Billy dragged his hooves in the dirt as he and his brother William followed Cyril the Squirrel to Mystic Mog’s. Normally, Mog would not be open for business during the day but Cyril fancied that the current strangeness of events would lead the cat to remain available for consultation around the clock. Hopefully, her guardian owls would see things the same way.
Cyril looked behind him at the two goats. They were being very slow. The younger goat, William, was busily looking around at all the new sights and sounds. The goats did not get off Toby Ron’s land very often (partly because Garth Jones had threatened to shoot them) and William was determined to make the most of this opportunity. Toby Ron had warned Cyril that the little goat may get a bit too excited and just wander off somewhere.
“He’s a smart kid, that one,” Toby had said, “but you’ll have to keep an eye on him. He hasn’t yet learned that there’s a time and a place for asking questions. Sometimes his curiosity can get him into trouble.”
“It killed the cat,” thought Cyril. “That’s a lot of trouble. Best not tell William that, though: he'll just ask which cat and how did it die.”
“What’s this, Mister Cyril, sir?” asked William, very politely interrupting the squirrel’s thoughts.
“It’s an empty drinks can, William,” sighed Cyril.
“Oh. But why did…?”
“Because people are lazy, William,” Cyril cut in, “and don’t respect the environment. Now come on!”
This was the umpteenth time that Cyril had had to stop and answer questions about litter, snails, stinging nettles, singing blackbirds and various other countryside phenomena. Not that William’s brother was being any better. Young Billy was skulking around miserably, occasionally muttering negative comments about the whole affair. He was not at all happy about the prospect of visiting Mystic Mog.
“I heard she used magic to turn old Harry the nymphomaniac gerbil into a toadstool!” Billy explained when pressed on the matter. “And then he went out of his mind with fear and was mistaken for a polo and eaten.”
“How could anyone mistake a toadstool for a polo?” asked William.
“It didn’t happen like that at all!” Cyril told them. “Mog used magic mushrooms to treat Harry for his sex addiction. He was cured too. He was on the way home when he thought he saw Richard Gere. He panicked, ran out into the road to avoid him, and was run over by a Volkswagen Polo.”
“Oh.”
“Now, come on both of you, or we’ll never get there at all and I’ll turn you into a toadstool.”
“You can’t do that,” argued William.
“Probably not. But I can have fun trying.”
As it happened, Cyril’s earlier worries about arriving at Mog’s during the day were unfounded – by the time Cyril had goaded the two goats to her woodland den, dusk was beginning to draw in.
The owls were waiting.
“Her mysticality is waiting for ya, nahmsayin?”
“Er, right. Thanks?”
Mystic Mog was, indeed, waiting. If it was possible, Cyril thought that she looked even worse than when he had seen her earlier that day. And she had not been attacked by half a dozen Jehovah’s Witnesses. She looked at the three of them with weary eyes.
“You were too late,” she told Cyril. It was definitely a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“I feared as much. And your friends?”
Despite the massive difference in size that made the manoeuvre pointless, the two goats slowly backed away and tried their best to hide behind the squirrel, away from Mog’s penetrating stare.
“Toby Ron’s goats,” explained Cyril. He nodded his head at Billy. “This one went walkies in the middle of the night. Doesn’t remember anything about it, though.”
Mog transferred her gaze to William. “And this one?”
Cyril opened his mouth to answer, thought for a moment and then closed it again. “To be honest, I’m not sure.” Cyril looked round. “Why are you here?”
William was still backing away from the scene. He stopped when he hit something or, more precisely, somebody – one of Mog’s guardian owls.
“Where are you going, mo’ fo?”
William jumped. “Oh, terribly sorry. I, er…”
Seeing the young goat in such a fluster softened Mog’s mood and, despite the terrible strain she was feeling, she managed to put on what she hoped was a comforting smile.
“It’s OK,” she told William, “we’ll get to you soon enough.”
Still not realising that each time she smiled she showed off her impressive teeth in a disturbing fashion and that the goats were now convinced that she wanted to eat them, Mog turned back to Billy.
"C’mon then, kid. Let’s have a look at you.”
Cyril stepped aside and nodded encouragement as Billy. Billy stood transfixed, trembling slightly.
“Billy!” Cyril hissed through clenched teeth. “Stop making a scene and let Mog give you the once over.”
“I can’t...” Billy moaned. “I don’t think my legs work anymore.”
There was a loud snap as Mog clicked her claws in front of her face, drawing the attention of both animals.
“Come, here,” she commanded, staring into Billy’s eyes.
Even though he was not the focus of Mog’s stare, Cyril had to fight hard not the approach the cat himself. The young goat had no chance of resistance nervously trotted up to Mystic Mog’s picnic table. Still staring into his eyes, Mog took Billy’s front hooves in her paws.
“Just relax,” she hissed gently.
Compelled to obey, Billy closed his eyes and remained silent.
“That’s good…” soothed Mog.
William and Cyril could do nothing but stand and watch. There was not actually anything really happening but they felt obliged to look anyway. Cyril made a mental observation that the high-pitched wailing that so often accompanied Mog’s routines was absent: this really was serious stuff.
After about five minutes of inactivity, during which time William had been staring at Billy and Mog as if either – or both – of them were about to explode, Mog released the young goat’s paws.
“He’s a Wanderer,” Mog told Cyril flatly.
“Not a very quick one,” Cyril moaned. “What do you mean?”
It was young William that piped up with an explanation: “A goat Wanderer is a chosen one who is used as a mortal vessel for the great goat-god, Pan himself.”
Mog nodded at him. “I’m impressed.”
William stared shyly at his feet. “I read a lot,” he mumbled.
Cyril was still not entirely sure what they meant. “So, Billy…?”
Mog sighed. “Billy went walkies, as you put it, because Pan, the goat-god, took control of him.”
“Why?”
Billy was looking really worried now. “Yeah, why?”
“Hard to say, exactly,” answered Mog. “The spirit-world cannot interact properly with this one without a little help. Pan was using young Billy here as his eyes and ears. And legs. What it was he wanted to see though, I’m not sure.”
“I think I might know,” offered William. “This is traditionally the time of year for followers of Pan to perform the Sun Dance and welcome in Pan’s new season.”
Cyril leant over and whispered in Mog’s ear: “Why didn’t Pan choose that one? He seems rather bright.”
“He needs an empty vessel, so to speak,” replied Mog softly.
“Oh.”
“Can you tell me a bit more about this Sun Dance?” Mog asked William.
“It is a dance first attributed to Spurymedes, one of the founding fathers on the Pan cult. Today, a modified version incorporating certain astrological phenomena is usually performed at dawn to greet the rising sun when Saturn - the ruling planet of Capricorn - has reached ascendance.
“The dance should be performed by twelve cultists, each representing a sign of the zodiac, and is accompanied by the music of the traditional instrument, the wooden panpipe. Just before dawn, one chosen cultist must address the goat-god and then each cult member must present himself (and his member) – or herself – to Pan.
“Cultists then do a circular dance until the sun has fully risen. Originally, this was centred about a stone altar on which” – William paused and looked over sheepishly at Billy (quite easily done if you are a goat) – “a goat had been sacrificed. However, later generations of cultists decided that the goat-god would not really appreciate the sacrifice of a goat and this practice was dropped sometime in the middle ages. In colder climates, the stone altar went on to be replaced by a camp fire.”
“Blimey!” said Cyril. “Toby Ron was right. Goats really do have a good memory…”
Mog scowled at him. “Do go on, William.”
“Once the sun had fully cleared the horizon, it was tradition to sacrifice the addresser of Pan. Originally, this was done on the same altar, mingling cultist and goat blood. Sometimes this would take the form of self-sacrifice. At other times, the sacrifice needed a bit more persuading. In times of extreme hardship, it was not unknown for the entire band of dancers to commit suicide in an attempt to attain the favour of their god for their tribe or family.
“Again, in modern times this practice has been dropped in the face of changing public opinion. People tend to be less willing to sign up to rituals that have a high risk of death, these days. Pan is not much worshipped these days and, my understanding is, his modern followers have decided that he wouldn’t want to lose any more. I’m not sure if they have replaced the sacrifice of the addressing member with anything.”
“One more question, William,” said Mog. “When you say cult members must ‘present themselves’ to their god, how do they do this?”
“There was one cult group in the late sixties that had an elaborate ceremony involving peacock feathers, flared trousers, and a rubber chicken. Generally, though, it is by the removal of all one’s garments and standing naked before him.”
Mog nodded. “This is most disturbing.”
“Does this sound like the group in your dream?” asked Cyril.
“Yes,” nodded Mog solemnly, “it does.”
“But that’s great!” Cyril exclaimed. “Well, not all those people dying, obviously,” he added quickly, “but young Billy here must have seen the whole thing. He’ll know who did it!”
Billy looked confused. “Seen who? Do what?” He hung his head sadly. “I haven’t seen anything.”
Cyril shot Mog a perplexed glance.
“Pan only takes control when a vessel is idle,” explained Mog. “Y’know – asleep. As soon as something happened to awaken Billy, his consciousness would shunt Pan out.”
“And what would wake him?”
“I dunno. What normally wakes someone? A slap in the face? A loud noise?”
“Like a bomb you mean…?”
The two of them looked at Billy. “I don’t remember any bombs,” he muttered. “I woke up in a field near home. I don’t know how I got there.”
Mog shrugged. “Maybe he’s a heavy sleeper. He might have woken up only when Pan decided to leave.”
“Maybe he never made it to the site of the bomb at all?” William suggested.
“Either way, he won’t remember details.”
Cyril sat down grumpily. “Great. So, we’ve got a possible eye-witness who may or may not have seen it happen but anything he did see, he won’t be able to remember. What use is that?”
Billy looked like he was going to cry.
“Excuse me!” William volunteered, “but we may have an eye-witness who saw and remembers everything – Pan.”
Cyril looked to Mog for confirmation.
“He’s right,” Mog agreed. “Doesn’t help us much, though.”
“You’re in touch with the spirit world aren’t you? Can’t you contact him, like?”
Mog shook her head. “I don’t do gods. They tend to get rather tetchy. And that’s if you’re lucky. Control-freaks the lot of them. Much as I would like to know what’s going on, I’d rather not have my soul sucked into the ether through my nostrils.”
“So we’re back to square one?”
“Not necessarily. If it was a suicide and my dreams are not connected, this should be the end of it. If not... well, Young William has got a point. If Pan did witness the whole thing then I’m sure he wouldn’t be very happy about someone blowing away a dozen of his most loyal followers. Even if he didn’t see it, he still got to be a pit peeved. He’s got access to this world now through Billy here and, if I know Pan, he’ll want to take full advantage of that to try and find out what’s going on.”
“Do you know Pan?” asked Cyril.
“Not really, no.”
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