The Empty Cup

Word Count: 1400

The Empty Cup

The satyr reclined lazily in the crook of a large oak, watching the  elf  sort loot from a worn canvas sack onto a large limestone outcropping in the center of the glade.

“You could get down here and help me.” The white-haired dark-skinned elf pulled another copper plate from the bag and put it with 4 others in a pile on a flat spot on the white outcrop.  Then a  broken wooden spoon, a tarnished brass candle stick, and a cast-iron  blackened pot.

The satyr lifted his naked torso off the grey bark of the oak tree and sat upright, letting his red haired goat-like legs dangle from the branch. He placed his flute, made of many sized hollow reeds, to his lips and a cheerful arpeggio filled the glade.

“Stow that infernal pipe and get down here.” The elf’s worn and unoiled black leather thief armor creaked as he reached into the sack and extracted a black and dented chalice.

The satyr  dropped nimbly to the ground and sent  red and yellow leaves dancing and swirling into the autumn air. He tilted his black haired black bearded face, framed with two horns sweeping sideways, down, and forward, and considered the haul.  “You set a nice table.”

“Junk. All worthless junk. The elf picked the black painted chalice from the center of the rock and threw it to the edge of the glade. Hardly worth the thieving.”

“Do you think you’ll get enough to buy a skin? If you want me to keep lulling them to sleep you’ll have to buy me a skin.”

“Yes we’ll get enough for a skin. I’ll buy you more wine.”

The satyr walked to the edge of the glade and bent over to pick up the goblet from where it had landed at the base of a tall silver birch. “Do you mind if I keep this cup  as part of my share?”

“Take the whole lot for all I care. Barely enough here to keep us for a week, let alone the winter.” The elf looked at the two silver rings adorning his left hand. “Maybe if we sell my rings and that stupid gold ear ring you wear we can get enough to lay in some supplies and hole up in your cave until spring.”

The satyr examined the black painted chalice, rolling it between his hands and holding it up to the light. A shallow bowl rested on the heads of three open mouthed and teethed serpents, the three bodies twisted together to form a single long stem, their tails entwined to form a base.

“Tis most cunningly crafted.”

“Put it in your collection,” said the elf. “It won’t make cheap wine taste any better though.”

“It seems heavy.” The satyr ran his pointed yellow nail along the rim of the goblet and a black fleck flew off exposing a yellow gleam underneath.”I think it’s made of gold.”

“What? Give it here. Let me see that.”

As the satyr moved to hand the cup to the elf one of the serpents teeth seemed to graze the elf’s hand, puncturing the skin and drawing blood. Frost formed on the cup’s bowl and  the inside filled  with a red aromatic liquid.

The satyr pulled the cup back towards him and put it under his broad flat nose and sniffed. “Smells like wine.”

The dark elf grinned widely. “It must be a bottomless cup. Our fortune is assured. A bottomless wine cup will fetch us enough to retire for many years.”

He slapped the satyr on the back. “Think satyr, no more worries that the guard lurks around every corner. No more hiding out in the forest. We’ll move where no one knows us and lead  a civilized life. No more sleeping on  a  bed of leaves under a smoky cave roof.”

“But I like the forest. And this wine smells good.”

The satyr took a sip, then tilted the cup back and drained it with a single pull. “I’ll keep it as my share of the loot. You can have the rest.”

“Don’t be daft. That cup’s worth more than all the other loot we’ve liberated in the last five years put together. We’ll sell it and split the take half-and-half like we always do.”

“We already agreed it was to be mine.”

“You didn’t tell me it was made of gold.”

“I didn’t know. Besides I don’t want it for the gold. I want it for the wine.”

The satyr hefted the empty cup. “How do I make it work?”

He looked at the prick on the elf’s hand, then to the teeth still covered with blood in one of the snakes mouths. He put his hand  towards another snake. The eyes of the snake glowed and it momentarily came to life and sank its metal teeth into the satyr’s finger. The cup frosted again, but this time filled with a brown liquid.

“Mead,” said the satyr. He offered the cup to the elf. “Have a swallow. It will soothe you. Maybe better than my flute.”

“I’ll not drink from that cup and neither should you.”

“Why not?” The satyr drained the cup. “It’s excellent mead.” He held the cup above him and rolled the stem between his fingers. “I wonder how I get it to make wine again?”

“It’s blood magic that powers that cup fool. And there’s always a price to be paid for blood magic.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that when you sacrifice blood to power that device you give a little of your spirit too. Drink from that cup as I know you can drink and 5 years from now you’ll be a very old satyr indeed.”

“Spirit I have. Spirits I don’t.”

The satyr tossed the cup to the elf and dropped to the ground to laugh and roll in the dried dirt and leaves on the forest floor. “ Do you get it? Spirits I don’t. Ha, ha, ha.”

The elf pursed his lips.”Best to sell the thing. We’ll take the money and I’ll buy you as much wine as you can drink. Heck, I’ll buy you an entire alehouse filled with a dozen harlots.”

“Bah, what do I want  with an alehouse. And there be nymphs aplenty in these woods to satisfy a satyr’s wants. With my new cup I need never see the inside of an inn again.”

“You stupid  oaf. I don’t know why I ever took up with you. We’ve got a chance to be rich here.”

“And I have a chance to never be thirsty again. Surely you wouldn’t deny a satyr his drink.”

“We’re going to sell it and that is final.”

“Oh, is it?” The satyr put his flute to his lips and began to play. The smooth and fluid melody began to calm the elf.But then the music changed and filled with odd harmonies and unpleasant disjointed rhythms.

The elf pressed his hands over his long pointed ears and clenched his teeth. He doubled over, his body shaking and convulsing, and dropped to his knees among the dirt and leaves.

The satyr stopped his piping and regarded the elf, writhing in pain on the forest floor. He sighed and looked at the cup, now lying on it’s side where the elf had dropped it as he fell.

“ Take the cup and do with it as you will. I’ve riches enough.”

“Do you mean it. I knew you’d come to your senses. Hey, where are you off to?”

As the satyr lifted his goat-like legs and started down the path he lifted his flute to his lips and began to play. The melody was slow, and an image of two lovers under a waterfall flashed into the elf’s mind. From time to time the satyr kicked his yellow hooves against rocks and stones in the trail to form an eerie percussion.

“Hey, you’re coming back ain’t you? Where are you going? Get back here.”

The elf watched as the satyr’s cloven hooves marked a trail in the dark forest mud. Slowly, the figure diminished, growing smaller and smaller, his pipping fainter and fainter until finally the elf felt no trace of his presence.









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