Soliloquy for Pan

by Beech, Mark

  “So what are your plans now; a hotel in town perhaps? Or will it mean cutting your trip short?” Dorothy gave me a look yet I remained unapologetic.

  “I shouldn’t think so. I noticed a sign in town for the Salvation Army; a hostel would do until my money comes through. I’m waiting on a cheque to clear, a settlement from an employer who’s let me down. That’s been the problem, you see. They’d left me a little in the lurch. But any day now I’m expecting it.” He gave me a dummy’s smile.

  “We wouldn’t hear of it Peter. Rachel doesn’t get back until tomorrow so you can have her room tonight and tomorrow we can make up another bed somewhere.” Our unexpected guest cocked an eyebrow and my wife responded all too readily.

  “Rachel, you remember our daughter Rachel; she’s been away riding for a few days. Voluntary work you understand, we couldn’t afford lessons of course.”

  She would have divulged more if I hadn’t intervened. “I’m sure Peter doesn’t want to hear all that, he must be tired.” I was seething but offered to make us all a cup of tea and escaped to the kitchen to hatch a plan. I would wait until Dorothy retired before showing him the photograph.

  “The thing about horses and girls...” I thought I heard him say from the other room, yet I dropped the kettle on the hob so heard no more. I had kept our daughter out of Peter’s way when they were growing up. After all it was only understandable that we’d had to protect Rachel from the ramifications of Lampton’s death. An accident or illness would have been a different matter. So their childhood acquaintance was short-lived. As far as I knew Rachel had never really known Peter and I hoped that the encounter had been so fleeting that she may not even remember him at all.

  When I returned to the living room with a tray laden with a teapot, crockery and biscuits I found my wife doubled over in her chair, almost crying with laughter. Peter was smoking by the fire, standing with one hand in his trouser pocket, flicking ash casually in the direction of the hearth. There was a wry smile playing on his lips. I noticed that his flies were undone and a stray ear of white shirt poked through the opening. I nodded to indicate his faux pas yet with a dismissive wave of his hand he left the room showing little embarrassment. As I set out the cups and saucers on the side table I couldn’t help but wonder what had taken place in my absence. I looked at Dorothy, her face still flushed from her earlier amusement. She grew irritated when I started to question her invitation for Peter to stay and we bickered under our breaths until we were interrupted by Peter’s return. I was relieved to see he’d made the necessary adjustments.

  Dorothy went to bed later than usual yet I stayed up defiantly to face our guest. I had already found the photograph earlier that day. It hadn’t been difficult, it was in the same envelope, edges yellowed and smelling faintly of fusty pages. I had no need to look inside. I’d poured us both a substantial nightcap and stoked up the last of the fire.

  There was a silence while I rooted around for a way in which to broach the subject of the photograph and said, “It couldn’t have been easy coming back here for the first time...”

  “Well, it isn’t the first time but no, it wasn’t easy and still isn’t.”

  “Not the first time? Then when?”

  “Well, I came back before I knew about the diary, a couple of years back, just to see the old town again; stayed at the Mayview funnily enough. And I walked down this very street a few times. I admit I even stood outside your door not knowing whether to knock but didn’t knock in the end. I hope that doesn’t seem strange to you. Somehow I knew I’d return... there was this overwhelming sense of... I don’t know what. I didn’t know at the time. I know now of course.”

  I nodded, thinking it was wise just to allow him to continue without entering into further dialogue.

  “Even before I’d read the diary I came back. I was called back. I found the canal and heard the music.” Peter waited for me to ask him to elaborate but I didn’t. I didn’t want any part of what was going on inside his head. Instead I handed over the photograph quite coldly, retreating to a safe distance to witness the impact.

  Peter slipped the photograph from its envelope, flicking it over between his thumb and index finger to see if there was anything written on its reverse. It was blank. Then he turned it over nonchalantly to view the image again. I could see his eyes making slight darting movements in the dim light, pausing awhile here or there to focus and peer at a detail. I was happy to see he looked disappointed. Then his gaze lifted to meet mine.

  “It’s another piece of the jigsaw I suppose, Albert; a minor blurred piece admittedly, yet a piece all the same. What do you think he was holding?” He was waiting for a response and I didn’t like his tone, as if he was testing me.

  I was thrown by his use of my first name too. I could imagine it had been a familiarity he’d established with my wife while I was out of the room. Perhaps he had made some quip about my name being old-fashioned and my wife had allowed herself a giggle, who knows. Peter was showing me the photograph as I sat there distracted and I took his cue reaching to examine it closely. As I did so I tried to convey my own guarded thoughts.

  “You must admit that it looks as if Martin’s hands... your father’s hands... appear to be empty. I don’t know who took the photograph, your mother perhaps, so she may be able to recall the actual circumstances, yet as far as I can tell your father’s hands are empty, I’m afraid. Does it matter?” I struggled to gauge my tone, as I feared provoking him if I seemed dismissive.

  “I think you’d agree though that his palms appear to grasp something, his fingers caressing the contours of whatever it is he thinks he’s holding. He’s looking down, spellbound by whatever he can see. Look, the dark shape against his right palm. If you look carefully enough... it’s in the other photographs too if you know how to see it.”

  “But that’s the point just there when you said; whatever it is he thinks he is holding. I’m sorry Peter but the dark shape... in my opinion... is only the shadow of your father’s other hand.” I could see the lad’s shoulders shrink a little at my comment, visibly deflating. Then in a second he’d gathered himself, correcting his posture defensively. The light left his expression as he took on a surly tone.

  “You’re right of course. My father was just a madman so everything he said or did is now worthless. Yet if he was simply mad why would someone want to tear pages from his diary I wonder. My mother reckoned I was barking up the wrong tree yet I’m sure pages were torn from his journal. Perhaps he did it himself, it’s possible. Yet I don’t know.” I could tell he’d nurtured the idea of a plot and was about to propound his theory.

  “I removed them.” I don’t quite know why I confessed so quickly. I was just tired of the drama and perversely wanted to wrong-foot what I suspected was going to be a tiresome investigation.

  “You? But you...” He squinted for a moment then stared blankly on, looking through me.

  “I’m sorry. I removed the pages. I still have them somewhere, I mean, in my study, I could...” I said, starting to sound every inch the guilty schemer and beginning to regret my hasty admission.

  “Don’t trouble yourself.” Peter was on his feet by this time, slowly turning away then back again as he mulled the revelation over. He’d placed his glass of whisky on the mantelpiece over the fire. Given the colour of his face I thought he might at any time fly into a rage. Tears welled in his eyes as he took a few paces away yet when he returned to the fireplace only moments later he was composed. He took a sip from his glass. When he sat down again I was surprised to see that he was smiling. He glanced at the door to ensure we were alone and dropped his voice to a whisper.

  “What you know or what you believe no longer matters. This is all that matters now: you’ll help me put the pieces back together again.”

  I found myself whispering in return; “I thought I was helping. I had nothing to gain. I have nothing to hide.”

  “We all have something to hide Albert, don’t you agree?” He raised a hand t
o allay my protests, “It’s admirable that you wanted to protect a child from the madness of his father, really it is. Unfortunately it’s not quite as simple as that. You knew the man, you read his diary, so in your heart you must sense that there is more to this than we are admitting here. You know it. Allow yourself that much; you owe it to yourself now, after all those years of denying it. You owe it to the friendship you had with my father.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at Peter, if I’m...” Again, the young Lampton put up his hand and I stopped short.

  “It’s something I see in you that tells me you have been there too. It leaves an indelible mark.”

  “What do you mean? Been where?”

  “To the canal of course, where my father died... where he hid the artefact... the flute whose music has been affecting us ever since.”

  “Oh Peter, that’s not it. There’s no truth in that; your father was very ill, you must understand. It must have been a great loss, and all these years later retracing his steps. Perhaps you’ve come too close to the path he walked. You have to live your own life, you have to...”

  There it was again, Peter’s raised hand.

  “Thanks for the platitudes Uncle Albert. I believe that’s what I called you when I was a kid. Don’t worry; I didn’t come here with accusations in mind. To help me you’ll have to listen carefully. First, could you bring me those pages from your study?” He was leaning forward, straining to keep his voice to a whisper. Only then did I become conscious of his vigour; the unspoken threat of his presence emphasising the vulnerability of my own age. I did as he requested, ascending the stairs like an obedient mouse, careful not to wake my wife. When I returned with the shoebox of papers Peter continued as if I’d never been away.

  “Whether you’re aware of it or not you are like a touchstone for those times, if that’s the right word... a talisman, that’s it. You’re my key now. I don’t care that you hid those pages; you believe you had your reasons, although your motives are another matter. We can’t expect to find all the answers. So much of this will always be beyond us; whatever my father understood he took with him. But you didn’t destroy the pages after all. You talk of paths; well I think you held on to those pages as a way to find your way back. You sensed my father was on to something; that he possessed something and you were drawn to him without knowing it, to be near whatever he had. It was the artefact, it had started to have a hold over you too, or if not the artefact itself, then what it invoked. Without knowing it you’ve been a messenger waiting to deliver a message.”

  “We were just friends who shared an interest, Peter. I hat’s all. I’m doing my best here to keep my temper. You’re a guest here after all and...” Peter took the shoebox of papers from my hands as I reached him.

  “And we don’t want to wake Dorothy so do keep your voice down. To begin with, I’ll be staying on a few days and these pages are my insurance.” He removed the dozen or so pages from the shoebox, folded them and slipped them into his jacket pocket. “I’m sure Dorothy and my mother might see this whole thing in quite a different light; withholding keepsakes... or proof... from your late friend’s only son? It really is... well, quite shocking.” That’s how he put it. Despite his physique I couldn’t help but feel I was being blackmailed by a petulant child. Standing up he crossed the rug to the fire, examining the shoebox for a second he tore it apart, placing each piece on the fire. Standing there awhile warming his hands, his tone changed; as he continued speaking he seemed to address the flames.

  “I know my father better than you think. My mother used to complain that he left us with nothing, left us to fend for ourselves. I can understand her anger yet she can’t see that he left me the only legacy that matters. It’s intangible of course. I used to think I was cursed. It’s more than blood. It’s in the shadows. It can’t be touched but it’s still there, lingering behind the shapes of things, hiding in the spaces in between. By doing what he did he opened the way. Only a few can hear its music, as soft and as wild as the wind. It bends everything to its will. No one can resist its call. You must have heard it, down by the water, by the canal. I have heard it there. It called me.”

  “I don’t know what I heard there, Peter. I don’t know if I heard anything at all, or that anything called me there.” I’m not sure what possessed me to start speaking that way, I wasn’t just humouring him; it was as though all pretences and inhibitions could finally be dropped. He was right, I knew there was something more to it than met the eye, so instead of suggesting professional help I played along to see where it would take me. Despite everything I thought I owed the lad that much. That had been another of the many mistakes I made. Yet I continued even when my instinct was telling me to shut up.

  “I admired your father and you’re right he had something about him. He had a certain charisma, of giving the impression of sometimes being attuned to something greater, something just out of reach, or of having a purpose. Forgive me, I’m struggling to find the words.” I could see that my openness appealed to Peter. He was smiling with satisfaction, no doubt pleased that I had been pushed into a corner, yet I still went on, as if confessing. I stopped myself from feigning sycophancy, as I thought if I was heavy on the compliments about his father he’d smell a rat, and really I hoped that in being sincere I might bring him to his senses.

  “You know we did what we could to help. You know that, don’t you? It all got out of hand. He had secrets... no one knew he was living this other life. I guess that was his sense of purpose I was talking about... it got out of hand. In the end it was beyond his control. And your father was someone who liked being in control. In a way he was fascinated by the idea of control... of influence and of being influenced... I guess that’s what you would call it... influence. I don’t mean pursuing status like most men do. No, that was far too vulgar to him. I suppose looking back his interest in mythology was all to do with influence. He didn’t just see in it the fantastical stories that most people think of when they hear the word mythology. He found in those stories a secret way of seeing and living and transforming life.” I didn’t know where the words had come from. When I looked back at Peter he pulled his gaze from the flames to meet mine. He was smiling again, the reflected firelight flickering in his eyes.

  “I’m sure my father couldn’t have put it better himself.” Peter returned to his chair cupping his glass in both hands and peering down at what was left of his whisky. I thought of Lampton in the photograph; his hands seeming to hold something, his long fingers caressing its contours, his eyes transfixed in a downward gaze, as if enthralled by a jewel, yet between his hands there was nothing to be seen. Peter started to speak again.

  “You more than anyone else should know of his interest in the ancient ways. He must have told you about my name, given his obsessions, it was his little joke I guess.” Peter started to smile at my ignorance. “You must have realised, surely? No? Peter? That’s what my mother tells me he used to say, ‘Here’s Peter, little Peter Pan,’ when I was learning to walk. Later Pan was simply a name I knew without really understanding how or why. You must know he’d had a particular interest in the satyr-god, especially the tale about Syrinx, the nymph whom Pan pursued and met with a tragic end. It’s at the heart of who Pan was really; you must know the tale.”

  I had forgotten all about Pan and sitting there watching the lad it was as though Lampton had returned in another form and was discoursing again, as he often had on his latest researches. It was as if Lampton had never died but simply changed; mutated into this younger version of himself. I sat transfixed.

  “Vaguely yes, yet you’ll have to remind me.” The lad started to talk about Pan almost as though he was relating fond memories of an estranged uncle. As he spoke he finally betrayed the learning I had all along suspected he possessed.

  “I suppose it depends upon what you see in the allegory, if it is an allegory. Poor lustful Pan chases the beautiful Syrinx, a nymph renowned for her chastity and after an arduous pursu
it, after many tantalising near-misses and agile evasions Pan finally closes on his quarry on the banks of the river of Ladon. Syrinx summons help from her nymph sisters who dwelt there, calling upon them to hide her and save her from the god’s advances. Yet as we all know in such tales you must be careful what you wish for; they transformed her into a cluster of reeds on the water’s edge. As Pan emerges from the forest he witnesses Syrinx’s sudden metamorphosis and letting out a great sigh through the reeds hears a mournful yet captivating sound. Mesmerised Pan plucks the reeds, cuts them and binds them together, making a flute that invokes Syrinx’s soft voice whenever he desires to hear it. I think it is that last part that stays with me, I don’t know why. I can imagine it preoccupying my father.” When the lad stopped I must have sat awhile half in a dream, listening to the fire crackling.

  “Yes, yes I can see why.” I said finally. “I remember something of the sort but it was so long ago Peter.” I could picture the canal and Lampton’s long face sliding through its green waters. “And so much has happened. But it’s possible I do recall your father talking about that tale before... about Pan and his flute, yes that’s pretty certain. He’d have talked about the various interpretations and his own too, of course. But what all that has to do with what happened to him, to your father, I don’t know. I really don’t. Are you suggesting there’s a link?”

  I often caught something in young Lampton’s eyes I didn’t like and it surfaced when I asked that question. Not just the leering look that I noticed gleaming there in the bar of the B&B when the waitress was near, not just that. No, there was another look entirely; something wild and formless stirred there. I’d seen something like it in wildlife photographs or documentary footage of predators’ eyes, something relentless and remorseless, a look that belonged to another order, something far older than any civilised order in fact; his pupils were also apertures opening onto something turbulent and boundless and primal.