the six-feet-under, rotting flesh meaning of the word, but they might as well be. Deep down, they know that no one will ever believe in them again. The Christian god, too. And the Christians don’t even know it. At least the Greeks and Romans know their gods are dead. The Christian god was replaced by a politician, who was replaced by a celebrity, who was replaced by another politician.”

“I’m really starting to not feel good. My stomach hurts,” cried Mr. Trent.

“But still,” Zachary continued to pay him no attention, “I think there’s more to Xamn and Modeos’s power than I give them credit for, and hunting them with an imbecile such as yourself will just not do. So, just as the gods were replaced by greed, I am replacing you, or will be shortly, rather, with one better suited to the task.”

“Oh, God. I think my intestines are going to come out of my butt,” Mr. Trent screamed, writhing on the ground.

“I tell him the gods are dead and he pleads to them anyway,” complained Zachary as Mr. Trent crawled over to a bush and vomited violently into it.

“Did I forget to tell you that May Apple is also known as Mandrake, which is fatally poisonous? Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry. I suppose I could have chosen a poisonous plant with less dramatic side effects, but it’s all I could find in a pinch. And unfortunately, no immortal can conjure anything that is poisonous. Well, I would say that it’s been pleasant working with you, but… it hasn’t. So, farewell.”

Mr. Trent lay on the ground, barely breathing—blood and saliva coming from his mouth. As the life faded from him, Zachary sat on a nearby tree stump and sipped his tea.

“Nothing like a campfire and a hot cup of tea on a cool autumn night.” Without even making sure he was completely dead, and without leaving his stump, he brought his hand up and waved it to the side and magically moved Mr. Trent’s body inside one of the tents. He then twirled his pointer finger and the tent wrapped itself around the body tightly, the ropes tying themselves in a knot. As it settled back down on the ground, he took one last sip of tea.

“Well, time to hunt for a satyr.”

He transformed himself into a raven and took to the air over the trees, thinking that, one, he would be able to see better in the dark, two, that he could cover more ground in a smaller amount of time and, three, that he would have the advantage of surprise. It did not take very long at all to spot his query. There was a satyr curled up, asleep, against the base of a tree about a mile from his camp. He gently swooped down, so as not to startle the creature, and settled down roughly ten feet away from where the satyr laid, snoring.

“Toc-toc-toc,” Zachary said somewhat softly. The satyr stirred but did not wake. “Pruk-pruk-pruk,” he said a bit louder, hopping a little closer. The satyr still did not wake. Zachary hopped over until he was right next to the half-man, half-goat and cawed louder, “Kraa!”

“U-tsa-ti-na, ka-la-nu” the satyr replied, which meant, ‘Go away, Raven.’

Zachary transformed himself back into his human form, to which the satyr finally woke, sensing a figure looming above him.

“Cherokee. I can’t say I’ve ever had to use that language before, but I’ll give it a shot.”

He cleared his throat as the satyr braced himself for an attack. “I’m not here to hurt you,” Zachary said in Cherokee. “My name is Zachary. You may call me Mr. Raven.”

“What do you want? And how can you see me?” asked the satyr.

“I am an immortal. That’s why I can see you. And I need your help in seeking two others who have lost their way.”

“How would I be of help to an immortal?”

“Mainly your connection to the Fae.”

“My home is here, in the Uwharrie. You need faerie help, you can find them yourself.”

“You do not want to get on my bad side,” a bolt of energy hit the base of the tree the satyr had been laying against and split it halfway down the middle.

“Stop! I’ll go. The forest does not deserve your ire,” the satyr said as he stood up, eyeing Zachary suspiciously.

“That wasn’t me,” Zachary said, chuckling. “That was actual lightning, which is not in my repertoire.”

Small horns protruded from the creature’s head, just above his hairline, and curled outward. His hair was thick and black; his sideburns came down past his jawline. The only other facial hair he had was a goatee that came to a point, nearly touching the spot where his clavicle bones met at the base of his neck. His skin was extremely tan, with a slight reddish hue. Dark brown fur covered his legs up to about four inches below his chest muscles and also the outside of his forearms. Like the back legs of a goat, his knees bent, pointing back— the opposite way of human knees. And below his ankles were not flat feet and toes, but cloven hooves. “Let’s go. I’ve got an overwhelming feeling I’m going to regret this. Perhaps I should be grateful… for living long enough to regret it.”

Zachary began walking toward his camp and the satyr followed. “Do you speak English?” asked Zachary.

“Yes. I just choose not to,” replied the satyr.

“Well, it would make things a lot simpler if we did.”

“Fine,” the satyr complied, in English.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“My given name or my Cherokee name?

“Your given name,” Zachary returned smartly.

“Samal.”

“Anybody living know you by that name?”

“No.”

“Good. That’s my camp right there in the clearing.”

“What’s that smell?”

“That would be my former assistant. The wilderness did not agree with him.”

As Zachary and the satyr came upon the clearing, Samal could see the tent bundle gathering flies. “Is he dead?”

“I’m afraid so.” Zachary could see the hesitation in Samal’s face, “Don’t worry. You do as I tell you and no harm will come to you.” Zachary closed his eyes and began to recite an incantation in Latin. “Vos es haud diutius occultus nam humanus.”

“What are you doing?”

“Just a precaution. No interruptions now,” Zachary said before continuing. When he was done, he opened his eyes as a sparkling mist rained down over Samal.

“What did you do?”

“Well… you are no longer hidden to immortals. The only way the veil will come back is if I recite another spell. And I’ll only do that when our task is done.”

“You have done an unforgivable thing. Do you know this?”

“I don’t require forgiveness. Shall we go, then?”