A Maid of the Kentucky Hills Part 24

The Satyr jerked a grimy thumb toward the window which had just admitted him.

"Out thur on th' binch. 'S wropped up 'n' th' jew won't hurt it."

In the short silence which followed, we got our pipes to going.

"Was that you whistling a while ago?" I continued, after waiting vainly for my visitor to say something voluntarily.

"That's me a-play'n'."

"Playing?"

"Yes, play'n' a reed. Fus' thing ever I got music out o'."

Again his hand was hidden in his tatters for a moment, and came out with what appeared to be a long, slender stick. This he placed to his mouth after the manner of a clarinet player, and blew a pure, flute-like note.

Then I saw the instrument was hollow, with little round holes along its length.

"Pipes o' Pan, by Jove!" I breathed. "Make me some music, Satyr."

Already I was aware of the effect of that mouthful of white lightning. A slow but sure elation was beginning to buoy me up unnaturally, and I felt the ebullience of spirit such as follows the knowledge of some great joy.

"Pipe for me, you heathen minstrel!" I added, smiling at him with narrowed eyes. "Draw from that piece of wood the things the birds, and the trees, and the brooks, and the flowers have told you. Trill me a moonlight roundelay, such as inspires the feet of fairies; make me see the wood violets nodding in the warm dusk, and let me hear the drone of bees in the tiger-lily's cup. Sound for me the dream-song of the runlet, as it whispers and babbles over its pebbly bed and between its moss-draped banks in the silver starlight. Bring me the low love-message of the dove when the breeze is but a sigh, and the witch-light from a sun just sunk fills all the forest with a chastened radiance, and makes it one vast sanctuary upheld by a million pillars. It is there your patron lives--the great G.o.d Pan! Tell me not you've never heard him by the river bank o' quiet days, when the squirrels sleep, and the chipmunks drowse, and the birds forget their tunes. Belike you've never seen him, for to mortals he remains ever invisible; but you, O Satyr, are most surely a cousin, if not nearer kin, and it may be you and he have danced many a baccha.n.a.lian revel together. Dost know him--the great G.o.d Pan? Goat-legged, horn-headed, pleasure-loving, with his pipes to while the time?"

I did not stop to consider that this outburst was jargon pure and simple to the ears which received it. My mind had suddenly become gorged with poetic thoughts, and I poured them out upon the helpless head of Jeff Angel.

"Fur Gawd's sake!--air yo' plum' gone?" he exclaimed, in unfeigned alarm, casting a rapid glance around as though meditating flight.

"That's what your juice did for me," I explained, laughing to rea.s.sure him of my sanity. "One more swallow, then we'll have a tune!"

We pledged each other from our respective bottles, and the Satyr played.

Again I find myself hampered, for I cannot translate that performance through the medium of words. It was the most astounding exhibition I have ever listened to. His work on the violin had been entirely beyond the range of my comprehension, but then the dormant possibilities were in the violin. What was there in this slender reed? Unguessed miracles of sound! I sat and stared at the grotesque form on the box, wondering at first if I really was so intoxicated that my imagination was acting the ally for this vagabond artist. No, the ability of this uncouth musician was real, and my appreciation was only heightened by the subtle power of the draught of mountain dew. As I sat and puffed in lazy contentment, many a woodland pageant pa.s.sed before my eyes. I saw all the things for which I had asked, and more. Beneath his hands the dumb reed became a sentient power; became a living, speaking force. Nature's infinite secrets dropped from it in purest pearls of sound. I heard the twitter of birds; the love-call, the anger-cry, the alarm-shriek, the mother-croon. I heard the wailing sweep of the wind when the storm gathers and hurls its invisible battalions upon the countless army of trees. I heard the wordless lisp of the matin zephyr when a new, fresh breath moves across the world at dawn. I heard the vesper sigh like a prayer from tired lips. I heard the whistle of the dove's wing in its startled flight, and the quail's liquid call. I heard the holy hymn of midnight when the moon hangs big and yellow, and the numberless strings of the Ancient Harp vibrate softly to her summons. I heard the sweet purling of running water, and the barely audible echo of an insect's hum.

I had no word of praise or compliment when Jeff took the pipe from his lips and carelessly laid it aside. What I had just given ear to was beyond plat.i.tude or fervent adjective; beyond comment. Silence was the only true meed which might be accorded it, and this I gave.

Jeff sighed, twisted his shoulders as though to rid himself of a cramp, ran his tongue over his lips, and picked up his bottle.

"Wuz that whut yo' wanted w'en yo' 's talk'n' out o' yo' head?" he ventured, with a coy, sideways movement of his chin.

I nodded. Here was a combination worthy of profound study. Totally unlearned, depraved but not debased, with a soul so full of music that even his besotted state had no power against it. I failed to understand.

For an hour thereafter I strove with all the skill at my command, used every artifice, to draw the Satyr out, and make him tell what he knew.

In vain. He saw through each device; he avoided each veiled trap. He drank often, and good-naturedly insisted that I should imbibe every time he did. There was no help for it, but presently I was taking no more than a thimbleful at a time, for I realized that my condition was becoming most uncertain. Jeff seemed proof against the stuff, for he poured it down recklessly, without any noticeable effect. But when he arose to his feet after a while to feel in his trousers pocket for a match, I saw results. He giggled, swayed, and quite suddenly sat down again. I hospitably got up to supply his needs from a box on the mantel, when to my dismay and great surprise I discovered that the room was beginning to turn around and the furniture to do a silent jig. I drew my face down sternly to rebuke myself for this hallucination, and started determinedly toward the mantel. Where was the mantel? As I sat it was to my left. When I stood it was in front. Now it was to my _back_! I whirled angrily, and b.u.mped into Jeff Angel, who had risen to renew the investigation of his trousers--I mean pants. Jeff didn't wear trousers; he wore pants--and that's too dignified a name for them. We b.u.mped, instinctively grappled, and naturally came to the floor. Jeff fell on top; I felt that abominable chin-tuft tickling my neck. I pushed him off, and in a few moments we had gained what I shall term an oblique perpendicular. That is, both his feet and mine were on the floor, but his were some distance away from mine, and we were mutually supported by our intertwined arms. He regarded me with a watery leer, and one eyebrow tilted, while I endeavored to look very dignified; with what success I of course cannot say.

"Y's d.a.m.n good feller!" averred my cup companion, blinking laboredly.

I managed to move my feet forward a little, and to straighten my leaning body correspondingly. Then I bethought me that I was host, and my guest wanted a match. I looked for the mantel; it was not in sight. I turned gravely to my _vis-a-vis_.

"Whersh man'l?" I asked, when a weakening of my waist muscles caused me to bend forward and then back in a most awkward manner.

Instead of replying to my question, the Satyr, with eyes gla.s.sily set on vacancy, began some more of his infernal doggerel.

"Possum live in a holler tree, Racc.o.o.n any ol' place; Rabbit takes a drink o' booze 'N' spits in a bulldog's face!"

This cla.s.sic quatrain was delivered after repeated efforts, and I bowed my approval as the silly sing-song came to an end.

Just how it was managed I cannot say to-night, as I sit with aching head and write the story of my shame, but in some way we found our original seats.

"Hongry, ain't yo'?" asked Jeff, with what I thought a sardonic look.

"No 'm not 'ung'y."

"Yes yo' air--hongry fur news! Huh? He! He! He!"

I swallowed, and fixed on him a stony stare. He was going to relent.

"I's hongry onct--belly hongry--'n' yo' give me good grub. Now yo're hongry--heart hongry--'n' I'm a-goin' to fill yo' plum' up!"

I essayed to cross my knees to a.s.sure myself that I was actually all right, but something went wrong with my lifted leg. It fell short, slid down my other s.h.i.+n, and lodged on the instep in a most unique twist. I let it remain. Bemused as I was almost to the point of helplessness, I yet knew that the Satyr had far greater control of his faculties than myself, despite the enormous quant.i.ty of poison he had consumed. I could listen acutely, however, if my speech was difficult.

"Go on," I encouraged, doing the two monosyllables without a hitch.

"Th' gal lied to th' pries' 'n' th' pries' tol' Granny, didn't he?"

This abrupt and startling declaration almost dazed me.

"Howje know?"

"I's to th' P'int t'other day; jes' drapped 'roun' 'n' heerd d'rec'ly thur'd ben a tur'ble stew. Granny tol' me 'bout it, 'n' how she'd druv yo' off on 'count o' whut th' pries's niece tol' 'im. She lied, though, sho!"

"Howje know?"

"Granny 'lowed yo' said so, but I knowed it w'en it hap'n'd, 'cus I'm al'ays perk'n' 'roun' in onexpected places. I wander consid'ble."

"Whurruz zhe?"

"That vine-house ain't fur frum th' hedge, 'n' I jes' hap'n'd to be layin' 'long t'other side 'n' heerd all yo' said. So I ups 'n' 'lows to Granny 'n' Lessie that you tol' th' truth 'n' th' gal lied, 'cus I heerd ever'thin'."

"Whusshe do?"

"She sot thur lak a mud woman, a-wink'n' 'n' a-swaller'n', her mouth hung open lak a dead fish's--"

"Whus _she_ do?--Lesshe?"

"She hugged Granny, 'n' she hugged Gran'fer, 'n' she hugged me, 'n' ez she's hugg'n' me she tol' me we'd go runnin' that night, jes' on 'count o' th' good news I'd brung."

"I shaw you."

"Huh?"