The Green Man

by Ellen Datlow

  She stood before the king in his study, a low table separating her from where he sat. On that table was a plate holding the two blue orbs that had been plucked from Vertuminus.

  “Are you hungry, my dear?” asked the king.

  The girl, frightened for her life, knowing what had become of her father and having witnessed executions in the stockade, nodded nervously.

  “That is a shame,” said Pious. “In order to make it up to you, I have a special treat. Here is a piece of fruit.” He waved his hand at the plate before him. “Take one.”

  She looked to either side where soldiers stood guarding her every move.

  “It’s quite all right,” said Pious in as sweet a tone as he was capable.

  The girl reached out her hand and carefully lifted a piece of fruit. She brushed her hair away from her face with her free hand as she brought the blue food to her mouth.

  The king leaned forward with a look of expectation on his face as she took the first bite. He did not know what to expect and feared for the worst. But the girl, after tasting a mouthful, smiled, and began greedily devouring the rest of it. She ate it so quickly he barely had time to see that its insides, though green, were succulent like the pulp of an orange.

  When it was finished and she held nothing but the pit in her hand, Pious asked her, “And how was that?”

  “The most wonderful thing I have ever tasted,” she whispered.

  “Do you feel well?” he asked.

  “I feel strong again,” she said and smiled.

  “Good,” said Pious. He motioned to one of the soldiers to escort her back to the stockade. “You may go now,” he said.

  “Thank you,” said the girl.

  “Once she and the soldier had left the room, the king said to the remaining guard, “If she is still alive by nightfall, bring me word of it.”

  It tasted, to him, something like a cool, wet ball of sugar, and yet hidden deeply within its dripping sweetness there lay the slightest trace of bitterness. With each bite, he tried to fix more clearly his understanding of its taste, but just as he felt on the verge of a revelation, he found he had devoured the entire thing. All that was left in his hand was the black pit, shaped like a tiny egg. Since the blue-skinned treat had no immediate effect on him, he thought perhaps the secret word lay within its dark center and he swallowed that also. Then he waited. Sitting at the window in his bedchamber, he stared out into the cool spring night, listening, above the din of his wife’s snoring, to the sound of an unseen bird, calling plaintively off in the forest. He wondered what, if anything, the fruit would do for him. At worst he might become sick unto death, but the fact that the girl from the forest was still alive but an hour earlier was good insurance that he would also live. At best, the risk was worth the knowledge and power he might attain. To know the secret language of the Almighty, even one green word, could bring him limitless power and safety from age and death.

  Every twinge of indigestion, every itch or creak of a joint, made him think the change was upon him. He ardently searched his mind, trying to coax into consciousness the syllables of that sacred word. As it is said of a drowning man, his life passed before the inner eye of his memory, not in haste but as a slow stately procession. He saw himself as a child, his parents, his young wife, the friends he had had when he was no older than the girl he had used to test the fruit. Each of them beckoned to him for attention, but he ignored their pleas, so intent was he upon owning a supreme secret.

  The hours passed and instead of revelation, he found nothing but weariness born of disappointment. Eventually, he crawled into bed beside his wife and fell fast asleep. In his dreams, he renewed his quest, and in that strange country made better progress. He found himself walking through the forest, passing beneath the boughs of gigantic pines. In those places where the sunlight slipped through and lit the forest floor, he discovered that the concept of the green word became clearer to him.

  He went to one of these pools of light and as he stood in it, the thought swirled in his head like a ghost as round as the fruit itself. It came to him that the word was a single syllable comprised of two entities, one meaning life and one death, that intermingled and intertwined and bled into each other. This knowledge took weight and dropped to his tongue. He tried to speak the green word, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was the sound of his own name. Then he was awake and aware that someone was calling him.

  “King Pious,” said the captain of the guard.

  The man was standing next to his bed. He roused himself and sat up.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “The forest people have escaped from the stockade.”

  “What?” he yelled. “I’ll have your head for this!”

  “Your highness, we found the soldiers who guard them enmeshed in vines that rooted them to the ground and, impossible as it sounds, a tree has grown up in the stockade overnight and the branches bend down over the high wall to touch the ground. The prisoners must have climbed out in the night. One of the horseman tried to pursue them but was attacked by a monstrous black dog and thrown from his mount.”

  Pious threw back the covers and got out of bed. He meant to give orders to have the soldiers hunt them down and slay them all, but suddenly a great confusion clouded his mind. That ghost of the green word floated and turned again in his mind, and when he finally opened his mouth to voice his command, no sound came forth. Instead, a leafed vine snaked up out of his throat, growing with the speed of an arrow’s flight. He clutched his chest, and the plant from within him wound itself around the soldier’s neck and arms, trapping him. Another vine appeared and another, until the king’s mouth was stretched wide with virulent strands of green life, growing rapidly out and around everything in the room. At just this moment, the queen awoke, took one look at her husband and fled, screaming.

  By twilight, the palace had become a forest. Those who did not flee the onslaught of vegetation but stayed and tried to battle it were trapped alive in its green web. All of the rooms and chambers, the kitchen, the tower cell, the huge dining hall, the pleasure garden, and even the philosopher’s hiding place were choked with a riot of leafy vine. The queen and those others who had escaped the king’s virulent command, traveled toward the south, back to their homes and roots.

  Pious, still planted where he had stood that morning, a belching fountain of leaf and tendril, was now the color of lime. Patches of moss grew upon his face and arms, and his already arthritic hands had spindled and twisted into branches. In his beard of grass, dandelions sprouted. On the pools that were his staring eyes, minuscule water lilies floated. When the sun slipped out of sight behind the trees of the forest, the last of that part of the green word he knew to be life, left him and all that remained was death. A stillness descended on the palace that was now interrupted only by the warblings of nightingales and the motion of butterflies escaped from the pleasure garden into the wider world.

  It was obvious to all of the forest people that Moren Kairn’s daughter, Alyessa, who had effected their escape with a startling display of earth magic, was meant to take the place of the witch. When they saw her moving amidst the trees with the crow perched upon her shoulder, followed by Mahood, they were certain. Along with her mother, she took up residence in the cave beneath the stand of willows and set to learning all that she could from what was left behind by her predecessor.

  One day near the end of spring, she planted in the earth the seed from the blue fruit, the origin of her magic, that Pious had given her. What grew from it was a tree that in every way emulated the form of Vertuminus. It did not move or talk, but just its presence was a comfort to her, reminding her of the quiet strength of her father. With her new powers came new responsibilities as the forest people looked to her to help them in their bid to rebuild their village and their lives. At the end of each day, she would come to the wooden knight and tell him of her hopes and fears, and in his silence she found excellent council and encouragement.

&nbs
p; She was saddened in the autumn when the tree man’s leaves seared and fell and the bark began to lift away from the trunk, revealing cracks in the wood beneath. On a cold evening, she trudged through orange leaves to his side, intending to offer thanks before winter devoured him. As she stood before the wooden form, snow began to lightly fall. She reached out her hand to touch the rough bark of his face, and just as her fingers made contact, she realized something she had been wondering about all summer.

  It had never been clear to her why the fruit had been her salvation and gift and at the same time had destroyed King Pious. Now she knew that although the king had the green word, he had no way to understand it. “Love,” she thought, “so easy for some and for others so impossible.” In the coming years, through the cycle of the seasons, she planted the simple seed of this word in the hearts of all who knew her, and although, after a long life, she eventually passed on, she never died.

  Jeffrey ford is the author of a trilogy of novels: The Physiognomy (winner of the 1998 World Fantasy Award), Memoranda, and The Beyond. His most recent novel, The Portrait of Mrs. Charbuque, was a World Fantasy Award Finalist. His short fiction has been published in many magazines, and in the anthologies Leviathan #3, Album Zutique, Witpunk, The Silver Gryphon, The Dark, Trampoline, Thackery T. Lambshead’s Guide to Exotic & Discredited Diseases, and Polyphony #3. Some of his short fiction is collected in The Fantasy Writer’s Assistant & Other Stories, winner of the 2003 World Fantasy Award for Best Collection; his short story, “Creation,” also won that year. Several of his stories have been picked for Year’s Best volumes and been nominated for the World Fantasy, the Hugo, and the Nebula awards. Ford lives in New Jersey with his wife and two sons. He teaches writing and literature at Brookdale Community College in Monmouth County, New Jersey.

  Author’s Note:

  On summer afternoons when there is a strong breeze, I leave my house and walk, with my dog, Woody, two miles to the local school. Once there, we sit on the edge of the soccer field in the shade of pines and watch, at a distance, the giant elms that define the boundary of the woods. Their broad leaves stir in the wind, and if I watch closely enough, I begin to see images in the shifting patterns of green—rabbits running, the continent of Africa, a bearded old man nodding in agreement, a witch on her broomstick, a minotaur smoking a big-bellied pipe. This is how I communicate with the Green Man. I am often surprised to find that we have similar things on our minds. Sometimes in these figures he shows me pieces of stories to write, and sometimes reminds me of promises I have forgotten that I wanted to keep. Perhaps this summer I will see you there, in the leaves of the elms at the edge of the field.

  A Biography of Ellen Datlow

  Ellen Datlow is an acclaimed, award-winning science fiction, fantasy, and horror editor.

  Born and raised in New York, Datlow aspired to be a veterinarian when she was a child, but changed her plans when she realized how much she preferred reading and writing to math and science. Her first publishing job was in the New York office of Little, Brown & Co. in 1973. During the next eight years she worked at a handful of other publishing companies before finally finding her calling in 1981 as an editor of short fiction at OMNI magazine, where she worked until 1998. She has also worked at the online magazine Event Horizon and at scifi.com.

  Datlow has edited more than fifty anthologies, including the bestselling collections Naked City: Tales of Urban Fantasy, Supernatural Noir, and Darkness: Two Decades of Modern Horror. She has published important science fiction and fantasy writers such as Stephen King, Joyce Carol Oates, Ursula K. Le Guin, Clive Barker, William S. Burroughs, and many more.

  She has also edited or co-edited numerous critically acclaimed anthologies of speculative fiction, including the Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror series. She often collaborates with renowned co-editor Terri Windling, with whom she worked on Snow White, Blood Red, a work of adult fairy tales that has been one of their most successful projects together.

  Datlow is the recipient of several awards, including multiple Shirley Jackson awards and Bram Stoker awards, Hugo Awards for Best Professional Editor, Hugo Awards for Best Short Form Editor, and Locus Awards for Best Editor, to name just a few. She also received the Karl Edward Wagner Award for “outstanding contribution to the genre.” In 2011, she was the recipient of a Life Achievement Award from the Horror Writers Association, and in 2014 she was awarded the Life Achievement Award from the World Fantasy Association. Datlow also cohosts a popular reading series, Fantastic Fiction, at the KGB Bar in New York City, where she resides.

  Baby Datlow in 1950. The so-called Gerber baby portrait was common at the time.

  Datlow’s high school graduation photo, taken in 1967.

  Datlow at home, wearing a vintage dress for a science fiction function in 1981. She says that she favors 1940s-era clothing.

  Datlow sitting at her desk in the OMNI offices in 1981, roughly a year after she began working there. On her desk is a Kaypro computer and the Selectric typewriter she kept for addressing envelopes. On her bulletin board she pinned, among other things, a photo of King Kong climbing the Empire State Building.

  Datlow in 1989, on the roof of the building where John Clute, renowned science fiction and fantasy critic, and his artist wife, Judith, live. The Clutes are based in Camden Town, London, and have graciously hosted many writers and editors over the past few decades. (Datlow usually stays with them on her annual visit to London.) Datlow is on the left, John Clute is in the center, and Datlow’s good friend Pat Cadigan, an award-winning science fiction writer, is on the right.

  A manipulated photo of Datlow taken in 1990 by art photographer and illustrator J. K. Potter, giving her cat eyes. It first appeared on the original back flap of Alien Sex.

  Datlow in front of an advertisement for OMNI magazine in New York City in 1991. That winter day, Datlow wandered Manhattan with her camera and her friends, the married writers Steven Gould and Laura J. Mixon. They happened upon the advertisement just north of Datlow’s West Village home.

  Datlow with fellow editor Terri Windling in 1994. Datlow and Windling have collaborated on anthologies for more than twenty years, yet rarely see each other. This photo is from one of those rare yet cherished meetings.

  Datlow modeled for J. K. Potter’s cover of the illustrated edition of The Island of Dr. Moreau by H. G. Wells, published in 1990. Potter gave Datlow a print of the image, which hangs on her living room wall.

  About the Contributors

  M. Shayne Bell has published short fiction and poetry in numerous magazines and anthologies. His short fiction is collected in How We Play the Game in Salt Lake and Other Stories. His story “Mrs. Lincoln’s China” was a finalist for a Hugo Award, and his story “The Pagodas of Ciboure” was a Nebula Award finalist. His story “Jacob’s Ladder” placed first for the Writers of the Future Award.

  Bell is the author of the novel Nicoji, and editor of the anthology Washed by a Wave of Wind: Science Fiction from the Corridor, for which he received an Award for Editorial Excellence from the Association for Mormon Letters. He lives in Rexburg, Idaho.

  Emma Bull writes science fiction and fantasy of various flavors and lengths. She likes digging holes in the dirt and putting plants in them, making clothes out of string and two sticks, dressing up for Halloween, and bicycling. Oh, and writing. She likes that too. Bull frequently teaches creative writing at Hamline University. At the moment, she is working on Claim, a sequel to her novel Territory, and planning further nefarious acts of literature.

  Michael Cadnum is the author of thirty-seven books, including National Book Award finalist The Book of the Lion. Several of Cadnum’s books have been released as audiobooks by Audible, and Open Road has published ebook editions of many of his classic thrillers. His most recent books include Earthquake Murder: Short Fiction and a book of animal poetry titled Kingdom. His new book of poems, The Promised Rain, is in progress. Cadnum lives in Albany, California. Follow him on Twitter: @MichaelCadnum.

 
Ellen Datlow has been editing science fiction, fantasy, and horror short fiction for over thirty-five years as the fiction editor of Omni Magazine, as well as an editor of Event Horizon magazine and Sci Fiction. She currently acquires short stories and novellas for Tor.com. In addition, she has edited about one hundred science fiction, fantasy, and horror anthologies, including the annual Best Horror of the Year series, and most recently Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales, Mad Hatters and March Hares, The Devil and the Deep: Horror Stories of the Sea, and Echoes: The Saga Anthology of Ghost Stories.

  Datlow has won multiple awards for her editing work. She was the recipient of the 2007 Karl Edward Wagner Award at the British Fantasy Convention for outstanding contribution to the genre. She was also honored with the Life Achievement Award by the Horror Writers Association, as well as the World Fantasy Award for Lifetime Achievement at the 2014 World Fantasy Convention.

  Datlow currently lives in New York and cohosts the monthly Fantastic Fiction reading series at KGB Bar. More information can be found at www.datlow.com, Datlow’s Facebook page, or on Twitter at @EllenDatlow. She is owned by two cats.

  Charles de Lint is a full-time writer and musician who calls Ottawa, Canada, home. The author of more than seventy adult, young adult, and children’s books, he has won World Fantasy, Aurora, Sunburst, and White Pine Awards, among others. Modern Library’s Top 100 Books of the 20th Century poll, voted on by readers, included eight of de Lint’s books. De Lint is also a poet, artist, songwriter, performer, and folklorist. He writes a monthly book-review column for Fantasy & Science Fiction. For more information, visit his website at www.charlesdelint.com.