He laughed softly at the question of the number of his wives. "Too many to count," he admitted. "And think, Rosmerta. I could wave my hands about in a mysterious manner, break off a wand of birch, thump one of my wives on the head, and proclaim that hereafter, my blessings would come through this woman, and this woman alone? No. Because its the cycle of the thing. That's sort of the purpose of the May King and Queen. To represent the joining of the Earth Mother to the Father. That's the point of fertility. Neither you, nor I for that matter, could be a sole divinity and say to these people, I am the only one you need to worship because we're not whole. We're both a half of the equation, and if that equation isn't filled, then the people will suffer. Not from us, but from themselves. They'll believe they're not blessed, and they will go hungry."
He put the milk down on the floor, and stretched his legs out. He couldn't wait for this all to be done with, because he was really, really craving a nice run through the forest. "Look at my cycle," he continued after a moment. "I am born, I live, I return to the Underworld so that I can be born anew with the seasons. Whatever symbolic marriage I have made during Beltane is dissolved at Samhain, with my death. Each Beltane, I come back fresh and young, as the world does, and the young Earth Father is given a young Earth Mother. Over the season we mature together, and when the Earth Mother has no further need of me, I leave. It's not like I'm setting up housekeeping," he pointed out. "It's ritual, symbolic. I realize that makes me sound cruel, although I certainly hope I'm not. The women that are given to me are well-treated after my departure, and many have died as revered grandmothers." He paused. "It's not about the wives, or me for that matter. It's about what the people need to believe to be happy. And if my reputation ends up being a lecherous half-animal, then that's a burden I'm willing to bear so long as it pleases the people who need me."