Mist rose and darkened the scene. It was the end.
The red-furred hand was heavy on Jim’s shoulder-but it did not bother him.
“Now you understand,” Iron John said, newfound warmth in his voice. “Now you can release Iron John. Welcome, Jim, welcome.”
I wanted to say that I felt more confusion than comprehension. That I was experiencing something, yet not understanding it. Instead of speaking my feelings aloud I suddenly found that my eyes were brimming with tears. I did not know why although I knew that they were nothing to be ashamed of.
Iron John smiled at me and, with a great finger, wiped the tears from my damp cheeks.
CHAPTER 16
“What was all that about?” Floyd asked when I returned to our quarters. He was jazzing with his trombonio, a complex and gleaming collection of golden tubes and slides, which made some very interesting sounds indeed. Most of them, regrettably, of an ear-destroying nature.
“More training film,” I said, as nonchalantly as I could. I was surprised to hear a certain quaver in my voice as I spoke. Floyd tootled on, unaware of it, but Steengo who appeared to be asleep on the couch opened one eye.
“Training film? You mean more about the pool in the forest?”
“You got it in one.”
“Did you find out what was in the pool? The thing that dragged the dog down?”
“A stupid story,” Floyd said, and tootled a little fast riff. “Although I do feel sorry for the dog.”
“It wasn’t a real dog,” Steengo said. He looked at me, seemed to be waiting for me to speak, but I clamped my jaw shut and turned away. “Nor was it a real pool.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, looking at him.
“Mythology, my dear Jim. And rites of passage. It was Iron John at the bottom of the pool, wasn’t it?”
I jumped as though I had been zapped with an electric shock. “It was! But-how did you know that?”
“I told you I read my mythology. But the thing that really disturbs me-not this training film as you call it-is the fact that Iron John is here in the flesh, solid and hairy.”
“You’ve lost me,” Floyd said, looking from one to the other of us. “A little explanation is very much in order.”
“It is,” Steengo said, swinging his feet around so he sat up straight on the couch. “Mankind invents cultures-and cultures invent myths to justify and explain their existence. Prominent among these are the myths and ceremonies of the rites of passage for boys. The passage from boyhood to manhood. This is the time when the boy is separated from his mother and the other women. In some primitive cultures the boys go and live with the men-and never see their mothers again.”
“No big loss,” Floyd muttered. Steengo nodded.
“You heard that, Jim. In all cultures mothers try to shape sons in their female image. For their own good. The boys resist -and the rite of passage helps this resistance. There is always symbolism involved, because symbols are a way to represent the myths that underlie every culture.”
I thought about this; my head hurt. “Sorry, Steengo, but you left me behind completely with that one. Explanation?”
“Of course. Let’s stay with Iron John. You have just said that you didn’t understand it-yet I think that it affected you emotionally.”
I started to protest, to lie-then stopped. Why lie? I tried not to lie to myself, ever. This was a good moment to apply that rule.
“You’re right. It got to me-and I don’t know why . . .”
“Myths deal with emotions, not facts. Let’s look at the symbols. Did the young man bail out the pool and find Iron Hans, or Iron John at the bottom?”
“That’s exactly what happened.”
“Who do you think Iron John is? In the story I mean, not the one walking around here. But before you answer that-who do you think the young man in the story was?”
“That’s not too hard to figure out. Whoever the story was aimed at, whoever was watching it. In this case, since I was there alone, I guess it must have been me.”