Chapter Text

[CHAPTER 1: MOONSHINE]

SPRING, YEAR 5963

The satyrs of Looming Gaia had a chaotic reputation. Many believed they had so much love within them that they couldn’t contain it all, and so promiscuity and dysfunction spilled from their souls.

But for all the love satyrs had for the world, the world hadn’t much love for satyrs.

Circumstance had spit in Calamity’s face from the day she was born. She spit right back by indulging in every impulse she had. Life was always dangling carrots just out of her reach, so when Calamity managed to snatch one, she sank her teeth in deep and she let go for nothing.

Even life’s blessings could be curses in disguise. Calamity was excited about her baby when she carried him in her womb, but now she was miserable as she carried him on her back.

The baby shared her brown skin and darker brown hair, thick and curly. But her eyes were golden while his were steel-gray, and she spent much time trying to remember which of her clients shared such eyes.

For that was all Calamity had in the way of romance: clients. Love was but a transaction, a way to put coins in her bag and alcohol in her blood. Tonight the clients were stingy and her bag was empty, so her lips were dry.

That was unacceptable. So unacceptable that Calamity pulled the sling off her back, where her baby was swaddled tightly inside, and left him in the middle of the road.

This winding dirt road passed through the settlement of Taybiya. It was a primitive, woodsy little forest-town in Southriver Wood, Noalen. A backwater kind of place with an overcrowded jail, no kingdom to police it, and no military to protect it. It was the kind of place Calamity thrived as a stereotypical thieving, conniving, satyress.

The sun had already set. The day was winding down, the citizens of Taybiya returning to their little stone houses for the night. Fewer people outside meant fewer witnesses as Calamity hid in the bold shadow of a tree. She peeked around its mighty trunk, watching her child squirm and fuss in the barren road.

His mother’s warmth was gone. He cried out for her, but she did not come. Instead, she waited until a villager happened by—a middle-aged human with a sack of grain on his shoulder.

Calamity grinned with anticipation. The man saw the crying baby lying there all alone, and just as Calamity knew he would, he stopped to investigate.

The man set his grain aside, tilting his head down at the child. His bushy brows sagged as he crouched before him. “Hello, little fella,” he said, carefully lifting the swaddled baby. He looked this way and that, but he didn’t see Calamity in her hiding place. He turned back to the baby and muttered, “What are you doing out here by yourself? Where’s your mama, huh?”

As if on queue, Calamity stumbled frantically into the road. Her long ponytail was disheveled, skin dirty and bared except for a leather satchel around her shoulder.

She had bitten her own hand earlier to force tears from her eyes, and they sparkled so convincingly when she stopped before the man and cried, “My baby! You found my baby, thank the gods! Oh, thank you, thank you, sir!”

The man’s brows shot up, the slightest smile pulling at his lips. “Oh, uh, yes! Right here, lying the in the road! What happened, miss? Are you two alright?”

Calamity spun her roulette of lies, then she spun a tale about being attacked by Kelvingyard slavers. But she escaped, she told the man as she pulled him into a tight embrace of gratitude. And the slavers must have gotten nervous and dropped her baby as they fled, she told him as she withdrew with his wallet in her hand.

In one swift motion, she pulled away from him and took the baby, smoothly tucking the wallet into the sling. The infant was lying against her back once again, and barely a second later she, was shoving the sack of grain back into the man’s hands.

“Thank you, thank you, sir! You’re a wonderful man, yes, thank you!” Calamity blabbered hysterically. She gave him no time to react during the exchange, no time to think, and certainly no time to realize his wallet was gone by the time she disappeared.

And disappear she did, taking off down the winding, maze-like streets until she reached her favorite tavern. The place was dark and smokey, damp and moldy, crawling with vermin both beast and man.

But this tavernkeeper allowed Calamity to dance and service clients under his roof. He even allowed her to bring her baby inside and leave him in the broom closet when she was busy with those clients.

The tavernkeeper had something of a soft spot for this baby, for he was born in this tavern’s very own toilet. Calamity staggered in complaining of stomach pain that day, and one hour later, she was fishing the poor child out of a trench of filth.

“Didn’t even know I was pregnant,” she told the tavernkeeper. “I just thought I was getting fat on your mead!”

Calamity wouldn’t be staying tonight, however. The town was too hot, her hands too red, and she needed to disappear for a couple days at least. So she kindly turned in a “lost wallet”, but not before pulling out the gold coins inside and slapping them on the counter.

“I want the cheapest and strongest stuff you got,” she told the elven barkeep.

The barkeep slid the bottles over with reluctance. “I trust you’ll drink responsibly?” he queried. His expression was dull and doubtful.

Calamity snatched the bottles and barked, “I’m ain’t payin’ you to hassle me, Adel!”

Calamity left the bar with four bottles of in-house moonshine clinking in her sling. She took her baby out to make room, held him against her hip as she left town. Out of Taybiya and into the wilderness she went, off the beaten path, through the woods, until finally she arrived at a little campsite in a clearing.

There stood a most crude lean-to of sticks and grasses. It kept the rain off, mostly. A circle of stones made up the firepit nearby. Glass bottles, broken shards, animal bones, puddles of vomit and other bodily waste littered the site. The mess mattered not to Calamity, for she’d only been there for two days and she didn’t intend to stay for over two more.

Before long, she’d pack up her baby and her scant belongings, and they would move on to greener pastures. Just like her ancestors and their ancestors before them, Calamity would live wild and free like a true, traditional satyr. No one expected any different from her, so what reason did she have to settle down?

As far as she was concerned, her only responsibility was keeping her child alive—and that obligation ended in just a decade or so. As soon as the horns sprouted from his head, she would abandon him as her mother abandoned her. And like them, he would grow up to be wild and free and so very full of love.

Tiny streams of smoke were still rising from the firepit, all full of ash. Quickly Calamity ripped a fistful of grass from the soil and tossed it over the cinders. She gathered bits of kindling from inside the lean-to and arranged them in the pit as she was taught long ago.

Once the fire was roaring once more, she made her way to the massive rotting log lying on the edge of the clearing. Though this tree had been dead for centuries, it hosted plenty of life within. Slug and bug traffic flowed along every inch of its bark. Calamity smacked a line of black ants and licked them from her palm.

Picking three fat, yellow slugs from the base of the log, the satyress pierced them upon a stick and roasted them over the fire. Nearby her baby played in the grass, finally free from his swaddle. She glanced over at him, a smile tugging at her lips as she watched him climb atop a mossy stone.

“The moss is slippery, Itchy,” she warned him. The baby paid her no mind. Unlike most peoples, satyrs were very mobile within their first year. Already the baby’s furry goat-legs were strong enough to hold him upright, his grip tight enough to pull his own bodyweight.

Itchy looked back at his mother, standing tall and proud on the stone. He raised his arms victoriously and called to her, “Ba-Ba!”

“Yes, I see you,” Calamity grinned. She waggled her stick towards him and went on, “Come get your dinner now.”

Her child eyed the slug on a stick as he pondered. Then he defiantly turned his head and clambered around on the stone. Calamity’s tone dropped slightly when she said, “You little flea…”

“Ba!”

“Come eat.”

“Baaa!” the baby shouted. Then shortly after, his tiny hoof slipped on the moss. Down he toppled, bashing his skull against the stone before rolling into the grass.

A red scrape opened on his forehead. Itchy lie there wide-eyed, staring at the canopy of trees above. A laugh burst from Calamity. “That’s what you get! Now come here and eat your dinner, or Ba-Ba’s gonna eat it all herself.” She brought the crispy slug to her mouth and mocked, “Num num num num…”

Scrambling back to his hooves, Itchy rushed towards her with a whimper. He snatched the stick from her hands and ran away with it, plopping down in the center of the clearing. The scrape on his head was promptly forgotten as he nibbled the slug. If he were human or elven, the injury would surely be dire. But a satyrs’ skull was like stone. Even as children, their bodies were hardy and strong.

Calamity shook her head and chuckled. She bit into her own slug dinner and spoke over a full mouth, “You’re such a funny little thing. Don’t grow up too fast, okay? Ba-Ba will miss you too much.”

Itchy busied himself with his dinner, glancing back at her. From the corner of his eye, he watched as she picked up one of the moonshine bottles. Now with some food in her stomach, she felt it was time to indulge. When the cork popped off, a sharp, pungent stench filled the air.

Calamity knocked back a long swig. Shortly after, she let out a belch and laughed. The baby quickly finished the last of his dinner, and then he was approaching her with sticky, grabbing fingers outstretched.

“Ba!” he exclaimed, reaching for the bottle.

His mother muttered, “Alright, alright…” before sucking a bit into her mouth.

The baby satyr stood before her with his mouth wide open, ready to receive the mouthful of moonshine she spit into it. Most of it missed and splashed on his chin. He wiped the excess away and licked it off his hands, and then he was demanding more.

“Ba! Baaa!”

“No more,” Calamity told him flatly. “Ba-Ba worked hard for this stuff and she ain’t wastin’ it all on you.”

“Baaaaa!” Itchy wailed, clenching his tiny fists at his sides.

“I said ‘no’, Itchy! It’s your bed time anyway. Night-night.” She pointed towards the lean-to.

He simply wouldn’t have it. Throwing himself in the grass, the baby screamed and kicked his hooves in the air. He screamed until his face turned purple, all while Calamity hurriedly sucked down the rest of the bottle. She wobbled slightly as she rose to her feet, picking her child up by the ankle and dragging him towards the lean-to.

She tossed him upon the pile of dry grass and animal hides inside, bellowing sarcastically, “Night-niiiiight!” before returning to her seat by the fire. Out of sheer exhaustion the child’s wails quieted to whimpers.

His face was wet with teartracks and mucus, but he’d finally accepted the situation. His tongue was burning and his head was dizzy. It felt best to just lie down and go night-night after all.

Likely for the best, as he slept through Calamity’s chaos all through the night. Three bottles were emptied, then shattered when she angrily, drunkenly, pitched them against a tree trunk.

“Parasite,” she slurred, nearly losing her balance as she lobbed another bottle. “Little parasite, you! Sssucked the milk from me, the blood from me, and the sssoul from me!”

Calamity swiped a stick off the ground. She slammed it down into the fire and growled at the night, “Worse than a flea…you’re a tick…’cause I can’t get ya off me…” Another stick crashed into the fire, spraying cinders all around. A misty rain was falling, and so the wet grass refused to ignite.

“Lucky I don’t burn you like a tick, ya hear me?” the satyress hollered towards the lean-to. Her baby slept soundly inside, none the wiser. Calamity stood there in a bleary, heavy silence for a long moment.

The rain was getting heavier, slapping against the leaves all around. Even in her drunken haze, she knew it would eventually kill the fire.

Defeated, she staggered into the lean-to and hugged Itchy close to her teary face. “I’m sorry,” she sniffled against his curly hair. “I don’t mean it. I don’t. I love you, my sweet little flea. I swear I do, ‘cause ain’t nobody ever loved me back except you.”

Itchy stirred, blinking his weary eyes. He saw nothing but his mother’s golden eyes glimmering in the darkness. He smelled her familiar scent of sweat and alcohol, and soon it had lulled him back to sleep.

*

Two years slogged by like sap oozing from a tree. And how it stuck, how it pulled with each passing day Calamity clung to survival. Her child was growing bigger, stronger, and faster before her eyes, and she could hardly keep up with his antics. Still she looked at him with pride—at least in her sober times—and scrambled to teach him everything she knew.

“Look here, Itchy,” she said quietly, kneeling at the lake’s edge. She sprinkled some flakes of grain on the surface. The child squatted by her side, peering down at the shimmering minnows that swarmed up to eat it. She pointed, went on, “Little fishes eat little things. But big fishes eat little fishes, and who eats the big fishes?”

“Fishy,” the toddler mumbled over his slobbery fist.

“We do,” Calamity told him, pinching his cheek with a smile. “We’re going to catch big fishes today!” With that, she got up and hurried to her cache of stolen supplies hidden in the bushes.

She returned with a steel bucket and a net. The net hung from a loop at the end of a long handle, large enough to ensnare her child if she felt so inclined. The sun was just waking up on this clear summer morning. The calm water was smooth like glass.

Calamity dropped a handful of grain in Itchy’s palm. “Feed the little fishes,” she told him. She held his stubby tail as he leaned over the steep edge of the shore, clumsily tossing the grain at the water. Minnows scattered in fear, then returned in seconds to nibble.

Calamity scooped them up in her net, over a dozen wriggling minnows. Sitting nearby was small wooden dinghy. Calamity had dragged it there from the forest, leaving a trail in its wake. After piling her stolen gear into the stolen boat, she plopped her child in the vessel and shoved off the shore.

With the oars she rowed out to the center of the lake, where the deepest waters and biggest catches lie. The minnows flopped at her feet in the bottom of the boat. Itchy put one in his mouth, but she was quick to scold him, “No! Those are for the big fishes, remember?”

The little satyr ignored her and swallowed it. Before he could grab another, Calamity pulled him into her lap, forcing him to watch as she pierced a minnow on the hook of her fishing pole. “Right through the gill, like this,” she explained, then she cast far out into the water.

The morning was calm and serene, quiet except for distant birdsong. At the opposite shore, Calamity saw the movement of deer stooping for a drink. A thin layer of mist rolled atop the still water.

“Ba-Ba, num num!” Itchy announced. He squirmed in his mother’s lap, pointing to the minnows at her feet.

Calamity hushed him and whispered, “I know. We’ll eat soon, okay? But only if you be very quiet, or you’ll scare the food away.”

“Big fishy,” he said quietly.

His mother smiled. “That’s right. Big fishy.”

“Big fishy num little fishy,” Itchy repeated. After a pause, he looked up at her and asked, “I big fishy, Ba-Ba?”

“No, sweet flea.” Calamity’s smile faded. “But you will be someday. Today you’re still a little fishy, and that’s why you have to listen to Ba-Ba. You don’t want to get eaten, do you?”

“Uh-uh!” Itchy shook his head, mop of overgrown hair flopping this way and that.

Together they floated on the glassy lake as the sun crept ever higher. Calamity’s keen eyes watched, her sensitive ears listening for any threats. Ducks floated along the reedy shores as deer passed by to drink.

Other forest-peoples showed up occasionally to gather water and frogs from the shore, but only Calamity had the luxury of a boat. She could feel their envious scrutiny.

Now three big fish swirled in her bucket—breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and it wasn’t even high sun. Her child stayed occupied by watching and poking at them. Now he was tugging at her ponytail with urgency.

“I go wee, Ba-Ba,” he said. Calamity paused as she considered her options.

She made her decision and lifted him up to the edge of the dinghy. Supporting him under the armpits, she told him, “Okay, go then.”

Itchy tilted his head. “Wee on fishy?”

“Just go, Itchy!”

Calamity waited for him to finish, closely scrutinizing the shores all the while. The fog was starting to lift. The hair on the back of her neck had been standing on end for the last several minutes, as if some unseen predator was skulking nearby.

Then she jumped with a start, nearly dropping her child in the lake when a gruff, masculine voice shouted from the shore. “There it is! That’s my boat, you gods damned thief!” it called.

Calamity whipped her head around and saw a figure running down the trail to the lake’s edge. It was hard to tell from such a distance, but he appeared to be a human with a brown beard and a ratty straw hat. His build was stocky like an ox.

He rushed into the water, wading in until it was up to his waist. He shook his fist at Calamity and panted, “And my pole! That was my grandfather’s, you beast-whore! Give it back!”

Calamity pulled her child back into the boat, quickly stowing him down by her hooves. She turned to the man and replied, “Calm down! You’ll get it back when I’m done with it!”

The man clenched his fists at his sides and bellowed, “No, you’ll bring it back now!”

Calamity shouted, “I’m just trying to feed my kid!”

“I don’t care! That’s my damned property! What makes you think you can just take peoples’ things in the night?”

The two hollered back and forth over the lake. All the while, Itchy was unfazed, poking at the minnows before him. They were dry and dead. He picked one up, gave it a shake and tried to rouse it. Then he held it up to his mother. “Fishy night-night, Ba-Ba?” he queried.

Calamity hushed him, pushing him down once more. “You shouldn’t have been so rude,” she told the man. “You came out here swingin’ and callin’ me names, so if you want this garbage back, then come out here and get it!”

With that, she lobbed the pole far out into the water. It sank in an instant, lost to the deepest depths of the lake.

The man shouted a string of obscenities. Then he pulled something off his back—a hunting bow, Calamity realized—and then he was nocking an arrow. The satyress opened her mouth to protest, to wave her white flag, but it was too late. An arrow whizzed by her head and she threw herself down with a shriek.

“Figures you’re a satyr!” the man spat. “Puttin’ a couple of you down would do the whole world a favor, far as I’m concerned! You messed with the wrong man!”

Another arrow flew. Calamity winced as she heard it thunk into the side of the boat. Only now was Itchy getting anxious as she pinned him against the floor. “What happen?” he asked.

Calamity gnashed her teeth, spoke over the man’s distant shouting, “A big fish is trying to eat us. So we…um…”

She glanced around for a moment in thought. Then she decided, “We have to swim away, okay? Hold on to Ba-Ba and do not let go, understand?”

Itchy nodded. He wrapped his arms tightly around her neck as she pulled him close. Calamity heard another arrow whiz by, and as the woodsman nocked another, she quickly flipped herself over the side of the vessel.

She and her child splashed into the glassy water, leaving their breakfast, lunch, and dinner behind. Her limbs thrashed, propelling her as fast as she could manage. She was headed towards the opposite shore as far from the man as could be.

Just when she surfaced for a breath of air, she let out a scream as a sharp pain tore through her thigh. Down she sank again, sputtering below the water. She kept swimming on, tried to ignore the arrow sticking out of her. A cloud of blood bloomed through the water in her wake. It left a trail all the way to the shore.

Her child was crying, heaving and sputtering, spitting up water. Still he clung to her chest as she stumbled through the bushes and out of sight. The angry man was left behind to chase his damaged vessel, all full of arrows.

*

Business was starting to pick up at high sun. Peasants filed into the grimy old tavern for lunch and drinks. All seemed quiet, nothing out of the ordinary until the door flew open and slammed against the wall.

The slim elven barkeep and his patrons turned to see Calamity staggering through the doorframe. Her child was clinging to her neck, wailing inconsolably. The barkeep’s brows shot up when he saw the arrow protruding from Calamity’s thigh, the surrounding fur sticky with blood.

She left a trail of it when she limped to the bar counter. Leaning upon it, she cried at the barkeep through gnashed teeth, “Adel, get Mr. Sarfeesha! Quick, I’ve been shot!”

Without a word, Adel nodded and rushed into a room behind the counter. Calamity could hear his footsteps trailing up a creaky staircase above.

A low murmur spread through the tavern. Patrons began surrounding her, offering their help. Calamity waved them away, forced a smile as she told them, “I’ve suffered worse. Mr. Sarfeesha will take care of me; he always does.”

Moments later, Adel returned to the counter with someone else in tow. He was a roshava, a four-armed humanoid who towered over nine heads tall. His beet-red skin was craggy with age, his once dark hair now gray and pulled into a knot. His jaw was hairless, and like many of his kind, he had faded tattoos upon his chin.

His brow seemed wrinkled and hardened by decades of anger. But it softened immediately when he saw Calamity, slumped over his bar with blood pooling at her hooves. Her son sat on the counter before her. Surrounding patrons had managed to calm his wailing to sniffles.

“Mr. Sarfeesha,” Calamity croaked through pale lips, “Someone shot me. Please…”

“Say no more,” the roshavan man replied. He pointed one of his four hands towards the child and ordered, “Adel, get the kid some grub and lock him up ‘till we get back.”

Adel obeyed and moved in to take the child. Itchy’s wails returned as he was carried away from his mother.

“Ba-Ba! Ba-Baaaaa!” he screeched. Mr. Sarfeesha led Calamity away up the stairs.

Before they parted, she turned to her child and told him, “Ba-Ba will be okay, Itchy! Be good!”

The child wriggled in Adel’s skinny arms. The elf hushed him, and then yowled as tiny teeth sunk into his hand. “Ow! You brat!” he growled. Wrenching open the door to the broom closet, he dropped the little satyr on a pile of dirty linens. Before Itchy could right himself, the door slammed in his face.

He called for his mother through his tears, pounding the door with his fists and bashing it with his forehead. After a few minutes, it opened once more. There stood Adel, holding a plate in his bandaged hand. Upon it was a slice of toast generously sprinkled with sugar.

The elf kneeled before the young satyr. His thick, ivory-white braids dangled down to his bronze neck, each one tipped with a wooden bead. The anger was absent from his voice when he said, “Enough noise, okay? Look here. It’s sugar toast, your favorite!” He placed the plate on the floor and rustled the child’s hair.

Itchy whined, “Want Ba-Ba!”

“Your mother will be back soon,” Adel explained. He rose to his feet. “Until then, no noise. Remember what happens when you’re noisy?”

Itchy’s gaze flicked over to the straw broom, looming menacingly against the wall beside him.

“Owie,” he answered.

Adel nodded, “That’s right. No noise, no owie. Be good. I’ll come check on you later.”

The door swung with a creak, clicked shut and left the child in darkness. Only a beam of light peeked through the bottom of the door, illuminating a strip where he sat and slowly ate his toast. Each bite was punctuated by a sniffle.

When the plate was licked clean, he rummaged through the buckets and baskets in the corners. Here he had stored his toys. They were simple wooden animals, all gifts from Mr. Sarfeesha.

They had always kept him busy when his mother was away, doing whatever she did while they were here. Sometimes it felt like he was waiting forever.

But if nothing else, this broom closet had always been a safe place. Unlike the forests, the streets, and now the lake.

This cramped, moldy space was his bed, the stench of filth and alcohol his comfort, the murmur of drunkards outside his lullabies. Itchy knew all this grime and degeneracy as “home”.

*

The closet door creaked open, flooding the room with light. Calamity saw her child curled up on the dirty linens, fast asleep with a wooden horse in his hand. She gently pried the toy from his grip and picked him up. Slowly he stirred, then gasped when he saw his mother’s face.

“Ba-Ba home!” he exclaimed. Calamity laughed when he threw his arms around her neck, hands still sticky with sugar toast.

She kissed his equally sticky cheek and said, “Ba-Ba missed you so much! You’re all sticky—did you get something to eat?”

“Toast!” Itchy pointed to the empty plate on the floor.

Calamity turned to Mr. Sarfeesha standing just behind her. His top set of arms were crossed, the bottom set planted on his hips. She said, “Thank you for all this. I’ll pay it back, just give me a night or two.”

The roshava waved his hand. “We’ll talk when that gapin’ hole in your leg closes, how about that?” He shook his head. “Can’t believe that bastard tried to kill you over a little rowboat, ‘specially in front of the kid!”

He reached forth and pinched the child’s cheek. Itchy slapped his hand away and buried his face in his mother’s long, loose hair. Calamity replied, “He was human. What else you expect? They look at a gaian and all they see’s a dirty animal.”

Mr. Sarfeesha nodded. “I know. I hope you don’t take it personal, Cal. They’re just ignorant, backwater yokels. That’s how it is up here.”

Calamity sighed. After a pause, she went on, “It’s okay. I get ‘em back. When I screw humans, I screw ‘em three times, if you know what I mean.”

“Not sure I do.” The roshava cocked an eyebrow.

The satyress told him flatly, “I offer tail for free. Then I swipe their wallet. Then to rub salt in the wound, I go and tell their wives.” She shot him a wry smile. “Sometimes I even get a reward for snitchin’. People screw me every day, Mr. Sarfeesha. But if they wanna call me an animal, they’re the ones fuckin’ a goat.”

The tavernkeeper threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh. He patted the satyress on the shoulder and began leading her back to the bar. “I often regret never marrying,” he said. “You make me feel better about my decisions, you wretch. Ever think about that? Settling down, getting hitched?”

Calamity slid onto a barstool while Mr. Sarfeesha rounded the counter, taking Adel’s place at the bar. The elf slipped on his leather coat, tipping his hat to them before he left. Itchy waved and said, “Bye bye, Adda!” before the front door closed behind him.

He sat in his mother’s lap and absently chewed on her hair. He glanced down at her thigh, wrapped tightly with gauze. The arrow was gone.

Mr. Sarfeesha poured a stein of mead for Calamity as she explained, “Settle down with who? Nobody wants to be caught fuckin’ an animal, like I said. Maybe you’re not human, but you’re still a commoner. You can’t understand how they treat us gaians ‘till you’ve lived it.”

“So why not find a nice satyr like yourself?” the tavernkeeper asked. His strained smile was disingenuous, his tone dusted with sarcasm.

Calamity shook her head. After a sip of mead, she queried, “How many satyrs do you throw from this bar in a week, Mr. Sarfeesha?”

“Oh, a couple dozen maybe.”

“Right,” Calamity grinned, eyes weary above. “So you know how they are. And if you think the ones here in town are bad, you ain’t seen true savagery ‘till you’ve spent a night in the wild. Nasty, nasty ferals out there.” She tipped her head down at her child. “They’d steal a baby and break its little neck just to have its mother to themselves. Seen it before.”

The roshava winced. He left briefly to serve another patron. Then he returned and said, “I don’t like you stayin’ out there, Cal. Forget about satyrs—there’s bears and slavers and gods-knows-what-else skulkin’ around Southriver Wood. Call me naïve, but I thought you’d clean up and clear out by now.” He gestured to the child. “Can’t stow him in my closet forever, you know. Don’t you ever think about the future?”

Tipping back the last of her mead, Calamity wiped the froth from her mouth and sighed, “I try my best not to.”

*

With her leg in such a state, Calamity had no chance of running from her problems. “So I’ll see to it you stay out of trouble,” Mr. Sarfeesha told her, and offered one of his beds for the week. It was only day three and Calamity was finding it difficult to keep herself occupied.

No sex, no booze, and especially no fighting. Those were the tavernkeeper’s conditions of her stay.

“And why not?” she asked.

To which he replied, “Because you’re in no shape for hittin’ or being hit. Besides that, Cal, you’re a viciously mean drunk!”

“I am not!” Calamity argued, but she had already lost.

Adel arrived early that morning. He hung up his coat and hat and started preparing food for the day. The tavern was quiet and empty now, but come high sun, it would be bustling with hungry lowlifes as it always was.

He carried half of the business on his shoulders as Mr. Sarfeesha’s sole employee, while Mr. Sarfeesha himself was burdened with the other half.

Perhaps the load would be lighter this week, Adel thought, when he asked Calamity to help him in the kitchen. She sat upon a stool before a sack of potatoes, peeling away endlessly while Adel rushed about doing other things.

Such mind-numbing work was torture for Calamity. She craved the challenge, the adventure, the adrenaline rush of her usual grind.

More than that, she craved her usual vice. She glanced over at the wine rack in the corner, taunting her with fine alcohols she could never afford. And even if she could, she wasn’t allowed to indulge until the week was done.

She then looked to Adel, who was carefully pulling bread from the oven, and she said, “I’ve been skinning taters for an hour straight. Don’t I deserve a drink?”

Adel tipped his chin towards the giant kegs at the back of the room. “Have yourself some water then.”

“I mean booze,” the satyress clarified. “Just a bottle, that’s all. Can’t get drunk off that!”

“No. Mr. Sarfeesha’s rules, not mine. Take it up with him if you’ve got a problem with it.”

Calamity let out a rough sigh and dropped the potato back in the bag. There she sat and pouted, arms crossed over her bare chest. Her gaze kept travelling back to the wine as if it called out, beckoning her. She knew the tavernkeeper was as stubborn as she was determined, so she wasn’t about to waste time arguing with him again.

Instead, she stood up and said, “I’m going to check on Itchy,” before limping her way to the little broom closet in the hall. Carefully she turned the knob, peeking through the crack. Her child wasn’t sleeping as she expected. Rather, he was wide awake and playing with his toys.

“Are you ready for breakfast?” she asked. The young satyr turned to her, his furry ears drawn low.

After a brief pause, he pointed to a small pile of brown pebbles in the corner. “Ba-Ba, I shit,” he told her.

Calamity sighed, scrubbing the space between her eyes. “Don’t say ‘shit’, it’s rude. Say ‘poo’.”

“I poo, Ba-Ba.”

“You really couldn’t hold it ‘till I got here?”

Itchy shook his head. Calamity sighed once more, “It’s okay. Come on, let’s get some food.” She extended a hand and he eagerly took it. Together they returned to the kitchen, where Calamity sat on her stool again, this time with her child in her lap instead of a pile of potatoes.

Adel cut two slices from a loaf of bread. He piled mysterious ground meat onto them, then offered them to the satyrs on ceramic plates. “Eat in the kitchen,” he told them. “Mr. Sarfeesha doesn’t like customers seeing a kid in here. Makes them think they can get away with it too, and before you know it we’re a daycare.”

Calamity smiled, spoke over a full mouth, “They ain’t as special as me.”

The elf shot her a sidelong look as he piled more meat in the grinder. “Don’t think we do any of this for you, Calamity. He has a soft spot for that kid and you know it, so don’t start taking it for granted.”

The satyress let out a snort. “So, what? The day Itchy sprouts horns and leaves, you’re gonna drop me like a hot plate?”

“If it were up to me, yes.”

“You’re a jackass, Adel!” Calamity shook her head, turning away from him as she tore into her sandwich. In her lap, her child was disassembling his own sandwich into a mound of mush on his plate.

“Takes one to know one, doesn’t it?” Adel replied sharply. “Listen. I may not like you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t pity you. You’re just a kid yourself. How old, exactly? Fifteen, sixteen years?”

Calamity shrugged. “Damned if I know. My momma kept track of that stuff for me. I lost count when we parted because she never taught me what comes after twelve. That’s when she left me. Twelve years.”

“And you can’t recall how many winters you’ve seen since?”

“Nope. All my years blend together. It’s all the same shit.”

“Poo, Ba-Ba,” her child reminded her.

Calamity chuckled and wiped the food off his face with her hand. She licked her palm clean and replied, “Yes. Thank you, Itchy.”

At the long table, Adel began rolling the ground meat into balls and wrapping them in paper. “I hope he’ll be better than you,” he told the satyress. “In every respect.”

Calamity looked down at her child. Her face was burdened with a heavy weight. “I hope so too.”

*

Five days passed since Calamity was shot. When Mr. Sarfeesha peeked at her wound that evening, he didn’t like what he saw.

“Looks infected. Smells infected too,” he grunted, tossing the old gauze aside. Calamity sat on the edge of a cot in the dusty attic room, her child jumping on the thin mattress beside her. The satyress stretched her swollen leg out, gnashing her teeth as Mr. Sarfeesha poured alcohol over the wound on her thigh. The excess dripped into a bucket below.

After wrapping the wound once more, he placed his top left palm against her forehead. The lines on his face deepened ever so slightly. “You feel feverish, Cal,” he said.

The satyress nodded wearily, strands of greasy hair hanging loose in her face. “I sure do.”

Itchy stopped jumping. His brows were sagged with concern. He turned to Mr. Sarfeesha and said, “Ba-Ba owie.”

Forcing a smile, Mr. Sarfeesha rustled the child’s hair, replied, “Yes. But she’ll get better, because she’s going to stay in bed and take it easy for another week. Aren’t you, Cal?”

Calamity raised an eyebrow. “Another week? God no, I gotta get out and make some coin! I’ll rest for two more days and that’s it. Then I’m hitting the streets, sick or not.”

“You’re staying and that’s that! Food and board are on me. What do you need coin for?”

“None of your business.”

The roshava planted his bottom set of hands on his hips, one of his top hands pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have a problem, Calamity,” he said.

“The only problem here is you,” she snapped. “All this bossing me around! Who do you think you are? My father?”

“May as well be, since yours didn’t stick around and teach you anything! You’re a mess, don’t you see that?” Mr. Sarfeesha told her gruffly, tilting his head towards the child clutching her arm.

He went on, “You shat that one out on my property, and damn it, that’s gotta count for somethin’! I love that kid, Cal. I thought you’d do better for him!”

Itchy sat up straight and exclaimed, “Rude! Say ‘poo’, Grappa.”

The old roshava’s wrinkles softened once more. He took a deep breath, calmed his voice and sighed, “Right. I’m sorry, Kiddo. Grampa shouldn’t cuss like that.”

With his top set of arms, he lifted the child and held him close to his broad chest. He looked at the little satyr, then back at Calamity. After a pause, he added, “You’re trying. I see that. I suppose, well…I suppose you’re doing the best you can, under your circumstances.”

“He doesn’t cuss and he’s not violent at all,” Calamity said quickly. “So clearly I’m doing something right! Just leave me alone. Let me live my life. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“Adel told me the kid bit him three times yesterday.”

“Adel’s an ass! I’d bite him too!” Calamity spat.

Mr. Sarfeesha jabbed a finger against her shoulder and said flatly, “I know you’ve been sneakin’ booze from me. And while you’re getting drunk off my coin, Adel’s moppin’ your little one’s piss off my floors. He ain’t a babysitter—he’s my business partner. I don’t pay him to do both, so you need to show some respect. We’ve already given you much more than you deserve.”

Calamity wobbled as she shot to her hooves. She ripped her child from the roshava’s hands and shouted, “And I didn’t ask for any of it, did I? Throw me out if you hate me so much!”

Shoving passed him, she stormed out of the room and slammed the door in Mr. Sarfeesha’s face. He heard her hooves stomping noisily down each wooden step, followed by another door slamming downstairs.

The old roshava grumbled curses as he shuffled after her. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, she had shut Itchy away in the broom closet and disappeared. Mr. Sarfeesha could hear the little satyr’s muffled crying and bashing against the door. He turned to Adel, wiping a stein with a sour look on his face.

“Adel—” He began.

The elf tipped his head to the front door of the tavern and told him, “She left. Looked mad.”

“I figured…” Mr. Sarfeesha looked around at the dozens of patrons drinking and talking around him. Itchy’s crying could faintly be heard between their chatter. “I’ll go after her. Get that kid to quiet down, will ya?” He clapped Adel on the shoulder, then he too was out the door.

With a roll of his eyes, Adel told his patrons he’d return shortly before disappearing down the hall. When he wrenched the closet door open, Itchy bolted out like lightning and wailed, “Ba-Baaaaa!”

Adel acted quickly, seizing him before he could reach the bar. The little satyr wriggled in his arms and tried to bite his hand, but Adel had gotten wise to his tricks.

With that hand, he pinched Itchy’s nose and seethed, “I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with you and your worthless mother! Draw one drop of my blood again, kid, and I’ll draw every last one of yours!”

He felt the warmth of tears spill onto his fingertips as the satyr cried, “Go ‘way! Want Ba-Ba!”

Adel carried him back to the closet and dropped him onto the pile of linens. “Stop screaming! Be quiet or you’re getting the broom, do you hear me?”

At this, Itchy let out an angry, piercing shriek and lunged for the elf. He latched onto Adel’s leg, teeth sinking through his cotton pants and deep into his flesh. Adel bit back a scream of his own. His teeth gnashed tightly as he swiped the broom leaning against the wall.

He first used the handle to pry the little satyr from his calf. He then flipped it over and began beating him with the straw-end. “You horrible little animal! I’ve had enough! I can’t stand you!” he growled through gritted teeth. Itchy’s sobbing only grew more intense as he burrowed under the linens.

The straw of the broom left no bruises. Physically, it hardly harmed Itchy at all. But the sheer terror it caused him was punishment enough, and he sunk his teeth into the fabric to muffle his cries.

He knew Adel wouldn’t stop until he was quiet. And sure enough, once he had quieted, the elf tossed the broom back in the closet and slammed the door. From the other side, he said, “That’s better! Now behave yourself until your mother gets back.”

Itchy heard his footsteps fade away back to the bar. Once they were gone, he crawled out from the linens in a heap of tears, mucus, and sniffles. He searched the dim, cluttered area until he found all four of his toys. At least they were safe.

There were other things in the closet too. Things that weren’t exactly toys, but he often played with them anyway. He found a damp sponge on the floor and squeezed it. Water dripped out and made a puddle on the floorboards.

“Uh-oh,” the satyr murmured, then quickly covered the puddle with the sponge.

He could barely see it in such darkness, but he realized the mop bucket was full of water when he stuck his hand in it. His stubby tail flicked with delight, his sullen expression perking. In went his wooden horse. It floated like a boat, and it reminded him of the day he rode in a boat with his mother.

That was a scary day, but every day was scary to Itchy. He hardly remembered the incident with the angry woodsman. What he did remember was his mother’s cheers every time she hooked a fish, and the fun and excitement they had riding in a boat for the first time ever.

He became lost in his imagination as he splashed in the bucket. Adel’s beating had already become a distant memory, just noise among much greater monsters.

*

It was long after dark when Mr. Sarfeesha finally returned with Calamity. She was already drunk and covered in bruises when he found her—how or why, he couldn’t get an answer.

The moment he dragged her through the tavern door, he called to Adel, “Got her! Go on home, Adel. Sorry about that. I’ll pay you extra for your stay, just remind me next week.”

The elf stood at the bar, regarding the two with dark bags under his eyes. After filling a stein, he slid it to a thirsty patron before slipping off his apron. “Should have left her to rot,” he muttered.

“Eat shit, hob!” Calamity slurred. She lunged for the elf on unsteady hooves, but Mr. Sarfeesha restrained her with one strong arm.

With that same arm, he shoved her down the hallway and growled, “Enough out of you! Get upstairs and sober up! We’ll sort this out tomorrow when you got your head on straight.” He paused briefly. “Or straight as it can be, you screwy girl! You’re a damn mess!”

With a long string of curses, Calamity staggered off down the hallway. Mr. Sarfeesha swiped the apron from Adel and sighed as he slipped it on, “I just don’t know what to do with her.”

“Kick her to the curb, I say. She’s a bum. There’s no hope for her,” the elf said flatly. He began gathering his coat and hat from the wall.

The roshava replied, “But there’s hope for that kid! I’m an old man, Adel. He’s the closest thing I’ll have to a son next to you.”

“So what happens when he’s my age? Is old Calamity still going to be stumbling around the place, fighting with patrons and spewing on your floors? Let them go, you old fool! They’re killing you!”

Adel took off his wool hat and slapped the roshava in the face with it. Mr. Sarfeesha hardly flinched. He just picked his sullen gaze off the floor and nodded. “I know,” he said. “And I’ve tried. But I can’t. Got too many regrets in my life, and gods help me, I won’t let this be another one.”

*

Between the darkness and boredom, Calamity’s child had fallen asleep in the broom closet, waiting for her return. When the door finally opened and he saw her face, he reached for her and cried out with joy, “Ba-Ba home!”

Calamity leaned in the doorframe, looking down at Itchy through bleary, miserable eyes. They were bloodshot and glassy with intoxication, her expression twisted with many emotions at once. She stooped to pick up the little satyr, but her equilibrium failed her. She toppled forward onto the linens, nearly crushing him beneath her.

Itchy scurried away just in time. Quickly he climbed into her arms, throwing his own around her neck. “Night night, Ba-Ba?” he peeped. But Calamity didn’t answer. Emotion carved the lines in her face even deeper as she struggled to sit up. Tears gushed from her eyes, slurring through yellowed teeth as she pushed him away.

“Get off me, you flea! You tick! You did this to me!” Calamity bellowed. Itchy looked up at her from the floor, eyes wide with confusion. She buried her face in her hands and droned on, “They’re right—they’re all right about me! I’m a dirty animal and I can’t do nothin’ right! I can’t take care’a me and I can’t take care’a you either!”

The door was left ajar behind her, red candlelight pouring in from the hall. Also from the hall, Adel was approaching, holding a generous plate of sugared toast. He should have left two hours ago, but his cruelty towards the satyr child had haunted him all day.

So he stayed a bit longer to fix a treat and hopefully make amends. To apologize to Itchy for his short temper, for he knew it was not the satyr’s fault his mother caused them so much misery. He was just as much a victim of hers as Adel was. Perhaps even more so, he realized when he opened the door to a horror show.

He heard a cacophony of violent splashing, Calamity sobbing, and someone sputtering. When he peeked inside the closet, he saw the satyress hunched over a bucket of filthy old mop water. He paused, squinting in the darkness.

Then reality struck him. The plate fell from his hands, clattering loudly on the floor.

“Calamity! Stop! Stop it right now!” the elf snarled as he threw himself on top of her. They writhed and struggled, boots and hooves scuffling against the floor.

Adel tripped over the pile of linens and fell backwards, but his fingers stayed firmly clasped around Calamity’s neck. He went down and she fell against him, finally releasing her hold on her child.

Adel wasted no time clambering over her to reach the bucket. He threw his arms in and pulled Itchy out. The child was silent, motionless, soaked to the bone. He was not breathing.

Adel turned back to Calamity lying behind him, his green eyes wide with fury. “No! Gods, no! What have you done?” he growled.

He didn’t wait for an answer. The elf promptly stepped over her and rushed the child out of the room. Calamity fought to sit up, reaching towards the open doorway.

“I didn’t…I didn’t mean it…” she croaked. “I love him…”

Just a moment later, the room spun around her and sent her head crashing back to the floor. Then it all went black.

*

“It’s been two days,” Adel said wearily. “He won’t stop asking about her. He just calls and calls, and cries and cries. You have to make a decision, Talul.”

Mr. Sarfeesha leaned over his bar, head buried in all four of his hands. Adel stood on the other side, arms crossed against his chest. The sun was just beginning to rise and every table was still barren.

After a long silence, the roshava dropped his hands to the worn countertop. “The kid deserves the truth,” he muttered solemnly. “He’s just so young, I…what do I even say? How do you tell a toddler his momma’s rottin’ in the clink for life? I can’t do that, Adel!”

“Look,” the elf began, raising a palm, “if you just tell him she’s dead, that’ll be the end of it. He won’t ask questions, he won’t go looking for her…She’ll be out of his life for good, the way she should have been years ago.” He shook his head, braids swinging at his chin. “She was never fit to be a mother. Wasn’t long for this world anyway, we both know that.”

Mr. Sarfeesha took in a long breath, letting it out slow. He closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was burdened with sorrow, “Breaks my tired, old heart to see what became of her. There was a time when I had faith in her, you know.”

“I know.”

“There was a nice girl in there somewhere, Adel, I swear it. Wasn’t her fault. Somethin’ not right in her head, you could just see it in her eyes.” He sighed. “She suffered bad all her life, I’m sure. Booze probably took the edge off.”

“Well, the booze would have killed her eventually,” mentioned Adel. He wiped a stein clean and set it aside, placing a hand on Mr. Sarfeesha’s shoulder. “Don’t grieve for too long, alright? Calamity’s right where she needs to be. Can’t hurt herself or others in there, can’t drink, can’t whore herself out or put herself in danger. Isn’t that what you wanted? She’s safe now. It’s not like any great opportunity was robbed from her. If she wasn’t rotting in jail, she’d be rotting in a ditch somewhere.”

Mr. Sarfeesha glanced up at him, eyes dark under the shadow of his brow. He replied, “I know you’re right about all that. I accept it. My only concern now is that poor kid. He’s got nowhere to go, and if someone doesn’t look out for him, then he’ll be joinin’ his mother behind bars in a few years. Far as I’m concerned, he’s my responsibility now.”

“I know I can’t convince you otherwise,” said Adel, his tone broken and defeated. “I’ve done the whole ‘family’ thing myself and it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I left Zeffer with his mother because it became clear to me that I was doing more harm than good—and now you want to drop this street-kid on me so I can screw him up too? I’ll just have to wait for the regret to sink in, and then I can say ‘I told you so’.”

Mr. Sarfeesha replied, “And I told you that my life is already full of regrets. You know my biggest one, Adel? That I never did that ‘family’ thing.” He gestured around the room. “Put every last bit of my time and energy into this shit-hole, only for some wayward wench to stumble by and drop life into it. I don’t expect you to understand this, but back where I’m from, we consider that a sign from the stars.”

“I don’t believe in that ‘star’ crap,” Adel told him.

“Good. Otherwise you might end up like me,” said Mr. Sarfeesha, and then he slid out of his stool with a grunt. Before he disappeared upstairs, he added, “I’ll talk to the kid tonight. Might as well get that attic room cleaned up…He’ll outgrow that old closet soon enough.”

*

There wasn’t an empty seat in the bar. The room was thick with cigar smoke and drunken laughter. Over the chatter and clinking glasses, Adel hollered towards the kitchen, “Get out here with those rolls, boy! We got people waiting, come on!”

Back in the kitchen, a young satyr boy rushed towards the oven. In his haste, he forgot the potholder and burned his hand on the hot metal handle. With a hiss and a loud curse, he shoved his fingers in his mouth to soothe them.

He searched all around for the potholders, and by the time he found them, the rolls were burning.

Drunk patrons impatiently yelled at Adel from the tables, “What’s the hold up?”

“I want my food!”

“I’m still waiting!”

“I know, I know! It’s a madhouse tonight, give us a break!” the elf called back, sliding another drink down the bar. Finally the satyr boy emerged from the kitchen with a tray of cheese rolls.

“They’re done!” he announced proudly, and presented them to Adel.

The elf cocked an eyebrow. He barked, “Is this a joke? Itchy, they’re black as night! I wouldn’t feed these to a dog, much less our customers!” He let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his long nose. “I’ll go make them myself. Just…just stay out here and if you see a mess, clean it. You can handle that, can’t you?”

Itchy set the tray of blackened rolls on the bar and nodded. Sheepishly he mumbled, “Sorry I screw up again…”

Adel sighed, patted his head and forced a strained, “Do better. That’s all I ask.”

Adel disappeared into the kitchen. Itchy picked up the pail of soapy water on the floor, the very same the elf used to clean the tables. But the pail was heavy and Itchy was small—just six years old.

Laboriously dragging the pail across the room, Itchy didn’t notice the slosh of the water or the way it left a wet, soapy trail behind him. He brought it to the smattering of muddy footprints by the door and began to scrub at them. Water gushed from the rag, making a pool around him.

The child was on his knees, scrubbing the floorboards with all his might. The puddle spread to his knees and soaked the front of his overalls. “Uh-oh,” he murmured. He dropped the rag and tried to rise to his feet. But his hooves slipped on the soapy water and down he went once more, splashing down into the pail.

The pail fell on its side, water spilling forth like a breeched dam. The child was soaked from head to toe, and then he was screeching above all the other noise in the tavern.

Patrons fell silent and looked his way. First they saw the satyr boy flailing and screaming on the floor, and then they saw Mr. Sarfeesha walk through the front doors with a crate of eggs in his arms.

Everyone saw the disaster coming, but no one was quick enough to stop it as the old roshava slipped on the water. Eggs flew everywhere, splattered all over him, the boy, and the floor.

Just seconds after, Adel returned from the kitchen with a tray of hot rolls. He too fell victim to the trail of water, and the rolls and the eggs made soup on the floorboards.

Some of the customers were struck silent. Others broke out into laughter. Mr. Roshava let out a long groan as he struggled to sit up, surveying the disaster around him. The wind was knocked from his chest as Itchy threw himself against him. The child sobbed, “The water get me! It get me, Grappa!”

The old man blinked, stunned into silence for a long moment. He looked at the pail, tipped over on the floor. He looked at Adel, slowly picking himself up among the fresh-baked rolls. Then he looked back at the child and patted his wet head. “Looks like it got me ‘n Adel too,” he rasped.

“That’s it!” Adel growled. He pointed right at Itchy as he stormed to the scene. “I’ve had it! I’m gonna kill that kid!”

“Adel!” Mr. Sarfeesha rose up, holding the child in his bottom set of arms as he restrained the elf with the top set. “Whatever happened here, you know it was an accident!”

“I don’t care! I’m gonna wring his damn neck! Come here, you little snot!” the elf snarled, fighting uselessly against Mr. Sarfeesha’s iron grip. The roshava turned to the patrons, all looking back at him in silence.

With a strained smile, he queried, “Everyone having a good night?”

The tension drifted away as the crowd began to laugh. One elven customer stumbled forth and said, “Hey, me ‘n my buddies will take care of this mess, Mr. Sarfeesha! Do what you gotta do!”

The roshava approached the patron with his top right arm extended. They shared a firm handshake. Mr. Sarfeesha told him, “I appreciate it. Tell your buddies they’ll get a free round tonight.”

Adel turned to his boss in disbelief. He trailed him down the hall as he carried the whimpering satyr to the stairs. “Do you think it’s wise to just hemorrhage coin like that?” the elf asked. “The brat already pissed away a tray of dough today, plus the dough I lost, plus the eggs, and—”

“My concern isn’t coin, my friend,” Mr. Sarfeesha told him, gesturing towards the bar. “It’s people. You take care of people, they take care of you. As you just saw.” He patted Itchy’s back. “Right now, I’m gonna take care of this little guy. And in a few years, who knows? Maybe he’ll pay it back.”

“At this rate, you’ll be dead by then,” grumbled Adel.

Mr. Sarfeesha shrugged, “Then he can pay it forward. Anyway, get back out there and straighten things up. I’ll be down in a while.” That said, he made his way up the stairs.

Adel stood at the bottom step and watched him go, wearing a surly frown all the while. Once Mr. Sarfeesha disappeared through the attic door, he turned and left with a long-suffering sigh.

*

The attic was dim and musty. A rickety cot sat in the center of the room, a dresser off to the side, and not much else in the way of furniture. Toys, dishes, and clothes were strewn all around the floor. The small window was almost opaque with mold and grime.

Mr. Sarfeesha set the sniffling child on the dresser and pulled open the drawers. Empty. So he fished through the clothes on the floor to find what smelled the least offensive. “I thought I told you to do the laundry yesterday,” he said.

Itchy’s gaze fell to his swinging hooves. “I forgot.”

“You need to try harder to be responsible, Itchy. It’s important.” Mr. Sarfeesha gestured vaguely towards the door. “You don’t wanna be like the customers, do ya? Bummin’ around and drinkin’ all day long? They got no responsibilities, see. There’s no pride in that kind of life.”

“I sorry, Grappa.”

“S’alright. Lift your arms, let’s get you out of those wet clothes.”

Itchy obeyed, an overwhelming sense of freedom washing over him as the clothes were peeled away. He never liked to wear them, he was told, and used to take them off all the time as if they somehow offended him. As if he were an animal, Adel would say.

He was just a baby then. Itchy hardly remembered anything from those years; it was all a blur. He once had a mother, that he knew. But her face, her voice, her time with him, was lost in the chaos. Mr. Sarfeesha told him that she died from a sickness. He never even told Itchy her name. “It ain’t important,” he said. “I raised you, not her. She’s nobody to you, kid.”

Mr. Sarfeesha moved in to slip a cotton shirt on the child. He stopped, wrinkled his nose and said, “Gettin’ splashed out there was the closest thing you’ve had to a bath in weeks, wasn’t it?”

“No bath! No bath!” Itchy suddenly screeched, kicking and flailing at the roshava.

“Hey, hey, calm down! I ain’t giving you a bath tonight, but…I think you need a scrub-down, at least.”

Itchy shook his head. “No!”

“You smell like an outhouse, kiddo, and your fleas are worse than they’ve ever been! Come on, it’ll only take a minute,” Mr. Sarfeesha told him, and he carried the child down the stairs and into the shower room.

The space was cramped, walls and floors of stone with a drain in the center of the floor. A ten-gallon keg sat on a shelf above, its spout acting as a shower. Itchy struggled and protested, but he was no match for the roshava’s grip.

Wetting a rag under the keg’s trickle, Mr. Sarfeesha began to scrub the visible layer of grime from the child’s skin.

“Water scary!” Itchy cried. “I don’t like it! Go ‘way!”

Mr. Sarfeesha’s expression fell, his brow sagged with heavy guilt. “Water won’t do nothin’ to you,” he assured the boy.

“Water hugged me and not letted go!”

“It’s done no such thing, Itchy. It was just a dream.”

“No was not!”

What should have been a quick sponge bath turned into a long ordeal, and by the end of it, the child was still riddled with fleas. He finally managed to wriggle out of Mr. Sarfeesha’s grip and bolted off down the hall. The old roshava called it quits then, threw the rag down and got to his feet with a weary groan.

In that moment, Adel poked his head in the doorway and said, “Business isn’t slowing down out here, but I am! I need help! What’s taking you?”

“Hold your horses, I’m coming…” grumbled Mr. Sarfeesha. He walked with the elf back down the hall, the front of his clothes splattered with water.

“You smell like a wet dog,” mentioned Adel.

The roshava replied, “Yeah. Got fleas like one too.”

“The whole place is infested. That kid’s a walking biohazard, Talul. You have to bathe him more than once a month.”

“You’re preachin’ to the choir, Adel! It’s just hard, you know? Feels like I’m torturing him, I can’t stand it…”

“He’ll have to get over it eventually,” the elf snapped. “His mother did him no favors with that blunder, but neither are you by coddling him. Gods help me, if he turns into another Calamity, you can kiss my ass goodbye. I won’t tolerate it!”

Mr. Sarfeesha raised a palm, told him sternly, “Won’t happen. Kid’s a little, uh…slow, it seems. But he’s not a lost cause. Nice little guy, has a good heart. He’s a hard worker and he loves to help.”

“Loves to destroy the place even more…” Adel grumbled.

*

Itchy’s celebrated his ninth birthday. Little did he know it was not his true birthday; it was the anniversary of his near-drowning in the broom closet, and the day his mother was incarcerated for the attempted murder of a child.

He didn’t need that kind of darkness in his life, Mr. Sarfeesha thought. For all things considered, Itchy was a bouncy, happy child who longed only for approval and affection. Though between Adel’s impatience and Itchy’s incompetence, those things were in short supply.

The old tavernkeeper was only getting older. His posture was sinking, his joints stiffening, and the cracks on his face were becoming canyons. It was getting too hard to chase the satyr child around and force him to do what needed to be done. So Itchy continued to live up to his name and made peace with his parasites.

On this special day, Itchy was excused from work. He spent all afternoon playing in Taybiya’s busy plaza, where he climbed trees and threw pinecones at villagers down below. He snickered from his hiding place in the leaves every time his victims cursed and shook their fists at gravity.

But now it was getting dark, and Mr. Sarfeesha always told him to come home before the daylight matched the shadows on the ground. Itchy returned to the tavern, returned to the bustling bar that smelled of smoke and booze and vomit.

Adel spotted him coming through the door and called, “Mr. Sarfeesha wants to see you, boy! Get up to his office!”

The little satyr flinched. Was he in trouble? Had someone tattled on him for throwing pinecones? Only one way to find out, so he cautiously made his way up the stairs.

There was a short hallway here and additional stairs that led to the attic. Itchy passed several doors in the hall—forbidden rooms, he was told—and sheepishly poked his head through the office door.

Mr. Sarfeesha was hunched over his desk, writing upon a piece of yellowed parchment. Perhaps he wasn’t in trouble, for the roshava regarded him with a warm smile.

He set the parchment aside and said, “There you are! Come here, kiddo. I got a birthday present for ya.”

Itchy’s tail twitched with excitement, sticking out of the custom hole in his overalls. He bounced over to the tavernkeeper’s side and exclaimed, “What is it?”

Reaching under his desk, Mr. Sarfeesha pulled up a wooden stringed instrument. Itchy tilted his head at it, flashing a questioning look at the roshava.

“It’s a lute,” Mr. Sarfeesha explained. “You know those bands that play here sometimes? Well, one of ‘em gave me a good deal on this. It’s got a lot of years on it, but I bet it’s played more songs than I know how to count.” He handed it to the child. Itchy carefully took the instrument and turned it around in his hands. The wood was worn and scratched.

Itchy plucked a string, ears twitching at the sharp note. He plucked another string and made a much lower note. Then he looked up at Mr. Sarfeesha with an ear-to-ear grin and said, “It’s amazing! I love you, lute! I’ll love you forever and ever!” He bounced in place, hugging the instrument close like a doll.

Mr. Sarfeesha chuckled, rustling his overgrown, curly hair. “I knew you’d like it. Adel told me ‘no noisemakers’, but…well, I think it’s important to have some kind of skill. And I know you’re not really the cookin’ or cleanin’ type. You’re more the creative type, ain’t ya? All that scribbling on my walls…”

Leaning back in his chair, he folded all four of his hands over his belly and went on, “There’s someone else gonna be living here soon, a good friend of Adel’s. She’s a real good musician. She said she’ll teach you how to play that thing.”

Itchy’s ears shot straight up, eyes rounding like coins. “A lady’s gonna live with us? Are you getting married, Grappa?”

“No, no, no!” the roshava laughed. “She’s gonna work for me. She’s a, uh…entertainer. I think she’ll bring some more money through here. And you know what I’m gonna do with that money?”

The young satyr shook his head. Mr. Sarfeesha tapped his nose and finished, “I’m gonna send you to school. One of those fancy ones up in Folkvar Kingdom. You can get yourself some book-smarts, then if you feel so inclined, maybe you’ll wanna come back and help Adel run this dump after I’m gone.”

Itchy’s expression suddenly fell, brow sagging down with his ears. “Gone? Are you going away? Don’t go away!”

Mr. Sarfeesha patted his shoulder and told him softly, “I’m not goin’ anywhere if I can help it. But I ain’t no divine—one day I’ll get old and pass on. That’s just the way it is. When that happens, I want you to be able to care for yourself.”

“I don’t wanna!” The child’s voice creaked. He dropped the lute and jumped in Mr. Sarfeesha’s lap, clinging to him like a monkey to a tree. “You have to live forever! Don’t die and leave me like Ba-Ba! That’s not fair, Grappa!”

His wrinkled brow creased with guilt, Mr. Sarfeesha wrapped all four arms around the boy and patted his back. “You’re right, it ain’t fair at all. Life ain’t fair to a lot of us. But you know what we do?”

He lifted the child’s chin, looked him in his steel-gray eyes and said, “We do the best we can with what we got. A man born to a mason builds a house of bricks. A man born to a shit-shoveler builds a house of shit. But what matters is that they both made a home for themselves.”

Itchy sniffled, “I don’t wanna live in a shit-house.”

Mr. Sarfeesha patted his back once more, “I don’t want you to either. So always do your best, okay? Promise?”

The little satyr nodded. “I’ll try.”

“And quit that cussin’, you know that’s rude.”

“But you cussed first!”

“Well, I’m grown!”

Setting the child back on his feet, Mr. Sarfeesha pushed the lute back in his hands and said, “Your momma never liked that foul-talk out of you. She wanted you to be a better person than her, and I want you to be a better person than me. Who knows? You might just make us proud, Kiddo.”

*

Iriana’s claws danced over the strings of her lute with surgical precision. Her melodies were flawless yet soulless, impressive yet technical, as if she had learned to play them strictly with her hands instead of her heart. Never did she deviate from her sheet music—not even a fraction.

Itchy watched her, mesmerized by the speed of her fingers. Her lute was unlike his. It was made of gleaming dark wood and embellished with fancy engravings, likely very expensive. Too expensive to be trusted in Itchy’s grimy little hands, so he plucked at his own grimy little lute, struggling to copy her notes.

“I can’t do it,” he whined. “I can’t do anything right!”

Iriana offered a smile, exposing sharp fangs when she told him, “You will get back exactly what you put in.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Itchy pouted.

“It means you don’t deserve beautiful music,” she explained, “because you haven’t spent enough time on it yet. I spent a lot of my money on this beautiful instrument, and I spent a lot of my time learning how to play it. So must you. Now, let’s try again…”

Her fingers danced over the strings once more. Itchy leaned forward, watching carefully. A month ago he refused to be in the same room as Iriana, much less sit beside her on the staircase like he was today.

She struck terror in his heart when she first walked through the door, for she was a towering succubus with great, twisting horns and fangs like a snake. Bat-like wings sprouted from her back, and below them was a long, hairless tail.

Her skin was red like Mr. Sarfeesha’s, but its tone was deeper like the fine wine shut away in the kitchen. Her sleek, black hair fell loose down her body, down to her shapely hips. She was a monster, Adel told the boy, and that meant she had no soul.

But having no soul did not make her wicked, despite what so many of the townsfolk said. They feared her just like Itchy used to. However, Iriana showed the child nothing but warmth and kindness since she arrived, and by now he had grown to trust her.

She only showed up at night just as Adel was leaving. She never cooked or cleaned or made drinks. Instead, she played music in the bar and then patrons would take her into the forbidden rooms upstairs. If it was a slow night, she gave Itchy lute lessons.

It was well after midnight, but Itchy had no kind of bedtime anymore. Mr. Sarfeesha had grown too old and tired to enforce such a thing. He didn’t enforce much of anything these days, it seemed, for he’d been so busy in his office.

The other children of Taybiya didn’t like Itchy much. They threw rocks at him and called him “dirty” and “dumb”. So he spent his days in the safety of the tavern with the closest thing to a family he had: Mr. Sarfeesha, Adel, and now Iriana.

*

The years passed by, each one the same as the last. Things never changed much in Taybiya, much less the dingy little tavern. Same old patrons, same old chores, same old problems.

But Itchy couldn’t imagine anything else. His world was small, and likewise was his imagination.

Itchy did not wish or dream. He did not think about the future nor the past. He simply did his menial chores every day, sneaked a sip of booze when he could, and strummed his lute. Life was good here at the tavern, he thought. Mr. Sarfeesha cared for him, Iriana played with him, and Adel…Well, Adel tolerated him at least.

Now Itchy was twelve years old. It was getting harder to ignore his growing size, his changing voice, and his worsening stench. Stubby black horns had sprouted from his forehead, and that meant he was old enough to leave his mother, according to Mr. Sarfeesha.

But Itchy didn’t have a mother to leave. Not anymore. So he stayed at the tavern, changing and changing while nothing changed around him.

Until today.

The moment the morticians arrived to gather the body, Itchy knew things would never be the same again. He clung tightly to Iriana, spilling tears onto her dress as he watched Mr. Sarfeesha leave the tavern on a stretcher. He had died sometime in the night of mysterious causes.

Opening time came and passed, and Mr. Sarfeesha still hadn’t done his morning chores. When Itchy went to wake him, he simply didn’t wake. Iriana just happened to stay the night, as she sometimes did when her clients kept her late. She was there to comfort Itchy after she heard him screaming, running up and down the halls in a hopeless panic.

The morticians would determine the true cause of death in time. Until then, Adel was left to sort the tavernkeeper’s affairs. Itchy looked up at the elf beside him. Adel hadn’t a tear in his eye, though his expression was heavy with…something. The young satyr couldn’t place the emotion.

Clearing his throat, Adel leaned towards Iriana and asked, “You got the key?”

The succubus was embracing Itchy with one hand, and with the other she reached between her cleavage and pulled out a silver key. She silently handed it to Adel, who tipped his head and made his way up the stairs.

Itchy’s breath hitched when he asked, “What was that?”

“Don’t worry about it. You have enough troubles on your mind,” Iriana told him. She placed her hands on his shoulders and began leading him to an empty table.

All of the tables in the bar were empty, for it was Mr. Sarfeesha who usually opened shop. There would be no business today.

Itchy sat in the rickety chair, dropping his face into his arms as he sobbed. “Adel and I have a lot of work to do now,” said Iriana. “Just take it easy. We’ll sort everything out, okay?”

“I miss him! I want him back! Make him come back, Iriana!” Itchy cried.

The succubus’ painted lips curved into a frown. “If I had that kind of power, I wouldn’t work in a rat’s nest like this,” she said. “Mr. Sarfeesha is gone and there is nothing that can be done. We’ll just have to move on with our lives. That’s what he would want, don’t you think? Not all this crying and grief.” She gently dragged her claw under his eye, wiping the tears away.

She stepped behind the bar counter, clinking glasses and bottles for a moment. When she returned to Itchy, she set a shot glass and a full bottle of whisky before him. “Just this once,” she began, “you can have as much as you like. It numbs the pain and takes the edge off these difficult feelings.”

The succubus poured the first shot and slid it towards him. Itchy sniffled, wiping his eyes with the balls of his hands. With no hesitation, he knocked back the shot. Before she could pour another, he snatched the bottle and began sucking it down.

Iriana offered a gentle smile and stroked a lock of his long, curly hair. Then she turned and left, her heeled shoes clacking against every step of the creaky old stairs.

*

“In the event of my death, I, Talul Sarfeesha, grant full ownership of The Twenty-Fingers Tavern to my friend and business partner, Adel Vengelor, as well as the balances within my business accounts.

You’ve always been the method to my madness, Adel. I trust that you will make wise decisions and find success where I couldn’t. Much love and best wishes to you, my dearest friend.

To my employee, Iriana Liatt, I grant my collection of fine wines. Though we did not always see eye to eye, I appreciate all that you’ve done for myself and my business. You’re a gifted young lady. May you find the fortune you’re looking for, and may you never look back.

To my godson, Itchy, I grant the balance of my personal account under the condition of a trustfund, which may be used for schooling expenses.

Itchy, I know life can be a cruel and unforgiving thing, and not all of us are dealt the same hand. You may have been born in a trough of shit (pardon my language), but then again, so are pretty flowers and the crops that feed us. We can’t choose where we came from, but we can choose where we go next.

Do your best with what you got, kiddo. All you are is all you are.

Signed,

Talul Sarfeesha”

The will trembled in Adel’s hands. The elf stood before the safe in Mr. Sarfeesha’s office. Morning light pushed through the slatted blinds and pooled at his feet, the air still and lifeless and so very heavy on his shoulders.

A tear dropped onto the yellowed parchment, smudging the ink. Adel folded it up and tucked it into his pocket, pushing the safe closed.

“Forgive my wretched, filthy soul,” he croaked, and then he was gone. The door clicked softly behind him.

*