“I have a really, really bad headache,” Sylvia told her mother faintly and rubbed at her temples. “I think it’s turning into a migraine.”
Her mother asked for Sylvia’s bisque to go and the check. Sylvia was glad her mother drove home. She lay back as much as she could in the car seat and closed her eyes.
When they got home, she took off her good clothes and put on a t-shirt and sweat pant shorts and returned to the kitchen to hunt for some aspirin. She found her mother in the living room and Sylvia sat on the couch and hugged a pillow, looking out the French doors. She looked at the deck and to the sky and water beyond squinting in the bright afternoon light. Something was missing. At first she couldn’t figure it out and then it finally struck her. Her mask was missing! She stood up and went out to look around the deck. It was gone!
“Mother,” she asked. “Have you seen my wooden mask?”
“Mask?” her mother replied, “I threw out the dead bit of wood that was on the deck,” her mother said.
“Why?” Sylvia asked incensed. Her head was throbbing and her eyes were burning, “Why can’t you respect my things? You never ask! You never give me a chance!” she shouted. The tears started to flow and she couldn’t stop them. All of the pent up emotions and grief of the past few weeks were releasing like an avalanche. She ran up to her room and buried her head in the pillows and sobbed.
Her mother knocked at the door, “Sylvia, can I come in?” she asked.
“No! No!” Sylvia screamed. “Just leave me alone!” she cried miserably to her mother through the door.
Her mother hesitated for a minute and then Sylvia heard her footsteps go down the hallway and down the steps.
It was hours later when Sylvia woke up. She realized raising her head from a sticky, damp pillow that she had cried herself to sleep. Her eyes and face felt swollen and puffy and a dull headache still throbbed away. She lay in bed and listened for several minutes. The house was quiet and still. No breeze blew through the curtains.
She got up and went to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face, avoiding the mirror before she went downstairs. Her mother was gone. She looked briefly through the rooms and found note on the kitchen table.
Syl,
I’m sorry about your wooden mask ‘thing.’
I tossed it out into the yard, but could not find it.
You needed to cry.
I’ll call you tomorrow and see you Saturday.
Marian and Owen will be here at 1pm on Sunday.
Please call Marian to discuss the menu. I thought
I would pick up salmon steaks for the grill.
Love,
Mom
Sylvia put down the note and walked outside. It was twilight and she could barely see in the shadows of the growing darkness. She stepped off the deck and into the yard looking for the mask. She scuffled her feet in the long prickly grass. She knew she would need to mow it soon. It was useless to try to find the mask. The darkness had settled in around her and a brisk breeze came from the bay. Sylvia shivered in the darkening night. Sylvia returned to the house sad and discouraged.
She ate a piece of toast to quell her grumbling stomach, took more aspirin and drank a large glass of water for her throbbing head, stumbled up the stairs and fell back onto the bed and gratefully turned out the light and closed her eyes. She couldn’t remember having a headache that hurt this badly – ever. Her roommate Gwen had frequent migraines and Sylvia remembered her lying in the dark, as still as could be. On those days, she only whispered to Gwen and stayed out of their dorm room as much as possible. Now she understood why. This was horrible.
That night Sylvia dreamed about Gran and thought for a moment that she was in the house. The dream had been so real, but what ever Gran had been trying to tell her in the dream, Sylvia couldn’t quite catch. Gran kept repeating something and Sylvia was frustrated that she couldn’t quite hear what she said. When Gran started fading away in the dream Sylvia cried for her not to go, but instead, woke up. She lay in bed trying to think of what Gran’s message could be. The pearly pinkish grey light of dawn lit up the bedroom window. For a moment she was disoriented, wondering where she was and why. Then the memory of the day before –the attorney, the headache, shouting at her mother and the unproductive search for the Green Man mask came back. She lay still in bed, assessing her head. The headache was thankfully gone. She breathed deeply the cool fresh air that entered the open windows.
Thinking of the mask she hopped out of bed grabbed a sweatshirt against the morning’s chill and ran down the stairs and outside. The grass was still wet with dew. It chilled her bare feet. Goosebumps dotted her legs like a bad rash. She put on the sweatshirt and began to look for the mask, hugging her arms around herself.
She looked around wondering where her mother might have tossed it. Since the grass was getting long and it would be difficult to see anything lying flat. She continued to look in the perimeter of the deck area. Finally she spotted it, near the small grove of trees at the edge of the property a few feet from the side deck.
As she walked toward the mask, a sharp wind blew up. Dust, dirt and sand whirled. Sylvia rubbed her eyes; the flying dirt and sand stuck in her eyes. Through her gritty eyelids she thought she saw a bright, green flash of light. Dazzled, she gasped when she opened her eyes. Before her stood what she thought was a great green angel as the air shimmered around the figure in front of her. This time he was not just living wood and a cloak of brown leaves. Now he wore a verdant green mask of leaves, only now it was a head on top of a six-foot plus body. Leaves, real leaves that resembled brocaded fabric covered the body like clothing. His skin was a rich variety of browns and grays with a fine, knotty grain polished to perfection. It moved with him. It was living wood!
Sylvia tried to talk, but found her mouth opening and closing, with words that would not come.
“Good morning, Sylvia,” the being greeted her with a voice as deep as a bassoon and as rich as a cello.
“Wh-who, wh—what, who?” Sylvia finally stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I am the Green Man,” he answered.
“Why are you here?” she asked completely befuddled.
“I have been called, I heard the cry, and I have returned,” he stated simply.
She still looked puzzled and the Green Man looked deep into her eyes.
“I told you before. You are part of this pattern,” he told her. “You have a gift we need.”
“Me?” her voice squeaked out. “What pattern? I don’t understand.”
“I’ll be with you on this journey,” he said, “never fear.”
Before she could say anything the Green Man disappeared. He was simply ‘gone.’ Sylvia’s eyes widened and she looked around her. No one was around. She was on her own.
Chapter 7
Sunsets and rainbows, green forest and restive blue seas,
All naturally colored things are my siblings. We have played
Together on the floor of the world. Since the first stone looked up
At the stars.
--Maya Angelou
Sylvia stood and stared at the spot where she had seen the Green Man. The chilling combination of the dewy grass and cool morning air drove her inside to put on warm socks and slippers. Sylvia pondered the Green Man’s words over a cup of her usual café au lait. She had carried it into the living room and now sat, curled up on her favorite spot on the couch, staring out the French doors. The sun had risen now and the sky was changing from pink to blue. As odd as it had been, Sylvia did not feel crazy or that the Green Man’s appearance had been a dream. He was absolutely real and surprisingly she felt very much at peace. But, she was puzzled. The Green Man said he had been called. Who called him, she wondered? What cry was he talking about and what pattern was she involved in? What gift? She didn’t have any answers.
She grabbed a fuzzy afghan that was lying folded on the couch, wrapped it around her and sat down at the computer. She logged onto the Intern
et to do some searching. Many, many of the sites discussed the history of the foliate face; others sold various types of artwork depicting the Green Man from jewelry to paintings, sculptures and t-shirts. Videos of ancient carvings in churches were on youtube.com. Mike Harding’s website was easily the most complete, but it didn’t answer her questions. The consensus was that he was a mysterious figure with only guesses as to why he was carved and blessed and touted in nearly every culture. She watched short videos on youtube.com but no answers came from the mysterious faces filmed with unique musical overlays. The Green Man alluded to a ‘call’ to him and about a pattern. None of the research gave even a glimmer of understanding about this. Frustrated with not finding the answer she wanted, she picked up the phone and called Marian, to ask if she had books on the Green Man.
Owen answered with a cheerful, “Good Morning.” Unused to hearing his voice, a startled and distracted Sylvia stared at the phone for a second. She heard a hesitant and questioning “Hello?” and finally answered.
“Hi, Owen. It’s Sylvia,” she said.
“Hi,” he replied warmly. “How are you?” he asked.
“Fine,” she answered, “Could I talk to Marian for a minute please?”
“Sure,” he told her. “Just a sec.”
Sylvia heard him place a hand over the phone and call to Marian telling her Sylvia was on the phone.
It was another moment or two until the extension picked up and Marian said, “Hello, Sylvia. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” Sylvia said politely. “I was wondering if you could help me?” she asked.
“If I can,” Marian told her, “of course.”
“Well, I’ve become really intrigued by the Green Man,” Sylvia told her. “I thought you might have some books about him,” and she hesitated before she went on, “and I wondered if I might borrow them?”
“Certainly you can borrow the books,” Marian told her. “I have a couple of books and a pamphlet or two from when I was touring England. If you want them right away, I’ll need your help in locating them,” she told her. “You haven’t seen my library yet, but it’s very disorganized,” she told her. She put the emphasis on ‘very,’ but knowing Marian’s tidy home, Sylvia didn’t give it a thought.
“Okay,” Sylvia told her trying not to sound too anxious, “Is this morning all right?”
“Absolutely,” Marian said. “I’ll be expecting you.”
“I’ll be over shortly” Sylvia told Marian as they said goodbye anxious to find answers.
As she showered another sharp pang of grief struck Sylvia and she let tears flow with the water. Gran would have been someone she could have talked with about the Green Man, no matter how odd or crazy it seemed. Marian had become almost like a surrogate grandmother to her, but Sylvia wasn’t ready to share this information with Marian. Not yet, at least. She dressed quickly and rushed over to Marian’s.
When she arrived at Marian’s, Owen answered the door with a grin on his face.
“Hi, Sylvia,” he said, grinning mischievously. “I don’t think you know what you’ve gotten yourself into,” he told her as he led her down the hallway.
He was so tall; Sylvia had to tilt her head back to look up at him and returned his warm grin with a puzzled smile wondering what he meant by his comment.
She soon found out. Sylvia had not been in Marian’s library. When Owen ushered her into the room, Sylvia stood with an expression of shock and surprise. She suddenly understood Owen’s grinning face. Three walls were filled with built in bookshelves. Shiny warm, golden oak bookshelves crammed with books gleamed in the sunlight from two long windows with diamond paned leaded glass that let in the morning sunshine. Boxes and boxes and boxes of books that had not been unpacked were around the room. Marian was sitting in a scarlet high backed wing chair, going through a large box of books. On the fourth wall, a high mantled stone fireplace was paneled in creamy colored wood that added light to the room.
She looked up and smiled at Sylvia when she came in. “As you can see, Sylvia,” she said waving her hand that took in the numerous boxes stacked around the room, “This is one of my tasks that I put off when I moved back to the States. Sorry it’s such a mess,” she apologized.
“That’s okay,” Sylvia said. “Where do you want me to start?”
Marian sighed and replied, “The books in these boxes need to be unpacked and put on shelves. They’re mostly books on history that Bran used in his teaching,” she told Sylvia. “I didn’t have the heart to find them other homes. I guess you and Owen could start shelving them there,” she said pointing to an area to the left and right of the fireplace. “I have an eclectic collection that can go over there,” she pointed. What Sylvia appeared to be a blank paneled wall was actually cleverly built cupboard. Owen walked over and opened one to reveal row upon row of shelves.
“Come on, Syl,” Owen said. “No time like the present,” he commented. “Let’s get started.”
A little sigh escaped from Sylvia this time. She hoped no one heard it. She was anxious to find the books on the Green Man. Sylvia scanned titles as she handed books up to Owen.
“Most of these are books on the American revolution,” she commented.
“Yeah,” Owen said. “Bran taught early American history to the Brits,” he told her. “Bran’s field was the revolutionary war and he got my Dad stuck on the Civil war.” Owen shook his head. “We have rows and rows of books on the Civil war in my house,” he told her. “And, I’ve been to every Civil War battlefield, monument and museum in existence,” he told her. “I learned to walk at Gettysburg,” he told her.
Sylvia looked up at him unbelievingly.
“Seriously,” Owen told her. “I even have proof of me toddling to a Civil War cannon.”
Sylvia shook her head, at loss for words and turned her attention back to Marian and the quest for the Green Man books.
“Do you have any ideas where the Green Man books might be at?” Sylvia finally asked Marian.
Marian looked up at her and answered, “Unfortunately, in one of these boxes,” Marian told her. “I had picked up a couple of books when touring Scotland and Rosslyn cathedral and a couple more in the London area.” Marian looked at her questioningly, but didn’t comment on Sylvia’s obvious rush to find the books.
They worked in companionable silence. Marian commented on titles that had special meaning or broke into a hum when she was concentrating. Sylvia scanned book titles by the handful and handed them to Owen to place on the shelf. The number of empty boxes grew. After more than an hour passed, Sylvia was becoming bored, anxious and tired.
“Found them!” The glad cry came from Marian. She triumphantly pulled three or four books from the box near her chair. Sylvia rushed over.
“Basford, the classic,” Marian told her as she handed her a large paperback, “Anderson, wordy, but wonderful,” she continued handing Sylvia another book.
In the end, Sylvia had a stack of four books by various authors and a pamphlet on the Green man that Marian had picked up on a church tour. She flipped through the books quickly. She was eager to read.
“Hmm,” Owen commented looking over her shoulder as she leafed through the many photographs in the Basford book, “He looks rather gruesome, doesn’t he?”
Sylvia nodded in response and added, “Some are gruesome, but several are beautiful,” she said. “Some of the artwork on the Internet is incredible. Look!” she said pointing, “These were likely bombed in the recent wars in the Middle East,” she commented looking at carvings from Iran.
Marian agreed, “You see the Green Man mostly in gardens and decorating older architecture here in the states,” she told them. “Look at this pamphlet,” she continued, “the art deco pieces are lovely.”
“What is this? ‘Tetes de Feuilles?’” she asked completely butchering the French.
“I’m a little rusty, but I think it is ‘face of leaves,” Owen said. “Appropriate,” he commented.
They were silent
for a moment, gazing at a particularly beautiful Green Man.
Marian broke the silence, “Let’s finish up here and I’ll treat you both to lunch,” she said.
“Marian, you don’t have to do that,” Sylvia protested.
“You helped me out tremendously,” she insisted. “If you hadn’t asked for these books, I’d have probably left these books and memories for months more,” she said.
“All right,” Owen said briskly, “You’re the boss, Marian,” he said.
“Come on Kemosabe,” he said to Sylvia. “Let’s finish up.” He held out a hand to pull her up as she was kneeling beside Marian.
They spent another half hour placing books on the shelves and Owen took the empty boxes to the barn to break them down for recycling. Sylvia went in search of Marian.
“I thought we could go in town to the pub on Main Street,” Marian told Sylvia. “I haven’t been there in years, but they’ve rehabbed it from its former glory as the county’s notorious biker bar into a decent restaurant. I was reading they had started micro-brewing,” she said glancing at Owen with a smile.
He grinned back nodding.
“Sounds great,” Sylvia said remembering where the restaurant was. When she was growing up, there would be several motorcycles parked in front, and squeezed into the infinitesimal parking lot at the pub’s back alley.
They piled into Marian’s ancient Volvo wagon and headed to town with Marian insisting that Owen drive. The pub was quiet and they sat out on the deck and waited for a waitress to come. Since the busy weekend boating traffic wouldn’t start until that afternoon, the waitress took her time about coming to their table. Eventually they ordered their drinks and burgers highly recommended by Marian. They munched on a crab appetizer medley that Marian had ordered. Only a few people strolled from shop to shop on this bright spring day. It was pleasant to sit anonymously behind sunglasses and watch the world go by. The weekend traffic was just beginning to clog the streets as they ate their lunches. They watched the line of SUV’s and boats making their way down the narrow main street that parked vehicles on both sides.
The Greening: a novel of romantic suspense...with a touch of magic (The Green Man Series Book 1) Page 6