The Herniad

The world is a different place now, compared to when man was a hunter.  These days I am hardly known, let alone revered. 

 

There was a brief period, back in the 1980s, when I felt I was making a come-back.  A popular series on the BBC – Robin of Sherwood – featured an actor playing me.  In fact, as far as I could work out, in this series, I was purported to be Robin Hood’s father.  Historically, this is preposterous – Robin Hood’s mother, Bertha Hood, despite her legendary promiscuity and provocatively short smocks, was no oil painting.  I’d go as far as to say she was hideous.  Aesthetically challenged, certainly.  I simply never would have. 

 

But apart from the historical inaccuracy, this series did much to enhance my profile in the modern world – and I was fairly pleased with the way I was portrayed.  Without wanting to blow my own televisual trumpet, I thought I came across quite well – enigmatic, brooding, mysterious and charismatic.  It did nothing to harm my reputation, that’s for sure; and for a short while, I felt the effects of increased worship and was even summoned to appear at a small number of pagan festivals.  Demand waned again shortly after, but it did spark a Hernal renaissance that has never fully abated.  And so it is, I still get summoned a good few times a year, to festivals across the pagan community.

 

Beyond this social fringe, I have little relevance in today’s world.  In contrast, with the current state of the planet – with global warming, mass-pollution, the diminishing ice shelf, rising tides and a clear increase in inclement weather conditions – my old mum is really coming in to her own again.  Mother Nature, as she is popularly known, is for the first time in centuries, being seen as a force to be reckoned with.  Humanity is beginning to remember just how powerful she can be; and how vulnerable mankind is, when faced with her ferocious will.  And believe me, as my youthfully calloused posterial lobes once stood testament to, her will can be painfully ferocious.

 

Mum is always on the go, now.  She’s being worshipped, prayed to and invoked, left, right and centre.  Hardly a day goes by when she isn’t summoned to some pagan shindig, or another.  But me, well…  There is simply no place for the One True God of the Hunt, in this day and age.  I’m superfluous. 

 

I kick around, never quite sure what do with myself. 

 

But I have a lot to be thankful for.

 

Yes, my status as a metaphysical personification – my status as a god – is not what it used to be.  I don’t command the respect that I used to.  Were I to walk in to the middle of a room, despite my brooding demeanour, my antler-crested hood and my rabid pack of demonic hell hounds with eyes that glow red like burning coals – I doubt if anyone would even know who I was.  Unless, of course, they are well-read in pagan lore.  Or had chanced to see Robin of Sherwood, back in the 1980s.

 

But I think it can be seen as a positive thing, that these days I am known only by a select few.  In contrast to the populist gods, who lack discrimination in the cultivation of their flocks, my forum of worship has the benefit of exclusivity to recommend it.  It takes a certain type of individual to seek me out; and in this day and age, ironically, my followers tend to be of a much more creative bent, of a more sensitive disposition, than used to be the case when I was seen as The Supreme Will behind the bloody narrative of The Hunt.  By those who know me, I am now seen more as a pagan figurehead, than as a symbol of man’s need to hunt.  As such, my role has taken on a much fluffier, more cuddly aspect.  For a god of my lengthy existence, there is comfort in this.

 

Furthermore, I now have time on my hands to enjoy my hobbies.  In the days when I was a major player on the stage of human worship, I hardly got a minute to myself.  I was always being invoked at some ceremony or other; and if I wasn’t there in person, I was expected to have a influential presence, through the medium of a wall painting, a talisman or – and boy did this used to freak me out – a tribal shaman adorning the skin of a felled stag, in order to “become” me for some unspecified duration.  It was a rare moment when I could kick back and enjoy my own company, or potter around enjoying the fruits of my existence.

 

These days, it is different.  It could be said that now I have too much time on my hands.  I don’t really complain, but with a tendency towards depression, I do try, as best I can, to keep myself occupied.

 

I spend a fair bit of time with my younger brother, Barry – more popularly known in Western esoteric genealogy, as The Green Man.  Like my old mum, Barry does seem to be enjoying something of renaissance in popularity at the moment – and he has always enjoyed a pretty healthy presence on the fringe (I’ve always been envious of the little symbolic carvings of Barry, that can often be found in pagan gift-shops.  I’ve never really wanted the fame of godhood, but I have to say, little carved wall-hangings of me, on sale for £8.99 in all good outlets, would carry a definite sense of achievement).  Barry has never really been a major player though – as he puts it, he has always been seen as a personification to be respected, rather than worshipped.  And so he still has a lot of spare time.  It’s only natural that we end up having a cup of tea together on a regular basis, or kicking a ball around on the astral plain.  Sometimes we play Frisbee.

 

And then there are my ferocious hell hounds.  I love spending time with them.  Over the years, through the medium of human lore, they’ve acquired something of a bad reputation, my hounds.  It is true that they are a pack of unnaturally large hell hounds.  And it is true that they growl and bark and howl in a terrifying cacophony, certain to curdle the cream of any mortal soul.  And yes, it is true that they do slaver and slurp is if hungry for the taste of human suffering.  And it is a well-documented fact, that their eyes glow red like burning coals.  But really, they’re just big softies!  Taking them for walks through the eternal forests of the astral realm provides me with one of the more pleasant distractions afforded to a god of little practical worth.[1]

 

Beyond my dogs, there is one other pleasure that occupies me, as I trudge slowly through the supermarket aisles of eternity.  I am an avid cook. 

 

I love the act of pure creation that goes in to the making of a meal, or a culinary treat.  I love to roll up my sleeves, whip on my apron, with its cartoon hands comically groping a large cartoon bosom, and make magic in the kitchen.  There is nothing more intrinsically satisfying, than to take flour, water and yeast and to fuse one’s soul with the essential ingredients of a vision as yet unrealised – and then to watch a loaf of bread – one’s own proud creation – rise to the dizzy heights of staple perfection.  The unmistakeable smell of freshly baked bread!  That impossible blend of a soft, fluffy loaf locked in its sublime dance of culinary inevitability with the aromatic perfection of a crusty shell.  I salivate to think on it.

 

I could write an entire volume on my love of cookery.  Depending on my mood, I will cook accordingly.  I love to bake biscuits – and I find the adventure of a pudding almost irresistible.  But my passion is more for the savoury aspects of cookery’s landscape.  Be my culinary objective a shepherd’s pie, or sausage and mash; toad-in-the-hole, or a delicately seasoned goose, served with an orange sauce, lightly-grilled potatoes and a selection of the crispest green vegetables – there is one secret ingredient shared by all.  The true success of a well-cooked dish is the amount of soul one pours in to it.  For me, it is crucial to become as one with my food.  I know that food cooked without love, without care – without the very essence of one’s self forming the ingredient that binds the whole together – food cooked without this basic spiritual input, is food without true nourishment.  Every mouthful of any meal should be laced with a subtle hint of its creator’s being.  I love cooking, because it allows me to express my soul.  And I love to see people enjoy my cooking, because I know that it is my soul that nourishes them. 

 

There is no relationship so intense, as that between a cook and the eater of his food.

 

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