The Green Lady
The summer was on us when first we met. She walked on bare feet under the burning sun, the leaves of the trees casting their shade on her hair, dappling its raven with green and gold. Almost before I saw her I heard the raptures of the birds that gave voice as she passed, and around the hem of her fire-yellow gown, girdled gold about her waist, young animals - the babes of the field and the youths of the forest - gathered. She smiled upon them often, laughed instead of scolding when they tangled her feet, and with every sound she made they responded with sounds of their own, happy to be about her. She stopped before me, the little creatures fearless in her company sniffing at and rubbing against me. She smiled and looked at me with eyes that shone with warmth and pleasure. She kissed my cheek and laughed. Then she moved on, her devoted followers dancing behind.
The next time we met it was deep into autumn, her dark hair brushed all over with the russet of the season, and her eyes a dusky but dying green. She was at this time a great lady, booted and gowned and cloaked, plump with the harvest, rich with the season. As the year descended to death a solemn expression marked her face, for she was content with the time though it brought her regret. With a darkly gloved hand she brushed the trees, her voice gentle and soft in a lullaby to sing the woodland to sleep. She smiled when she saw me, a light in her eyes that gave me greeting, but her song continued without a pause, and she passed by without a word to me.
The third time I met her was in the heart of December. Rake thin she was, and her long hair was black like the winter-heavy clouds above us. Her outstretched hand was nuzzled by a stag that fed from her palm as her gown, torn and ragged, whipped around their feet. It looked up at me before she did. She regarded me silently, intently, this frequent invader in her domain. Her skin was white and her eyes... oh, long it will be before I forget those cold eyes. Black like her hair, black like ice long frozen, but when they met with mine her lips curled in a smile, not bitter, not warm, that brought a curve to the hollows in her cheeks and spoke of a heat that had died but not been forgotten. I would have spoken, I would have said anything to acknowledge her, but she raised a long finger to her mouth and breathed a hush through pouted lips. The smile faded, and she returned her attention to the stag. I knew I had been dismissed, and slowly went on my way.
The last time we met, oh the very last time - it was spring and the May was upon us. I was sat on the green beneath the flowering hawthorn as she came down the path, her glossy hair all entwined with the flowers of the day, her brow crowned with leaves of green. Her long white gown flowed out around her, spreading over the grass, and where she passed the bluebells and daisies and cornflowers and all other manner of the children of spring came up in her wake. She sat next to me, a young woman again, all soft and rounded, and laughed. "Well then," She said, and her voice was as low and warm as her body leaning against mine, "We've been friends now all this long year."
I smiled, but delight that she had at last spoken to me stole my words and again she laughed, affectionate but gently mocking. "What say you, my love," She murmered softly in my ear, "Will you bring in the May with me and greet the spring?" And a breeze sprang up and scattered blossoms all around us.
I went back to the woods many times thereafter, but I never saw her again. The Green Lady showed herself only in the trees and the flowers and the turning of the year. I fancied that I could hear her voice in the woods, and in the spring, when the hawthorn blossomed and cast her petals across the hills, I could smile and remember that once, just once, I was King.
All Works are © Original Author
(OC Author - Gillian Smart)