Free Secret Dreams by Keith Korman Page A

care. Pan was with him.
    Pan. The bawdy joker, the thief, the horny monster. He drew the statue across the blotter. Five inches of bronze, green with age — cloven hoofed, his limbs taut and supple. The body of a wrestler, who could wriggle out of the tightest grip or throw you on your back, Stubs of antlers grew from his head. His green eyes lit with mischief; his frisky tail ready for the chase. The artist had captured him lifting one knee in the air as if dancing a jig, his hand held up in a mock salute.
    And Pan had an erection. Curving upward like a horn, the monstrous thing reached nearly to his navel. So that’s what his naughty smile was about, teasing, “Eh, missy! Is this what you want?”
    How easy to imagine the rogue sitting under the shadow of a fig tree, the shadow obscuring his shaggy haunches. Passing for a weary field hand, resting at noon with the glaring sun beating down all around him. His tail leisurely flicking the flies from his legs, And then he saw her — a small black speck across the land.
    She was slowly lugging water in a heavy jug to the hands who toiled in the dirt. When they threw back their heads to drink, the water splashed on their faces and on the ground. When the jug ran empty, she trudged back for more. All day … up and back, the heavy jug pressing deeper and deeper into her shoulder. And finally, when she’d watered a dozen men’s dusty faces and most of the ground at their feet, she set the heavy thing down gratefully. Across the long strip of earth she spied one last man loafing in the shade of a fig tree. Oh, God …
    With a sigh, she hoisted the jug upon her shoulder once more, pushed one sluggish foot in front of the other. The bottom of the jug dug a red crease in her flesh, aching with every step. She had long since given up switching shoulders, and she tried to put the pain out of her mind by staring at her dusty feet. They were the same color as the earth, toenails cracked, pads of callus harder than the ground. The sun beat down and her eyes began to swim. What a low cur. What a lout. Not even getting up to meet her!
    Sweat ran down her sides in long rivulets. It was probably Picus, the headman’s son. Lazy Picus. Loudmouthed, good-for-nothing Picus. Never doing a lick of work but always on hand when the wine was being mixed, then coming after his father’s women. The headman’s older wives were more than idle … so he might have some welcome there. But Picus only chased the young pretty ones: and he was a gap-toothed clown, stupid looking when he smiled. Who would want to kiss a face like that? But there he sat, like the headman already, making her come to him. Black despair wrapped her in a cloth,- the lone fig tree shimmered in the distance, never seeming to come any closer. The bastard! She would see him dead one day.
    Then at last the shade yawned before her like a puddle at her feet. She let the heavy jug down, water sloshing over the rim. Less for him, then.
    â€œWell, if you want some water come and get it, Picus.”
    â€œNo, you come, Come into the cool and rest yourself.”
    Rest herself! She should go. Leave him sitting there without the water. To spite him, she hefted the jug and drank. Rivulets ran out the corners of her mouth and down her front. It felt delicious and cool, and her rags hung wetly. She knew he was staring. Let him stare. Setting the jug down, she bent farther than she ought, showing herself off. For a slow moment a crawling silence gathered in the shade of the fig tree. He broke it with a low chuckle.
    â€œYou drink well, but I’m not very thirsty….”
    Damn him, then!
    She turned away proudly, showing off her hips. Showing him something he’d never have. And then he laughed. Her wet rags went cold. Picus never laughed like that. She tried to imagine his gap-toothed grin, but now she could not recall his face. Her eyes roved across the fields, but the fields lay empty.