The Dream Factory

The Green Man

The Green Man 

The front page of my local paper declared Mrs Dessing of the picturesque village of World's End had found a finger growing in a tree in Wilderness woods. 'Human finger found growing in local wood,' splashed the headline somewhat gleefully in a sensationalist attempt to gain a place in the tabloid Nationals. I chewed my toast and scanned an advert for coach trips for retirees to a miniature village on the Isle of Wight and decided the story on the finger held more allure despite its rather dubious provenance.  

I turned the page and was gratified to see they had published a picture to substantiate the story. I put on another piece of toast to celebrate this piece of good fortune and settled down to savour this new revelation. 

Closer scrutiny of the aforesaid image revealed that it did indeed appear to be a human finger. And indeed it did appear to be growing from a slender bough of a non evergreen tree -oak I fancied, the leaves themselves being slightly out of focus reflecting the need of the local rag's photographer's artistic urge to promote his wedding photography service which he ran from a garage behind the pub. The finger seemed healthy enough considering it had become detached from its owner- and a man's finger I fancied. Long and slender, ring less but sadly lacking the nail varnish that might have confirmed it one way or another.  

Despite the evidence I was dubious about the whole affair. I thought I'd go and have a look for myself.  

Wilderness wood is at the back of my property and being tucked away down a lane removed from the village is a rather remote spot. It's the haunt of elderly fungi foragers and occasional sprightly courting couples in the summer but otherwise few rarely visited it apart from the locals who will occasional stump up the hill from World's End to peruse the dark mysteries of the old stone circle hidden in the undergrowth there. 

Grimore Stones lies toward the centre of the wood. It is a strange mystical place, its towering standing stones stand at irregular angles as if thrown there by a chimerical giant in the time before man roamed the surface of the earth and the Earth abounded with more mythical beings. These drunken old men appear inviting at a distance with the circle enveloping a raised section of ground containing a scattering of old oaks. The few walkers out in this remote area that might stop atop it will find that this otherworldly place suddenly turn cold leaching away the summers sun leaving them turning up their collars and heading on to somewhere more inviting.  

As I approached the stone ring I could see a makeshift tent had been set up against a weathered tree on the higher ground within the stone boundary. A long ribbon of red tape hung on stakes declared repeatedly to passer by's 'Do not Cross'. Given the remote location and the lack of any members of the public I deduced that it was placed there to warn off inquisitive squirrels who are known to be particularly literate about these parts. A number of earnest young men wearing forensic suits huddled together in this temporary structure. Members of the growing finger appreciation society I assumed. An excitable spaniel trotted to and fro leading its handler on a merry chase though the woodland.  

On sentry duty outside the tape stood a portly uniformed policeman picking at the base of his shoe with a stick. His bike lent against tree nearby with a large padlock and heavy chain slung about it. I checked to see if any velocipede thieves were lurking amongst the trees. These are dangerous times I reminded myself. Here's a chap who lives and breathes his profession, take note and approach with due diffidence.  

'It's probably fox.' I remarked, nodding at his shoe as I strolled up to him. Having established myself as his confidante I got straight to the point. 'I've come to see the finger.' 

He quickly appraised me as the villain that had returned to the scene of the crime and surreptitiously pulled a notebook from his upper pocket. 'Have you now?'