by R. L. Naquin
He shrugged. “Beats me. But it’s for humans. She’s half dryad, half satyr. Who knows what they eat?”
I stared at the content, tiny green face. Her chubby hands clutched at the bottle, holding it with me. “She seems okay with it.”
Ten minutes later, the diaper was soaked and she was wailing again.
I changed her all by myself this time, taking pride in my accomplishment. The crying didn’t stop.
“What’s wrong with her? What else can she want?” I paced back and forth, patting her back and praying she’d fall asleep.
Phil took her from me and walked through the house, rocking and humming. After an hour, Maurice took over and sang to her. No change. I wasn’t sure if my hearing or my mind would snap first. It was hard to think. Mind-numbing, heartbreaking shrieks interrupted every thought I tried to complete. One full thought did make it through eventually: After this, I’m never having kids.
Maurice’s face was pinched in desperation. “Zoey, I can’t take much more of this. Maybe Aggie knows what to do. Or we could call Andrew. Somebody we know must be able to figure this out. The three of us are failing miserably.”
“How can anybody know what an infant is thinking? She can’t talk, and it’s not like any of us are psychic.” I stopped, stunned at my own stupidity. No, I couldn’t read her mind. But I was an empath. I could do the next best thing.
“Here. Let me try something.” I took her from Maurice and held her close against my body, whispering nonsense words of comfort in her ear. Focusing inward, I envisioned my protective walls and opened up a window to let the little one in.
Hunger.
That was it? She was still hungry?
“Maurice, she’s just hungry. Let’s try another bottle.” I paced and rocked while he got it ready. The minute the nipple went into her mouth, my ears rang from the silence. She guzzled the formula down in no time, let out a window-shaking belch and smiled.
Ten minutes later, she was soaked through and wailing again. Hunger came off her in waves and tightened my own stomach.
“This isn’t working,” I said, taping the new diaper shut. “It’s going right through her. She needs something else.”
“I’m on it.” Maurice ran out the back door in the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a bucket. He was supernaturally fast. Either that, or he had the ability to translocate. I still wasn’t sure. “Goat’s milk. Maybe the half-satyr part of her needs that.”
“Where did you get…?” I stopped. “Never mind.” We’d discussed not stealing from my neighbors before, but this wasn’t a good time to argue. If baby needed goat milk, she would have goat milk, no matter where Maurice got it. Maybe later I’d have time to wonder which of my neighbors raised goats.
We tried again. She seemed to like the goat milk, but ten minutes later she needed another change and was back to being hungry.
“What the hell are we missing?” I was desperate for an answer, and the baby, while still crying, was getting quieter. Her dark green hair lay plastered to her head and looked wilted. Her skin felt waxy. We’d spent most of the night feeding her, but the emotions coming through my shield were clear. She was starving in the most literal sense. We had to think of something soon.
We toyed with the idea of adding plant food to the milk, but that seemed like a dangerous experiment. I finally caved and called my friend Andrew, since he’s an herbalist. He didn’t have any ideas we hadn’t already tried. If we didn’t find a solution by morning, I would take the little one over to Aggie the Hag’s house and see if she could drop a little knowledge on us. The woman was almost one hundred years old, and—I think—a witch. She had to know something useful.
The baby slept for a little while, having worn herself out, but in the wee hours of the morning, she awoke, whimpering and miserable. We tried again, and the milk went through her without giving any sustenance.
When the sun came up, we were all worn out, snappish, and still without ideas. I peered out the window and watched the first rays of light sparkle off the dew on my lawn. My arms were leaden with the listless, weakening bundle I carried. What does grass eat? How do you feed a tree?
If I’d had a free arm, I’d have smacked myself in the head.
“Maurice,” I said, my voice quiet. “Can you get me another bottle, please?”
He nodded. “Milk? Formula? What do you want to try?”
I bit my lip. “I think goat milk is probably good for her satyr side, but cut it with half water.”
He shrugged and went to the kitchen.
Phil’s brow furrowed in thought, and he looked from me to the window and back again. His eyes cleared in understanding and he nodded. “Softball practice.”
I smiled. “Exactly.”
Maurice came out with a warm bottle. “You look like you have an idea.”
I winked at him, sure I’d found the solution, and stepped outside. In the middle of my yard, where the morning light was most direct, I plopped in the grass and offered the bottle to the tired baby.
Seeing the change in her face was like watching a nature documentary. Her sallow cheeks plumped up first, and a bright, healthy green replaced the waxy dullness. She closed her eyes while she sucked, and a contented gurgle came from her throat. Halfway through the bottle, her lank hair puffed like green milkweed, and tiny buds formed in knots. By the time the milk ran out, the buds in her hair had opened into miniature pink flowers that wreathed her head in a halo of sweet perfume. She fell asleep, milk dribbling from the corner of her mouth.
Maurice and Phil knelt beside me, watching the transformation.
“What did you do?” Maurice asked.
“Photosynthesis,” I said, grinning. “Biology 101.”
~*~
Having unlocked the mysterious secrets to the care and feeding of a baby tree-satyr, I turned my attention to figuring out a long-term solution. Maurice said to start with the mother, so that’s what I did.
There was one person in my little family who probably knew a lot more than he wanted to share about the goings-on in the woods near my house. But he was sure as hell going to, whether he liked it or not.
I walked through the trees, clomping around and shuffling leaves. Finding a skunk-ape is close to impossible, but I didn’t have to seek him out—he would find me. I didn’t really need to make so much noise. Iris always knew when I was nearby, but I was cranky from lack of sleep, and I wanted him to know I meant business.
I made my way deeper into the woods and leaned against the trunk of a eucalyptus, waiting. A minute or so later, he stepped out of the shadows, his hairy face tense.
“Hey, Iris,” I said. “Anything you need to tell me?”
He scuffed a foot in the dirt and looked away. He grunted.
“You’ve been awfully scarce. Seen anybody new around? Maybe somebody with a delivery?”
He made a guttural wheezing sound from the back of his throat and picked at a twig stuck in his arm fur. He glanced up at me.
I gave him the stink-eye.
Iris chuffed out a lungful of air, and his shoulders sagged. His hand dropped and gave me a small, nearly imperceptible motion to follow. He turned away, slogging through the forest like I’d ordered him to the gallows.
I shook my head and stifled a smile. So dramatic.
We wove through the trees in a roundabout, circular pattern. At one point, I could see Aggie’s cottage, but I didn’t see my friend outside, and we didn’t stop. The hike seemed to take forever, which was ridiculous, since the strip of woods bordering my house wasn’t that big. Iris finally came to a stop in a small clearing on the other side of Aggie’s house.
He folded his arms over his chest and grunted. I scanned the clearing and didn’t see anyone. I gave Iris a questioning look, and he plopped down among the dried leaves in a furry hump.
No help there.
I stood still and listened to the wind in the trees. A faint humming carried across the clearing, and I shifted my gaze to find the source
. I’d missed the woman at first because she blended with the foliage around her.
She was tall and thin, with long, brittle hair that resembled dreadlocks with bits of twigs and leaves woven through, as if they’d grown there. She had a pointed nose and rough, brown-gray skin. Her fingers plucked at a bush, pruning out the dead material. I thought she hadn’t noticed me, but she looked up, scowled, and went back to what she was doing.
So that’s how she was going to play it. I hated being ignored.
I stepped toward her. “Excuse me, ma’am.” My policy had always been to lead with a polite greeting wherever possible. Sarcasm and accusations could come later. “I’m sorry to bother you, but have you lost a baby?”
The gnarled old woman stood up straight and glared at Iris. “Traitor,” she said. Her voice echoed with a shushing sound like wind caught in branches.
Iris snorted and hung his head between his knees.
I gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then took another step toward the woman. “So, the baby is yours.”
She pushed her arm in my direction as if shoving me away, then turned her back. Stooping over, she ran her palms over the next bush, seeking out dead leaves and branches. “No, she’s not mine. She’s your problem now.”
“If she’s not yours, I really need to know where she came from before I can figure out what to do with her.” Feeling daring, I took another few steps across the clearing.
She eyed me over her shoulder and spat on the ground. A clump of grass grew up from the damp spot. “Ask the satyrs. Maybe they can explain how my sweet girl was seduced by such filth. I didn’t raise her to throw her life away on one of their kind.” She grunted and returned to her pruning.
Refusing to budge, I watched her for a few minutes before she straightened up again and faced me, shaking her skinny fist in a menacing gesture. “Get out of my woods, you nosy busybody.”
I ignored her theatrics. “So, the baby is your granddaughter?”
The woman drew in her breath with a hiss. “That child is nothing to me. It’s a monstrosity.”
I clenched my hands and tried to keep my voice steady. “She’s a baby. And the circumstances of her conception aren’t her fault. You could’ve at least left a damn note in the basket. She nearly starved while we figured out how to feed her.”
The woman sniffed and flicked her nose with a pointy finger. “Not my problem.” She walked away into the trees without another look. Her odd, whispery voice whistled from the darkness. “Don’t even think about bringing her back here. I’ll let the swamp bogeys have at her.”
I debated following the miserable bitch, but I was afraid I might punch her in the throat. My hands shook, and my stomach clenched in a knot. It was probably too late, but I opened up the window in my emotional barricade and reached out in the direction she’d disappeared.
She’d left a faint trail of emotions—anger, disgust, irritation—but they didn’t tell me anything useful. Nothing I could use to change her mind or force her to help me.
I turned to make my way back across the clearing while I sealed my feelings-bubble again.
Longing, sorrow, love.
I swung around to face the direction the old dryad had gone. No, those feelings hadn’t originated with her. Before I’d finished blocking myself off, someone else had come through.
Spinning around, I scanned the woods. Feet shuffled to my left. I turned my head in time to catch the brush swallow up a head of long, silky, green hair. I tried to follow, but there was no path, and the brush wouldn’t yield for me.
“Dammit.”
Iris appeared next to me and poked at the bushes. He shrugged.
“Your baby is safe,” I called into the dense foliage. I didn’t know if she could hear me, but I hoped I could comfort her a little. “We’ll work this out. I promise.”
A gust of wind blew through the trees and lifted my hair in a gentle caress. I was pretty sure she’d heard me.
~*~
Back at the house, Maurice was irate.
“No. Absolutely not, Zoey. The old bitch may be dead wrong about our little princess, but she’s right about the satyrs. You can’t go up there.”
He paced the carpet in the living room, jiggling the baby in a way that bordered on shaking. Phil and I exchanged a concerned look, and the gargoyle eased the little one out of the closet monster’s arms.
“Maurice, I’ve got to find out what happened.”
“It was probably a gang rape. You don’t understand. Satyrs are horny assholes.”
“I got the impression from Granny Treeface that Mama wasn’t an unwilling participant. Besides, I can handle horny assholes.” I smiled in an attempt to reassure him. “I’ve dated.”
He stopped and frowned at me. “This is not a joke, Zo. Seriously. Iris can’t exactly hop in that tiny car of yours and ride up there with you. You’re not going.”
I toyed with the “you’re not the boss of me” argument, but decided he wasn’t in the mood for more humor. “Fine. You come with me, then.”
He sputtered and blustered before finding real words. “You can’t be serious.”
I shrugged. “I’m going to visit those satyrs. If you want to escort me, you’re more than welcome to ride along.”
~*~
I decided to wait until the next day to make the trek up the mountain. None of us had slept, and I wanted to be on my toes when I faced down a herd of perverted goat-men.
I figured once the sun went down, we’d need to be better prepared for night feedings, so I scrounged in the garage and found a UV lamp I’d used in a college botany project involving a bladderwort and a flytrap.
It wasn’t necessary. We fed her in the dying light of the sunset, and as the sun disappeared, the tiny flowers in her hair closed up tight, she shut her eyes and slept until morning.
Best baby ever.
I debated whether to take her with me to visit the satyrs. They might demand proof of my claims, and she was adorable. How could the father resist her? In the end, the lack of a car seat or baby carrier decided the matter. I couldn’t exactly have Maurice crouched in the back holding her and trying to avoid being seen at the same time. It was a safety issue for him as well as for her.
Maurice had it tough enough already, with his tall, skinny frame, having to curl up in the barely accessible backseat of my VW Bug. Once we got through Bolinas, which didn’t have much traffic anyway, he didn’t have to scrunch so much. His knees still stuck up around his ears, and he made miserable, put-upon faces at me in the rearview mirror.
“When are you going to get a real car?” He sighed and readjusted himself across the seats in an attempt at spreading out. His head tilted to the side to avoid hitting the roof.
“I like my little car.”
“It’s not practical.”
“It was plenty practical when I lived alone. I have a long commute, and gas isn’t cheap.”
He grumbled to himself the rest of the way. Maybe I needed to rethink the Bug. This probably wouldn’t be the last time someone enormous would have to accompany me somewhere. I had a family to think about now. One filled with skunk-apes and closet monsters, fairies and brownies. And visiting gargoyles. Tinted windows and more space would make this much easier.
I shivered at the thought of trading in my beloved Bug for a minivan.
Halfway up Mount Tamalpais, Maurice directed me to a side road I would have missed without him. It wound around to the northern face and up into the thick forest. At the dead end, we abandoned ship and hiked the rest of the way.
My purple Doc Martens crunched on pine needles, and I breathed in the scent of clean air and earth. Lagging behind, Maurice continued to argue.
“You know, there’s one other option.” He gave me a hopeful look. “We could keep her. I could clean out the junk room and make it into a nursery. This could all be settled. I’ll make a quiche for dinner to celebrate. A nice salad. A bottle of wine. Come on, Zoey. I’ll race you back to the car.”
I tugged on his shirt sleeve to get him to walk faster. “How would you feel if she were your baby and nobody told you about her?”
“Satyrs don’t care, Zo. You don’t understand. They’re like animals.”
“Most animals don’t abandon their young. That’s more of a human trait.”
He shrugged. “Okay. Then let me rephrase. Satyrs don’t care. They’re like humans.”
I was working on a rebuttal, but we’d reached the clearing. Any words I had in my mouth slid down my throat and landed in my stomach with a thunk.
Maurice had warned me—more than once. But nothing he’d told me had given me a true idea of what lay before me now. Horned goat-men populated the clearing, reclining, dancing, standing still, leaning against trees.
Every last one of them sported an enormous erection. And every last one of them was doing something with it.
It wasn’t exactly pornographic. They weren’t engaged in any monkey spanking or meat beating. What they were doing can only be described as party tricks. Juggling, balancing objects, playing penile Hacky-sack with pinecones. It was the most bizarre and uncomfortable thing I’d ever seen.
I wanted to avert my eyes, but there was nowhere to look without seeing something I couldn’t un-see. I took a step back, hoping to avoid notice.
My voice came out as a dry whisper. “Maybe you were right, Maurice. We weren’t doing anything with that back bedroom anyway.”
At least ten pairs of eyes locked on me as I tried to retreat. Pine cones, leaves and pebbles fell to the ground from their precarious, engorged perches.
The satyrs drifted toward us, their expressions dreamy. We had about fifteen seconds to make a choice. We could either make a run for it, or I could stand my ground and do what I’d come to do.
I’ve never been a runner.
I took a step into the clearing. “In for a penny…” I nudged Maurice with my elbow. “Cover me. I’m going in.”
Maurice groaned and followed.
One satyr, hairier and taller than the rest, broke from the looming pack and clomped toward me. His horns were impressive black spirals growing back from his forehead and curing around his ears. “Well, hello there, pretty lady.” He looked me up and down, waggling his eyebrows.