ThinkEdem Blog

The last faun hopelessly roamed the woods. Of course he remembered the old times, the singing of the nymphs and the dancing of the dryads. He remembered the groves, the sunshine. He also remembered the Torch-bearers’ prophecy. He hadn’t believed it then – he couldn’t have believed that all the beauty, all the dance and songs had to come to an end. But a New God had come and the Old Ones were to decease and be forgotten.
The others had defied the power of the New God. They had fought for their lives, they had fought for the groves, they had fought for their past and their future – but the New God was mighty and the Once Lived were defeated.
Many aeons have passed since then. The last faun wandered all over the continent, but the power of the New God reached everywhere. He saw the last shine of Elfheugh – and he saw the Elven King fall by a mortal priest’s hands. He saw the Carpathian liches, he saw how they were chased back to the deepest swamps, and how those swamps were diminished by mere farmers. He saw the German gods fighting in battle and being defeated in battle.
Then he saw the realm of the New God slowly abandon its pillar. He watched the priests not living for His teachings, but for mortal delights. He saw the people turning away from the priests for they couldn’t hear His words from them any more. He was so happy to see His power fading. He hoped that the Old Ones’ time shall come again, when people believe in legends and miracles. Bitter was his delusion, for the new world brought upon a far more terrible danger than the White God’s order could ever mean. Mankind summoned the devastating power of Disbelief.
No one believed the priests any more, and the priests lost their power. No one believed in miracles, and the miracles were no more. In the end, people lost faith in themselves and the mortal world began to perish.
The last faun was dying. He sat under a tree and closed his eyes. He mourned in silence. After the last quiet farewell, he took a deep breath and raised his flute to his lips to play his last song.

× × ×

‘Why are you crying?’
He opened his eyes and saw a little girl, about ten years old, staring at him from a nearby pear tree.
‘Why are you crying?’ the girl asked again.
‘I’m weeping for the future.’
Harsh was his voice, and he was surprised to find strength to speak.
‘Oh, don’t worry about it,’ she whisked. ‘Haven’t you heard that the future’s ours?’
‘What future will that be? The world’s dying, and all who could mend its wounds have already passed away.’
‘Well, I will cure it then! I wanted to be a doctor any ways. Or an engine-driver. Or maybe an actress.’
The faun burst into a weary laugh. His head felt heavy, as if it was made of lead.
‘Silly child! How could you alone heal what’s being destroyed by many millions?’
‘You don’t believe I can?’ she pouted. ‘Nothing is possible without faith!’
He gazed deeply in her eyes.
‘And what do you know about faith? You, mortals, changed faith as one changes their clothes, and in the end you threw it all away. What do you believe in now? In disbelief!’
‘And what do you believe in?’ she asked sad and quiet. The faun’s answer was bitter.
‘Believe? What is worth believing in? The destroyed past? The perishing future?’
‘The healing?’ The girl looked at him pleading. He watched her for a long time. He looked at her red hair, chubby face, green eyes. He noticed the scratches on her knees and elbows. He saw her dirty nails and sad gaze. What could this little girl know about life, death, and faith?
Indeed. What could she?
‘What is thy name?’
‘Flora,’ she replied. ‘But my friends call me Squirrel, because I can climb even those trees that only the squirrels can.’
‘Do you live nearby?’
‘No, we live in the city, but my parents bring me to granny every summer, and usually for the winter holidays too.’
The pressure in his chest eased. Could it be the end? No, not now! He has never ever wanted to live so much before. He had to know who’s that girl who put the last faun wise.
‘And what do you believe in, Flora?’
She shrugged.
‘All sorts of things. I believe that Tinker Bell awaits Peter Pan in Neverland. I believe that leprechauns hide their treasures at the end of rainbows. I believe I’ll be a queen. I believe in the songs of the birds and the music of the trees. And what do you believe in?’
‘Right now I believe we have met before.’
‘I don’t know,’ she frowned. ‘I think I would remember. Your horns are like the goat’s in one of granny’s books. Have you seen a goat before?’
‘Oh, I’ve seen many-many goats.’
‘Are they really that stubborn?’
‘No, that’s mules and donkeys.’
‘And… and… have you seen a deer? I’ve seen one in the museum, but it wasn’t a real one.’
‘I’ve seen so many things and creatures before that I might be unable to recite them all.’
‘Tell me about them, pretty please! Mum never tells me any tales, and I know all of granny’s stories by heart.’
So he started to speak. He told her about the miracles of Hellas. He talked about the feasts of Dionysus, about the nymphs, and the wild games of the centaurs. He told her how the fairies had danced on moonlight, he told her about the many things he’d seen or heard. As he spoke his eyes were glistening, his lips smiling, and he was filled with life. She listened to him with awe until all the stories came to an end and he silenced.
‘Play a song on your flute!’ she implored. ‘The song you’ve tricked Auberon with!’
He looked down at his flute. After all… why not? So he played, and the forest slowly faded, and there he was, among the nymphs again, playing his tricks and pranks on mortals…

× × ×

‘And what happened then?’
‘The last faun died there in the woods. The trees have been chopped down since then, for the city was growing and growing. But the tree, which the last faun died under, was left unharmed. No-one knows why, but nobody could bring themselves to hurt that tree.’
‘Oh, it was a beautiful tale, granny!’
‘Yes, it was, my dear.’ The old woman tucked the boy in his bed, kissed him goodnight, and turned the light out as she walked out the room. “A beautiful tale” she thought while she stepped to the carved wooden wardrobe. She pulled some books from the top shelf and picked an ornament box from behind them. She strolled out to the garden, sat under the lonely tree and opened the box. She pulled the last faun’s flute out and began to play. The music was quiet, but it floated through the night city’s noise, rose up to the sky and made the sleeping children smile.
From the topmost branch a green crown, made of leaves, descended slowly onto Flora’s head as she played the last song of the last faun.

January, 2003