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?' 

'I have.' I asserted edging my way sideways so I could see into the dwarf marquee. 

He stepped the same way to block my view and licked his pencil and imagined my entrapment would see him safely into Chief Constable territory. 'How did you get to know it was here? I'm sorry I didn't catch your name.' 

'Sherlock.' I offered. 

He carefully wrote my name down. 'Will that be your first or last name?' 

'First,' I said. 'Last name Holmes.' 

He wrote that down then stopped and eyed me warily. 'And I'm Inspector Lestrade.' 

'Well,' I said edging the other way to regain my vantage point, 'let me be the first to congratulate you on your promotion Inspector.' 

He crossed through my name in his pad. 

'Geoff Spencer. I live at Rose Cottage up by the track. Is it really growing on the tree?' 

'That remains to be determined Sir. Have you noticed anything unusual round here recently?' 

'There's a finger growing in the woods and a load of suspicious looking men running around in white romper suits. And some dogs, of the police sniffer variety.' Then I added as an afterthought. 'That's probably what's on the sole of your shoe.' 

He studied me patently like a marine scientist examining a mollusc. 'I meant of any other suspicious activity. Odd looking individuals, vans coming up the lane late at night. That sort of thing.' 

'Oh That. No.' I shook my head. I took it from his use of the word sir that he'd eliminated me from his enquiries 'How do you know it's growing rather than just being placed there by some finger fetish fiend.' 

'We have experts.' 

'On finger growing trees? I thought there were budget cuts in the Police force? It seems a little wanton to me that the police are recruiting specialists on botanical body growing to advise them in these difficult economic times.' 

'We'll be taking it away, it will not be left on permanent display.' He was not obviously qualified to comment on the forces budgetary affairs. 

'Splendid.' I said. 'That's just chipper. I'll be moving along then.' 

He nodded approvingly. His shoe issue was getting pressing and required his attention with some urgency. 'If you should remember anything odd.' 

'Sure,' I called back. 'Don't forget to take fingerprints -Or should I say fingerprint.' 

'Thanks for the tip.' He raised his pencil and pointed it at me like I had just placed a bid at auction. 'I'm sure we wouldn't have thought of that.' 

'Chipper.' I said again and strolled on waving my walking stick jauntily in the air in a manner that could not be construed as to be belonging to an individual who would be taking fingers and placing them in trees. 

The finger thing stuck in my mind. The thought of a body in the woods behind my house I found a little distracting. Two days later day I checked down the lane, the police vans had gone and there were no reports on the radio of a body being found. I'd felt a little stiff over the last week, arthritis I suspected. Retirement, arthritis, incontinence, death. I'd moved one step up the mortal ladder. I thought I'd pop into the village and see the Doctor to confirm my terminal prognosis and at the same time pursue my enquiries further with the key witness in this affair- the delectable Dolores Dessing. 

Over the pub door is a stone carving, a foliate carved face potted with the ravages of time. It's the face of a bearded man. A cheery looking soul with vines sprouting from ears, nose and mouth. Some find him rather interesting but I've noticed others, not locals, shaking their heads in bewilderment and hurry on. Oddly enough I've always enjoyed his charms. 

Inside I located Mrs Dessing the patron of the Slaughtered Lamb. She of finger finding fame was deep in contemplation completing a crossword behind the counter. The pub was empty bar a stuffed lamb standing guard by the hat stand. Basking in the reflective glory of her recent two minutes of fame she took up my offer up of a drink and willingly accepted a pint of stout. 

I began my interrogation. 

'Are you sure it was growing there?' 

She paused for what seemed like an eternity before answering. 'It looked like it. There was no blood and it was sort of attached to the tree.' 

'Man or woman?' 

'Hmm, man by the look of it.' She rested her chest on the bar, sipped her stout and reflected. 'Yes definitely a man's. Well-kept. Clean, well-trimmed nails. Probably a professional an accountant or senior manager I'd say. Strong silent type I'd imagine, adventurous but homely and caring. Maybe from up by Omersham in those expensive houses.'  

'You should contact the police, they could do with your insights.' I should have asked the squirrels I reflected. 

'Really, you think so? Perhaps I should.' She mused. 'Maybe it's a sign.' 

'As in -Walk this way. I little bit over the top to cut off your finger to help with directions.' 

'No you know. A sign. Of something bigger. It's creepy down there don't you think. You live close by, have you ever seen anything unusual down there?'  

'Little green men.' I said finishing my pint.  

She paused, frozen for a moment and stood quite still as if deep in thought. Then chirped up, 'What?' 

'Six, five, three,' I pointed at her paper, 'Emerald interplanetary humanoids of small consequence.'  

'Oh I see. Silly me,' she filled in the clue in her paper. She twizzled her hennaed hair thoughtfully between thumb and forefinger. 'You could take me out for a meal if you'd like. I could tell you more.' 

Interview terminated. I exited the pub and headed down to the surgery.  

'Lots of people have been in with aches and pains.' The Doctor muttered, briskly rubbing her shoulder in sympathy. 

'So it's not terminal then?' 

She seemed distracted. Her face glazed over and she sat staring at me for a few moments. Then her head jerked forward and back as if she had dosed off. 'No, not terminal. I wouldn't worry Mr Spencer. But there is something else.' 

'I thought I'd be off before I went down with anything else.' I sat back down.  

She looked at me oddly. 'I'd like you to come in for a few tests. You seem rather, rather..... abstract. Were you aware of that?' 

I wasn't but sat there as attentively as I could while she set up the appointment.  

She opened the door and stood there motionless, her eyes looked like shot glass. I edged past her. 

Outside the receptionist sat huddled over her PC, fingers resting unmoving on the keyboard. I tapped on the glass but she seemed not to hear me. Puzzled I left and drove home. 

Rose Cottage is a good place to recuperate. With its rambling roses and plumes of heavily scented jasmine running rampant over its walls it provides a remedy that our health service finds hard to equal. I remained at home for the next few days but the rheumatism got worse. On the third day I decided to walk into the woods, too much bed rest is a bad thing at my age. 

Forcing my aching joints into movement I headed up to the stones. At the edge of the ring I stopped and leant on one of the granite blocks and caught my breath. Under the moss my fingers could read like braille the strange loops and whirls carved into the surface of the ancient stones. Strange indecipherable messages transmitted through the wandering realms of time. 

Approaching the crest of the mound my eye was caught by what appeared to be a string of tiny lanterns strung through the lower braches of the weathered oaks. Reaching up into the foliage I pulled one down. It was a finger, perfectly formed, protruding from the branch. It was warm to the touch. In shock I let out a cry and fell backward.  

For a moment I lay there in a daze looking up into the canopy of the trees above me. From them hung a cacophony of growing arms, legs and hands, a hideous deviant fruit sprouting from the long gnarled limbs of the trees. Supressing my rising panic I struggled to my feet and made off as fast as I could toward the other side of the crest to pick up the footpath back to the village. 

I struggled along as quickly as I was able, pushing the undergrowth aside with my stick to clear a path. Breathless I stopped and leaned against an old thick stump heavily wreathed with ivy and sprigs of mistletoe. On impulse I pulled back the curtain of leaves to reveal the cold wooden face of Mrs Dessing staring back. I released the foliage with a cry of confusion and horror, hurriedly stepping away. 

Behind me one of the trunks of the giant oaks splinted open with a crack of splintering wood and a curled body slipped from its innards onto the ground. Slowly like a moth from a cocoon it unravelled and stood up. 

I stared, transfixed, my legs solidified under me. I willed them to move but they were dead to my entreaties. 

Around me more of the great boughs opened up, bodies slipping out, gently rolling out onto the moss bound forest floor. 

I was rooted to the spot, a feeling of terror enveloped me as one of them approached me. He was young, mahogany faced with a tanned wiry brown lithe figure. Under his thatch of hair his lively green eyes held mine inquisitively for a few moments while my body tapped into the thick rich earth beneath my feet. 

'Don't worry,' he patted my solid arm, 'there'll be no more cutting or burning, you can just grow old in peace. We'll be here to take care of you. Just relax.' 

I stood unmoving, feeling the  tendrils of young green shoots growing around me. It felt strangely comfortable, a calmness swept over me. I looked at the sky and felt the warmness of the sun filtering down through the translucent green leaves. He would be good to his word. I had no doubt.  

I watched as they strode off through the trees toward the village. My mind wandered to the face outside the pub. Now I understood. Earths time had come full circle. Myth and reality had begun to merge into one. 

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The Green Man is part of folklore and his image can often be found carved into buildings in English villages and towns -his origins are somewhat uncertain.

If you've made it this far- thank you for reading this collection. I've started a new one 'Stranger Things' which I will build up over the forthcoming months.

Thanks Again. Happy reading.

TL May 14