The old god

I remember the day I began to die. It was midwinter and the ground was frozen. The old man who kept my wayside shrine staggered up the hill carrying his offering: a flask of wine drawn from the harvest of two years ago. It was a good vintage and I can still see its red stain against the white grass – a memory of earlier, more brutal sacrifices. As he left, he tripped and fell; it was several days before they found him.

It turned out he was the last believer. The road dwindled to a rough path and the stones from my shelter were taken to repair houses, leaving me to the mercy of the wild weather that torments these high slopes.

Now my small statue sits behind glass in a building that is not my own. People come to stare although there is little left of me now. But climb my hill on the shortest day and stand for a moment near the barrow at the top. Then listen. If you hear a voice on the east wind, pour a few drops of whatever you've been drinking on to the ground. And remember me – it’s so lonely out here.