T |
he town of Readimina was so far from anything, and so small at that, that it had not seen any form of conflict, except a pig getting loose and trampling a neighbor’s garden, in over a century. The residents were really quite happy and proud of this fact.
Between this town and the large, dormant volcano at the center of the island was a dense forest that no one had bothered to thoroughly explore. They had no need to, and so the residents of Readimina went about their quiet lives blissfully unaware of what might be lurking among the trees in the shadow of the mountain.
Yet, there was one resident of the little town that did not quite fit in. I alone would study and wonder, and dream of beyond. But perhaps out of fear, or something else, I never ventured from the security of the town, either. No one in the town was really sure what brought someone like me to such a boring area, but I had my reasons.
On that day, like many that had come before, I sat in the local tavern and enjoyed the buttertap liquor, unique to the island. My daily appearance was always a shock to the locals, though I had lived there for nearly twenty-four years. Usually I was able to ignore the staring, and impertinent questions, but not when one interrupted my daily meditation in the pub.
“So, lady, d'you play the pan flute?” the half-drunk beatnik enquired, his face flushed, very unaware of the insult that had just passed his lips. I nearly crushed the warm glass of buttertap that I was holding, and that would indeed have been tragic, for buttertap is quite possibly the most divine liquid that has ever met my lips. Smooth, milky and sweet, it hides effectively the essence of alcohol contained within, while warming the body and numbing the mind.
I really should not have been so upset. It had been a few months since the last annoying interruption to my routine, making it long overdue. It might have been the drink, or it might have been pent-up frustration, but the question enraged me much more than it should have.
“Satyrs play pan flutes, young fool.” I climbed out of the wooden armchair I had been curled in, setting my glass on the table in front of it. Though I was easily a head shorter than him, I was the one doing the intimidating. “I am a faun! A genius of the woodland, not some traveling half-blood bard! If you mortals don’t get that through your heads soon…” I felt more amusement than anger when the boy’s face turned horrified. I raised my hands, palms facing each other, and let some simple