IN WHICH THE SATYR AND I SIT CHEEK BY JOWL
He looked the first, and from his antic disposition I was convinced he was already more than half drunk. But I was entirely unprepared for the result which my statement brought about.
The angular figure became convulsed with immoderate laughter on the instant. He shouted and screamed with mirth, bending forward, thrusting backward, holding his ribs with one hand—the other was busy with the oilcloth bundle, which he never forgot—turning that repellent chin to the sky, and yelling his insane, cackling, demoniac merriment to the first stars. I thought he would surely have some sort of fit before my eyes, so overcome was he with glee. I stood erect and dignified, waiting for his stormy risibles to allay. After a full two minutes of noisy rapture, he calmed down somewhat, drew forth a bottle of remarkable size and tilted it with the neck between his lips. Making a smacking sound of satisfaction as he finished the draught, he half lurched, half walked toward me, extending the bottle as he came.
"Good fur rheumatiz," he said, stopping at arm's length, and good-naturedly leering his invitation for me to partake.
I shook my head.
"No.... Thank you."
There was an expression on his countenance which disarmed me of my wrath. At close range I searched his features. They were irregular, undecided. His nose was pug—another satyr touch—and his neck long, thin and ridged. I could not see his eyes. But something about him came out to me as an appeasing and soothing agent. Worse than useless for me to speculate as to what it was. A nameless something, probably, which acted upon my spirit, or nature, and charmed it in a way. I knew this thing before me was a fragment, a waif, a bit of flotsam on Life's sea. He could be nothing else. And yet—and yet, as he stood patiently with that enormous bottle stuck under my nose, and the genial, whole-hearted leer of invitation on his pagan face, I knew a sudden kinship; a quick, sympathetic rush of feeling, and as I waved the bottle aside with my left hand I thrust out my right and grasped his as it hung limply in front of the bundle he still pressed to his side with his elbow.
"I don't want your liquor, Satyr," I said; "but you may sit down and talk to me if you want to."
"Don't want good liquor?" he repeated, batting his lids, and lowering the bottle as though puzzled beyond understanding.
"Not now; not often. Sometimes I do. But what sort of stuff is that?"
I had just noticed the contents of the bottle was clear.
"White lightnin'," he replied, carefully stowing it away in a pocket I could not see.
I knew then. It was moonshine whiskey.
Suddenly his cadaverousness struck me afresh.
"Have you had supper—or dinner—or breakfast?" I demanded, with such vim that he answered hurriedly:
"Naw; neither; nothin'."
The grammar was bad, but the meaning was good.
"Then let's eat—you and I—and become acquainted."
I did not tell him my supper was over, though this bit of tact was doubtless unnecessary. Neither did I invite him indoors. While it is true I had really warmed to his outcast condition, the sentiment did not embrace the hospitality of my roof. I felt a desire to cultivate him, but the acquaintance must grow in the open.
He grinned appreciatively at my suggestion, and I saw him lick his lips surreptitiously, after the manner of a starved animal which smells food.
"Get busy about a fire, and I'll find the grub," I continued, not waiting for the assent which I knew he would give.
With that I went in the house, took from my larder some bacon, eggs, bread and coffee, all of which, with a skillet, I carried out. Quickly as I had moved, I found the Satyr's fire ablaze when I returned. This he had made from dry leaves and sticks which I had already scraped into a pile from off my garden plot.
As host, I prepared the meal. While it was cooking, my strange guest sat just across from me in a most uncouth attitude. His shoulders and a portion of his back rested against a stump; the small of his back he sat upon. His long, spider legs were flexed in such a manner that his sharp knees shot up into the air above his head. He had placed his dust colored hat upon the ground, and I could see pale, lifeless strands of hair waving in the early night breeze on top of his partly bald head. The oilcloth bundle lay across his stomach. Neither spoke during the few minutes in which the eggs, meat and coffee were being prepared. One of his claw-like hands lay upon the bundle. Once I saw his other hand stray rather aimlessly under his coat, but it brought nothing out when withdrawn.
"Go to it!" I said, cheerily, when all was done, shoving the skillet toward him, and rising to find a cup for his coffee.
When I came back it was to see him with the skillet between his knees, devouring its contents with the voracity of a starved wolf. He was using a stick and his fingers to convey the hot food to his mouth, as I had forgotten to provide either knife or spoon. I watched him in amazement, for he bolted the bacon and eggs as a dog might. It was very plain he was badly in need of nourishment.
"Good, Satyr?" I asked, squatting down and pouring out a running-over cupful of steaming coffee.
He tried to reply, but the words were unintelligible because of the fullness of his mouth. So I wisely made no further effort at conversation until the skillet was clean—literally clean—for the hungry man took chunks of bread and sopped and swabbed until the black iron glowed spotless. Three cups of strong coffee he drank, three big cups; then, because, I suppose, there was nothing left, he drew his ragged sleeve across his mouth, sighed and voiced his thanks.
"Hell 'n' blazes!"
It meant more, from him, than the most polished bit of rhetoric from a scholar.
"Glad you liked it," I said. "Do you smoke?"
For reply, he began to search his garments silently, and directly produced a cob pipe, as remarkable in appearance as its owner. To begin with, it was made from a mammoth corncob. I verily believe it was two inches in diameter. Around its middle was a dark band, where the nicotine had soaked through. The reed stem was so short that it brought the pipe almost against the smoker's lips. He helped himself to the twist of tobacco I offered him, dexterously flipped out a red coal from the edge of the fire with a stick, then deliberately picked the live coal up between finger and thumb and laid it on top of the pipe. I had heard of this feat, but had never believed it true.
Now my guest sat Turk fashion, contentedly puffing away, so I followed his example on my side the fire, after tossing on a few more sticks to keep the blaze going. The red embers would have sufficed for heat, the night being warm, but I wanted to see more of this queer being. Above all, I wanted to see his eyes. This I could not do, because the firelight flickered, smoke arose from the burning sticks, and the man had bushy brows.
For several minutes there was no sound but the gentle crackling of wood-fiber, or the occasional sizzling of a little jet of steam escaping from its tiny prison. Then I heard a question which almost startled me.
"Whut mought a satyr be, no-how?"
I laughed low, and pressed the spewed-up ashes down into my pipe.
"A satyr?" I repeated, thinking swiftly, for really I did not want to cause affront. "Oh! A satyr is a fellow who runs loose in the woods. That's you, isn't it?"
He was looking in the fire, and presently he began to nod.
"I reck'n it air; yes, I reck'n it air."
"But you've another name," I went on; "what is that?"
"Jeff Angel."
"That doesn't suit," I made bold to answer. "Satyr is much nicer than Angel. Where do you live, pray?"
"Anywhur; nowhur. Jis' use 'roun' th' country, eat'n' 'n' sleep'n' fust one place 'n' 'nother."
Feeling cramped, I now reclined upon my elbow with my head away from the fire. In this position my companion was invisible.
"Why did you come here to-night?" I resumed, pulling leisurely on my briar-root, and noting idly that the stars had become much thicker.
"I's goin' to sleep in th' shack," was the prompt reply. "Lots 'n' lots o' times I've slep' thur."
"And now I've rooted you out. I'm sorry."
"'Tain't wuth worryin' 'bout. I'll go on to th' P'int d'reckly."
I twisted my head in his direction with a swift movement.
"The Point?... Lizard Point?"
"Lizard P'int."
He evinced no surprise that I knew the name.
"Who do you know there?" I demanded.
"All on 'em. Granny, Granf'er, Lessie. They's my folks."
So her name was Lessie.
"Your folks! What do you mean?"
"Granny's my aunt."
That would make the Dryad and the Satyr cousins! Heavens! Could this be true? I sank back on my elbow, and slowly dragged the pipe stem over my lower lip into my mouth. Somehow I did not relish this news.
"Then you are some sort of cousin to Lessie," I murmured, confusedly, and I doubt if he heard. At least, he did not reply, and I lay and looked at the sky and the somber bulk of the forest below, pondering this strange news which I could not comprehend. Was it possible that bright creature's blood could flow in the veins of this derelict? The idea did not suit me, and yet I had no reason to doubt it. My interest flagged; I no longer felt the inclination to question, and a long silence fell. I could not order my guest away, especially after he had broken my bread, but I would not be sorry when he went. The minutes passed; the fire sank low. My pipe burned out: I could feel it cooling under my hand. A drowsiness stole over me. I must have been on the borderland of sleep when I became dreamily conscious of a strange, pervading harmony. Ethereal echoes seemed to wake within my brain, and the hushed night was suddenly tuned for a fairies' dance.
In stupefied amazement I swung my head around, and my mouth fell ajar and my brows knit when I saw from whence these heavenly strains proceeded. Jeff Angel was back against the stump. His knees were sticking up like the broken frame of a bicycle, and he had a violin under his chin. The goat-tuft was spread thinly out over the tail of the instrument. His peaked slouch hat was a dirt-colored cone on the ground at his side, and by it lay a crumpled piece of oilcloth. His eyes were closed, and there was an expression of deep peace upon his homely countenance. His long, big-knuckled, claw-like fingers moved over the strings with the apparent aimlessness of a daddy-long-legs in its perambulations, and they thrilled to the caress of his frayed bow as the lips of a chaste lover to the lips of his beloved. I did not speak, nor move, for I was dumfounded, and the night had been transformed into an elfin carnival of dulcet sounds. My imagination was aroused, and I could almost see nymphs and naiads uprising from the dense growth all around, crooning as they came of woodland delights, and chanting the stories the low wind told them when the world was asleep. The quiet ravine was peopled with a ghostly company which made sad, eerie, but entrancingly sweet music, such as might have been heard in heaven when the morning stars sang together. The notes were liquid, living, colorful. Sometimes there were brief silences between them, which were filled with palpitating echoes. Suddenly a trembling flood of impassioned sound rushed forth on swallow wings into the star-filled night, and I sat up with a gasp.
"Jeff Angel!"
A downward crash of the bow which set all the strings to jangling horribly; then silence.
The man was abashed, confused, for he hastily reached for the cloth bag and thrust both violin and bow therein. He spoke as he fumbled nervously at the drawstring.
"I didn't know you'd keer!" he said, contritely.
He had misinterpreted my exclamation.
"Care? Care!" I burst forth, leaning forward with my palms on the ground. "I never heard such music in all my life, and I have heard men play who receive a thousand dollars a night! Where did you get it?... How do you do it?"
The satyr secured his worn coat across his chest with one button, then bent toward me and replied earnestly.
"I guess it's bornd with me. I've never ben no 'count frum a kid. Wuzn't wuth shucks—never. Jis' wouldn't work—I couldn't. They's no work in me. When they tried to make me I'd run off. I'd run fur off in th' woods 'n' lay 'roun' all day, a-lis'n'n'. I heerd thin's." He stretched out one gaunt arm and waved it with an uncertain, twisty motion. "I heerd thin's. More 'n' th' birds a-cheepin' 'n' a-twitt'r'n' 'n' th' squir'ls a-barkin' 'n' a-yappin' 'n' th' bees a-junin' in th' flowers. They's other thin's—lots o' thin's I heerd. Th' crick's got a song—it's sich a song—'bout th' purties' 't is' I reck'n, 'cus it's changeabler. 'N' they ain't no en' to th' chune th' win' sings. Sometimes it's lazy 'n' sleepy, 'n' yo' wan' to duck yo' head 'n' snooze, 'n' ag'n it's pow'ful strong 'n' loud 'n' almos' skeers yo' with its shoutin'. 'N' they's other thin's—thin's I can't tell yo' 'bout 'cus I don't know whut they air—but I hears 'em. I c'n jis' shet my eyes any day out in th' deep woods whur they ain't nothin' but woods, 'n' fus' thin' I know I'm a-floatin' on a cloud with music ever-whurs. When I's a kid I went hongry fur some 'n' to play on, so one day I foun' me a big reed, 'n' I made me a w'is'le with holes in it. I jes' mus' play."
He rose to his feet, put his pipe away without knocking the ashes out, and carefully tucked his oilcloth bundle under his arm.
"Pow'ful good supper, 'n' I wuz hongry right! 'Blige' to yo', sho. Good-by!"
He swung around and started across the plateau.
I leaped up quickly.
"Come back again soon, Satyr!" I called. "A supper any time for ten minutes fiddling!"
He waved his hand, but made no reply.
A few moments later, from down the road, growing fainter and fainter, I again heard that fantastic rhyme:
"Rabbit in th' log,
Ain't got no rabbit dog."