O evanescent temples built of man
To deities he honoured and dethroned!
Earth shoots a trail of her eternal vine
To crown the head that men have ceased to honour.
Beneath the coronal of leaf and lichen
The mocking smile upon the lips derides
Pan’s lost dominion; but the pointed ears
Are keen and prick’d with old remember’d sounds.
All my breast aches with longing for the past!
Thou God of stone, I have a craving in me
For knowledge of thee as thou wert in old
Enchanted twilights in Arcadia.
– Eleanor Farjeon, Pan-Worship.
Behold the throne of our blessed King of Wyken!
You may have well been unaware of the King of Wyken’s existence, quite blissfully so. As the saying goes, a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing indeed. Perhaps, after learning the truth, you will have wished it to have remained that way. Well, too late for all that.
Our universe is a home to powerful forces, forces far beyond our mere mortal comprehension. There are hidden synapses firing within the brain of reality, you understand. Our King is old, far older than the stars in the sky, and on first name terms with most of them.
A little knowledge is indeed a dangerous thing.
Those who are aware of our King’s existence are simply the outsiders and the freaks, or just those unlucky few who happened to catch a glimpse of His strange figure, so tall and graceful, dancing through the long grass in the setting sun on a cool summer night.
You must understand, to see the King of Wyken is to pay a terrible price! Bearing witness to a being of such awe, of such beauty, it can shatter the heart, the mind, the sanity of any man for an eternity! Perhaps to remain unaware was indeed some sort of bliss…
The King of each overgrown garden and derelict garage.
The King of piss-soaked corridors in abandoned tower-blocks scattered along Hermes Crescent (oh, too hear that name, so bittersweet…).
The King of the maze of roads that entrap the caravan park.
The King of Wyken is absolute ruler of these most fortuitous of lands. Yet, he is also a benevolent one.
He may stick to the shadows or to the corner of your eye but He is always there, watching over His beloved Wyken, and His beloved subjects, with such a deep and unfathomable love, a love of which a thousand poets could barely begin to hope to describe!
The King of Wyken loves you, each and every one of you. He will sometimes stop by to watch you as you sleep, to gently run His long, crooked fingers through your hair and hum His ancient lullabies.
The King of Wyken is a playful sort; known to perch on the edge of the church tower at St. Mary Magdalene, watching over the honoured dead throughout the long, cold night. He will regale them with tales of old, of being witness to the birth of St. George at the castle of Caludon, of the eyes He took from poor old Tom as a favour for a friend.
Once, whilst bathing in the moonlight, He could not help but put a scare up the poor vicar’s boy. Oh, how He had laughed, the laughter of the gods!
The King of Wyken appreciates the offerings you leave, out there on the Wyken Nature Park, that tribute you can’t quite remember leaving. The droppings of your dogs and the dry, brittle wrappings of your foods, they leave such beautiful patterns amongst His trees. He glides along to the songs you sing to Him at sunrise, the songs of the Blackbird, the Song Thrush and the Robin, He plays along to your melody with His flute.
He appreciates your company, be it on your dark walk to work or on a quiet Sunday stroll, for even a King can be lonely.
The King of Wyken knows each crow in His Kingdom by name, from Charles Xerox to The Hooded Ninja, but He has no time for those wretched magpie, Frank Thatcher, Mildred, Dr. Quake and the rest. He decrees that they must be kept separated, under a penalty of a fate worse, far worse, than the mere death of body and mind. Each wretched magpie is cursed to walk this cruel world alone, our bad luck be damned!
The King of Wyken may despair at the urban sprawl that continues to cover His once beautiful wilderness. He may once have wrought a terrible vengeance on those who had brought such order to the chaos of the wild. But He is a learned King, a wise King, the times must change, as they have since antiquity.
The King of Wyken;
His is the voice you hear in the back of your head, as you stand at the bar in The Devonshire Arms…
His is the hand whom will pull you to safety that split second before you step before one of the metallic creatures that hunt on Ansty Road…
His is the perfume that you catch on the wind; that bittersweet smell of first loves and Truth Or Dare and football on Sunday mornings down Cally Park…
And His will be wrath.
His will be the price you must pay.
For if anyone who may bring disrespect upon Him or His subjects within His borders will know horror, will know pain, will know an everlasting agony.
READING: The Great God Pan, by Arthur Machen.