The Green Man
Fiction by Alexander Vishegorodskiy
Bound by Vines by Rebecca Finkelstein (2024)
The old man leaned over the blazing campfire. He wore a dirty tunic and a large drooping cowl that obscured all but his keen brown eyes—eyes that seemed to pierce through to a person’s soul. His gaze often made the people around him uncomfortable. About his neck hung a lute brooch, the mark of his trade. This man was a professional storyteller—a bard. He lowered his voice as he began reciting his tale, eyeing the children sitting around the campfire.
“The commonfolk know much, see much, and hear much,” he said, “but the high and mighty look down their noses at us all the same. You’ve felt it, ‘aven’t ye? The disdain. The look in the eye when they regard ye that just screams, ‘Begone, rat.’” The old man’s expression assumed a distant look, but he quickly refocused on his story.
“‘Poor, filthy peasants,’ they call us. ‘What could they possibly have to teach us about the world? They spend their days toiling their fields and shearing their sheep. They’ve their lot and need not burden themselves with untoward knowledge,’ they say. Can we blame them for this? They look at us and see only pox-ridden fleabags with warts on our faces and a scowl in our eyes. They’re rich, you see, wrapped in their silken velvets, jewelry, and embroidered doublets bearing the sigils of their proud houses. They’ve land to call their own, men to fight and die for them, and surnames bearing much history, much history. What do we have?” The bard looked at each child in turn. They were unmoving; the bard had them in the palm of his hand.
“I ask you. What do the commonfolk have to offer? What can we teach our liege lords and ladies? What can the masses clothed in roughspun teach the few in their silk and crowns?” The old man smiled a wise, knowing smile. “We can teach them to fear the forest.”
Suddenly, the old man reached into the pocket of his tunic and threw a handful of powder, glittering in the firelight, towards the campfire. As the powder came into contact with the heat of the flame, every particle combusted with a loud pop and a flash of light. Utterly harmless; no more than a jester’s trick, and it had worked flawlessly.
The children gathered around the fire, heedless of the outside world and leaning in with wide eyes and even wider ears, were so enraptured by the story the old bard was telling that their screams must’ve been audible to all the neighbouring villages of their hamlet. Little Matthew just about leapt in the air like a frightened cat and ran off to the nearest oak, cowering behind it and peeking out sheepishly. The bard laughed raucously.
“Now look at what you’ve done. He’ll never settle down enough to hear the rest of the story,” Henry, Matthew’s older brother, said exasperatedly. He stood to tend to his sibling.
The old bard let out a raspy chuckle in response. “I’d sooner say I’ve done ‘im a favour. Put the fear of nature in ‘im, I have. You should thank me, as he will one day.” Henry did not respond but looked at the bard askance.
“But what’s in the forest, mister?” a child asked. “My mummy tells me vampires and werewolves and ghouls and goblins live in the forest waiting to snatch up children who stray from their mums and that’s why I shouldn’t go picking berries on me own.”
The bard’s promise of story and song had reached the ears of every boy and girl in the hamlet, and now they all gathered around him. It was quite the crowd, too, larger than the bard had had the pleasure of entertaining in a long time. All the better for more ears to hear his tale.
“Your mum has the right of it, little one. Monsters are waiting in the forest, waiting to eat you up just as soon as you’re out of earshot of mummy and daddy,” the bard said. An ever-widening smile crept across his face. He couldn’t resist his mirth and guffawed loudly, startling the children again, albeit to a lesser extent.
“Don’t listen to that old fool. He’s just trying to scare you,” Henry said as he returned with his younger brother in tow. “Well, I’m not scared. Vampires and werewolves and ghouls and goblins and witches and fairies don’t exist, and sad old gleemen like you depend on gullible kids like these to believe in them so you can grow fat with unearned coin.”
This one’s sharp, the old bard thought. “A gleeman I might be, but there is truth in my words. You’ve never stepped foot out of your little hamlet, but I’ve travelled the world over a dozen times and seen much. Listen, and you might learn.” The old bard smiled slyly again.
Henry didn’t answer, nor did he take a seat with the other children. He stood with his arms crossed and didn’t take his eyes off the old bard. The bard gave him a wink, laughed, and regarded the rest of the children. “Many beasts of all shapes and sizes lurk in the dark corners of the realm, and people like me sing our wisdom to teach little young'uns like yourselves how best to avoid them, and more importantly, how to respect them. Now, where was I?” The bard made a show of being lost in thought.
“The lords! You were talking about the lords!” one of the kids said.
“Ah, yes. The lords. As it happens, I know a tale of one lord, a very long time ago, who did not fear the forest. The parents of your parents’ parents would not remember this tale, so very long ago did it happen, but I remember.” The bard reached into his other pocket and threw another handful of powder onto the fire. However, this time it did not explode. The powder turned the fire a deep shade of blue and cast a foreboding light on his face. The children leaned toward the bard even further as he lowered his voice once again. As he resumed his tale, the trees surrounding their glade seemed to lean toward the bard as well. The wind howled through the forest as though nature itself was saying, “Pay attention.”
“A time ago, there was a lord called Danius Everton, and a proud lord was he. The Everton family was rich and powerful and liege to King Odoris, so they were arrogant, too. Now this tale took place during a time of war in the realm, and Lord Everton was marching his levies off to battle in a distant land, or distant enough as it makes no matter. Along the way, his army came upon a village. Lord Everton was weary from his long march, so he decided that he would make camp at the village and treat himself to the peasants’ bread and butter. The peasantry had no say in the matter, o’course, and tepidly saw to the Lord’s every need.” The bard reached into his pocket and threw another handful of powder on the fire. The flames swallowed up the powder and turned a bright shade of crimson red in response.
“But Everton was a proud lord—too proud, you might say. He turned his nose up at these lowly peasants. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ he would say. ‘I am Lord Danius Everton, liege to King Odoris!’ But the lowly peasants only gawked, for what business do peasants have with lords and kings? They are born, live, and die in their villages. Tending to crops and praying for bountiful harvest is a serf’s life, but Lord Everton would hear nothing of it. Every luxury the peasants offered, the Lord would refuse and say, ‘In the Capitol, they would do it thus.’ The ways of the peasants were outdated, superstitious, and primitive to Lord Everton. He was heedless of their advice, refusing to see their priest to bless himself. He did not line the doors and windows of his pavilion with salt to keep out evil spirits, as the peasants had instructed him. So, the—”
“Evil spirits don’t exist,” Henry interrupted.
“Only evil ones?” asked the bard.
“Spirits don’t exist! And if they did, why would salt keep them from coming in through the windows and doors?”
“Everton asked the same of the peasants. Look, children, it’s Lord Danius Everton come again! Bow down, for he is liege to King Odoris!” The children all laughed giddily, much to Henry’s chagrin. Even little Matthew giggled. Henry’s face blushed with anger.
“Now, come one unassuming eve, as dusk fell over the land, Lord Everton had worked up an appetite something fierce. He had refused the peasants’ peas and turnip potage, for it was meat he hungered for. He insisted that he wanted to hunt a deer and dine on rich venison that night. The mere utterance of the notion struck fear into the village folk, for these men and women kept to a tradition as old as their village.” The bard tossed more powder into the fire, turning the fire a shade of forest green. “‘The animals that dwell in the wild are not ours to eat, m’Lord!’ they wailed. ‘They belong to the Green Man, and to the Green Man alone!’ But the wailing of the peasants did not reach Lord Everton’s ears, and he hardened his heart to their protest.”
“Who is the Green Man?” asked a tiny voice. The voice came from little Matthew, and it was the first thing he had said all evening. The bard smiled, as he hoped someone would ask that question.
“The Green Man, little Matthew, is the guardian of the forest and all that lives under its protection. He abhors the consumption of meat and all excesses and abuses of nature and its creatures.”
He heard Henry scoff. “What kind of a name is the Green Man?” Henry asked.
“An old name. A powerful name. Watch the tone of your voice when you utter it, for you might anger him,” the bard said. He smiled at Henry’s bewildered expression.
“So, Lord Everton set off on his hunt in search of deer to fill his belly. A day and a night passed, and he did not return. A fortnight passed, and there was no sight of Lord Everton nor any of the men who went with him into the forest that night. Weeks upon weeks passed, and the dark thicket of forest refused to belch up Everton. The village folk went about their lives, and when the soldiers questioned them as to the whereabouts of Lord Everton, they could only say, ‘He did not fear the forest.’ Eventually, without their leader, Everton’s army laid down their weapons and returned dejectedly to the capitol, to their King Odoris, with news of Lord Everton’s disappearance. King Odoris was outraged, for without Lord Everton to lead his levies into battle, Odoris would lose his kingdom, and his reign would come to an end. And so, it came to pass. Before long, Odoris’ enemies were at his gates. Then, Odoris’ neck was without a head.” The bard threw another dash of powder at the fire, and it returned to its native colour.
“Everton didn’t fear the forest, and Odoris paid the price?” asked Henry.
The old bard smiled. “That’s precisely right, Henry. The lords and kings in their castles have forgotten the forest, but the peasants remember. And all over the realm, they would say, ‘Fear the forest, for Everton did not.’”
The old bard entertained the children with a few more stories and songs and performed more whimsical tricks with his powders. As the darkness of the night deepened, and the children began to tire, he sent them home to their families. Reluctantly, they all stood and headed back home to the hamlet. All but Henry.
“I’ve never heard of Everton or Odoris. If all the peasants across the land knew them, why haven’t we heard of them?” asked Henry.
“I told you. This tale happened a very long time ago and in a very distant land. Or distant enough as it—”
“—makes no matter, I know. But then how do you know this story?”
“I’ve been around, and I know a great many things. It is a poor storyteller who does not know many stories to tell.”
“Who exactly are you?” asked Henry.
“Listen to the howl of the wind and the rustling of the leaves and you will hear your answer,” the bard said.
Henry strained to listen to the ambient noises of the forest about them. “I don’t understand. It’s just noise. Is this some sort of gleeman parable?” he asked.
“Ain’t no parable,” the old man said. “You’re hearing, but you’re not listening. Really listen, Henry. Don’t just hear. Listen.”
Henry strained his ears again. He closed his eyes, the focus on his face plain to see. When he opened them again, his eyes widened.
The old bard’s eyes had changed to green.
Alexander Vishegorodskiy is a Mississauga-based writer currently enrolled in the second year of the Creative and Professional Writing program at Humber Polytechnic. He’s a prolific fantasy reader and aspires to become a novelist and professional writer. He’s been previously published in the eighth edition of the Humber Literary Review Spotlight.