The Isle of Satyrs

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Somewhere in the unknown eastern hemisphere...
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Somewhere in the unknown eastern hemisphere in the Indian Sea, beyond Mauritania and the Ganges, was a place that the ancient geographer Ptolemy called the Isle of Satyrs. Legends say that no one appeared on the island during daylight, but at night great fires could be seen and the confused and barbaric sounds of flutes and drums could be heard. The nature of its people remained a mystery, but a legend was passed on by ancient sailors that the island was inhabited by satyrs.

In fact the truth of the matter was hardly less strange. Decades before the first Dutch explorers landed, the island's last remaining inhabitant had waded out into the gentle surf and vanished beneath the waters.

He belonged to a race of people that few knew existed. Dark of skin and hairy; with tails as long as those of horses, they were the remnant of a species that once spread across the Indian Ocean, from the Scattered Islands near Madagascar to Dirk Hartog Island in Australia. They produced nothing, they built nothing, they left nothing behind besides what they collected - the spoils brought back from their deadly midnight raids.

The last living member of their race remembered those triumphant nights as he shrimped in limpid emerald pools. Below him, many years ago, there had been a darkened beach and a roaring surf. Scores of dark skinned figures were assisting their comrades as their war-skiffs were flung at the beach by the thunderous swell.

An army of men was returning that night in a pandemonium of shrieks and laughter and howls of triumph. In the distance beyond the moonlit breakers the voices of distant men carried, singing in chorus as the dark shapes of their boats edged towards shore. Those already ashore dragged their spoils up the darkened sand, or danced naked around giant bonfires, or washed themselves with water poured from stolen urns.

Nearby a captured Buddhist monk from Ceylon had laid bleeding in the clear, darkened waters of a river. His voice was distant and placid. "The seeds of your own misfortune lie within you," he said. Men were standing over him and watching. Their skin gleamed in the firelight like polished ebony, their features were handsome and their eyes were dark and intelligent. Behind them a great cacophony of drums and cymbals and pipes started up around the bonfires. "The one who betrays you in the end, he is among you now." The men shifted uncomfortably and looked at one another.

The monk's words remained with them as the weeks passed. They were a people who preyed on others and so they assumed that none could be loyal to them. Every man looked at his fellow, at first thinking to himself that his compatriot could not be the betrayer - he was too cheerful, or too unambitious. But then again, why did he disappear unaccountably for days? Or keep those strange charms hidden among his possessions? Then something happened that sent a chill of horror through the island. The river that the monk had died in had turned to the colour of blood.

A child screamed in the night, woken by the vision of an empty island, covered by a thick, unnatural mist. Somehow the child had known that everyone in his dream was dead. As days passed a sense of dread grew among the superstitious islanders.

"Why do we WAIT?" an enraged voice demanded. "The meaning of these portends is clear. That orange-cloaked diviner ... or sorcerer has turned our water the colour of his blood. He has cursed us and foretold the death of our kind." The man's eyes turned slowly, taking in the group around him, and he spoke slowly and deliberately. "His words were ... that our betrayer is among us." Another voice spoke. "Don't be such a fool, Bradamiro. Are you frightened by childish dreams? No one knows what the colour and foul taste of the river means. The orange-robed one may simply have cast a spell on it as he died."

Other voices agreed, but a third man spoke, his tone accusatory. "You claim the prophecy is nothing, Cascor ..." His words hung in the air. "... and I saw you drinking the fouled water of the river this morning as if it were as fresh as morning dew. Does the spell not affect you?"

As night fell a deep mist rolled in from the sea and with it came terror and fratricide. The next day the handful of survivors strung the last remaining unbelievers from trees, and in the evening light they hung, as wild dogs gathered underneath them. Many years later the Persian scientist Ibn Sīnā passed by what by then was a desert island. In his records is a note that speculates that the reddish hue of the river was probably caused by iron dissolving upstream.

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