Day 2,438

We call them forest gods because it's easier to believe in something divine beyond our mortal comprehension than accept that we made innocent animals into the creatures that torment us. We cross ourselves, spit three times, spin counterclockwise - thousands of little rituals to make us feel safer whenever we see them as if anything other than luck permits us to live another day.

I've managed to survive seeing three forest gods in my life so far and with good will I might live to see more.

The first I saw when I was seven - the god of the hunt. Great big bastard of a stag with 19 tines, all pitch black and each tip resembling the end of a rifle. They say he gores you clean in half if you take more than your dues but being seven I hadn't taken more than a few pinecones.

I reckon that was my only saving grace back then. Certainly nowadays I've probably had about my fair share of venison and game meats but I always return the bones back to the forest's edge. Whether that helps or whether it's just another mundane ritual to make me feel better - who can say. For now it works and that's good enough for me.

The second god I saw was the fisherman - sort of a harvest god for fish. Looks like a cross between old paintings of sailors and some kind of heron - all long legs, longer beak and clawed wings that seize half a dozen fish in one sharp whip. It wore yellow oilskin robes and spoke to me in my uncle's voice - asked me if I'd been fishing that day and I replied in all truth that I had not.

Another saving grace, another right answer ad the right time and another day ending asleep in my own bed where I could have been fish food just as easily. Fisherman's not too bad as far as the gods go, though I suppose they're not a god for humans to begin with.

I saw the third god just yesterday morning when I heard an awful screeching and yowling coming from the back garden. A neighbour's cat got into a nest full of baby birds and I was barely in time to yank the bugger off and toss it over the fence before tending to the poor fledglings.

You know how a rat king is a mess of rats all joined at the tail? This was a fledgling king - a dozen or so gawping baby bird heads whose scraggly little necks all joined to the same bulbous little body. I know a forest god when I see one so I gently grabbed it and the nest and asked if I could take them deeper into the woods, away from the cats.

They sounded like a children's choir when they agreed on the condition that I give each head a few drops of my blood. It was a pretty fair deal considering it meant getting further away from the potential life threatening hazard that is a forest god. Half an hour's hike and half a pint of blood later and we're all happier for it.

I know there's hundreds more out there and, with any luck, I'll never see another as long as I live.