‘Sit down, there, by the hearth’ the old woman said. She turned away from the traveller in that way old folk do: either too ancient to care whether the stranger was here to do harm, or so perceptive from the time life had granted her that she already had the measure of the man – he could be trusted.

Such thoughts were very rare here, in the land of Franconia. Emerging from Imperial rule was like being born all over again: the same pangs, the same inevitable squabbles. Unity was a lie, until it became a truth. Such was the way of all nations, unless of course, the myth failed to ignite that truth. Then one would never know what falsity lie behind the origins, for Franconia would simply be a page in a changed history, a prequel to a new order that repaired its faults. Simply, the lie would stay a lie. None of that had yet been decided however: so, for now, it was potentially both.

‘Oh do hush your waffle boy!’ she spat, though the man was sure he had not spoken his thoughts aloud. His whole demeanour suddenly shifted. He still stood, now wary of the invitation to sit. Was this a safe haven, or a trap? As if in reply, the old hag shuffled over from her fire with a tisane in hand. She reached up and passed it to him. He breathed in its warming vapours, enjoying the warmth of its steam. He drank deeply. Then he dropped like a stone.

***

‘In the beginning’ came a voice, ‘she walked amongst an empty barren, a desert of nothingness. But this could not be, not whilst she was. She roared across the plain, cracking stone and rock, creating mountains. She climbed to the top of the highest, to watch the sun rise for the first time. The sight made her weep at the beauty of it: these tears danced down the mountainsides and became rivers that ran out and formed seas. At night, she returned to the plain and slept there. In the morning when she rose, where her head had lain, were a few hairs. These seeded into the forests. But every forest needs animals. The first creatures she created fell to chaos and disorder. The second also. It was then she realised they needed a Lord. From a simple thought the Hunter emerged in his glory, so radiant that she wondered if he had always been with her, simply hidden from sight in the way a hunter can be. Their union brought forth more life.

Lo, she had to continue her walk, to make more lands. The Hunter stayed to watch over his charges, but alas, he was to be tricked. A great constellation appeared in the night-sky. The light that burned from these stars was not joyous and free but crying. They were imprisoned, held in place by a tyrant-god. The Hunter took the form of the great eagle and ascended to the sky to free these poor souls. For all his purpose, the Hunter had been fooled, for the fires in the sky were a trick set by the void. The stars became manacles and to his great shame, the hunter had leapt into a trap.

His fate was burned into the night sky, a new constellation that told of his imprisonment. When the goddess saw, a cold rage settled within her. She climbed to the top of the first mountain from which she had created the rivers, and to the land’s great sadness, her feet left its surface. She smashed the Hunter’s chains in fury and bade him to return, to keep watch over all the life she had created, for she would enter into the cosmic darkness to search for this Void. Her light would be terrible to behold: revealing all, leaving no corner free from her gaze.

Alas, she searches still. This is why she does not speak in Franconia often, her voice distant, her blessings rare. But we do not worry, for we know she must find the Void and do battle with him, and we have Him with us. The hunter leapt from his old prison and fell like an arrow. He lit up the night sky and parts of him broke off, to crash into other lands. He often looks different, but it is still Him. Sometimes with antlers, sometimes with horns. Pieces of him fell into the sea and there he walks below the waves with a trident and crown of coral. Other shards landed in the mountains, where he is seen with great wings. Wherever he goes, his old wounds can still be seen: marks around his wrists, reminding him of both his rashness, and the time he lost his freedom. And so, he rages against all cages. He is the hope of the imprisoned, the bane of those who would enslave. For all souls are free’.

***

The morning was wet and cold, the sound of drip, drip, drip heard from outside. The man sat up, his joints aching from the armour he still wore. There was no sign of the woman, but the fire still had embers. The cabin stank of heavy aromas, strange herbs and spices. Poisoned, perhaps? Magic?

He couldn’t say. But then, this was Franconia, and he should just be grateful he was still alive. Unbeknownst to the traveller however, a pact had been made when he took that cup, and his fate woven, for the Hunter is the great stalker.

‘Walk in his shadow’ the wind whispered, as the traveller left the cabin.