Weighell, Ron - King Satyr
If you are like me, sometimes you feel like a skin rash is imminent when reading overripe prose of Clark Ashton Smith, Ray Bradbury or Jonathan Gale. Such is the prologue of this novel, and I was fearful my flesh would rebel. Was the whole book going to be like this?
In a word, no. This is a masterful excursion – excursions – into various pasts. Chiefly the late 1960’s - 70’s, though it frequently harks back to the 1920’s or fin de siècle London.
Cyrus Burton, exposed to a fleeting summer Mystery, soon follows a path. To learn as much as he can about Alphonsus Gaunt, occult artist, in a certain sinister vogue at one point, subsequently fallen into disgraced obscurity.
Although the novel is structured along lines of the classic quest, it is jammed with historical references and studded with diversions. Who was Alphonsus Gaunt patterned after? Or Nicholas Hallam? Rosaleen Norton, was there such a person? Time and again, I paused reading to research.
“Be warned, Pagan,” said once, but implied throughout. This is a wander into the realm of satyrs, Pan, Dionysus, rites, worship. Of a world suppressed until forgotten, though, as murmured by Machen, it is merely shrouded by a flimsy veil.
Weighell’s grip on the reins is sure throughout, with casual reveals, previous seekers, and the perils of wisdom. King Satyr is a bittersweet, vibrant capstone, showing the writer at a creative peak.
This has only recently gone OP. As of this writing, copies remain available at honorable booksellers at reasonable prices.