The Green Man Part One
There are pockets of green spaces sprinkled here and about in the new world, exploding with bracts and vines of verdant shadow and sage. Where poisonous blooming shrouds of invasive beauties lumber across otherwise pristine obelisks of man-made monuments. These spaces—the ones gifted to The Green, given as paltry offerings to that old world—are not all as they seem. They exist beside our lives as whispering meadows patchworked against screeching machines and moaning roads, as the myths and old tales of yore, safely contained in mass-produced shining pages—the reanimated flesh of a once proud pine or hemlock. The Green lulls us to sleep, bids us settle commodiously in sterile homes beside bastardized predators, their teeth and claws merely artifacts of bygone days in the wilds, and hope we forget that the world out there is dangerous, all while it waits.
The Green bides its unwavering eternity, waiting for us to pass from our carefully cultivated new world—to creak and crack with age like the man-sized arms of an old growth oak, to sink into the dirt from whence we came and merge with it. It lingers it always has, snarling and gnashing its teeth, just beyond the leafy curtain where the long fingers of progress dare not reach. It has always stalked us out of sight, hidden with open jaws like a pitcher plant for a wasp. All it must do is call us close, allow us a peek into the wonder of its magic, and the game is up. We’re caught, slipping screaming down petals specifically designed to keep us contained within them until the slow creep of death has its way with us at long last.
Long has The Green waited. Long has it watched us with disgust and restraint.
But something has stirred. Something old and wild has blinked its eyes open and taken up the axe. He has decided that his long wait is over—the long summer ended—as the season of humans exhales its final breaths into the unyielding void completely unaware of its doom.
“Wayne Lucan. You’re up! Are you ready?”
I pull my phone from its normal home in my back pocket. Open my notes app. Yep. All here.
“Yeah, alright, let’s do this. Where am I at?”
The wedding planner—God, I can’t ever remember her name. She’s told me at least three times. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. She pinches me on the cuff of my sleeve, probably trying to be sure I’m actually listening.
“Ok, the DJ has a mic for you…you don’t look too drunk—that’s good. Good luck,” she says, already looking toward her next victim. She’s cute. Small, with a nice body. Reminds me of Tiffany, but Tiff’s never been blonde a day in her life.
“Ok great, thanks.”
Garrett, KJ, Tristan, and Lionell all turn to look at me. KJ makes a lewd gesture—probably aimed at the wedding coordinator. Tristan follows with a wink, Lionell pumps his fist, and Garrett mouths, You got this! They all hold plastic cups of booze. All ties untied, top buttons undone, fully enjoying every ounce of free alcohol and pretty girls they can get their hands on. The sight of them makes me smile. The tension that had been building in the back of my head releases slightly.
I’m a little drunk myself. But the best man is supposed to be drunk right? It’s my uncle’s wedding, after all. I look at the short note I made on my phone. It’s not great. I mean, it’s ok for a speech written by a future college dropout. Lance would have done a better job.
He was a raging nerd but damn that kid could spin a yarn. At cookouts, he’d always gather us cousins up around the fire and tell us stories about knights and kings and old wars. When we got too old for that he switched to ghost stories. He stayed on those for the longest until—well, until he wasn’t around to tell them anymore. My throat tightens. Yeah, that’s what you should be thinking about right now, you titty baby. Grow up. Move on. He’s dead. I clench my teeth and gulp hard. I make eye contact with my uncle, sitting next to his pretty new wife. He smiles. I hope he’s not thinking about Lance. I wish I could stop thinking about him.
I make my way to the DJ. He’s an overweight twenty-something with long curly hair that hangs limp over his face as it bobs to the beat of the music. He smells like he’s been living in a van for a few years with no one but his soundboard to call him daddy. He hands me the mic without looking up as his oily mop continues bobbing to the beat, his hands flipping switches and methodically pressing sliders on the board. I click the mic on and take my spot beside the groom, phone in hand. The cute wedding planner with the forgettable name is pulling Gwen’s oldest daughter, Morgan, up in line beside me. Uncle Art says she’s a Wiccan, but she looks too normal. She stumbles up to the DJ booth beside me, makes eye contact with the long-haired bard, and winks at him. He smiles back. Guess the sound board might have some company tonight.
Romeo fades out the music, and with a separate microphone calls for everyone to grab their drink and get quiet. He nods to me, and as I lift it up to my mouth, my mic screeches feedback into the crowd. Everyone grabs their ears and I jump, dropping my phone onto the ground. It lands broadside on a rock and shatters the screen. I scramble for it, frantically brushing it off like that would do any good, and try to get it to turn back on.
Nothing.
I click and click the side button over and over again, panic creeping up my neck. Come on you piece of shit…
Nothing.
Just a shattered black mirror.
I try to laugh it off, wracking my brain for what I had written down. Man, I’d had a good opening line…something like…
“How’s everybody doin’ tonight?” Nope. That was not it. “Well, I had something wrote up on here, but I guess I’ll just uh…speak from the heart, as they say,” I say, holding up my destroyed phone with a nervous laugh. “My Uncle Art is a great man…someone I’ve looked up to like a father for most of my life. If you’re here, well, I’m guessing you already know that…” waffling.
What did I write? How can I not remember any of it?!
“His son, Lance, was like a brother to me—” the words just come tumbling out. I look at Uncle Art, who winces at the name. “He would have been so good at this—” another nervous laugh slips out. “He was so good at telling stories. Big shoes to fill. Yeah…uh…well…he’s uh…he’s not here.”
Come on, think. Tell a story or something!
“I used to love when the three of us would go hunting. Uncle Art taught us boys about the woods. He taught us how to track and bow hunt, how to field dress a deer and corner a wild hog...I learned how to be a man out there, and Uncle Art was a big part of that.”
I make eye contact with him again, hoping the pain on his face was gone. It was. Thank God.
“He opened his home to me while my momma was making ends meet. I wouldn’t be who I am without him.”
Ok that’s better. Time to go.
“So it’s only right he gets a happy ending with his girl, Gwen. Or I guess it’s Aunt Gwen now.” I smile at her, and she smiles back. She’s a pretty blonde with plastic tits and a designer nose. Uncle Art met her on some dating app. Love at first text. I find Tiffany in the crowd, her eyes are wide with concern. She’s not the dressing up type of girl, much more at home in a pair of waders, but she sure polished up good. I throw her a reassuring smile.
I got this.
I raise my glass. “So here’s to Uncle Art, the man, the myth, the legend. A good hunter, a better father, and now finally a husband!”
We drink, and I down my flute of champagne like a jager bomb. I hand the mic to Morgan and quickly make my way back to Tiffany and the safety of our table. She smells like wood smoke and flowers. I flop into the chair beside her and give her glittery cheek a kiss.
She pushes a new drink toward me as KJ and Lionell slap me on the back and start in.
“Great speech Lucan—can tell you spent a long time on it,” KJ says, laughing. His deep voice makes him sound even dumber than he actually is.
“Nah, my boy did great. Nice recovery after losing the phone. I would have walked off,” says Lionell in his London accent. He’d moved here in middle school, and fit right into our group like he’d always been here. Him and Lance especially hit it off. They even played that nerdy dungeon game together on the weekends with some other local weirdos at Uncle Art’s.
I look behind them and see Garrett and Tristan flirting with the bartender.
I down the drink Tiff had given me and laugh them off as Morgan starts to sing.
“Could have been worse,” Tiff whispers in my ear.
“You think?”
She shrugs. On the other side of the room, Morgan’s voice is chanting, strange.
“I ask the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone, the triune goddesses, Hecate, Ceridwen, and the spirits of the woods to move and bless this marriage!”
“Is she singing?” I ask.
“She’s not not singing.”
Tiff and I lock eyes and smile. Thank God for her.
“I love you,” I say.
She smiles and rolls her eyes.
“To the East!” Morgan yells, and throws flower petals behind her. “I call upon the spirits of the East, the spirits of air, whose energy brings communication and clear connections between heart, mind, and body. Bless us with the promise of growth and fresh beginnings!”
We both turn to Morgan, unable to ignore the spectacle as she throws petals in every direction.
“Uncle Art says she’s a witch or something,” I whisper to Tiff.
“Hope she didn’t just curse us,” Tiff says, dry as ever.
Suddenly, the fairy lights criss-crossing the wedding tent go dark, and the candles scattered on the tables wink out as a wild clap of thunder crashes across the sky.
The tent was set up way out in Uncle Art’s pasture. We’d had to shuttle everyone in on side-by-sides. With the lights out, it’s pitch dark.
I don’t remember seeing a storm in the forecast, but hell, I’ve been wrong before. I can hear the nameless wedding planner scurrying around trying to figure out what happened. People scream like scared kids in a fire drill. Tiff lightly grabs my hand, unwilling to admit any kind of fear, but I know she hates storms.
Uncle Art’s voice cuts through the dark.
“Alright now, y’all it’s just the damn genny. We’ll get her cranked back up and the lights on in no time just sit tight a minute. Wayne, wherever you are, meet me out back.”
“That’s my cue,” I say, but Tiffany tightens her grip on my hand.
“Somethings not right.”
“Yeah, it’s dark.”
“No, like…can you smell that? Like all the sudden it smells like…what is that?”
I sniff the air. She’s right. It’s like something died.
“Weird. Maybe a skunk or somethin’.” I say, and kiss her on the cheek. “Just wait here I’ll be right back.”
I stand up to leave, but then I hear it.
Something heavy walking toward us. It’s slow, but as the steps move closer, the smell gets stronger. I’ve smelled it before. One time in the woods with Lance and Uncle Art we stumbled on a deer that’d been dead for a while. You could see the dark red meat dried on the bones where the coyotes had abandoned it. It’s a smell you don’t forget.
“Wayne—!” I hear Tiff whisper.
“Yeah, I hear it.”
“Where are you?”
Something big crashes in the dark. Sounds like a table full of dishes flipped over. People scream. Through the noise comes a gravely laugh and the neigh of a reigned up horse. Its hooves land hard with a clomp on the dance floor, followed by a weighty metallic thump and…bells…? My eyes widen instinctively, trying to take in as much light as possible. I will them to make out the shape, but all I can see are shadows.
“Tiffany—I’m here. Sit tight ok?”
“What are you doing?”
“I gotta make sure Uncle Art is ok.”
“Wayne Lucan. You better not leave me.”
“I’ll be right back. KJ, stay here with my girl would you?”
“Yeah I gotcha Tiff,” I hear him say behind me, but I’m not waiting around.
“Come on, KJ get off me. Touch me again and I’ll knock you into next week.”
KJ snickers. I grope around tables until I catch bare shoulders.
“Shit, sorry—”
“Who is it?” Gwen says.
“Ah—sorry, Gw—Aunt G, I’m trying to find Uncle Art.”
“What’s going on?! Did you hear that noise? I can’t see anything—”
Suddenly a lightning strike with accompanying thunder rattles the party, and the mounted figure is momentarily visible in the flash.
“What the f—”
“Good tidings, fair friends!” Comes the voice of the rider. It’s familiar, but not, and makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “Wherefore might I find the leader of these gathered souls?”
“Um, hi, yes—hello,” a small female voice stutters from somewhere across the room. “I’m the coordinator, that would be me…um I don’t have you on my vendor list, who hired you?”
“Nay fair lady! You misunderstand me,” the voice says. It’s jolly, with a weird cadence like a stage performer. I hear the horse’s hooves clacking like he’s walking around. How can he see anything? “It is the elder I seek, that most wise and steel-hearted man who dares call this land his!”
“Well, I guess that’s me,” comes Uncle Art’s voice, it’s close. With it come the first tapping droplets of rain.
“Aye, m’lord. You indeed,” says the rider, lowering his voice.
“So who the hell are you? Crashing my wedding, and scaring my lovely bride to death? I can’t even see your damn face.”
“You people, always insisting on answers. Mayhap I do not wish to be seen, dear king. Mayhap the dark hides away that which you fear most, but cannot face. But, if you insist…” He claps his hands and suddenly the lights are back on. Even the candles are re-lit, and every jaw hits the ground as the rider comes into full view.
He sits high on a destrier—a war horse—all green and gold. Its coat is gradient shades of green with gold ribbons braided into the verdant mane and tail. The man looks like he’s come straight from a Ren Faire, covered in tassels and fabric banners, again, in shades of green decorated with gold trims. One of his arms was completely wrapped in mistletoe. His skin, hair, and clothes were all shades of green and decorated with moss and leaves and gilded embroidery. He sat high in the saddle with his back to me, a fit man, with long, unbound forest green hair.
“Nice costume, buddy!” KJ shouts from beside Tiffany. He’d looped his massive arm over her shoulders and she looked ready to kill him.
The rider is unphased, not even turning his head. At his feet lay a huge double bit axe. It was decorated to an impractical degree. Like the horse and the man, it’s all green and covered in tassels, bells, ribbons, and gold filigree.
I looked to Uncle Art, who had gone white as a ghost. As he faced the rider.
“Who—wha…what do you want?” I’d heard that tone in my uncle’s voice one other time. My mouth went dry. “Who are you?”
I could not see his face, but I could tell the man on the horse was smiling.
“I have had many names in my time, some more inventive and fantastic than others. Some have called me the Green Man.” He chuckles. “But it is not my name which bears any consequence this day, King. It’s yours.”
“What do you want,” Uncle Art says. Not a question.
Behind the Green Man one of Uncle Art’s friends (a cop) pulls out his concealed carry and levels it on the rider.
“I got a bead on him, Art! Just say when,” he says.
Uncle Art holds up a hand.
“Hold your fire,” he says.
“Nay, nay, fire away, good sir! Naught but the axe at my feet may do me ill. Shoot and see, if you do not believe me.”
The man with the gun does not lower it.
The Green Man begins to pace the dance floor like a wolf circling prey. Uncle Art stands at the center with his hands up, the giant green axe at his feet.
“And here I had hoped for a celebration! Long have I waited to make merry among men again! Are not these happy days? Are not you all men?”
“State your business and move on, friend,” Uncle Art says, his face hard.
“Friend he says! Friend indeed. I am no more your friend than you are my equal! So proved by these lily-livered sods you call men. Not one here bears the courage to take up my axe. Not a single one!”
As he turns to make the circle around Uncle Art, I catch a glimpse of his face and my blood sours in my veins. I rub my eyes and look again.
No…no that can’t be right.
I blink. Once. Twice. But he’s still there.
It’s Lance.
He has a green beard, which leaves only his eyes and nose exposed. He is built like a fighter, broad shouldered and heavily muscled. He doesn’t have any shoes on his stirruped feet, and his clothes…they’re decorative—open and revealing—like something Lance might have worn to a Ren faire.
The body isn’t his, it’s built, toned, and hard. But the face.
It’s the same crooked smile he wore when he told ghost stories around the fire. The same eyes that sparked right before the twist ending. There were his high cheekbones, a gift from his mom—I could even see the scar by his eye from the time he scoped himself in the deer blind all those years ago. I remember how much it had bled. Lance tried not to cry but he did anyway. The tears just mixed into the blood on his face.
“Lance?” I whisper so low no one hears me. That’s not him. Lance is dead.
And yet... there he is. Painted in shades of moss and rot. The Green Man wears Lance’s face like a mask, but it isn’t just like Lance. It is him. As if the earth itself reclaimed him and made him something…else.
“Right again!” The Green Man shouts. “Look how they cower! But soft! Here before me stands a king!” Uncle Art screws up his face. “Do you doubt me sir? Are you not holding court here, rending fates and matching souls? These people would call you king if chance made itself pleasant. Take up your title! Seize the axe and bear my challenge. Or are you one of these modern dandies, more afraid of their wives than death?”
Uncle Art clenched his fists, his lips curling into a primal snarl. He reaches for the axe. It looks heavy as hell, and as if this whole thing isn’t ridiculous enough, the damn thing jingles. But he hefts it up and holds it forward, a hunter through and through. He was always deadly with a bow or a gun, tough, weathered by years in the elements and a decade of military service. He was a man’s man, eternal and resilient as a mountain. But holding that axe he looked old, frail.
“Alright, damn it,” Uncle Art said, struggling to keep the axe upright. “What do I…have to do to get you out of here?”
The rider unleashes an evil cackle that bounces around the tent like the feedback that had killed my phone.
“How pathetic! How paltry! You men here call yourselves brave! You would let your king die for honor, while you sit and drink and hold your women? Boys and knaves. Good king, I would suggest a change of company, should you survive your ordeal!” The Green Man says, laughing. He even talks like Lance used to—like he’s on a stage.
That’s enough.
I walk out onto the dance floor and put my hand on Uncle Art’s shoulder.
“I’ll do it.”
Art shakes his head.
“Let me do it for you,” I say as gently as I can. “You just got married for Chrissakes.”
Art’s hands tremble. He’s not the man he used to be. And maybe in this moment, neither am I.
“Alright, Jesus. Alright. Who am I kidding, anyway?”
I take the handle from him, and pick up the axe easily. I can’t help smiling. Still got it. Hope Tiff saw that. I turn to the Green Man—Lance—Death.
“Alright you green bitch,” I say, forcing bravado into my voice. “You gonna hop off that horse and fight or are you only good for old men?”
That thing is not Lance. Lance is dead.
He smiles Lance’s crooked grin, and with a fluid swipe of his leg, dismounts, never taking his eyes off me.
“A challenger,” He says, jingling as he moves closer to me. “Good man. Brave knave.”
“Would you shut up and fight so we can move on with our lives?”
He spins dramatically, arms wide. “You may begin this fight, sir, but alas, I am unarmed. How about this!” He says playfully. “We will trade blows, one for another. But I shall have mine now, and give yours later. Do this and I will gift you this axe, weapon of weapons!” He takes a step closer to me, but I stand my ground. I remembered Uncle Art telling me how horses test people. They try and make you move your feet. Well I wasn’t going anywhere. The Green man winks. “Her strike is true, as you will soon see. Do you accept my challenge, sir?” He asks, placing a green hand on the axe’s eye.
I hesitate. My eyes meet his again—Lance’s eyes.
“You’re not real,” I whisper. “He’s dead.”
“So am I,” the Green Man says. “So are you. Just not yet.”
I raise the axe, clenching hard to stop my hands from trembling.
“Where do you want it?”
He smiles again and kneels in front of me, bowing his head, and pulling his long green hair to either side of his neck, revealing old runes painted across the nape in gold.
“Just below the ears, good sir knight.”
Sir what?
“God would you shut up!” I scream and swing.
The axe cuts clean. His head hits the ground with a wet thud and rolls to my feet. I look down—and there’s Lance, smiling up at me. His face still warm, eyes gleaming like he just told the punchline of an inside joke.
I stumble back, the axe falling out of my hands.
What did I just do?
Behind me, people scream. I barely hear them over the blood in my ears. Uncle Art says something, but it doesn’t register.
I back away as the blood pours from the Green Man’s neck, red as it was in the deer blind all those years ago.
Then the impossible happens. The headless body stands.
It walks over to its severed head, and gathers the green mop of hair in a jingling fist. The face itself laughs as the screaming gets louder. Then it speaks as blood pours from the open wound.
“A year and a day, Sir Knight! In Green Chapel you’ll find me, prepared for our fight. And with that, I bid you all a good night!”
He mounts his gaudy green horse as easily as he’d dismounted, and leaves the axe behind on the splintered dance floor as he rides out of the tent and into the storm. The horse rears up into the rain just as a strike of lightning flashes and thunder crashes so loud I grab my ears. Looking down, the darkening pool of blood envelopes my nice wedding shoes as lightning flashes. I close my eyes.
A long dark moment passes, I see Lance’s face painted green and gold, he’s wearing a scraggly beard and long green hair—it’s a costume. For his game. That’s what it was. I see him smiling at me as he rides into the storm like the headless horseman.
Lance is dead. I killed him. It was an accident! I didn’t mean it!
“Could have been worse,” Tiff says.
I open my eyes and I’m back seated at the table, surrounded by my friends, sitting next to my girl. The light is warm and the sound of rain is gone.
“What the hell?”
“Well it wasn’t at all what I helped you write. Is your phone ok?” She asks.
“I—uh…”
Morgan starts singing and throwing flowers at the DJ booth.
“To the East!” she sings, and throws petals behind her. “I call upon the spirits of the East, the spirits of air, whose energy brings communication and clear connections between heart, mind, and body. Bless us with the promise of growth and fresh beginnings!”
The Green Man will continue in a series of serialized short stories, dropping biweekly. For updates sent directly to your inbox, join the mailing list below.
See you in a few weeks.