Once upon a time in a land not so unrecognisable from this one we all love, a darkly hooded figure, a certain John Doe, cast his shadow over the vaulted landscapes of its inhabitants' thoughts and ambitions, carrying an empty, but well used, dirty stained hemp sack over his shoulder. He was not a native to those parts, no, he was a stranger from far, so very faraway, or, at least that’s what they chose to believe.
At first, nobody really took much notice of this mysterious figure, he seemed harmless enough, slightly helpless even, so they invited him in to shelter in their homes and gave him food and drink whilst listening to his tales of some unknown and unheard-of past. They waved him off with a cheerful goodbye and come-back-soon-smiles. The warm contentment they felt at lending a helping hand, and more than just that, to a poor foreign traveller, made them feel so really good about themselves.
Some called him the storyteller.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into years and as the hooded one felt himself more and more at home, more welcomed, everywhere he visited, he began to make little tiny demands of his generous hosts. Nothing at all, of course, that didn’t seem reasonable to honourable, respectful folk with their doors and hearts open to strangers and their strange ideas.
What no one noticed, or at least never gave word to, was that after each stop, when their guest hoisted the sack onto his broad shoulder, after he had said his goodbyes, the sack seemed bigger, swollen somehow, slightly more difficult for him to manage. After his thankful goodbyes, however, the people did begin to feel a strange kind of emptiness they had never felt before and not even their contentedness at having helped, having been a part of something, could any longer conceal this sensation.
Some called him the teacher.
Years turned into decades, decades into centuries and the shadowy figure was now given to making fierce demands on his hosts and the sense of emptiness his loving sheep suffered was now a sense of loss only assuaged by thoughts of their long departed guest’s greatness and wisdom and love for them. They needed him, but he was not there.
So, anyway, the shadow, the thing that was not there, took more and more of everyone each time he left, until his hosts were just empty husks of their former selves and having given up so much of themselves, so willingly, so unquestioningly, there came into being a realm of blood and thunder that had never before existed, not even in their wildest dreams.
Some called him the deity. They needed him but he was not there.
Meanwhile, as so often happens when travels are so long, the shadow eventually arrived at precisely the spot it had started its wanderings from, and the sack, being so heavy, he let it drop to the ground, whereupon it split open and spilled its contents at his feet.
Four bloody heads, eight bloodshot eyes stared up vacantly, dead, at their new master for, yes, he was a godlike figure and everything and everyone had been at his feet for ever and a day and nobody had any more left to give for they had given up absolutely everything……………
They had no more Reason.
No more Philosophy.
No more Art.
No more Science.
