Wood Songs

Wood Songs

by Amari Snyder

Martin H. Johnson kept his shirt clean, his pants cleaner and his teeth almost as polished as his shoes. His hair was always short and neat, his face clean shaven, and his mahogany skin smooth and moisturized. He was a lawyer, and made good money, though for all his wealth I could not say if he had ever once smiled or bothered to laugh. 

It was Sunday. Martin was strolling through Central Park. As to his purpose, I could not say; he had nowhere in particular to go, it being his weekly “day off”, and yet he certainly didn’t seem to be taking in the scenery or enjoying himself. 

Perhaps it was just for some well needed exercise. 

His walk had taken him to the lower east side. The police in that quadrant had done a decent job of keeping the homeless and the vagrant out of the park, and thus Martin was somewhat disturbed when, amongst the winding trails, he came across a beggar-woman. She sat by the grassy shore of a fish pond, under the wide arms of an old oak tree. The woman wore a beanie and a long, tattered, dusty green jacket- something which Martin found odd, given that it was a late spring day and a fairly warm one at that. He, for once, averted his eyes to the side. Martin had money, to be sure, but not for the likes of her.

Yet the woman paid him no mind. His path took him closer to where she sat, but her eyes were for the minnows swimming in the pond, and the ducks as they swam about on its surface, quacking those ancient waterfowl-hymns which praise warm sun and cool water. As Martin passed, the woman took out a little wooden flute from one of the many pockets in her coat and began to play. Martin slowed his pace, and then slowed it some more, and then stood stiller than stone. 

Have you ever heard a satyr play? Probably not, as not many yet still walk the remote places of this earth. Martin, of course, hadn’t heard one either. Yet, as even a school-child should know, satyr-music is quite unlike our own. There is an essential, inimitable quality to the satyr-song that is at once wild and bestial and yet irresistably seductive; it is as intoxicating to the soul as wine is to the senses. It is, indeed, the subtle melodies of mountain springs leaping joyfully through rocky-paths to meet the embrace of the ocean, of oak leaves swaying with pleasure in the wind’s violent caress, and of the wolf, howling, frenzied with the taste of fresh blood in its muzzle. It is the sweet, red ambrosia of the Old Ones, older than old and darker than dark, transfigured into sound and set to the rhythm of the wood’s beating heart. It is beyond the skill of any human hand or voice to master.

Indeed, Martin was not simply stiller than stone, he was a stone, a great one, a rocky hill in some far off-place with moss growing in its crevices and a grove of pines on its peak for a pointed crown.

Then, in a flash, he wasn’t. He wasn’t ready for all that, all that feeling, and so he cut and ran, looking somewhat ridiculous, to the subway and, shuddering, holding himself tight as to keep all those feelings in, rode it home. 

He was ready, behind the relative safety of his walls, for the music to dissipate and to liberate him from its grasp- but it would not. Its echo wrapped itself like a strangling vine around his thoughts and his mind, and he could not sleep or eat or do anything else but hear that haunting melody reverberate again and again through his restless consciousness. 

The next day he spent the morning by his window, staring into nothing and feeling as if grass was sprouting from his skin and his skin was turning into tree bark. There being nothing else to do, he resigned himself to the pull that was tugging on his heart and returned to the park.

There he found the lady, once again, by the fish pond. She sat where she had been the day before, and wore the same clothes, but he did not spy her flute in her hands. 

This time Martin took a real look at her. She had olive-brown skin, kissed somewhat by the sun, and her long, curly hair fell in tangles to her waist. Her nose was short and turned up ever so slightly at the tip. Her eyes were a burning green that flickered like emerald flame, and her face was as fierce and as lovely as the fire which burns above all in the firmament. Yet Martin, who had never before seen any of the satyr-folk (if he was even aware of their existence), noticed not the signs.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Resting, before I make my way home.”

“Where is your home?”

She pointed past him, eastward, though what that could mean Martin had no idea. “When are you leaving?” 

“Soon.”

Martin knelt down so that he was eye level with the woman. “I know, I know this is a strange thing to ask, but, before you go, could you play me that tune again, the one on your flute from yesterday? Do you remember? You played it as I passed by in the morning. I have simply got to hear it!”

“Yes, I remember.”  

Martin smiled wildly. “Then can you play it?”

“No. Not here.” 

“What? Why not? I can pay you- I will pay whatever you want!”

“I do not need money.”

“Then what do you need?!”

The woman was silent for a moment, thinking. Then she said, simply and matter of factly: “Wine. Good wine. And I can play here no more. Too many ears to hear my melody, too few of which know how to handle the rhythms of the earth. I cannot have many more foolish people in my train; I like my solitude.”

 “That is no problem! I have time and I have money; where do you want me to take you?”

“By the sea, along a rocky shore where no other human ear may listen. There I will play for you. Don’t forget the wine.”

Martin thought for a moment. “I can get a car, and I can take us to a beach where we will be alone, but…well,” he paused and asked, with some wonder, “I am a stranger, and…aren’t you afraid?”

At this the woman smiled and leaned close to him; he could smell the warm scent of her honeysuckle breath upon his face. Softy, she said, “With one hand, I could crush your head like an acorn in the fall. Are you certain you are not afraid, Martin the Dead Man?”

Martin was afraid, afraid of what was happening to him and of the influence of this strange woman upon his apparently enfeebled mental state, but the music of the flute had been etched into his soul by the lips of the satyress, and he had no choice in the matter, as she herself must have known. His employer began to call, since it was a Monday and he had skipped work, but he did not answer his phone. He went straight instead to the car rental place, and rented a car, and then went to the market and bought some of the best wine he could afford. He also brought bread and cheese and fruit and water, for he did not know how long he would be at the beach, and though his new companion asked not for food, he couldn’t imagine her not needing it. At the very least, he would be hungry.

With a few phone calls he rented a lodge in a remote piece of land in the countryside, and, after all had been taken care of, returned to their agreed upon meeting spot in the park just a few hours later. The satyress was waiting for him. His employer called again, and again he did not answer.

They drove together in silence, for Martin felt no chatter or music from his phone or from the vehicle’s radio would soothe the desire in his soul, and his companion made no sound. She looked only at the world passing by through the windows, and said nothing. 

After many hours they arrived at the lodge. Martin was tired, and informed his guest that he would retire inside to sleep. The satyress smiled, “As for me, mister-dead-man-walking, I will sleep under the stars. If I am not here in the morning, do not fret- by dusk I will return.”

Her words were true. All day long Martin sat on the porch by the beach, listening to the sound of the waves crashing into the shore and the cry of seagulls overhead. Behind him, the long arms of trees swayed in the wind. They were far away from any other human habitation, and there was only dark forest around for miles. He supposed his boss must have alerted his emergency contacts, because his sister and mother began to call. He did not answer; they would not understand. Or maybe they would, but he did not have the words to explain it. All his thoughts were of strange and subtle melodies working their way through his mind. He nibbled his bread and cheese, drank some of his water and his wine, and waited.

His guest returned at dusk, striding along the rocky shore, and now, at last, the truth of her nature was revealed to him- her long jacket and hat had been exchanged for a simple pelt which wrapped around her curving waist and fell to her knees. Her ears were pointed at the tips like those of an animal, and poking out from a hole in her pelt twitched a short, hairy, horse-like tail. In one of her olive-brown hands she grasped her wooden flute.*

* You may have been imagining a goat’s legs and horns- you were thinking of a faun. It is not your fault, our educational system has been quite weak in that regard as of late. The faun is a Roman interpretation, but the satyr was known originally in their homeland of Greece, before their diaspora spread, multiplied and then, with the coming of industrialization, dwindled.

Beyond her tail, beyond her ears and beyond her brilliant green eyes, a strange quality seemed to have entered into her being now that she was in her natural element. It was as if the wood itself lended her its vitality, and an unmistakable aura of power and of life glowed from beneath her skin. 

Martin rose. Words failed him before this strange thing whom he had thought was a mere woman of human birth, now beautiful and yet frightening, familiar and yet alien- flickering firelight striding upon two legs. “Wine,” she said.

Martin went and handed her a bottle. She took a long drink, and then she smiled, and then let out a terrible screech like the yowl of a thousand wildcats. The sound crept up his skin like a cold wind and the hairs on his back rose up with him. He almost ran, but immediately she put her lips to the flute and began to play.

How long did Martin stay upon the beach and listen to the melodies of the satyress? He could not say. Thought left him, his heart was on fire. He was tilting his head back and howling and beating on his chest. He was stripping off his clothes and dancing naked under the bright stars of the moonless sky. He was growling and grunting and roaring as he stomped his feet on the rocky shore. And the satyress continued to play, pausing only to drink the wine which Martin had brought, until the sun rose and the flute parted from her lips.

“Where are you going?” Martin asked, breathless and half-intoxicated.

“To hunt in the wood,” she replied. “Eat and rest, and bring more wine. I will return tonight.”

And so it was as time passed ever forward; during the days Martin rested, or went and brought provisions and wine, and at sometime or other in the night the satyress would come, and play her flute, and the chambers of Martin’s heart, which had been closed for so many years, were broken open and he danced like a wild, rhythmic beast upon the shore to the songs of forests and pine needles and high mountain peaks and the unfathomable depths of the sea. He ceased to shave, or to cut his hair, and it grew wild upon his head and his face and people in town stopped to wonder at this savage-seeming creature among them, but he paid attention to them not, for the ceaseless murmuring of the dark earth drowned out their whispers.

His friends and family would call, at first many times a day, and then once a day, then a few times a week and then suddenly, not at all. He never answered. Words came less freely to him now; his mind was preoccupied with other things. At most he texted: “Am fine. Will talk later.”

A week passed, and then another, and then two more. On the last night of the fourth week, the satyress spoke to him and said: “You who have listened to my songs, know that I may not stay here. You will have to let me go.”

Tears welled up in Martin’s eyes, for he had not known he was in love until then. “I know,” he said. The woman smiled, and once more Martin noticed how her eyes burned like emerald fire. Then she kissed him, and her lips, too, were like fire, scented with honeysuckle and lilac and wild roses, and sweeter than anything he had ever tasted. They made love amongst the wild grasses near the shore, and he fell asleep among arms that could have crushed him but instead caressed his resting head, and when he arose in the morning she was gone.

~

He sat on the beach a long time, watching the waves go in and out. Then he called his mother.

“Where the hell have you been? We’ve been so worried.”

“I know. I’m sorry mom. I love you.”

“I- you- what? I love you too, I, I-”

“It’s been a long time since I said it. Too long. Something has changed. Something has happened, mom.”

“What, what the hell has happened? What’s going on? Tell me, Martin!”

“I can’t explain it all right now, I don’t know how to ever explain it, actually, somehow no matter how hard I try the words just aren’t right.” He sighed. “I love you, but I’m okay, mom, I really am. I needed…I needed a break, I think. I just need you to know that whatever happens, I love you and that I’ll be okay.”

“Well, will you come home soon? You’re being so cryptic it’s freaking me out.”

“I’ll try, look, I gotta go now, but I’ll call you back later, alright?”

There was a pause on the other line. His mother’s voice began to quiver; he could tell she was holding back tears. “You disappeared from work, we got calls from your job, we called you and you wouldn’t answer. It was like you vanished. We had know idea where you were. It was scary Martin, you understand? We didn’t know what was happening, if tomorrow would be your last text, if those two or three words were the last we would ever hear from you, if-'' she paused, “I know you were successful, but you weren’t happy. But I’m here for you, understand? You don’t have to keep shutting me out. You’re not going to disappear again, right? Martin, I was so scared. Promise me you won’t disappear, promise me, promise me you’ll call me back, and that you’ll do it soon, and that we’ll talk again.”

“Okay mom, I promise. I love you.”  

They said their goodbyes, and he hung up the phone. Then he ran his fingers through the tangled knots of his hair, and called his sister. The conversation went much the same. 

For the rest of the day Martin sat on the beach. The waves came in and out. The gulls cried. Night fell. It was the night after the new moon, and the sky was bright with stars. The satyress did not return. Yet the earth, the earth continued to murmur.

He sat up, and walked over to his car. All around him, he knew, were many miles of road upon which on either side there was nothing but forest. He got into his car, put the key into the ignition, and drove.