It is Friday night and the close of our first day of Fall. The sky is wet and the moon is hidden behind clouds thick with rain. Much of the world is readying for bed. Curl up and listen to the tales I weave, until your eyes grow heavy and you slip into slumber, ready for the Dream Maker.
An ancient God, its true name long lost to mortal man, once roamed the dark forests of the world, protecting mankind from all who would seek to harm it. In the early days it was dangerous for man; our fragility was so clear in the wild and other creatures were so much stronger and more adept at brutality than we were. So we needed this ancient God, a being powerful and blood-thirsty, to shield us from terrestrial demons.
It is said that its eyes glowed like fiery coals and that its dark skin was patterned with exotic designs. The origins and meanings of these designs have been lost to the ages, our myths and legends failing us. A great dark mane, woven with carved beads and the bones of slain foes, flowed down its back, clattering a chilling song as it ran through the forest on its nightly journeys. And its mouth, filled with teeth as sharp as needles, issued a haunting cry to the moon, warning all that the Beast God was on the Hunt.
But if this Beast God is no longer with us, what is that cry that we hear just past the Witching Hour? What causes that strange rustle of leaves around us as we hurry into our homes on dark and stormy nights? What makes that clattering, like wooden beads and bones, if not the Beast God running just beyond our sight?
Perhaps we are still protected, though the foes are surely not clawed and scaled. Can this Beast God protect us from our fellow man? Is that why his cry sounds anguished when the car horns and train rumbles fade and cease?
Sleep tight, my pets. Dream deep.