I undressed and lowered the mask onto my head. Right away I knew that the eyeholes were going to be a problem. To see, I had to hold the mask in place by its pointed chin. This mask was incredibly heavy, and its straps—only rough twine—were frayed, inelastic, and irritating to the skin. I knotted them as tightly as I could without breaking them, then attempted a few head rotations. The mask skidded down my face and crushed my nose. There must have been ancient pollen suffusing the mask’s leafy hair. Immediately I felt the urge to sneeze. And I did sneeze, not once but serially. My sneezes, which came violently, loosened the mask’s straps. Again the mask slipped down and crushed my nose, and this induced another round of sneezing. I am embarrassed to admit spraying a large volume of phlegm into the mask’s interior facial cavity, coating the mask’s inner surface and, because I was behind the mask, my own face.

“Hang on, Gunner. These fucking things always take some getting used to.”

Gunner seemed impatient, excited, eager to go. I wrestled with the mask. Suddenly I felt the Doberman’s trembling, cold nose between my legs; I felt Gunner’s heated breath between my naked legs, tickling my penis; and I leapt backward and cried, “Hey! Hey!”

Enough was enough. The tree spirit mask—unwieldy, gluey with mucus and the dog’s saliva, improperly fastened and heavily contaminated with allergens—would have to suffice. I mashed it onto my head, yanked the straps tight, then gathered up my other Corn King paraphernalia, that blue pillow and the rapier/syringe, and said to the Doberman, “I can’t see. You must lead me.”

To make this happen I reached down and clutched the fur at the back of the dog’s neck. I grabbed him gently because I felt a true fondness for Gunner, and also because I did not care to be attacked by this Doberman. In truth I should say that I grabbed the dog’s skin—Dobermans are, of course, shorthairs, pretty much. Gunner set out walking, and I—sneezing, half-nude, virtually blind behind my mask, armed with ineffectual weapons, suffering one black eye and a rug-burned arm, bent over like a cripple to maintain petting contact with the dog—stumbled alongside. In this absurd and sad configuration we made our way, dog and man, through the better part of Fable and Folklore.

I made an effort, as we walked, to relax. It is important not to hyperventilate or go into cold sweats while wearing a giant headpiece. Steady breathing and a low heart rate are the keys to transformational experience.

I heard no rioting men or furniture breaking in the distance. The only noises were splashing water and our steps, Gunner’s easy steps and my awkward steps, through puddles.