Lester Del Rey - The Pipes of Pan

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LLSTER DEL RET

The Pipes of Pan

"Beyond the woods on either side were kept fields and fertile farm land, but here the undergrowth ran

down to the dirt road and hid the small plot of tilled ground, already overrun with weeds. Behind that,

concealed by thicker scrub timber lay a rude log house. Only the trees around, that had sheltered it from

the heavy winds, had kept it from crumbling long before.

Pan recognized the lazy retreat to nature that had replaced his strong worship of old. He moved carefully

through the tangled growth that made way for him, his cloven hoofs clicking sharply on the stones. It

was a thin and saddened god that approached the house and gazed in through a hole that served as a

window.

Inside, Frank Emmet lay on a rude pallet on the floor, a bag of his possessions beside him. Across from

him was a stone fireplace, and between the two, nothing. A weak hand moved listlessly, brushing aside

the vermin that knew his sickness; perhaps they sensed that the man was dying, and their time was short.

He gave up and reached for a broken crock that contained water, but the effort was too great.

"Pan!" The man's voice reached out, and the god stepped away from the window and through the warped

doorway. He moved to the pallet and leaned over his follower. The man looked up.

"Pan!" Emmet's words were startled, but there was a reverent note in his labored voice, though another

might have mistaken the god for a devil. The tangled locks of Pan's head were separated by two goat

horns and the thin sharp face ended in a ragged beard that seemed the worse for the weather. Then the

neck led down to a bronzed torso that might have graced Hercules, only to end in the hips and legs of a

goat, covered with shaggy hair. Horror and comedy mingled grotesquely, except for the eyes, which

were deep and old, filled now with pity.

Pan nodded. "You've been calling me, Frank Emmet, and it's a poor god that wouldn't answer the appeal

of his last worshiper. All the others of your kind have deserted me for newer gods, and only you are left,

now."

It was true enough. Over the years, Pan had seen his followers fall off and dwindle until his great body

grew lean and his lordly capering among the hills became a slow march toward extinction. Now even

this man was dying. He lifted the tired head and held the crock of water to Emmet's mouth.

"Thanks!" The man mulled it over slowly. "So when I'm gone, there's no others. If I'd 'a' known, Pan, I

might have raised up kids to honor your name, but I thought there were others. Am I—"

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"Dying," the god answered. The blunt truth was easier than half-believed lies.

"Then take me outside, where the sun can shine on me."

Pan nodded and lifted him easily, bearing him out as gently as a mother might her child, but a spasm of

pain shot over the man's face as Pan laid him down. The time was almost up, the god knew. From a

pocket in his tattered loincloth he drew out a small syrinx, or pipe of seven reeds, and blew softly across

it. A bird heard the low murmuring melody and improvised a harmony, while a cricket marked time in

slow chirps.

Emmet's face relaxed slowly and one of his hands came out to lie on the hairy thigh. "Thanks, Pan.

You've always been a good god to me, and I'm hoping you'll have good 1—" The voice trailed away and

disappeared into the melody of the syrinx. Pan rose slowly, drawing a last lingering note from it,

dropped the arm over the still chest and closed the eyes. Nearby was a rusty spade, and the earth was

soft and moist.

Pan's great shoulders drooped as he wiped the last of the earth from his hands. Experimentally, he

chirped at the cricket, but there was no response, and he knew that the law governing all gods still

applied. When the last of their worshipers were gone, they either died or were forced to eke out their

living in the world of men by some human activity. Now there would be hunger to satisfy, and in

satisfying it, other needs of a life among men would present themselves.

Apollo was gone, long since, choosing in his pride to die, and the other gods had followed slowly, some

choosing work, some death. But they had at least the advantage of human forms, while he knew himself

for a monster his own mother had fled from. But then, the modern clothes were more concealing than

the ancient ones.

Inside the house he found Emmet's other clothes, more or less presentable, and a hunting knife and soap.

Men were partial to their own appearance, and horns were a stigma among them. Reluctantly, he brought

the knife up against the base of one, cutting through it. Pain lanced through him at first, but enough of

his godhead remained to make the stumps heal over almost instantly. Then the other one, followed by

the long locks of his hair. He combed it out and hacked it into such form as he could.

As the beard came away he muttered ungodly phrases at the knife that took off skin with the hair. But

even to his own eyes, the smooth-shaven face was less forbidding. The lips, as revealed, were firm and

straight, and the chin was good, though a mark of different color showed where the beard had been.

He fingered his tail thoughtfully, touching it with the blade of the knife, then let it go; clothes could hide

it, and Pan had no love for the barren spine that men regarded as a mark of superiority. The tail must

stay. Shoes were another problem, but he solved it by carving wooden feet to fit them, and making holes

for his hoofs. By lacing them on firmly, he found half an hour's practice enough to

teach him to walk. The underclothes, that scratched against the hair on his thighs and itched savagely,

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