The Goat-Foot God

by Dion Fortune

  Mona took upon herself the personality of the dream-woman, the succuba, the visitant from the wide free world of the Unseen. She put out her hand and took his, knowing by the heat of his hand in hers how cold hers must feel to him.

  ‘Come,’ she said, and he rose.

  He followed her up the cellar steps, cowl over face, hands in sleeves, but at the top he turned aside from the door.

  ‘I must call them also,’ he said, and went on up the winding stairs. She followed him, standing with her head just above the topmost step to watch what would happen.

  He passed down the long line of the empty cells, some doorless, some with rotting doors hanging on broken hinges. Door by door, Hugh paused and called a name. Benedick, Johannes, Gyles — one by one he called the roster of the condemned monks, long since mouldered to dust. Mona wondered what spirits reborn felt a sudden stir of memory within them, a nostalgia for the Unseen.

  At the end of the passage Hugh turned, and came back towards her again where she stood on the topmost step of the steep and winding stairs. He walked slowly, as befitted a Churchman, the slow swing of the skirted gown keeping time to his stride; his hands, thrust into the wide sleeves, rested folded on the knot of his girdle; his cowl was pulled forward over his face as monks use when meditating. He came and stood before her, and looking up from below, she saw his face clearly for the first time. In the shadows of the hood it looked dark and saturnine, indefinably different from Hugh Paston, and yet not Ambrosius.

  He took Mona by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length, staring down into her face, his own shadowed in the cowl. He began to speak in a low voice, as if communing with himself, heedless of his listener.

  ‘I have seen you many times, near, very near, but never quite—.’ He paused. ‘This is what I have always wanted to do—’ and he folded her in his arms. She stood for a while leaning against him, her face buried in the loose harsh folds of the monk’s robe, stifled by them, but not caring to move.

  ‘Look up,’ he said at length, and she raised her head.

  The dark hawk’s face of Ambrosius, deep in its cowl, hung over hers.

  ‘This is what is forbidden me,’ he said, ‘and that is why I am doing it,’ and he kissed her. He was perfectly calm, but there was a kind of still intensity about him like the hush before a thunderstorm. Mona felt herself trembling.

  They stood face to face, neither moving, and she, looking up at the harsh-featured face in the shadow of the cowl, had a sudden feeling that the fantasy was real, and that they were back in the days of Ambrosius, risking all for love under the shadow of the terrible hand of ecclesiastical power.

  The man before her was a prince of the Church, powerful, ambitious; he was risking everything that made life living — more, he was risking life itself, to talk to her thus, for a few stolen moments.

  And she, what was she risking? In the days of Ambrosius she would have been burnt at the stake. In the days of the present, she was risking a very nasty, possibly a pretty dangerous, experience, at the hands of an unbalanced man whom she was deliberately inciting. She might even be risking life itself there in the empty building; many murders have been done by men in the state Hugh Paston was in. Pan in his most goatlike aspect might appear, and if thwarted, might strangle her.

  Mona tried to keep a level head as she gazed back into Hugh’s grey-green eyes that regarded her with a fixed, unwavering stare. But under the influence of those fanatical eyes she felt herself unconsciously slipping back into Ambrosius’s century, and finding in the renegade monk confronting her a man more magnetic and fascinating than any she had ever known.

  It must have shown in her eyes, for a strange look came into Hugh’s for a moment. He gave a short laugh, thrust his hands into his wide sleeves after the manner of monks, and stepped back and away from her.

  ‘This won’t do, Mona,’ he said. ‘You go on back to the house and wait for me there.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’ she asked, startled, fear rising in her at the thought of what might be afoot in the empty building with Hugh prowling like a ghost.

  He shook his head. ‘No, I am in the full tide of a catharsis, if you know what that is. Leave me alone. I’ll be all right. Don’t worry.’

  Mona turned away and he shut the door. She knew she must leave him alone. What Hugh was going through might be truly cathartic — purge of the soul; but it put a severe strain on the integrity of the personality and she knew from Jelkes of things that happen in psychoanalyses that never got into the textbooks. Personalities sometimes come to pieces at such times, and the results have to be certified.

  Hugh climbed up the worn and winding stone stairs till he came to the chapel in the gable. It had been scantily furnished with a Glastonbury chair, a press and a coffer. It was just such an equipment as Ambrosius might have had in his study, save that there was a rush mat to keep the feet from the cold of the stone — a luxury he was unlikely to have enjoyed. Hugh dropped into the Glastonbury chair, resting his elbows in the crutches of its arms, drew his cowl yet closer over his head.

  He wanted to understand; beyond everything else he felt that this was his need. He had spent two hours in the dark cellar thinking of Ambrosius, thinking of him with an intensity that had reconstructed the whole medieval scene till he was living in it, and not only experiencing its emotions but feeling its sensations. He was startled to find how real the thing had become to him. It seemed as if there were not two lives, but two epochs of one life. Ambrosius, a misfit in the cloister, pagan at heart for all his priesthood, had seen God made manifest in Nature and rejected the ascetic doctrine. Ambrosius was no malignant devotee of a destructive Satan, after the manner of the old witch-cults; he sought life for deadness and light for the medieval gloom and narrowness of the cloister. Ambrosius had been broken because he had been born out of due season; he had been blackened and cut off as surely as fruit-blossom flowering too early. But the times had advanced now, and the whole age was reaching out in the same direction as Ambrosius. Supposing he could do as Ambrosius had done, and go back to the prime source of his inspiration, back beyond that disastrous medieval tragedy, might he not also contact the springs of life and live anew?

  The essence of Ambrosius’ problem had been that, placed as he was, it was exceedingly dangerous for him to break with orthodoxy and claim for his manhood the natural things that were denied to the Churchman. The essence of Hugh Paston’s problem had been curiously similar. Hugh was deadly afraid of coming to grips with natural things amid all the artificiality of his life, lest in some unforeseen way he let catastrophe loose. The burnt soul dreads what seared it, even after reincarnation. Hugh could not grip the things that Ambrosius had burnt his fingers over.

  But supposing he could go back beyond that, go back as Ambrosius had tried to do? He suddenly realized that, all unknown to himself, the thing had come about spontaneously, but had come about backwards. Not only was it possible by a careful ‘composition of place’ to evoke the appropriate Presence, but it seemed as if circumstances would produce the appropriate composition of place. This was a startling realization.

  After all, what had his quest of Pan been save a hunger for the primitive and vital amid all the sophistication and devitalization of his life? And Pan was leading him back to the primitive along the path of his own evolution. Provided he had the courage to sink down through his own subconsciousness he would pass through the medieval darkness and tragedy and come out into the radiance that was Greece.

  Hugh cast his mind back to that night in the cock-eyed old feather-bed in Jelkes’ dilapidated establishment when he had invoked Pan and started everything off. When Hugh had asserted to himself the Divine Right of Nature, he had evoked Pan quite effectually. Each time he had renewed the assertion, Pan had answered. Each time he had doubted the natural divinity, the god had withdrawn. When he had kissed Mona because he was man and she was woman, she had yielded as if something deep within her had acknowledged the right; but when he behaved towards her
like a gentleman, she had kept him at arm’s length and found nothing in him that attracted her. There is a life behind the personality that uses personalities as masks. There are times when life puts off the mask and deep answers unto deep.

  Hugh had a feeling that in doing what Ambrosius had always wanted to do and never managed — embrace his succuba — the force in himself that he called Ambrosius had found a channel.

  He groped his way down the worn, winding stairs in the gathering dusk, and made his way through the cloisters to the dwelling-house, forgetting that he still wore the monk’s robe. As he crossed the garth a fearful, dreadful yell re-echoed through the twilight, and he saw Bill going for his life down the drive with Lizzie running like a hare behind him. They had seen the famous ghost of Monks Farm! Hugh with a pang of compunction realized that he had upset all Mona’s domestic arrangements. However, the Eleusinian Mysteries do not require an audience. ‘Hekas, hekas, este bibeloi! Be ye far from us, O ye profane—’ so perhaps it was just as well.

  He could see by Mona’s face as he entered the living-room how anxious she had been. She made tea for him, and he drank it with relief. It was pleasant to lie back in the deep chair with his feet on the hearth and a cup of tea beside him and a cigarette between his lips. For the moment, Greece and Ambrosius both seemed a long way off. But the gods are exacting, and he knew that if he strayed from the path at the present moment he might not easily find it again. He must not deviate from the concentration. Now he knew why Jelkes said that occultists trained so carefully in concentration.

  ‘Mona,’ he said, ‘did you ever read The Corn King and the Spring Queen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was the meaning of the rite in the ploughing-field, beyond the obvious, that is?’

  ‘It was supposed to link up with the forces behind the earth and the sun.’

  ‘Link up the individuals who took part in it, or the whole tribe?’

  ‘Both, I suppose. The individuals wouldn’t be able to link up the tribe unless they first linked up themselves. It was a sacrament. “An outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace”.’

  ‘Funny thing,’ said Hugh, ‘Christians make a sacrament of taking life, and pagans make a sacrament of giving it.’

  ‘They are probably different sides of the same coin, if the truth were known,’ said Mona.

  ‘Probably. Anyway, I think I’ve dealt with Ambrosius. I think I’ve absorbed him. You see, I have worked out what he wanted to do, and made up my mind to go and do it, and that settled Ambrosius. That’s the way to lay subconscious ghosts, Mona — fulfil their last wishes.’

  Mona sat silently staring into the fire, wondering what was going to develop, and whether Hugh had any idea where he was heading. At length she said.

  ‘How do you propose to set about all this?’

  ‘I don’t altogether know. I’ve got to feel my way. The first thing is to carry out our original plan and equip the place à la Des Esseintes. I haven’t felt able to tackle it before; I don’t know why. But I can tackle it now all right, and I’d like to get a move on.’

  ‘Do you want me to start collecting Tudor pieces for you?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I’m not after Ambrosius. I’m after the thing that was behind Ambrosius.’

  ‘Greek stuff would look ghastly here, Hugh.’

  ‘I know it would; but ultra-modern stuff wouldn’t. It would look all right because it is primitive, and this place is primitive. You pick up the ultra-modern, stream-lined stuff and it will go in all right. You mark my words, Mona, Pan is coming into his own again, and the sheer, hard, crude lines of modern design point to it. Don’t you go and dig up any mock-gothic. You’ve got twelve days till Beltane, can you get through with it by then?’

  ‘What do you want doing?’

  ‘Complete reorganization. I suggest we turn this end of the building over to Bill and Lizzie. They ought to get married. They can’t slosh about as they are indefinitely. The village will come up and tar and feather them. Oh, I forgot to tell you, they’ve bolted. Caught sight of me in my monk’s kit and let out a hoot and fled. But I expect they’ll flee back again in due course. They won’t get much change out of Mrs Pascoe.’

  A timid knock at the door broke in upon them, and Mona went to answer it. There stood two forlorn figures, who, as Hugh prophesied, had been driven forth ignominiously from the Green Man by its proprietress.

  Bill told the sad tale while Silly sniffed. Mrs Pascoe, though she had seen quite fit to saddle Mona with Silly, was horrified at the idea of her as a daughter-in-law. Bill, who in his dim animal mind now regarded her as his mate, was infuriated by this insult, and, bidding mamma and all his prospects farewell for ever, had returned to Mona, braving the ghost.

  Mona, laughing, opened the door and showed them Hugh, the monk’s robe hanging loose and ungirt from his shoulders like a dressing-gown, and told them that it was Mr Paston who had dressed up for a lark.

  Guffaws and general relief was the result. But when asked to swear secrecy, Bill explained that it was too late, as they had already told the tale far and wide. Mrs Pascoe, it was true, had repudiated it as the result of drink, but everyone else had received it open-mouthed. He also informed them that he and Lizzie had been hand in hand to the parson to put up the banns.

  Mona was appalled at the wreck of her reputation that now lay all over the village. However she reflected that the persons who were not kept away by the ghost would be maintained at a safe distance by the scandal, so they could be sure of the seclusion that is required for all occult matters.

  Hugh unlocked the cellarette and handed Bill two bottles of beer to celebrate with, and the now happy couple retired to their own quarters.

  Next day Hugh drove Mona up to town and dropped her in Oxford Street, arranging to meet her for tea at Uncle Jelkes’, and then for the first time since the tragedy, went to his club.

  It was a club that Trevor Wilmott had chosen for him. In its heyday it had been a notable institution, but it had fallen on hard times since the war, and an effort had been made to introduce some new blood into it. The new bloods were of the flashy businessman type — ‘something in the City’ trying to graduate into a man about town. The old brigade were of the type of Frida’s father, the fag-end of the old régime, hanging on by their eyebrows to privilege and prestige, and keeping up their self-respect by means of mutual admiration. The more difficult they found it to keep up appearances themselves, the more exacting were their standards for other folk. Both parties regarded Hugh as an inoffensive nonentity belonging to the rival camp.

  His appearance created something of a sensation. The general opinion was that Hugh would resign. All Trevor’s friends were there, and all Frida’s father’s friends were there. No one expected to see him walk into the dining-room and sit down and order lunch, looking particularly sprightly. Nobody quite knew the line to take. Condolences were obviously out of place, and congratulations not in good taste. Everybody waited to see what other people were going to do, and consequently nobody did anything. Hugh, who felt as if the tragedy belonged to an age more remote than Ambrosius, and had in fact, almost forgotten it, ate his lunch in peace.

  He strolled into the smoking-room, reserved for members only. It was a huge room with a fire-place at each end. The one at the far end was sacred to the old brigade, the one near the door to the new blood. Hugh, standing with his back to the room, became aware that he was a focus of attention, and that it was not friendly attention. He suddenly experienced the novel sensation of feeling his hackles rise. Why should he be treated like dirt by either old has-beens or young pseudo-bucks? He turned and strolled slowly, hands in trouser-pockets, towards the sacred fire-place at the far end of the room. There, as ill-luck would have it, he came face to face with one of Frida’s uncles. The old gentleman stared straight through him with a stony stare. So did all the other old gentlemen, his friends.

  This was a surprise for Hugh. He had expected mutual embarrassment, whic
h would be smoothed over by mutual courtesy; he had not expected to be outcasted. The devil entered into Hugh, and he deliberately thought of Ambrosius; as he did so, he observed a startled expression come over the faces of the old gentlemen who were supposed not to be looking at him. Hugh stared hard at his uncle-in-law, watching him slowly go from red to magenta. Still no one spoke.

  Hugh broke the silence. ‘You act as if it was I who had seduced your niece,’ he said, and turned on his heel and walked off.

  He went to the cloak-room to have a wash, and was still bending over the basin when he heard a voice behind him speaking his name in icy tones, and turned round to see his brother-in-law, the husband of his youngest sister.

  ‘That was a pretty ghastly thing you did just now in the smoking-room, Hugh.’

  ‘Was it?’ said Hugh, rinsing his hands under the tap.

  ‘What possessed you to act like that?’

  ‘The devil, I expect. But there is nothing to be made out of certifying me. There’s a power of attorney in existence.’

  ‘You are insulting!’

  ‘Well, if you will persist in ladling out unsolicited advice, you must not be surprised if you get sloshed on the nozzle occasionally.’

  ‘My dear Hugh!’

  ‘I’m not your dear Hugh. You hate the sight of me, and you know it.’

  ‘Well, if you ask my opinion—’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Hugh.

  ‘—there is only one thing for you to do, and that is to resign from the club, and then, in your own interests, to go to a nursing-home.’

  ‘I’ll resign from the club all right, it’s no earthly use to me. And I’ll withdraw my guarantee, too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Didn’t you know I guaranteed the overdraft at the bank?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t. I guess I’ll withdraw a few other guarantees and subscriptions while I’m at it.’

  He straightened his back and flung the damp towel into the bin and looked at Robert. The same startled look came into Robert’s face as had come into the faces of the old gentlemen in the smoking-room. Then he turned and walked off. Hugh felt certain he was using all his will-power to walk slowly.