Yet Another One

Just to be nice, because I certainly didn't want to, I accompanied Odysseus that night to the old cemetery (you know the one I mean). He had poured the blood into the bowl and seemed to be mumbling some incantation over it when he suddenly cried out, "Oops! I just remembered I'm supposed to go with Penelope tonight to a PTA meeting! Be a pal and take over, will ya?" And with that he ran pell-mell into the darkness. Cursing myself for allowing him to trick me again, I sat on a damp clump of earth and watched the specters rise from their graves. Sniffing the air, they formed a thick haze around the blood and me. I must admit that even though I was greatly annoyed by Odysseus' prank, I was nevertheless even more greatly charmed by the way the ghosts' shambling and gossamer forms intermingled with the moonlight, giving the illusion that both the pale lunar light and the thirsting dead were locked in some sad and slow and stately dance.  I couldn't help but smile.

"So, what's new?" I asked a ghost as it curled around the bowl, lapping at the blood like a dog.

"Oh, not much," it replied. "Things are always pretty dead around here."

"Oh, brother!" I thought, "A billion-billion dead and I had to pick a Henny Youngman wannabe."

After noisily gorging itself, the ghost wiped its blackened lips with its translucent arm and rested near me. The fresh blood made its withered form swell and its sunken features fill out. Well, I don't have to tell you how happily surprised I was in seeing that the dead thing beside me wasn't the pathetic vestige of a human, as I had naturally assumed, but the ghost of a young satyr.

"So," I asked him, "what's your name?"

"Ralph. And you?"

"Call me Ishmael. You know, for the life of me – if you'll pardon the expression – I can't figure it out, but there are times I'm just in the mood to draw satyrs."

"So rumor has it."

"Is that why you came?"

"Yep."

"Thanks. You know, though, I think the mood has pretty much worked its way out of my system. You may well be the last one."

"One can only hope." And with that he assumed a pose and held it all the night long until, with the first rays of the sun, he decayed into mist and wafted back to his grave.

Later that day, as I was posting his bail, Odysseus stated the thing that talked with me was technically more a faun than a satyr. But since Odysseus is only a mythical character, I saw no reason to take him seriously.