THE BIRTH OF GOD.

There had to be an imaginative spark once upon a time, didn't there?

Crud got to thinking, which was, in itself, a rarity. Normally he was fully occupied with smelling the air to see if anything meaty was sauntering in the neighbourhood �" he loved the flesh of Bamble, a small and therefore relatively easily caught mammal, fleet of foot but delicious when eaten raw, or cooked if he could find fire somewhere.

But today he had got to thinking.

Why, in the name of everything he found pleasing, like his woman's bosom and his kiddling's smile, was he doing this? Why was he out in the forest, spear in hand, feeling the cold winds bite into his bones and the ice underfoot crunching into his feet, when somebody else could be doing it for him.

He'd never thought of somebody else doing it for him before, and now that he did all sorts of other notions slipped into place. Like the fact that to his certain knowledge a dozen strong, sturdy men were doing exactly what he was doing, and suffering like he was ... and if he could...

...if he could...

That's where he reached a full-stop until a brilliant spark illuminated, for a tiny instant, the middle of his brain and in that glorious nano-second he saw the solution.

Sweat formed on his brow, and he frowned, then smiled broadly despite the wintry conditions.

That was it! All he had to do was … what words could he use? How could he define the thought? All he had to do was provide a … service? A reason for doing nothing? Something that he alone of all the men in the village could provide, and then take a bit from everyone else's meat in return for his … something … and he'd never have to hunt again! Never have to freeze! And the glorious bosom of his beloved was a temptation not to be resisted, a preferable option to this … back-breaking hunting nonsense.!

Winter was hitting the world hard. He'd never have to lurk in the woodlands on a frosty morning, shivering, while the herd of bambles raced past, too fleet of foot for any but the most feeble to be caught...

Deep in thought, and without meat or anything edible to feed the family, he returned to the village. It was early, much too early for the hunters to return unless they'd really struck it lucky and his woman, the well-bosomed Bittle, could see that he was empty-handed. She scowled at him, questioningly. She was well-practised at scowling...

“I have thunked!” he crowed. “I have thunked deep and hard! I will become a spirit master!”

“What is?”

“Crud get cold out in the forest. Crud willy shrivel away when he get cold! So Crud stay at home and become spirit Master. Come: we hold gathering, tell everyone. Crud on his way to fame and fortune!”

“As long as Crud willy not shrivel away!” exclaimed Bittle, thrusting her more than adequate bosom at him, and smiling in that lascivious way he so loved when she wasn't scowling.

Crud called the people from the surrounding area �" mostly women on account of the men being deep in the forest hunting �" to a meeting.

They gathered around him, breath turning to mist in the cold, and he surveyed them with his big and, to Bittle, gorgeous eyes.

“Crud had a vision...” he began in a loud, clear voice. “Crud in the forest and have a vision. Crud see Truth! Crud become the servant of … of … of God!”

“What is God?” called half a dozen women and one old man who had broken his leg years earlier so couldn't hunt without making far too many rustling noises as he dragged himself along.

Then Crud was brilliant. Everyone said he was. It was perfectly clear that he'd had an exotic experience beyond that of normal men. He fluttered his eye-lashes, long and black and beguiling, and opened his mouth and spoke in a loud, clear, hypnotic voice, telling of his vision and the Power of the Heavens. What he was saying was brand, spanking new, and he wanted the people to understand.

“I am the Voice of God,” he began, suavely. “I will guide you...”

Then there was applause and Crud resolved, there and then, that his home-spun vision would be passed on to his boy kidlings and down the generations into the future… let them have the benefit of his genius! It was what fathers were for!

And as the oceans of time passed neither Crud nor any of his progeny nor others in his wake had to hunt again. It was a happy solution to a cold winter for a genre of dirty old men who only wanted their women's breasts rather than hard work and frozen willies!

Reviews

[DrAnuradha Bele]

Wow! In the Hindus there are 33 crore gods, so you can imagine how good the priestly class, called the Brahmins, has it here. This story is real, whether it be the Tropics or the Poles.I like his name, its appropriate.

[Peter Rogerson]

I find it easier to understand modern problems by trying to work out how the pressures behind them might have started.

[DrAnuradha Bele]

This is good. I can use this as a tip as and when I write. Another author friend of mine said to sharpen the edges of the personalities when writing about the characters. Thank you for sharing your thought process.