Right outside the forest there used to be a village nestled by a tiny meandering stream, and it was such a pleasant place before the plague came, with fields bronze with barley in summer time, and hedges brimming with berries and birds in autumn. It was in those good days, in the warmer parts of late spring, a young and adventurous maid, Mary Wentworth, set out into the forest carrying the clay vase containing her mother’s ashes.
She knew the way to the middle of the wood, where the church lay. These days the old church was a sad ruin long abandoned, covered in moss and tangled ivy, and with the leaves of a hundred autumns. Here were the burial grounds of her old ancestors and it was among these her mother had made her last wish to be laid to rest.
‘Let us on the breeze,’ she had said, ‘beyond among the trees and roots of the old church, where my own sleep deep beneath the ground. But let my share be as free as my soul as it dances in the sky.’
The great wood. How dark it was despite the sunshine that elsewhere glimmered in hills, fields and streams of the land, but in these parts you were hard pressed to find a sparkle on the ground - apart from the occasional white blade that found a perch on some vibrant patch of moss all was dim shadows and brooding green. And the great branches, that would have been as strong even when her mother walked these parts as a child, grew together above the road in such a wild clustered manner one might have thought they were travelling along the ways of some dark grey cave.
She reached the part where the road turned about and led up to the entrance of the church. Here in a grassy glade there was a huge stump of an oak of formerly great stature, for five hundred years it had been the king of trees in those parts before it was felled, and there upon its moldy trunk the great huntsman sat. Mary started when she saw him at first, for he seemed to just appear out of the forest. He was tall, and strong, and nimble on the foot, and could go forth through the bracken as a fleeting beast, and he wore about his shoulder a long, green leafy cloak to disguise himself in the trees. He was cunning and clever, and also dark and strange. As she came forward along the path he stood up before her, and she saw the life of the forest sparkle in his great green eyes.
‘Might I have your name, traveler?’ he said, and smiled, and then Mary saw the axe balanced over his shoulder, and saw that the blade was red with blood.
‘I am Flax,’ he said, ‘and I walk in all ways of the wood. I live here in winter, summer, morning, noon, night and I sleep under the moonlight. I know the names of every tree and flower; there is not a glade here in this forest that is a secret to me. You know me now, good lady, now what is your name?’
‘Mary,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I shall call you Mary Blue, because of the sapphire-hue of that scarf you wear.’ He put his hand out to her. ‘Will you walk with me?’
‘I do not know,’ she said. ‘They say you are a murderer.’
‘And what do you say?’ said he.
‘I do not know,’ she replied, again.
‘Then what do you think?’
‘I think nothing.’
At this he smiled. ‘Then your mind is free. Fill it with whatever you want. They say I am a murderer, but to you I could be anything. I could be anything at all. I could be the spirit of the wood itself, now wouldn’t that be interesting?’
‘I must take this,’ she said, and showed him the jar, and he bowed his head. ‘Of course,’ he replied.
So she took the jar to the graveyard, and she watched the dust that was once within swim among the flitting blossoms.
Flax was sat on the old graveyard wall, watching her. ‘She still lives, you know,’ he said to her. ‘Your mother will always live, not just in your heart, but in your mind. Nothing can be permanently destroyed. Even the very oldest things still carry on somewhere in a tiny way.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Mary replied, again, for she really could not understand this man’s strange way with words.
‘What is life?’ he asked. She shook her head. ‘It is whatever you want,’ he told her. ‘It is thoughts. It is dreams! Thoughts and dreams are life. We walk, we breathe, we wither, we vanish into the ground, but our ways live on forever in thoughts. Your mother will always live if you imagine her to do so.’
He leaped down from the wall and grabbed her pale frightened hands. ‘Think as I do,’ he said. ‘Think like the wood, the trees, and the breeze that goes around and around. That is the way life is. Follow me and let me show you something.’
He took her to a secret place she had never seen or could have imagined existed before. An old house, grown over, in and out, with living vines, and roots and ferns. Inside the house smelt of rotten wood and fruit, and there was a clump of green where flowers grew in a leafy thicket. He picked one of the blue lilies and held it up in his hands. ‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘It is beautiful, but soon it will die. It will shrivel into nothing, but in your mind you will always remember how it used to be, as it is right now, vibrant fresh and fair. That’s how you must imagine the world. Close your eyes and think as I do!’
And she closed her eyes and found it was not a difficult thing to do, to let her imagination take over, and to see the world through the eyes of the huntsman. And suddenly the dark wood seemed brighter, and all the roots glimmered with flowers, with no names in particular but of all the hues you can imagine, and in the sunshine the blossoms swam together and Mary could see shapes form in them, as they became people, people she knew and loved of old, and her mother, young as she had never known her in her own life, dancing around and around with her ancestors in the glowing glades of the wood!
‘This is the way life should always be,’ said the huntsman, who shared in her vision, and laughed. ‘Dreams and life all together in one!’
Now the horns sounded. They hooted, one after the other.
‘We must away,’ said Flax, quickly. ‘They are after me!’
They ran wildly through the trees. Then Mary felt her hand grow cold, and she turned about, and found that Flax had vanished behind her. She retraced her steps and found him lying amid the leaves and the grass, clutching the bloody wound at his chest, for he had been shot.
‘Go, Mary,’ he said. ‘Leave me! Get out while you can!’
‘But if I leave you, you will die?’ she said.
His pale face smiled, but his green eyes gleamed. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I will only die if you want me to. I will live on forever, in dreams…’
Life is thoughts, and thoughts always go on, like flowers that blossom and corn that ripens, but even to this day people have walked through the wood, and heard laughter though no-one is there. But everyone knows the story, and many who go by the wood, or on the paths through it, have seen the green man and the lady in blue. For Mary Blue and the huntsman still dance on through the ways of the wood to this day, and will do forever more, as long as dreams do endure.
She knew the way to the middle of the wood, where the church lay. These days the old church was a sad ruin long abandoned, covered in moss and tangled ivy, and with the leaves of a hundred autumns. Here were the burial grounds of her old ancestors and it was among these her mother had made her last wish to be laid to rest.
‘Let us on the breeze,’ she had said, ‘beyond among the trees and roots of the old church, where my own sleep deep beneath the ground. But let my share be as free as my soul as it dances in the sky.’
The great wood. How dark it was despite the sunshine that elsewhere glimmered in hills, fields and streams of the land, but in these parts you were hard pressed to find a sparkle on the ground - apart from the occasional white blade that found a perch on some vibrant patch of moss all was dim shadows and brooding green. And the great branches, that would have been as strong even when her mother walked these parts as a child, grew together above the road in such a wild clustered manner one might have thought they were travelling along the ways of some dark grey cave.
She reached the part where the road turned about and led up to the entrance of the church. Here in a grassy glade there was a huge stump of an oak of formerly great stature, for five hundred years it had been the king of trees in those parts before it was felled, and there upon its moldy trunk the great huntsman sat. Mary started when she saw him at first, for he seemed to just appear out of the forest. He was tall, and strong, and nimble on the foot, and could go forth through the bracken as a fleeting beast, and he wore about his shoulder a long, green leafy cloak to disguise himself in the trees. He was cunning and clever, and also dark and strange. As she came forward along the path he stood up before her, and she saw the life of the forest sparkle in his great green eyes.
‘Might I have your name, traveler?’ he said, and smiled, and then Mary saw the axe balanced over his shoulder, and saw that the blade was red with blood.
‘I am Flax,’ he said, ‘and I walk in all ways of the wood. I live here in winter, summer, morning, noon, night and I sleep under the moonlight. I know the names of every tree and flower; there is not a glade here in this forest that is a secret to me. You know me now, good lady, now what is your name?’
‘Mary,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I shall call you Mary Blue, because of the sapphire-hue of that scarf you wear.’ He put his hand out to her. ‘Will you walk with me?’
‘I do not know,’ she said. ‘They say you are a murderer.’
‘And what do you say?’ said he.
‘I do not know,’ she replied, again.
‘Then what do you think?’
‘I think nothing.’
At this he smiled. ‘Then your mind is free. Fill it with whatever you want. They say I am a murderer, but to you I could be anything. I could be anything at all. I could be the spirit of the wood itself, now wouldn’t that be interesting?’
‘I must take this,’ she said, and showed him the jar, and he bowed his head. ‘Of course,’ he replied.
So she took the jar to the graveyard, and she watched the dust that was once within swim among the flitting blossoms.
Flax was sat on the old graveyard wall, watching her. ‘She still lives, you know,’ he said to her. ‘Your mother will always live, not just in your heart, but in your mind. Nothing can be permanently destroyed. Even the very oldest things still carry on somewhere in a tiny way.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Mary replied, again, for she really could not understand this man’s strange way with words.
‘What is life?’ he asked. She shook her head. ‘It is whatever you want,’ he told her. ‘It is thoughts. It is dreams! Thoughts and dreams are life. We walk, we breathe, we wither, we vanish into the ground, but our ways live on forever in thoughts. Your mother will always live if you imagine her to do so.’
He leaped down from the wall and grabbed her pale frightened hands. ‘Think as I do,’ he said. ‘Think like the wood, the trees, and the breeze that goes around and around. That is the way life is. Follow me and let me show you something.’
He took her to a secret place she had never seen or could have imagined existed before. An old house, grown over, in and out, with living vines, and roots and ferns. Inside the house smelt of rotten wood and fruit, and there was a clump of green where flowers grew in a leafy thicket. He picked one of the blue lilies and held it up in his hands. ‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘It is beautiful, but soon it will die. It will shrivel into nothing, but in your mind you will always remember how it used to be, as it is right now, vibrant fresh and fair. That’s how you must imagine the world. Close your eyes and think as I do!’
And she closed her eyes and found it was not a difficult thing to do, to let her imagination take over, and to see the world through the eyes of the huntsman. And suddenly the dark wood seemed brighter, and all the roots glimmered with flowers, with no names in particular but of all the hues you can imagine, and in the sunshine the blossoms swam together and Mary could see shapes form in them, as they became people, people she knew and loved of old, and her mother, young as she had never known her in her own life, dancing around and around with her ancestors in the glowing glades of the wood!
‘This is the way life should always be,’ said the huntsman, who shared in her vision, and laughed. ‘Dreams and life all together in one!’
Now the horns sounded. They hooted, one after the other.
‘We must away,’ said Flax, quickly. ‘They are after me!’
They ran wildly through the trees. Then Mary felt her hand grow cold, and she turned about, and found that Flax had vanished behind her. She retraced her steps and found him lying amid the leaves and the grass, clutching the bloody wound at his chest, for he had been shot.
‘Go, Mary,’ he said. ‘Leave me! Get out while you can!’
‘But if I leave you, you will die?’ she said.
His pale face smiled, but his green eyes gleamed. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I will only die if you want me to. I will live on forever, in dreams…’
Life is thoughts, and thoughts always go on, like flowers that blossom and corn that ripens, but even to this day people have walked through the wood, and heard laughter though no-one is there. But everyone knows the story, and many who go by the wood, or on the paths through it, have seen the green man and the lady in blue. For Mary Blue and the huntsman still dance on through the ways of the wood to this day, and will do forever more, as long as dreams do endure.
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