I am Herne the Hunter, Lord of the trees'
I shiver as the land suddenly grows dark and pale. The dead is done, he is gone - passed into the land of remembered shadows where many have gone before. One will follow to take his place. The last to take up the mantle, to string the bow and carry the sword. Then I will follow to join my brothers and sisters, I that is the last, all that is left of the ancient knowledge, wisdom, power - and terror - that once ruled these lands and many others beyond the seas.
We were the ones that taught man the rhythm of life when he first climbed out of the oceans. Through us he discovered purpose and importance. The importance of the seasons - when to sow as the land was starting to stretch with life anew and the maiden of the land was inviting the young god of the green into her bed - to the darkness of Samhain as the Crone had her hold, the land barren and cold, people and beasts shivering in the cold and dark, death knocking at their doors, yet knowing that the day will come when they can cast off their cloaks and stretch once more in the warmth of the suns rays. We were the ones that gave their existance hope and meaning, from the mother proud of a swelling belly but doing all she could to relieve some of the terror and shattered hope that came all too often with new life - to the priests and priestesses who rose and slumbered in tune to the seasons, proud and absolute in there roles, feared and held in reverence by those lower - for they were our voices, they were the ones who knew when it was time for the year king.
I shiver and wrap my cloak tighter around my shoulders as I remember how we laughed scornfully when news reached us of the new religion born in the east of the jesuits, one that mocked us. We were proud and ignorant as they grew in numbers, confident that our children would never flee far. But they came and multiplied like locusts. They who defiled the holy groves and pools, they who cut down the sacred trees and built dead stone buildings on top, their worshippers entering to fill the air with doleful music and chanting. They who called us evil (what do they know of evil?) and taught their followers about 'sin'. All too soon my brothers and sisters started passing through the mists of time. The great pyrimids of the desserts where once my brothers and sisters of that land ruled proud and absolute - silenced and left worn by the surrounding sands, to the great temples of my brothers and sisters in the blue meditaranian sea – left faceless and mutilated. Now I am the last.
'He shall come to the forrest, meet with Herne the Hunter, be his son and do his bidding' This is the reason why. Why I am left in isolation. One last prophecy to end. Not long now until I too will become nothing but a tale, a memory in the greenwood or in an unknown stirring as one catches sight of a distant stag. And I will be thankful to sleep. Once I roamed these lands unhindered, the people were one in their belief. Now the greenwood is my prison, growing ever smaller. Now I am tired. But not cold – not yet, the flame burns strong in one and it is through him the flame also burns in his followers. But he is also the spark, when his spark is extinguished then I too shall sleep.
But as I slumber in the mists of time there is still hope. Hope that we may be awoken by the call of our names once more, hope that human memories thought once lost may start stirring once again, hope that people cry out and turn their backs on the murder and rape of the land and turn once more to the old ways. For although they may not know it but there is magic when they dance with bells at their heals on the village greens and wish each other blessings of the seasons, or sow their crops in tune to the cycle of the sun, these are all stirrings of things thought long forgotten. And it is through this that I shall return.
