Read Online Daemon of the Dark Wood by Randy Chandler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Randy Chandler
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“I shouldn’t have asked you that. Patient confidentiality. I withdraw the question. Though she’s like family to me.”
“Well, don’t let me keep you from your visit,” Knott said in a polite attempt to send the professor on his way.
But Thorn didn’t seem to hear him. He had shifted his gaze to the wall-drawing and was obviously lost in contemplation of the red jumble of lines and shadings. “Fascinating,” he said. “Am I to assume a patient produced that, or is one of your staff experimenting with hallucinogens?”
Knott couldn’t hold back his laughter. He was beginning to like Thorn. The man’s good-natured humor was infectious. “The former, I assure you. As a matter of fact, a catatonic patient. She came out of it long enough to create this modest masterpiece. Even gave it a title, as you can see.”
“Tell me, Doctor, what do you see in it?” Thorn continued to gaze into the drawing, fingering the bristles of his beard as if to stimulate new insights.
“I honestly can’t tell you. It’s just random slashes and swirls of crayon, yet … if you look at it long enough … there’s a suggestion of … I don’t know what. But there’s something there that draws you into it.”
“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
“Well, don’t let me keep you from your visit,” Knott said in a polite attempt to send the professor on his way.
But Thorn didn’t seem to hear him. He had shifted his gaze to the wall-drawing and was obviously lost in contemplation of the red jumble of lines and shadings. “Fascinating,” he said. “Am I to assume a patient produced that, or is one of your staff experimenting with hallucinogens?”
Knott couldn’t hold back his laughter. He was beginning to like Thorn. The man’s good-natured humor was infectious. “The former, I assure you. As a matter of fact, a catatonic patient. She came out of it long enough to create this modest masterpiece. Even gave it a title, as you can see.”
“Tell me, Doctor, what do you see in it?” Thorn continued to gaze into the drawing, fingering the bristles of his beard as if to stimulate new insights.
“I honestly can’t tell you. It’s just random slashes and swirls of crayon, yet … if you look at it long enough … there’s a suggestion of … I don’t know what. But there’s something there that draws you into it.”
“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
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