Night of Pan by Gail Strickland

by Sarah | Nov 16, 2014 | Book Spotlight, Excerpt, Guest Authors, Writing

Night of Pan, by Gail Strickland
Publisher: Curiosity Quills Press
Date of Release­­: November 7, 2014
Series: Book One of The Oracle of Delphi Trilogy

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Description:

The slaughter of the Spartan Three Hundred at Thermopylae, Greece 480 BCE—when King Leonidas tried to stop the Persian army with only his elite guard—is well known. But just what did King Xerxes do after he defeated the Greeks?

Fifteen-year-old Thaleia is haunted by visions: roofs dripping blood, Athens burning. She tries to convince her best friend and all the villagers that she’s not crazy. The gods do speak to her.

And the gods have plans for this girl.

When Xerxes’ army of a million Persians marches straight to the mountain village Delphi to claim the Temple of Apollo’s treasures and sacred power, Thaleia’s gift may be her people’s last line of defense.

Her destiny may be to save Greece…

…but is one girl strong enough to stop an entire army?

*~* 

EXCERPT:

A sun-bronzed hand thrusts from the shadows, grabs my shoulder. Ebony fingernails dig into my forearm. Panic fills me. My feet feel like they grow tendrils snaking into the dirt, rooted with the poppies and wild grasses. I can’t breathe or cry out.

A hairy leg steps from behind the pine. I don’t move.

A satyr squats before me, his muscled thighs matted with bristling fur that curls over hooves. His broad chest—sturdy as an old oak—heaves.

The air between us is charged with light and a hum like a swarm of bees.

A quizzical smile crosses his face. He lets my arm go and steps back.

I should run, but I can only stumble one step away, afraid to turn my back to this creature, half man, half goat smelling of garlic and musky wine.

My heart, filled at first with mindless terror is stunned by the delicate lift of his fingers as they dance across his flute. The rippling notes tighten my chest; conjure images of deep forest dancing down to a wine- dark sea. Strong muscles shape his bronzed shoulders. With a tilt of his head, he seems to float from stone to fallen log, leaping and twirling with the music. Dark trees bend like an attending chorus, drawing the forest shadow away from the center of the glade until it fills with light and melody, motion and power. Needles cling to the satyr’s curls.

He stops circling. His eyes are blue like the summer sky.

Pulling me close, he licks my neck. I stiffen in his embrace.

Once more he leaps around me.

I am drawn to his grace, the power of wild goats in the delicate lift of each leg, his hairless torso, gold with oil and sweat. Corded veins at his neck course with heated blood as he dances lightly before me then hides behind the old pine. Is he gone?

I whirl around as his hoof strikes an exposed rock behind me.

His knees prance as he plays quick trills on the flute. The satyr kneels before me. His silence, his breath envelops me. Like harsh ice crystals melting to warm spring waters, his gaze that once filled me with revulsion sweeps a rush of warmth up my legs. Longing tightens my heart and strangles my outcry.

With lithe fingers he lifts my hair, lets it fall strand-by-strand clinging against my breasts then leans his sun-bronzed forehead against my chest, snuggling into the crook of my neck. He peers at me, his face—wide like a bear’s—inches away from mine.

I gasp.

I understand.

He is the god Pan, his eyes full of me. They know me. As no one understands me, this god, smelling of goat and thyme and garlic, his eyes laughing and full of scheming… this god sees into me. I smile back at his gap-toothed grin. His tongue works a hole where one of his front teeth is missing between full, smiling lips.

A tiny green hummingbird with a long, black beak and scarlet red throat flits around one of the satyr’s stumpy horns then the other before deciding to land on his curls, golden bristles between the two.

When I laugh, his face smoothes. Gently, slowly, he lifts my fist, uncurls each finger, by blowing soft breaths as a potter does to keep the clay from cracking. He presses his panpipes into my hand and closes my fingers, one by one over the reeds. “Thaleia, I’ve waited for you.” His voice is earthy, deep like black mud. Stroking the inside of my wrist with a light, quick caress, he trails claw-like nails slowly up the inside of my arm. The pipes are warm from his lips.

Though his touch is gentle on my skin, I pull back, when I see his hairy thighs and restless hooves. Waist up, he is a young man, but his legs!

“Do I scare you?” I jump when his deep voice jerks me from my musing.

“Well, I’m not surprised. Just look at me. Even my mother thought I was ugly!” Pan prances a quick dance back, his hooves lifting high. Laughing, he throws his arms to the sky, “She abandoned me at birth! All the gods laughed the day I was born.”

The satyr sweeps his fingers through a clump of poppies, plucks one and with a deep bow holds it up for me to take.

“Look at the flower, next to its petals… behind. There… do you see a light? Like a leaf shadow? Be the heart of the color. Feel with color. Find color in your body and hear its song. There you will find your power.”

Pan strokes my cheek.

“Know thyself. It’s really that simple, Thaleia. Trust who you are. You plan to run away and never return.”

“How do you know?”

He wraps strong fingers around my arm and stares into my eyes. No, he seems to fall into my eyes, or I into his.

“You are needed in Delphi. Your destiny is here.” He stands close before me, waiting, calm. His eyes hold the sky, his fingers the power of deep roots grasping rock and soil.

“Let me go,” I say, suddenly afraid of his power over me, but my heart rebels against my own command.

A flash of lightning tears his attention. I twist free. There is another flash. The lightning bolt—Zeus’ anger?—strikes the pine. We stand two stark shadows; the thunder’s rage bursts around us, answered by a roar of fire. Flames consume twisted branches, making a torch of the old tree. Another flash and answering roar sweep over us.

Pan looks over his shoulder at the flaming tree, his back muscles ripple, tense; his nostrils flare… and then he is gone, disappeared into the woods.

*~*

About The Author:

While studying the Classics in college, Gail Strickland translated much of Homer’s ILIAD and ODYSSEY, Herodotus’ prophecies and THE BACCHAI by Euripides. Living on the Greek islands after college, she discovered her love of myth, the wine-dark sea and retsina.

THE BALTIMORE REVIEW and WRITER’S DIGEST have recognized Gail’s fiction. She published stories and poems in Travelers’ Tales’ anthologies and the San Francisco Writer’s anthology. Her poetry and photography were published in a collection called CLUTTER.

Born in Brooklyn, New York, Gail grew up in Northern California. She raised her children; was a musical director for CAT children’s theater; taught music in schools; mentored young poets and novelists and introduced thousands of youngsters to piano and Greek mythology. Gail is passionate about bringing the richness of Homer’s language and culture to today’s youth.

Find Gail Strickland Online:

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