Kelly Binning
Mrs. Aune
Creative and Practical Writing
November 3, 2010
TITLE
The sun shone vibrantly through the trees, speckling the ground below with flecks of its golden
brilliance. A gentle breeze swept through the trees’ branches, wafting the sweet scent of newly
blossoming cherry trees into the thriving community of Glenwood Forest.
It was spring days like these that Finian enjoyed the most. He stretched out his slender body
upon the soft, green grass, allowing his skin to absorb the sun’s inviting rays. He felt the grass tickle his
arms as he crossed them comfortably behind his head. Closing his deep green eyes, he let out a sigh of
contentment. Like most satyrs in Glenwood, Finian found much pleasure in the springtime. “Spring is a
time of new life, rebirth, and regrowth. Everything begins anew in the cycle of life” was a saying that all
satyrs practically lived by when a new year began. This proverb, no doubt, had much meaning to Finian,
yet he felt he only fully understood the literal meaning. Ever since he could remember, and ever since
his grandmother had uttered this phrase to him, he’d felt he was missing something. He’d always felt as
if he were on the reverse side of things, being the silent observer while life and nature moved on and
matured without his influence.
He deeply inhaled the rich cherry blossom scent, allowing its intoxication to overwhelm his
senses. He removed one arm from its place behind his head and slid it down to his side where his handcarved wooden lyre rested. His fingers traced the intricate designs he’d engraved into it when he was
just a child. Deep grooves and swirls adorned its U-shaped form, creating detailed carvings of animals
and elements of nature. He gently ran his hand along the taught strings, and a soft scale of notes
followed, their soothing harmony drifting into the air above.
Music was Finian’s only passion in life. With it, he felt he could escape from the world outside
and immerse himself in a world all his own. The pleasing chords and melodies of he created from his lyre
were the only things that he felt voiced his innermost sentiments and desires. The only sorrowful thing
was that the rest of the village didn’t—
“Oi! Finian!” a voice called, shattering the serenity of the grove.
Finian’s eyes shot open, forgetting the blinding light above. He flinched from the flood of light to
his pupils and squinted until his eyes adjusted. He lifted himself into a sitting position and twisted his
torso around to face the body the unmistakable voice belonged to.
A silhouette moved out from beneath the shadows of the trees and into the pool of sunlight in
the grove. His sandy blonde fur glistened underneath the golden sun. “What are you doing out here all
by yourself?” inquired the taller satyr, his icy blue eyes burning fiercely.
“Just thinking,” replied Finian, swiping a stray lock of shaggy auburn hair out of his face.
The other satyr set his arms akimbo. “Just thinking? ‘Bout what, might I ask?” He cocked one
brow, intrigued. Finian noted how the slight strain of annoyance was emphasized by his Irish accent.
Finian hesitated briefly. “Life,” he said matter-of-factly, shrugging.
The other satyr’s face softened and he chuckled. “Life,” he repeated, almost scoffing. He turned
to leave, “Why don’t you come with me back to the village? The festival’s starting.”
“Sure, Seamus,” replied Finian. He swiftly hoisted himself onto his cloven, hoofed feet and
followed his brother out of the clearing.
***
Within moments, the two satyrs arrived at the village where, as Seamus had said, the Springtime
Festival had begun. As they reached the edge of the village, Finian hesitated slightly while Seamus
entered without a second thought. The younger satyr glanced back to the thicket he just left.
“Coming?” asked Seamus.
“Aye,” Finian said, turning and fixing his gaze on the village ahead.
The village was bustling with excitement. Anticipation was high for the new spring season. It
seemed everyone joined in with nature in its reincarnation after the long, bitter winter. Satyrs young
and old took part in the many festivities the village had to offer. Some played their Panpipes while
others danced gaily to the jaunty tunes. Some spent the day drinking fresh gooseberry wine while others
tried their wits and skill in sparring and dueling. The youngest satyrs amused themselves with simply
frolicking in the fields of blossoming wildflowers.
“Seamus! Seems you found your brother,” a female voice said from behind the two satyrs.
The two turned to face the voice. “Aye, Maeve. I did. He was out a-thinking all by himself, he
was,” Seamus grinned and nudged Finian with his elbow. “Found him all sprawled out on the grass
smiling up at the sun.”
The female’s hand flew up to her mouth as she attempted to stifle a giggle. She tittered on as if
Seamus had just told an especially entertaining joke. Finian found no wittiness in his older brother’s
statement, let alone something to laugh about. He watched the two go back and forth. Seamus would
say something—seemingly with no intended humor, as Finian thought—and Maeve’s hand would fly up
to her face time and time again in a futile attempt to suppress her incessant giggles.
The female race was yet to be understood by Finian. All they did was laugh at not-funny things.
A simple statement about the weather, the family, or even the harvest could be taken as a joke to them.
The other males didn’t seem to mind it, but to Finian, it was downright irritating. It wasn’t that he didn’t
like the females; it was just certain aspects about their personalities he did not find appealing. He
recalled a conversation he had with his brother but a month ago. When posed with the question of why
he had not yet found a mate, Finian had replied, “It’s just that they’re—all the same.” He was right, of
course. Female satyrs did act the same. In their defense, however, it’s only in their nature to act the way
they do. All satyrs are gifted with a natural abundance of spritely energy, females especially. It’s
practically their duty to seduce and manipulate the infatuated blokes in order to get them to act upon
their every whim. Finian, on the other hand, wasn’t foolish like the others.
He turned to leave the two twittering lovebirds to explore the rest of the festival when
Seamus grabbed his arm.
“Why, just wait a moment, Finian,” Seamus said, still gazing at Maeve.
Finian shook himself from Seamus’s grip. “What?”
Maeve peeked at Finian from around Seamus. “Seamus said you learned some new songs on
your lyre. I’d very much like to hear them.” She grinned innocently, her white teeth flashing.
“Aye,” agreed Seamus. “I’m sure the rest of the village would too. Don’t you agree, Brother?” He
glanced deviously between Maeve and Finian, a dangerous twinkle in his azure eyes.
“No,” Finian said hurriedly and turned to run.
Seamus grabbed his arm again, his grasp tighter than before. “Come now, Finian,” he said
behind clenched teeth, leaning close to Finian’s pointed ear. He turned to Maeve. “Please, dear Finian.
Do it for darling, sweet Maeve’s sake.” His voice dripped with false security.
Finian’s eyes smoldered ferociously. He jerked once again from Seamus’s clutch. “Fine,” he said,
reaching down to grab the lyre hanging from the leather belt around his waist, his eyes never leaving
Seamus’s.
Seamus straightened and crossed his arms over his chest in satisfaction. His eyes continued to
glitter treacherously, and one side of his mouth tugged up into a wily smirk.
Finian found a log and sat down upon it, resting the lyre on his furred thigh. He secured the lyre
in the crook of his elbow and laid both of his hands on the strings. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes.
In one swift motion, his hands swept across the column of strings, his fingers plucking certain strings
separately and others together, and all of the sounds began melting together into a continuous melody.
He allowed his mind to free itself as he submerged into the flowing notes. His hands worked freely with
nothing guiding them, save the essence of the music.
The haunting melody poured out of the vibrating strings. He had created this song as a song of
loneliness. It had been written in a dark time when he felt he had no other. However long ago that might
have been, this sadness always seemed to loom over his head, a thick, heavy raincloud of despondency.
As the song progressed further, the raincloud released a dramatic rush of droplets, pummeling the
weakened satyr, yet inspiring him to play even more soulfully.
The other satyrs engaged in the spring festivities had halted a moment after the forlorn melody
reverberated in their ears. With amazing curiosity, they wandered around the community until the
source of the sound was discovered.
“Oi! Someone shut the bloke up!” a voice called out from the crowd.
Finian broke from his trance and his hands froze in place. The last chord echoed ominously in
the tense air.
“Aye! I don’t want to listen to this rubbish!” called another.
Finian reluctantly opened his eyes and shifted his gaze to the crowd that formed around him.
Some, no, all of them were scowling in his direction. He wasn’t surprised they felt this way. Satyrs were
a typically jovial bunch, and they relished their upbeat, lively tunes played on Panpipes that one could
skip to, not the slow, graceful melodies played on his harp. He’d expected this much to happen when
Seamus asked him to play. Seamus, his mind echoed. He searched the crowd until he saw Seamus’s
smug face and flashing blue eyes. Slowly rising to his hooved feet, he strode in Seamus’s direction.
“Happy now?” Finian said. He stood there, glaring into his brother’s eyes before he stalked out
of the village.