Gunner licked his mouth and nose with his long pink tongue. He liked having his ears scratched. I took care not to become angry with the dog. I said, in an even, composed voice, “I have tremendous faith in you, Gunner. Much depends on the mask. Pick a good one. Use your judgment.”
I released the Doberman’s head. Right away Gunner picked up the deck shoe with his teeth. He turned and trotted away quickly through the darkness. He was gone and I was alone again. I did not like being alone in the stacks. I did not feel in the mood to read an old book. While waiting for Gunner’s return, I examined the medicine vials in my jacket pocket. I was very pleased to find that these contained morphine. There was enough morphine here to relieve a lot of suffering. Carefully, one by one, I returned the precious vials to my jacket.
I meditated on the Corn King. It is a little-discussed fact that human sacrifices are not strictly ancient occurrences. The practice continues, among certain peoples in certain places, to draw adherents. And why not? All men experience the feelings and convictions that led the earliest savages to dread hunger, isolation, abandonment, their powerlessness against nature. These stacks, certainly, were dark and haunted by demons. I drew my coat around me and, like a little boy, a child alone, prayed to feel better. Isn’t feeling better, in a general way, what blood sacrifice is for? When we draw blood from another person, either in fact or in essence, aren’t we really trying to defend against our own fears, against our own desires, against loneliness?
Didn’t I miss my father terribly? Didn’t I love alcohol in order to know him? Didn’t my brothers do the same?
I heard a noise and there was Gunner. He had an African mask in his mouth. This mask was familiar to me. It was old, wooden and immense, a brightly painted Central African tree spirit featuring an elongated chin and pronounced, scarlet cheekbones. Horizontal knife slits served as eyes, and bushy hair fashioned from dried twigs cascaded in bunches over an expansive forehead carved from some equatorial hardwood with the peeling bark still attached.
I crouched down and the dog came to me. It was a shame, really, that I had no doggy treats along with the morphine in my pockets. I said, like a true master, “That’ll do, boy.” Gunner had clearly exerted himself carrying this weighty, cumbersome mask. He opened his mouth and let me extract it from between his teeth. Saliva coated it. It was not, I should say, a mask I would have selected for myself. I’d have chosen something smaller, lighter, with bigger eyes and wearing a meaner, more threatening facial expression. I would have preferred a face without bark. The bark gave an appearance of unclear skin. This mask, with its absurdly long chin and its silly hairstyle, most likely represented some friendly, comical spirit.
Any mask, even a demon’s face or a Zulu war mask, will look harmless until worn by a person. If worn correctly, a mask becomes animated. The face — no matter how grotesque or exaggerated its features — seems to come alive, to change countenance, and to convey, through the gestures and movements of the wearer, the emotional spirit of the mask character. Creative animation of this sort can have a profound effect on an audience, a profounder effect on the mask’s wearer. As the mask’s spirit — this can be the spirit of a god, a beast, an inanimate object, or some form of vegetation — emanates outward, into the world, so does it penetrate inward, into the unconscious of the person wearing the mask. This is the mask’s real purpose: to lead its wearer, gradually, by way of the ecstasy induced through physical exertion (most often a savage dancing), into a realm that is shared by these two principal characters, the man in the mask and the spirit symbolized by the mask. In this dark and phantasmagorical realm it is possible for the wearer to leave behind quotidian life, reconcile himself to natural forces beyond conscious understanding, and with a little luck and a few bourbons down the hatch, experience, in an instant of life, a hideous self-transformation.
I told Gunner, “When I put on this mask, I won’t be myself anymore. I’ll be the Corn King. But don’t worry, because the Corn King will also be me. Ready, boy?”
Before I could put on the mask I had to get the rest of my costume in order. As a rule this is not difficult because my costume consists only of nakedness. Primitive, elementary, unencumbered, old-fashioned, barbaric, vulnerable, willing, childlike nakedness.
And the mask.
Tonight, however, it would be unhealthy to absolutely disrobe. The air temperature was at an all-time low. Our soaked floor would be treacherous without footwear. I elected this compromise: shoes and socks but no pants or underpants, and, for warmth, my sport jacket, but no shirt. Plus the mask. I saw no harm in carrying the pillow as a shield, a syringe for a sword.
I undressed and lowered the mask onto my head. Right away I knew that the eyeholes were going to be a problem. To see, I had to hold the mask in place by its pointed chin. This mask was incredibly heavy, and its straps — only rough twine — were frayed, inelastic, and irritating to the skin. I knotted them as tightly as I could without breaking them, then attempted a few head rotations. The mask skidded down my face and crushed my nose. There must have been ancient pollen suffusing the mask’s leafy hair. Immediately I felt the urge to sneeze. And I did sneeze, not once but serially. My sneezes, which came violently, loosened the mask’s straps. Again the mask slipped down and crushed my nose, and this induced another round of sneezing. I am embarrassed to admit spraying a large volume of phlegm into the mask’s interior facial cavity, coating the mask’s inner surface and, because I was behind the mask, my own face.
“Hang on, Gunner. These fucking things always take some getting used to.”
Gunner seemed impatient, excited, eager to go. I wrestled with the mask. Suddenly I felt the Doberman’s trembling, cold nose between my legs; I felt Gunner’s heated breath between my naked legs, tickling my penis; and I leapt backward and cried, “Hey! Hey!”
Enough was enough. The tree spirit mask — unwieldy, gluey with mucus and the dog’s saliva, improperly fastened and heavily contaminated with allergens — would have to suffice. I mashed it onto my head, yanked the straps tight, then gathered up my other Corn King paraphernalia, that blue pillow and the rapier/syringe, and said to the Doberman, “I can’t see. You must lead me.”
To make this happen I reached down and clutched the fur at the back of the dog’s neck. I grabbed him gently because I felt a true fondness for Gunner, and also because I did not care to be attacked by this Doberman. In truth I should say that I grabbed the dog’s skin—Dobermans are, of course, shorthairs, pretty much. Gunner set out walking, and I — sneezing, half-nude, virtually blind behind my mask, armed with ineffectual weapons, suffering one black eye and a rug-burned arm, bent over like a cripple to maintain petting contact with the dog — stumbled alongside. In this absurd and sad configuration we made our way, dog and man, through the better part of Fable and Folklore.
I made an effort, as we walked, to relax. It is important not to hyperventilate or go into cold sweats while wearing a giant headpiece. Steady breathing and a low heart rate are the keys to transformational experience.
I heard no rioting men or furniture breaking in the distance. The only noises were splashing water and our steps, Gunner’s easy steps and my awkward steps, through puddles.