We were falling.
Blue sky stretched for miles around us, with only a few stray clouds drifting far away on the horizon. A few hundred feet below, a thick canopy of trees was hurtling up to meet us. I didn’t have much time to think. But what I did think went something like this:
Bugger. We’re in the middle of the bloody sky. I wonder if that chicken pie I made is still edible. We’re doomed. I think I left it out. I should have put it somewhere cool.
One by one, in quick succession, I saw my hounds break through the virgin-like canopy of the forest – and they were gone. Then it was my turn. My life started to flash before me but, realising the sheer longevity of my existence, it gave up almost as soon as it had started.
I reached the top of the trees and shielded my eyes as I crashed through with clumsy inevitability. Below me, out of sight, I could hear the continual yelp, howl and snap, as my hounds plummeted down through the dense foliage. From what I could see, peeping out from between my fingers as I tumbled over and over, through the angry snapping branches, all was dark and gloomy. Having left the warm richness of daylight behind me, I seemed to be falling further and further in to eternal night. This, I thought, is what it is like to die. This is the sublime knowledge of perfect annihilation.
The branches scratched and clawed me as I fell. I had no control over my descent; no control over my tumbling, spinning motion. I would hit the ground as and when it was ready to receive me. And the world would know Herne the Hunter, no longer.
I closed my eyes and awaited the inevitable.
There were a few chaotic seconds. Like the forceful drumming of hard rain, I heard my hounds hit the ground one by one, each with his own piteous yelp. My own impact was almost simultaneous. I landed on my back with a resounding crunch of godly bone – and I am pretty sure, looking back on it, that I bounced. The wind was knocked out of me and for a few moments, I lay inert, wondering if I was dead or alive.
The unmistakable sensation of a hound licking my face was answer enough. Perhaps because the branches had slowed my descent – or perhaps because I am a god and by definition, immortal – I had not expired.
Herne the Hunter still was.
It took me a while to recover my breath. After some time, I was able to crawl to my feet and dust myself down. I was amazed to find my antlers intact; I thought I felt sure I had felt one of them fall off as I crashed through the trees. My hood was, however, somewhat worse for wear. The clump of material torn out by the harpy earlier on, had directly affected the hood’s purchase upon my cranium. Annoyingly, the hood now kept slipping back over my head, so that the antlers ended up at an angle, pointing behind me. I pulled the antlers forward, repeatedly – even trying to overcompensate by angling them towards the front – but they slipped back within seconds, to their preferred angle. It was a small price to pay, I decided, given the events that had just befallen me. Things could have been a lot worse. I would fix the hood when I had a few spare moments, some thread and a suitable sewing patch.
Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the sound of traffic. It sounded far away, but told me that we were within walking distance of civilisation. I didn’t even think about making a plan of action. A plan already existed in my mind. We would follow the sound of traffic. As soon as we could ascertain where we were, we would make our way – by whatever means necessary – to Betty’s Cat Kennel.
From there, I would chase my destiny.
