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As satyr protectors went, Heather Fairfield felt like she’d had a pretty good track record so far.
No one had died, for starters. Might think that’d be a higher bar to clear, but you’d be surprised. She’d stayed on decent terms with most of her charges, once they got to camp. Got an awesome best friend out of one of her missions too.
Seriously, if she ever got a Zeus-boon or something, she might just wish that all of the kids she was sent to fetch and guide were super chill and cool Demeter kids from the prettiest part of Appalachia, who all had really cool and welcoming and vegetarian families with great music taste and cooking skills.
But, then again, where would the adventure be in that?
Many a demi seemed to think that the satyrs just kind of sprung into being – or, as Heather annoyingly often encountered, were all guys.
C’mon people. Where do you think little satyrs come from?
That said, it was kind of nice that the Cloven Village was a little less traveled. It wasn’t exactly hidden from camp, of course – the small town just didn’t mind that most everyone else seemed to not notice them.
Granted, the dwellings were part of the forest in ways that blurred human ideas of indoors vs outdoors – houses and fences sung and sewn into being from trees and vines, or buildings or paths built from river-rock and clay, but all flowing naturally into the woodland landscape around them.
This didn’t mean the village was completely cut-off culturally, of course. Plenty of satyrs liked modern music or fashion, they just liked fitting that sort of thing into their natural living situation. You can enjoy 70s classic rock or a contemporary boyband or glittery eyeshadow or bright hair clips, and still live like your Pan ancestors (Pancestors?) had.
There wasn’t really a single ‘typical’ satyr family structure. Some lived alone and wandered, on the Search or just on their own; some went out to the wider world, adventuring with demigods; some settled down at this or any other village, by themselves, or as couples, or had big families.
The Fairfields fell into the last category.
Heather’s mom had been a half-blood guide, and later a full-fledged Searcher when she was younger; her dad had never really been interested in travel, instead keeping things running around the forest-farm. Strawberries and other produce weren’t going to tend themselves.
They were supportive of her quests, though. Most satyrs Heather’s age wanted to get involved: some blend of ‘cosmic duty ordained by Olympus’ and ‘teens want to go on adventures and play with the other kids up the road.’
“Here, try again.”
Heather tossed her little cousin the staff that she had smoothly just disarmed him of.
Despite his aspirations – and upcoming first quest – little Grover Underwood was not as up on his melee combat as Heather would like him to be.
Technically, they weren’t actual cousins – well, maybe distantly – but he was the younger satyr who lived across the glen, and their moms were friends since they were kids, so close enough.
Grover gripped the staff hard, brown eyes wide and wary and staring at the one that Heather was smoothly spinning from hand to hand. His horns were still barely starting, not even yet visible through his thick black hair, but he managed to pluck at them nervously anyway.
“Heather, I don’t think - ”
“Just one block, dude. One block, one pass.” She raised her own to the ready, prompting him to do the same.
She smoothly spun hers overhead, somewhere between a two-handed sword move and spear-like, swinging it down crisply. Grover bleated in surprise and fear and closed his eyes tight, but raised his own in time to catch the blow.
“OK, good, now move!”
She spun her own back to her side, re-orienting it, then thrust it out in a stab. Grover stumbled sideways, all thoughts of keeping his weapon ready falling aside, just loosely clasping his staff to his chest as he dodged, barely managing to not trip over his own hooves.
Heather could see that, so didn’t think it would do any good to keep up staff-spear training for this afternoon.
“Well, you moved.” She gave him a small laugh as she walked to a nearby fallen log and sat down. “That’s progress.”
“I don’t know if I’m ever gonna be good at this.” Grover tried to emulate her, attempting a baton-like spin, but only managed to awkwardly throw his staff across the clearing. It thwacked against the trunk of a huge old tree, bounced askew and landed some distance away in a bushy carpet of ferns poking up through the leafy forest floor.
The loud hit startled a barred owl out of its roost - it swooped low, furious squawking and screeching at Grover, before disappearing up into the canopy again.
Heather made a mental note to do an offering to Athena later that night, before the owl would have a chance to gossip too harshly.
This whole exchange made Grover look even more defeated. “I’m really not gonna get good at this.”
“Well, you’re…” Heather was going to simply reply ‘you’re not,’ but figured that was kind of harsh.
“…you’re getting better.”
After the owl had disappeared, Grover had run after the stick to retrieve it, hooves snapping over the autumn’s downed twigs as he searched through the underbrush.
“I – um – thank you?” he called back, distractedly.
“…if you can’t find it, it’s fine, we can use a different one next time.”
Another few moments, and Grover meekly trotted back over, head down, nervously tugging at his hair.
Even if he didn’t seem quite cut out for combat, Heather figured it would be best to end the afternoon on a positive note. She wrapped her arm around his shoulders, bonking her head into his affectionately.
Grover still was uneasy.
“I’m sorry I lost it, it’s - ”
“Hey, it’s OK, they literally grow on trees. Don’t worry so much.”
That got him to laugh a little, so Heather was willing to call it a success.
The sun was low, starting to drift toward the orange of dusk, filtering through the deep green boughs of the conifers overhead, catching the golds and yellows of the rest of the woods and leaf-litter around them.
Grover still seemed tense.
“What’re you thinking about?”
“My quest,” he said, bluntly, lip quivering in trepidation. “What’s it like?”
“They’re all different. Depends where your half-blood is, who’s their parent, all that stuff. So you’ve gotta stay flexible. But it’s OK, just, y’know, trust yourself. Don’t get eaten. Be smart.”
Grover thought that all of that seemed much easier said than done.
With two younger brothers – however cantankerous and difficult they could be – Heather had learned at least one or two things about helping a younger satyr with anxieties. Sometimes vocalizing exact stuff could help.
“What, specifically, are you scared of?”
Grover let out a sort of whine before speaking. “What if – what if I’m not good enough?”
That was still rather vague, but at least was something to work with.
“Well, just don’t mess up,” Heather said, like it was an obvious answer.
That did not really help. Grover looked no less fretful.
“But, what if it’s something big?”
“Chiron won’t send you after anything too bad, not for your first go. C’mon, most half-bloods aren’t that different from humans. We pick ‘em up, get ‘em here, all’s well that ends well. Sometimes their parents even help out.”
While that was true, Heather scoffed anyway. A godly parent’s idea of ‘help’ could vary wildly .
Talking about a hypothetical god getting involved seemed to only change the timbre of Grover’s worry.
“What if….I don’t know, what if there’s a Big Three kid I have to take care of? And the other two get mad at me, and I have to try to protect them from monsters and the other gods? And what if - ”
Heather laughed, a harsh and goatlike noise, cutting him off. “You’ve got an imagination, kid.”
“It’s possible!” Grover squeaked. “And they’d attract worse monsters, right?”
“There aren’t any - ”
“But what if there are ?!?”
“Grover, buddy, look.” Heather turned on the log, drawing her legs up to sit cross-legged and face him head on. Her long, bushy hair had acquired a couple of leaves drifting down on the wind since they’d been out there, so she took a second to shake them free.
Grover obeyed, looking at her with the biggest, saddest, most worried-looking eyes.
“The Big Three haven’t had kids in like 50 years, right?”
“Right.”
“The world’s different now. They’ve got other stuff to do.”
“Like what?”
Heather just gestured around expansively, not entirely sure where she’d been going with that, but settling on something perfectly reasonable for what new thing might occupy people’s time in 1998.
“The Internet.”
“...you’re saying the Big Three haven’t had more kids, ‘cause they’re on the Internet?”
“All kinds of websites out there, trust me. You’re too young to know.”
Heather also hadn’t been on the Internet, and didn’t entirely know what she was even alluding to, but she’d heard older half-bloods say stuff like that to the younger ones.
Grover gave an indignant little grunt, but for a moment, seemed somewhat less anxious, so she figured she could make more headway.
“And yeah, wild as it might seem, they might also be keeping their pact. What with how bad things got last time.”
They both startled and looked up at a clear, almost-shrill meandering whistle coming through the trees. Your average human might only catch a faint whine, but to them, it was a distinctive melody.
Basically, a long-distance approximation of satyr-mom for ‘come home, dinner’s ready.’
So they both got up, Heather twirling her staff one more time, before tapping it firmly to the ground like a walking stick.
“Let’s head on back.”
“OK. Thanks for practicing with me?” he mumbled, trailing behind her as she started to lead the way along the invisible path back to the Cloven Village.
“Hey, anytime. Don’t worry, you’re not gonna run into any Big Three kids out there.”