The puzzles that had beset her ever since their time in the grove of enchantment returned. The face in the water was the strangest. Sylvester had suggested that her real self had been revealed and that the face she was reflecting was Syrinx. But surely this could not be. Even if it were possible that the spring did reflect her true self, if she were Syrinx then it meant that Sylvester, the timid little faun, was familiar with Syrinx.
If the face did properly belong to Syrinx then in what possible sense could it be her, Becky’s, true face? Did that mean that she was somehow a reincarnation of Syrinx? Or did it mean that somehow Syrinx had usurped her, taken over her being, much as the flute had …?
The thought of the flute made the possibility suddenly, frighteningly, more real. In a way it explained why the flute had chosen her, why it had played her.
Syrinx … She wished she had tried to find out a little more. Once again she saw Ms Paddy’s slightly excited, slightly embarrassed face as she told her about the maid who had been transformed by the nymphs into the clump of reeds. She remembered that Syrinx had been chased all over the place by the great god Pan, who would have had his wicked way with her until the nymphs put a stop to that by the transformation. Becky remembered her feeling of disgust at the story, her feeling that being turned into a swamp plant was not really much of a rescue and that the one who really got away with it was Pan, who in turn had cut down the reeds and turned them into pipes to make music with. In that sense, she thought bitterly, Pan got to make music with the maid after all.
Remembering the morning’s events, Becky suddenly felt quite worried. She had convinced herself that it could not possibly be Dr Faunus on that motorcycle.
And yet, what had happened all morning but pursuit? Like Syrinx, she had been chased not by Pan, but by a black-leather-clad figure who seemed to have singled her out and who, as far as she knew, was still scouring these hills of Arcadia for his prey.
Was she wrong?
Was it Dr Faunus?
For Faunus, she suspected, was just another incarnation of Pan.
Had the whole performance of her playing the flute to bring him back to strength been an elaborate charade so that he could begin again the pursuit he had been thwarted in first time around?
Was this why Sylvester was so worried?
Sylvester had mentioned his master. He said his master had loved Syrinx. But wasn’t Pan the master of the fauns?
Was Sylvester nervous because he had broken the rules? Was it because he had interfered with the chase?
So where was Sylvester now?
Was he really simply off to get her some berries and a drink?
Or had he slipped out again to fetch his master? To fetch Pan, to tell Pan that his prey was ready and safely trapped in a grotto in a cavern behind a waterfall?
These questions raced around Becky’s head, driving all possibility of rest away. She was frozen with indecision. Part of her still trusted the little faun and another, sensible, part told her that only he could lead her back to Johnny if he could summon up the courage to do so. These thoughts strongly suggested she should stay where she was.
However, another part of her desperately wanted to run, to get far away from this place. While its seclusion suggested safety, she realised with a sickening certainty that it was also a perfect trap, with only one way in.
These doubts completely evaporated the feelings of wellbeing she had felt that morning as they had followed the trike trail, the spoor, as Silenus had called it, along the riverbed. Then she had felt confident that their strange adventure was about to have a happy ending, that they would find the motorcyclist and he would turn out to be Dr Faunus who was looking for them with a view to helping them home.
How dumb was that!
Instead, here she was trapped in a grotto, completely lost and at the mercy of a scaredy-cat little faun who might or might not be about to betray her. The spring in the grove of enchantment had stolen her identity. She had been separated from Johnny Cadman and had no way of re-establishing contact. She had also been separated from the flute, which she had left hidden under the goatskins at Silenus’s cottage. Worst of all, she was being pursued by a homicidal motorcyclist she suspected to be the great god Pan and who, if she was correct, had very unpleasant, unfinished business on his mind.
Oh, Becky, she whispered to herself, messes don’t get much messier than this.
Despite his cloven feet, the little faun was able to move silently and swiftly. So silently, he had reappeared in the grotto before Becky was aware of his approach.
She looked up apprehensively, but he was quite alone and Becky felt a quick moment of relief.
Over his shoulder he had a bag and he handed this now to Becky. True to his promise, he had brought fruit: apples Becky recognised and figs, but there were other fruits that she did not recognise and the little faun explained.
‘These are pomegranates, and these lotos. They will help you relax, for I fear you are tense and have not slept.’
Becky wanted to snap back: Is it any wonder? You haven’t exactly been brimming with confidence yourself with your rushing through the forest like a frightened rabbit, and at no time telling me why!
She thought better of it, though. She was genuinely grateful for the fruit and for his help, and was feeling a little more kindly disposed towards him.
‘Thank you,’ she said. And then she added, ‘And there were no problems?’
Sylvester shook his head, and gave her a mischievous grin. ‘No problems on my own,’ he said. ‘There’s only a problem when I have a girl-child to manage.’
Becky gave him a mock-indignant look. ‘I see. That makes me sound like I’m some sort of blundering elephant. Thanks very much.’
Sylvester grinned again and, squatting on his heels beside her, reached for an apple. He crunched into it and sat there chewing amiably as Becky chose an apple for herself.
Before taking a bite, she said, ‘You mentioned your master …’
Sylvester waited, staring at her but not offering to elaborate.
Becky tried again. ‘You mentioned your master at the grove of enchantment by the spring.’
Sylvester nodded, his eyes never leaving Becky.
‘I mean,’ continued Becky, ‘while you were out, did you report anything about me to your master? Did you let him know that I am here and that I was being … chased?’
Sylvester stopped chewing, swallowed his mouthful, and looked at her in astonishment.
‘How could I possibly do that?’ he asked. ‘My master has been dead these many, many years. Dead and gone.’
‘Dead and gone?’ repeated Becky.
‘Dead, and disappeared,’ the little faun affirmed.
‘Oh, I see,’ whispered Becky. ‘I’m sorry …’
There was an awkward silence. Becky finally did take a bite of her apple and chewed thoughtfully. It was sweet and delicious. If Sylvester were telling the truth, and she had no reason to doubt him, then some of her misgivings about him were eased. However, other problems remained. The most pressing of these was the question of what was she to do now. She could no more stay in this grotto than she could stay in Silenus’s cottage with its beer and bad music.
The most depressing thing about the whole sequence of morning events was that she no longer had any prospect of getting back to the real world. She had been foolish enough to hope that the motorcyclist would have held the key to the door, but those hopes had been thoroughly extinguished by a gunning engine and his crazed attempt to run them down.
Her mother, Donna, had always suggested whenever she was faced with a problem that she draw up a checklist of possible actions and then try to balance them out. But when Becky tried to do this mentally now, the list was pitifully small.
Things to do: find Johnny Cadman.
Things to avoid: the guy in the black leathers and black helmet.
Everything else was a blank.
She glanced again at the little faun and gave him a wan smil
e.
‘I don’t suppose you know the way out of here?’ she asked.
He nodded and pointed down the corridor cave.
Becky gave a grimace and shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I know that already. I mean the way out of this Arcadia place and back to my world. You know: Greendale High School. Sylvan Avenue …’
Sylvester gave her a confused look, and Becky nodded philosophically. Nothing was computing.
She tried another tack. ‘You don’t know where your master went when he disappeared then?’
Again the little faun looked confused. ‘Who knows where gods go when they die? Gods are not supposed to die. My master did. He was the only one who ever did …’
Becky considered telling him about Dr Faunus. She was certain now that Dr Faunus as Pan had been the master of the fauns, as he had been the friend of Silenus, who also believed him dead. However, what was the point, she thought. It would be all too complicated.
It was then that she remembered an earlier conversation with the little creature. When they had found her in the ferns, Sylvester had said they had been watching her. She recalled her surprise when she realised that they were not referring specifically to her sleeping in the ferns but had in fact meant they had been watching her and Johnny for much longer. They had left the basket of berries and fruit. However, Sylvester had also mentioned their being worried about them, but had not explained what he’d meant.
Now she put it to him. ‘When you found me,’ she said, ‘you said that you’d been watching Johnny and me and that you’d been worried about us. What did you mean? Why were you worried about us?’
The little faun took another bite of his apple, Becky thought to forestall having to answer, but she was insistent.
‘Tell me,’ she said.
Sylvester looked uneasily left and right as if he feared being overheard, but he eventually nodded and whispered, ‘We were worried because you’d entered the cottage of Silenus.’
‘Silenus?’
Sylvester nodded.
‘What’s the matter with Silenus?’ asked Becky. ‘I mean, he drinks a fair bit and he has a god-awful singing voice, but he was quite kind to us. I mean, he gave us a room to sleep in and fed us a most delicious stew.’
At the mention of the word stew, Sylvester started and then he stared at Becky, his eyes wide.
‘What kind of stew?’ he whispered.
Becky looked at him curiously. Something was clearly upsetting the little creature. She shrugged. ‘I don’t really know. It was a mixture I think. Silenus didn’t say but I thought there was chicken in it and something else. I thought perhaps it might have been goat …’
‘Goat?’
‘Isn’t Silenus a goatherd?’
She waited. Sylvester seemed unable or unwilling to continue the conversation. He swallowed a number of times, shaking his head as if trying to dispel something terrible. Becky could not imagine what was wrong with him, why he was so badly affected. Something about the words chicken and goat seemed to have upset Sylvester terribly.
‘Isn’t he?’
Sylvester was somehow able to look up. He tried to focus on the question.
‘Isn’t he what?’
‘A goatherd?’
‘Oh …’
Sylvester nodded. Finally, with a supreme effort, he managed to locate his speech once more.
‘That stew …’ he said.
‘Yes?’ prompted Becky carefully.
‘Was not goat …’
‘Not goat?’
Sylvester shook his head.
‘What was it then?’
Sylvester swallowed. ‘Faun,’ he whispered. ‘Almost certainly it was faun.’
Becky looked at him with horror.
‘Almost certainly … And almost certainly Sylvander, Figaro’s brother.’
‘But …’
‘Silenus is a hunter. A goatherd yes, but a hunter as well. He is a creature of immense appetite. Loves to drink. Loves to eat, especially meat, and he is not particular about what meat it is …’
‘Goodness,’ whispered Becky.
Suddenly the thought of what she had eaten the previous evening returned and she gagged at the memory of it. She remembered Silenus, bow in hand, smiling at the thought of centaur rump.
‘Is that …?’ she asked.
Sylvester completed. ‘Why we were worried?’
Becky nodded.
‘Oh, yes. Silenus is not at all squeamish about what he eats.’
Becky looked at him in alarm.
‘Chicken … goat … faun … boy-child … girl-child …’ continued Sylvester.
‘Centaur?’ asked Becky.
Sylvester stared at her. ‘Probably,’ he agreed. ‘Anything with flesh, I imagine.’ He shuddered.
But then the full implication of what the little faun had said sank in. Becky stared at him, with increasing horror.
‘Boy-child … girl-child …?’ she whispered.
Once again Becky remembered her odd little fantasy about the gingerbread house and how she had half-expected a witch to come around the corner. Johnny would have been Hansel. She would have been Gretel. There had been no wicked witch with a fiery oven, though. Just the madly merry, half-drunken Silenus ladling delicious stew into bowls for them.
Now it appeared as though Silenus was a wicked witch after all.
And with an inward groan, Becky remembered her last sight of Silenus bounding along the valley floor.
He had been clutching Johnny under his arm like an infant.
No, like a suckling pig or a fatted calf.
‘He has Johnny with him,’ whispered Becky, her eyes wide with fear. ‘We must get to him quickly before …’
Sylvester did not immediately reply. In fact, he did not even seem to be listening. Instead, he was glancing down the corridor. Then he put his characteristic finger before his lips and gestured towards the wall beside the corridor. Becky understood, and together they hurried to the wall and stood back to it and out of sight of any visitor.
Becky marvelled at Sylvester’s ability to sense that someone or something might be approaching. She herself could hear nothing at all, even in the silence that they now maintained. However, Sylvester had clearly heard something, for within a few moments two other fauns cautiously entered the grotto, only breaking into grins of recognition when they saw Becky and Sylvester, backs against the wall.
Becky soon realised that these were the two little creatures who had been with Sylvester when she had been discovered sleeping in the ferns. Now they had come back to report.
They said that the motorcyclist had not at any stage been able to negotiate the ravine that had saved Becky from capture. Instead, after travelling up and down fruitlessly for some time, the rider had apparently returned to the gorge. Figaro and Damon had not ventured beyond the forest for fear of being seen, but were confident enough of this intelligence.
Once again, Becky was confused. Why would the rider do this? She tried to put herself in the rider’s leather boots. There were three figures to pursue. Once the rider had abandoned the pursuit of Becky, surely it would have been logical to chase after the lumbering figure of Silenus, especially as he was burdened with Johnny Cadman. Given the power of the machine the rider was on, it was not at all likely that Silenus’s bow and arrows would have intimidated him.
She imagined that Silenus would have been hightailing it back to his cottage. There was no reason for Silenus to cross the ravine and head for the hills, so pursuit on the farm trike would have been relatively straightforward. Of course, Silenus would have had something of a head start once the rider had given up on her, but surely the powerful machine would have easily made up the distance.
There was only one answer. The rider was not especially interested in Silenus or Johnny. The rider was only interested in her.
Why?
And then, the rider had returned perhaps to what used to be the home of Faunus. Once again Becky wondered whether Dr Faunus had
been in fact the rider. The enchanted spring suggested her connection with Syrinx and she had feared that Faunus may have set her up and then returned in order to resume the chase.
Was that why the rider let Silenus alone?
According to Silenus, they were old friends, drinking buddies. Why on earth would an old mate wish to attack his friend, unless …
Unless that old friend was foolishly defending his real target.
All of this speculation was beside the point, however. The most urgent problem was finding Johnny and somehow getting him away from the clutches of Silenus.
Becky shivered. If these little creatures were right, and she had no reason to doubt them, Johnny was in real danger now, a danger all the more threatening because he would have no idea of the peril he was in.
Becky felt she had been such a fool to accept things at face value. First the flute, then Dr Faunus, and now Silenus; Silenus who had seemed such a friendly buffoon. He had presented them with a figure it was easy to laugh at, to feel comfortable with, even superior to. How stupid they were. Perhaps she should have listened to that forbidding Hester Nye woman. She had warned her away. Becky had simply written her off as rude and obnoxious. Perhaps she really had had Becky’s best interests at heart.
‘Thank you,’ she said to Figaro and Damon, genuinely grateful. ‘It’s good to know that guy isn’t scouring the hills for me. I didn’t want to put you in any danger.’
‘No danger,’ said Figaro, smiling. ‘We make sure we take great care.’
‘You have no idea who …?’
Damon shook his head. ‘We have never seen such a creature, girl-child. It was clearly a god or the manifestation of a god and how could we know the mind of such a one?’
How indeed? thought Becky. She did not know much about gods. To her the ‘creature’ was simply some maniac on a farm trike. A god would not have been foiled by a deep ditch nor would a god give up so easily simply because she had disappeared into the bush. A real god would know where she was, what she was doing and thinking.
The Enchanted Flute Page 12
