Cernunnos

He wasn’t really a Reverend; he was a god-botherer who could out-bible any trained-up taker of the cloth. We just called him that. I found him annoying but harmless, and would entertain his views if I had the time, but recently I’d started crossing the road to avoid him. You see the devil may be in the detail, but he was also in the Reverend’s kitchen. And he wouldn’t stop banging on about it. 

The first time he mentioned it, there was no preamble. None of his chit chat into which he’d sneak his biblical assertions. 

He seized my arm, fearful and agitated. 

“He has come to me!”  

I thought he must mean God. Or maybe Jesus. Seemed only fair after all the shout-outs. 

“That’s nice,” I said. 

“What?” he said, looking confused now, and so, not wishing to offend, I backtracked.  

“Who are we talking about?” I asked. 

“The devil!” 

This was no more mental than saying God or his son in my book. But still a turn for the worse. I didn’t care for this change in his demeanour, and I don't like being grabbed. But it wasn’t this that had me avoiding him in later encounters. 

“Please. Come and see him. I need someone to see.” 

“In your house?” 

“In my kitchen.” 

No.  

And I was off. 

I did wonder, just what was going on at chez reverend. I presumed a stray cat. A black one, obviously, with yellow eyes, wandering in and acting weird and otherworldly as cats will. Diabolical, even, at the wrong moment, after a heavy read of Revelations or something. That must be it. I wasn’t traipsing round to look at a cat. I’m more of a dog person.  

But in the end, after dodging him for most of the week, yet observing him from behind parked cars, I was convinced there must be something lurking in his kitchen to which he’d assigned the name, role and intentions of the Devil. I was curious, and somewhat entertained by the idea. So I agreed to go. 

The Reverend led me through the outskirts of town to an estate of tiny identical houses, repeated like a fractal for as far as I could see, all pebble-dashed then painted a tired mustard yellow, now blackened and mossed.  

Through a side-alley, through a wooden gate to a red back door. 

“He’s in there.” 

I turned the handle, stepped into the small dark kitchen. A tiny window let in the only light which glanced over the teapot that stood on the small kitchen table, then down to illuminate a square of plastic tiled floor. 

And a pair of hooves.  

I stared at them, unable to move, a hint of adrenalin, but not entirely convinced they weren't some taxidermy off-cut salvaged from a house clearance sale. Until they shuffled themselves, swapped themselves over, as whatever thing they were attached to uncrossed their hoofy legs only to cross them again. 

“Flip the light on old chap. It’s just by the door frame,” came a voice from the shadows. 

I found the switch and flicked it on. 

And there it was. 

A  goaty, hairy looking chap, haunches for legs, with cloven hooves of course. Something of the wolfman about him. Lon Chaney Junior. Before your time? Look him up. A snout wide and loose, almost camel-like. His eyes were round and amber, black slits for pupils. Intelligent and searching. Parked on a kitchen chair way too small for a creature of his magnitude. 

And slightly stooped, because... 

“They’re not horns. They’re antlers.” There. I said it. Out loud. I was nervous after all.  

“I know what they are,” said the devil. 

“Sorry. It’s just...Not what I expected from the Prince of Darkness.” 

“Nice epithet. You Christian?” 

I didn’t want to offend. I thought I'd stick with the truth. 

“No.” 

“Thought not.”  

“Does it show?” 

“You’re not grovelling, Making signs of the cross. Shooting off to fetch a vicar. You merely graced me with that grandiose epithet, undoubtedly primed by your little friend outside, but two thousand years of Christianity has done a number on you too.  Not so much as your little friend – he's sold on the whole story. He’s called me lots of names, most of them amounting to the same thing.” 

“Are you saying you’re not...” 

“And there you go. Why are you even wondering?” 

He had me there. And I had to check myself. I was falling into casual conversation with a creature that had haunted us since the stone age. But he seemed affable. 

“I can’t help my cultural cues and triggers,” I said, “but taking it all in, I’d say that although you do look a bit like him,  you’re more the spit for Pan.” 

“Oh for sure. I’ve had fun with that one too. When it was a thing.” 

“You been to Greece then?” 

“Back when it counted to turn up looking like this.” 

He was toying with me. I took the bait. 

“Are you trying to say... how old are you?” 

“I’ve been around a long long year.” 

“A man of wealth and taste?” 

He laughed heartily at that. It was infectious; I couldn’t help joining in.  Maybe I was bonding with a mythical beast. Maybe I was being tricked. 

“You’re not Pan then.” 

“Nope, not anymore. Very passe.” 

So what the bloody hell was this thing in the reverend’s kitchen? I had to ask. 

“I’m just this. What you see. Flesh and form. I’m of the earth. Nothing strange about that.” 

“I wouldn’t say that. You’d stick out round here. How come we don’t see more of you?”  

 “Takes an act of will to see me, which might seem odd considering my stature and headgear. But I’m always there, mostly just behind you. In the forest. In the shadows. But every now and then, I just slip into the world, like Father Christmas.”  

“Oh.  Wait...is he real too?” 

“What? Are you nine or something?” 

“No... I just thought...” 

“Well don’t. It doesn’t suit you. You seem more savvy than your friend out there. But I admit it was a badly chosen analogy.” 

I was confused, and somewhat disturbed by the fact that I wasn’t more … disturbed by his presence. I don’t know about the Christians, but he was doing a number on me. 

“You like to be seen? Is that what you’re saying?” 

  “To be seen and worshipped, held up as something more.  I tend to take on the character of whatever it is they’re projecting on to me. It’s like food. It keeps me alive for longer than is probably decent. But still in fine fettle, so that's alright.” 

“How?” 

“I couldn’t tell you. One of the worlds ever disappearing mysteries. Anyway, I’m not here to philosophise and ruminate. I’m here to scare your little friend.” 

“Is that to give you strength?” 

“Nope. It's just for fun.” 

“Isn’t that cruel?” 

The creature winked, flashed a winning goatish camelesque smile: “I am cruel, as you would have it. It must look that way.  But really I’m just bored. When you’ve been round the block as often as me, one gets quite detached. I could do worse things. Have you seen these antlers?” 

It seemed a bit of a step down from his previous incarnations. 

“So this is what you do now? All you have left?” 

“I could do more’” he said, defensively, “but my heart’s not in it. I’m waning.” 

“You’ll... end?” 

“Of course.” 

“How long?” 

“Not long. Another thousand years.” 

“Longer than I have.” 

“No comfort. Will you take comfort from the lifecycle of a butterfly, when you’re nearing your end?” 

“I doubt it.” 

“Exactly. And anyway, if it wasn’t for those self-styled pagans I would be fading already.” 

“What have they done for you?” 

“They’ve dug up all that old horned god business. The Lord of wild things and all that.  Funny really, how it’s all gone full circle. That’s how it started for me. But they’re so half-hearted, and so few. It’s meagre fare.”  

There was a hint of sadness in those amber eyes. 

I looked out of the window. The Reverend was still out in the back garden, his coat wrapped round him, his hands deep in his pockets, stamping his feet to keep warm.  

“Call him in then,” said the horned god. 

“You going to play nicely?” 

“Promise.” 

I opened the door to beckon the Reverend in. Only then did I realise I didn’t know his name. Maybe the primeval antler-bearing phenomenon had picked it up along the way. 

“What’s his name?” 

“Kenneth.” 

“Cheers. Come on in, Kenneth.” 

Kenneth came creeping in. 

“Bow down before me!” cried the horned one.  

“Stop that,” I said, but Kenneth was already grovelling on the tiled floor. But then he was up, brandishing a bible he must have kept about his person, quoting verses and jabbing a finger at the beast. 

“Not this again,” said the one with the antlers, “he does this every day. Sometimes he even throws the thing at me.” 

Kenneth looked like he might burst into tears any minute.  

“I read it when it came out,” continued the beast, “mostly in Greek. Can't say I was moved by it. Not then, not now.” 

“Look Kenneth,” I said, ignoring Mr Antlers, “he’s not what you think he is.”  

The beast tutted. Kenneth stared at me, frowning.  I tried to explain just what it was he had in his kitchen, but in the end it was just easier to say what he wasn’t. 

“He’s not the devil.” 

The goaty chap shook his antlered head and sighed. 

“You’ve had your fun,” I said. 

“Bloody looks that way.” 

“So..?” 

“So... I’ll be off then.” 

He rose from his chair, scraping his antlers along the ceiling. I opened the door for him. 

“Well, goodbye Kenneth. It's been fun. And goodbye to yourself.” 

Kenneth just stared. I gave a little wave.  

“Won’t you be seen?” I said.  

“Nope,” he said, “here’s to another thousand years.” 

 And he left.