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 The Green Man

   I

   "Don't go into the woods," her mother said.  But of course she did. 
Forbidden fruit is sweeter on the vine.  And what can age, with its
wrinkles and its scars, teach unblemished youth?  The path was dappled with
shadows and the afternoon grew chill.  She wasn't frightened; not at the
first.  There was no hint of warning in the murmuring of leaves, no cry of
danger where the branches groaned beneath their summer weight.  She
sauntered, a song upon her lips and lightness in her step.

   She laughed when a tree snagged her flowing hair.  She did not notice
the silence or the absence or birds.  The wind muttered through the emerald
canopy but she did not heed it.  She danced a while upon the shadowed
pathway, a bow to the oaks, a curtsey to the hornbeams.  Her head was full
of idle dreams; her heart, of unknown love.  What else is the purpose of
youth?

   Obsidian eyes, old as time, watched her dancing progress, sensed and
scented the sap within her rising.  The old hunger rose, sharp as grief. 
Beauty for the despoiling, innocence for the taking, the brooding presence
watched and waited, patient as the trees.

   She grew drowsy, lay down to rest.  She did not feel the hand upon her
breast.  The gnarled phallus sprang forth; her hips convulsed but still she
did not wake.  Hands moved softly in an ancient rhythm.  The sacrifice was
made: a bitter seed to grow a bitter harvest.  Now she felt afraid.  All
was quiet wonder in that forest glade.
The rite now complete, the Green Man rose.  He moved away, receded from
her mind.  She knew only the moist measure of his passing under her slick

fingers.



   II

   Summer edged into memory.  Frost encountered the naked branches,
painting them with grey rime.  The village smelt of wood smoke and darkness
came early.  She gathered kindling at forest's edge, bundled against the
cold.  Then the snows came, deep and isolating.  She helped her father dig
out stranded sheep and brought them home to the hearth.  It was a bitter
winter.

   Beneath her furs, the Green Man came to her in sleep.  She took his wild
comforts, holding them close, a secret.  And always, with the morning, she
was alone.  This was his mystery: it served her well enough for now.  Her
thoughts drifted far and wide.  Soon she would be married and there would
be other mysteries.



   III

   "Don't go into the woods," she told her daughter.  But of course, she
did.




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