The Jack Hansard Series: Season Two

Episode 5.4

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What is the Green Man?

They're everywhere in England. And far beyond.

Stone carved faces adorn the walls of churches all over the world. Its green visage stares out from ancient Roman mosaics. Even a great multitude of pubs are named after the leafy bastard.

Then there are the festivals. Don't get me wrong, I'm never one to knock a good solstice celebration, or any of the numerous pagan festivities which happily occur all through the year. They bring in the tourists, and the less-than-savvy folk, who'll swallow a load of mythological hogwash on the way to purchasing a tidy number of cursed trinkets. (Though they also attract the actually-savvy folk, who look over my wares with serious faces and tut at the state of my hex bags and potion ingredients.)

But so many of these events, from the city-wide carnival to the humble village fête, features somewhere in its midst a figure all in green and dressed like a bush. The Green Man is so ubiquitous that you'll find him in private gardens on cheerful little plaques, and hanging from windows like a member of the family.

Of course, that's the point. To appear like it belongs there.

The Green Man is a parasite. It feeds on faith.

That's why you'll find it in places where belief unfolds like a flower. In the place where prayers are uttered. On the thresholds of spring and winter, when cycles of life and death are so conspicuous. At the local bar, where the only thing holding you together is the belief that this pint will make the pain just a little more bearable.

And there you'll find the Green Man, unfolding his tendrils, blending in with the stonework, and feeding on the convictions of the people within.

London alone has at least thirty Green Man pubs, by the way. And if that doesn't make you worry, nothing will.

What's also interesting – and this is the part my brain was humming over as I frantically unfocused myself over the tomb's threshold – is that Green Men don't appear just everywhere, but everywhen. They are a creature so ancient, that one once got its roots embedded in this very place, how many thousands of years ago? Four thousand? Five thousand? Sometimes I think it's a wonder that humans have survived for so long . . .

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We tumbled out into pressing silence.

'Yes!' I kissed the cold floor and felt for the rock walls wrapped in their fabric braids. 'We made it, Ang!'

Her bluecap flared behind me, accompanied by familiar grumbling: the usual threats on my life and oaths to never trust me again.

'It wasn't that bad,' I said jovially. 'Admittedly, I regret losing a shoe. But much better than losing a whole foot.' Tucking the crowbar under one arm, I pulled a jar of piskey dust from my pocket and marvelled at it. The light twinkled off the walls in kaleidoscope colours. 'Never thought I'd ever be holding a batch of this stuff for myself. Reckon I've only seen it once on the Black Market, and that was a tiny amount. This is a proper big haul. It's the kind of thing Mercer would go for . . .'

A sudden lack of curse words disrupted my reflection.

'Them braids is movin', gwas.'

'Surely not. Just a trick of all the lights–'

Vine-like shadows danced over the wall behind her. A dry slithering sound reached my ears just as a serpentine root snatched at my neck.

I choked, slammed the crowbar upright, and the vine slithered away on contact. Around us, the whole chamber was sprouting.

Why had I assumed the Green Man wouldn't follow us?

'Run!' I wheezed. Ang was already swinging a wild path to the exit. The stone creaked and shifted as the weight of the barrow was displaced by roots and branches coiling inward, outward, reaching for the promise of life and sunlight.

We emerged coughing soil out of our throats. I threw my coat up over Ang as a huge stalk burst out of the mound, showering us with heavy clods of damp earth. One smacked me in the ear and left it ringing.

The small hill fell to pieces around the stone innards of Trevethy Quoit. It was now entombed in a tangle of trees and budding vines; they strangled the small shrine with layer upon layer of fervent growth.

The Green Man's baritone breathing emanated from inside it.

'Time fer leavin', gwas.'

'I don't disagree,' I said weakly. 'Give me that fruit.'

The thing throbbed uncomfortably in my hands. This was another Big Haul, if only I could keep it. I weighed up the odds. I'd like to think I'm above grovelling, but when it's my life on the line I'm decidedly less picky about such things.

'Wenna!' I called into the fog. 'We'd like our ride back now! Quite urgently please!'

'Why ain't we just runnin'? Let's go!'

'Not into the fog! You don't know when you'll end up!'

'Better'n being eaten by a tree, gwas!'

I spun round and saw the horrid green tongue burst from the top of the mound. We began backing off. Fog curled around our ankles.

'Go back to sleep, you ugly sod,' I hissed. 'What do you want?'

'Mebbe what we stole.'

'Surely not. We only took a teaspoon compared to what he has left in there!'

'Not the dust, gwas. That fruit.'

I looked down at the thing. It didn't look like a magical treasure – but then, one of the first things you learn in this business is that magic is often ugly. I squeezed its flesh with my fingertips. My nails bit straight into spongey pulp, and the juice dribbled over my hands onto the ground.

The tongue snapped toward us like it had tasted the flavour on the air.

I sighed, pulled back my arm – 'I sure hope Wenna will still give us a ride.' – and hurled the fruit as far as I could to the other side of the mound.

A tendril snatched it mid-flight. It was tossed up onto the tongue, which curled around it, crushed it, and then bathed itself in the shining juices.

I glanced longingly at my fingertips, coated in what could be honey if honey were made of gold. The aroma was sickly sweet, and very tempting.

Cora would have tasted it, just to find out.

I knelt down, and carefully wiped my hands onthe grass.

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Author's Note

There's so much I'd love to do with the Green Man mythos. It's often a challenge to balance the amount of action vs exposition, and I'm aware of my habit to rely heavily on Hansard's inner monologue for the latter. I have to keep reminding myself that I don't have to use every idea RIGHT NOW. So I imagine the Green Man will crop up again in future stories of mine, where I can have even more fun exploring the concept.

On a personal note, I've always found something quite uncomfortable about those Green Man's faces. I certainly don't want one in my home. There's this horrible sense that they're LOOKING at you...

... looking for their next meal, perhaps?