Daemon of the Dark Wood (8 page)

“Quite so,” Thorn agreed. “You could cut that off the wall, frame it and hang in The Metropolitan Museum of Art and those twitch-nosed critics would go ga-ga over it, comparing it to early Picasso.” Thorn moved closer to the drawing. “You know, it does have something in common with certain cave drawings I’ve seen. A primitive archetypal quality, a resonance … Sorry. I got carried away there for a moment. So where is the artist?”

“In a rocking chair on the front porch. The nursing staff takes her out every day for fresh air. The worst thing for a catatonic patient is—”

“By God,” interrupted Thorn, “I think I see it! Look here.”

The professor stepped closer to the wall and pointed to a dense blob of color amid radiating squiggles and swirls. “See the face? The horns? And here, here’s the body. And these globs of color down here are the feet. Hooves, I should say.”

Knott was caught up in Thorn’s enthusiasm and tried with limited success to follow his spirited explication of the drawing. “What do you suppose it is? The devil?”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. It’s rather more like that creature of ancient myth, the satyr.”

“Satyr,” repeated Knott. “That would certainly give it a sexual connotation. A satyr being the male counterpart to the nymphomaniac, in traditional psychiatric terms.”

“Yes, yes, and look here. This suggests an erect phallus, does it not?”

“Possibly.” Knott’s innate skepticism came to the fore and he suddenly felt that Thorn’s interpretation was a little too tidy, too easy. Too disturbing. “But the patient is well past the age of raging hormones.”

“Yes, but in the realm of mythical archetypes, timelessness rules. The ancient gods are ageless. As is the human spirit, if you believe in that concept.”

For Knott, the spell of discovery was now broken. “Well, Professor, I’m afraid we just went beyond my area of expertise. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got patients to see.”

“Surely,” said Thorn, following the doctor out of the room and into the corridor. “I’m curious, Dr. Knott. What do you make of the title the old girl gave her work?
Helling.
”

Knott shrugged. “Well, it does look hellish, if not satanic. What do you make of it?”

“That’s the really intriguing thing,” said Thorn, lowering his voice and speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “I’ve been looking into the local folklore, just for my own amusement, in lieu of a summer vacation, and I just recently came across that term. The Helling is some mysterious thing only whispered about by some of the local antiquarians. Whenever I press for more information, the seasoned citizens inevitably clam up. It’s as if they’re sworn to secrecy. As if there is a sinister history here, buried beneath some cryptic legend.”

Dr. Knott said, “So we may assume my elderly patient knows about it and was compelled to express it in her artwork. You’re right, Professor, it is intriguing.”

“Would it be all right if I took a photograph of that drawing?”

His first inclination was to refuse the professor’s request. Instead, he said, “As long as you don’t shoot any of the patients, it wouldn’t be violating confidentiality. And of course the artist must remain anonymous.”

“Excellent. My camera’s in my car.” Thorn was already moving toward the exit.

“Professor?” said Knott. “I’d like a print myself.”

“You got it, Doc.”

Sharyn Rampling’s day brightened considerably when Alfred Thorn walked into her room and flashed his Cheshire-cat smile. She snapped her book shut and stood to greet him. He engulfed her in a vigorous bear hug and she happily yielded to his hardy show of physical affection.

“How’re you doing, dear?” he asked as they finally disengaged.

“Better, now that you’re here. I think I’m going stir crazy. I’m not used to this confinement.”

“But other than that, you’re … okay?”

“I’m not crazy, if that’s what you’re hinting at. Dr. Knott says I probably just need my medication adjusted.”

“Well, anything’s better than an attitude adjustment, eh?”

Sharyn laughed. “You’re the craziest one in the room, Alfie. Maybe you should check yourself in. I think there’s a vacancy next door.”

Thorn brought his finger to his lips. “Shhh … That’s our little secret, Professor Rampling. I don’t have the time for a good head-shrinking. I’m on the trail of something
verrry
interesting.”

“Really,” she said, smiling sardonically. “I can see it now. The cover story in
The American Journal of Anthropology
: ‘How I Spent My Summer Vacation’ by Alfred Thorn, Esquire, PhD, and all those other letters you’re so fond of putting after your name.”

“Touché,” he said, clutching his hand over his heart. “But seriously, Sharyn, I
am
onto something.”

“Well, have a seat and tell me all about it. As if I could stop you.” She sat on the bed and waved him to the chair. “Anything to get my mind off myself.”

He drew the chair close to the bed, sat down and leaned forward.

“You sometimes teach mythology, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m hardly an authority on the subject. Last quarter they had me teaching Business English and Grammar, though I don’t know the first thing about business.”

Thorn waved off her disclaimer. “What do you know about the Great God Pan?”

“Oh, I was afraid you were going to ask me something I didn’t know, something about some obscure Asian god or some such. Actually, I know quite a lot about Pan.”

“Well?”

“Well, what do you want to know? Specific questions would be helpful. You’re a brilliant man, Alfred, but I sometimes wonder how you ever got through all your schooling, with your bull-in-a-China-shop approach.”

“Start with the basics. Pretend I’m an ignorant student who thinks Nike is just a brand-name shoe.”

“Ha! All right then, class. Listen up and learn. You
will
be responsible for this material.” She winked at Thorn, then proceeded with her mock lecture. “Now, keep in mind that ancient cultures borrowed liberally from one another to the extent that it is very difficult if not impossible to trace the origins of many mythological figures. Pan is no exception to that rule. He was one of the oldest of the Greek gods, and the Greeks claimed that Pan was the same as the Egyptian god Amon-Ra, the supreme god of the sun. Some scholars believe the legend of Pan actually began with Pancika, the Hindu fertility god.

“The Greeks were unsure of Pan’s parentage. Some said Zeus was his father, others said Hermes sired him. But they all agreed that Pan was born with horns on his head and with the hindquarters of a goat. So, Pan was part anthropomorphic god and part beast. He was raised by wood nymphs called dryads. Even as a youth, Pan was a horny little devil, and he often subjected the nymphs to his lustful passions. I suppose you could say the nymphs brought out the beast in him. Our horny hero went on to become the god of woodlands and pastures, king of woodland beasts and ruler of the Arcadian satyrs. Satyrs, you will recall, were those half-man half-goat dudes with relentless erections and a taste for wine and orgies. They were the original party animals.”

Thorn let loose a boisterous laugh. “Oh, you’re good,” he said. “You would have even the untamed students eating out of your hand.”

Sharyn nodded and smiled appreciatively, then continued. “Pan was often identified with Dionysus, the Greek god of wine and revelry. Now Dionysus, too, had his following of satyrs, but he also had a band of priestesses known as Maenads. Named after Maenalus, a holy Arcadian mountain where Dionysus shepherded his odd flock, the Maenads were ‘wild women’ whose drunken orgies usually ended with the killing and eating of male victims. Our hero had carte blanche carnal knowledge of these Dionysian Maenads. As far as I’m concerned—and more than a few scholars agree—Pan and Dionysus are virtually interchangeable, one and the same.

“The legend of Pan has had quite an impact on our culture. Many words and phrases we use today can be traced back to the god Pan. The best example is the word
panic
. Pan was said to have had a dreadful cry that could strike such fear in those who heard it as to cause them to—”

She fell silent with a shudder of cold revelation. The echo of the mysterious, animalistic cry that had so terrified her now reverberated along the paths of auditory memory.

“Sharyn? What is it? Are you all right?” Thorn moved to the edge of the chair.

She nodded, took a calming breath of air and forced herself to continue, though her own voice sounded hollow to her now as she recited from memory. “Caused them to panic and flee in terror. Uh, the Greek word for tragedy literally means
goat song,
after the horned and hoofed Pan. And then there’s
panoply
, from ceremonial processions in the ancient City of Pan or Panopolis. But perhaps the most telling legacy of Pan can be seen in the traditional view of the Devil. That’s right, boys and girls, Satan got his horns, hooves and wicked character from none other than Pan. Clearly, the medieval church used the pagan god as the prototype for their Ruler of Hell. And why do you think Satanists use the goat’s head in their black ceremonies? That’s right. Pan became the image of the Devil, and his satyrs became Satan’s demons, thanks to a few brooding monks with too much time on their hands.

“As the centuries went by, Pan’s reputation lost much of its bite. You’ve seen him in cartoons as a cute, harmless little guy playing his hornpipe as he dances merrily through the woods. Thanks to Romantic poets like Byron and Shelley, and to America’s Disneyland mentality, Pan has been reduced to little more than a castrated cartoon. We should not forget that the
original
Pan was a dreadful god who inspired abject terror in the hearts of mere mortals. Any questions?”

Thorn softly applauded.

Sharyn stood and went to the window, trying to conceal her inner turmoil from her friend and colleague. Darkness was gathering outside, piling up like thunderheads before a storm.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Thorn asked.

“Yes, I’m just feeling a little shaky, that’s all.”

“Oh, shit!” He suddenly hammered his leg with his fist. “It was a panic attack that brought you here. I’m sorry, Sharyn. I’m a complete ass. I didn’t mean—”

She rounded on him, startling him to silence with the swiftness of her move. “It’s all right, Alfred. Stop coddling me. I
hate
that.”

“Sorry,” he said in a small voice.

Sharyn’s sudden flash of anger had, for the moment at least, checked her fear. If anger was an antidotal defense against another attack of panic, then she was prepared to be one pissed-off bitch. “And stop apologizing,” she added.

Thorn nodded meekly and seemed to draw himself in. The sight of such a big, strapping male cringing like a scolded animal amused Sharyn, but she didn’t dare let herself laugh; she was determined to maintain her angry edge. It seemed to be her only real defense against the outer darkness and the dangerous thing it concealed.

“What’s with this sudden fascination with Pan? And what is this ‘verry interesting’ thing you’re so on about?”

“Ah, it’s nothing, really. You know me. I just—”

“Don’t bullshit me, Alfred. Tell me.”

“All right.” He laced his fingers over his lap and regarded her warily. “I’ve been digging into the local folklore and I think I might’ve struck paydirt. It all started with a conversation I had a couple of months ago with Howard Bently, our illustrious historian. You know Howard. A meticulous researcher, when he’s sober. A crushing bore when he’s in his cups. Well, one night over a bottle of his best scotch, Howard regaled me with his knowledge of local history, and to my great surprise and relief, he was anything but boring. He told me he had come upon some documents from the Civil War era suggestive of a hidden history of Widow’s Ridge. The old boy referred to his documents as ‘historical apocrypha,’ and went on for the better part of an hour about some horrendous incident alluded to in one of these documents. He said he found proof that Widow’s Ridge is
not
so named because its married women were widowed by the war. Howard is convinced that story was concocted to hide what really happened.”

“What on earth does all this have to do with a character from Greek mythology?” Sharyn was having a hard time keeping the lid on her escalating impatience.

“Nothing, as far as Howard Bently is concerned. He deals in historical facts, not myth. But this is where I enter the picture. When Howard showed me the personal journal of Reverend John T. Waller, I made the connection myself. And since then, I’ve been delving into the local folklore and legend, looking for further connections. You see, Sharyn, when a community—or a society—conspires to hide a certain truth, that truth will inevitably find new avenues into the open. Even if it has to come out in the form of legend. Or myth. And I think that’s exactly what happened in Widow’s Ridge. In short, I think some educated, creative soul back in the eighteen-sixties reinvented a Pan-like legend as an alternative to a scandalous historical incident. The legend survived for over a hundred years, but now it seems that the current crop of elders want it to die with them. I’ve found no evidence that they’ve passed it along to their younger generations.”

“Why would they want to let a legend die? Folklore is a big part of the heritage of these hill people.”

Thorn shrugged. “I suspect it may be because we live in a time when myth and legend are no longer necessary. The wonders of technology have replaced the need for mythological wonders. Apollo is no longer a god, it’s a rocket to the moon. The ancient world had all manner of gods, heroes and monsters. What do we have? Big Foot, alien abductions and a reanimated Elvis.”

“I believe there are still things that go bump in the night,” she said. “Even if they’re just representations of the unknown.”

“That’s true, but these days it’s the monsters we know that terrify us. The wacked-out kids who walk into their school and start blowing away their classmates with automatic weapons. The family man who kills his wife and kids, then takes his rampage public when he walks into a high-rise building and randomly guns down office workers. A suicide bomber with mind ablaze with religious delusion. The monsters we know are
us
. And they’re all too human. We don’t have to make them up.”