The Green Man
Last November this piece went out to my backers on Patreon as their monthly reward. As one year has gone by, those of you don't back me with cold hard cash can read it too.
The Green Man
“People like to think of the Green Man as a leftover from Britain’s pagan past. Like many such folk stories, they owe as much to Victorian antiquarians as to genuine traditions.”
I stop and take a sip from the beer, and remember when I stood here, watching from the trees as Boudicca’s army burned the bridge below. The beer is much better now.
“That’s not to say they made it up from whole cloth – though some did! Instead they amalgamated strange carved faces on stones and trees with stories of wild men and hermits in the woods. Seeking some ur-legend, a single source.”
A woman attracts my attention and speaks. She reminds me of Ealhswith, Alfred’s wife. If the Lady of Wessex would wear jeans and a hoodie, and talk to a heathen such as me. I had only seen her from a distance, dispensing alms to the needy.
“So he’s not based on a real legend?” She seems disappointed.
“A real legend? No. But real legends? Men have always run off to live in the greenwood, to escape from the law – or just their own troubles at home.” I smile at her and the group laughs.
A small boy whispers to her. He looks up shyly; he has a red rosette like some of the knights carried at Tewksbury where the two Edwards, cousins, fought for the throne of England. “He wants to know what the green is,” she says.
I laugh out loud. “Well that there is a secret,” I say. “But I’ll say this, if you go down to the face painting tent, you can be as green as me for the day.” I laugh again and so do the others.
Medieval roof boss from Rochester Cathedral. Credit: By Akoliasnikoff - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3931741
The Green Man
“People like to think of the Green Man as a leftover from Britain’s pagan past. Like many such folk stories, they owe as much to Victorian antiquarians as to genuine traditions.”
I stop and take a sip from the beer, and remember when I stood here, watching from the trees as Boudicca’s army burned the bridge below. The beer is much better now.
“That’s not to say they made it up from whole cloth – though some did! Instead they amalgamated strange carved faces on stones and trees with stories of wild men and hermits in the woods. Seeking some ur-legend, a single source.”
A woman attracts my attention and speaks. She reminds me of Ealhswith, Alfred’s wife. If the Lady of Wessex would wear jeans and a hoodie, and talk to a heathen such as me. I had only seen her from a distance, dispensing alms to the needy.
“So he’s not based on a real legend?” She seems disappointed.
“A real legend? No. But real legends? Men have always run off to live in the greenwood, to escape from the law – or just their own troubles at home.” I smile at her and the group laughs.
A small boy whispers to her. He looks up shyly; he has a red rosette like some of the knights carried at Tewksbury where the two Edwards, cousins, fought for the throne of England. “He wants to know what the green is,” she says.
I laugh out loud. “Well that there is a secret,” I say. “But I’ll say this, if you go down to the face painting tent, you can be as green as me for the day.” I laugh again and so do the others.
Medieval roof boss from Rochester Cathedral. Credit: By Akoliasnikoff - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3931741
Comments