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“A Simple Shade of Green”

(a Story Cycle)

Dedication:

This allegory is dedicated to all of the Townspeople.

Whether they live apart from me or pieces of myself seen through thaumaturgicthataumergic glass, this is how you
all appear when I, ‘“See Real’”.

We are all part of, “The Glittering Throng.”

The Triune Woodcutter
 (or An Introduction)

Once upon a time a long, long, time ago, back when we all lived closer to the edge of
the Forest there lived a Woodcutter.

The Woodcutter was the pride of the town for he tended the Forest as though each Tree
was unique, each Tree a child with their own unique needs. For in those days, this I tell
you, this was true: each Tree was served as it deserved; each leaf a promise, each leaf
holding its due.

Trees that needed felling were felled, Trees with each sure, strong stroke that the
Woodcutter aimed with such succinct delicacy that it seemed as though they were…
seemed as if it was... Nno, it was, MAGIC. And, they Trees were felled.

The Woodcutter, arched brow, broken smile, denim eyes; modest, and proud in his craft
would lower his head and temper the crowd, “It's nothing you couldn't do., iIt's not being
alert., iIt's wanting and needing and needing to know, what each Tree needs from roots
to leaves.”

The Townspeople lowed, and they flitted around the Woodcutter from greatest to least,
whenever he came to town; they fawned and fouled each complement, not just as one,
but always, as a crowd. The compliments to the Woodcutter on what came easily to the
himWoodcutter, fell on deaf ears, even those of his fast friend to be, Tthe Swineherd,
even those of his touchstone newly come to town, Tthe Princess.

But wait, just wait, ears aren't important to this story.

The Woodcutter's eyes, blue as his overalls, denim blue, marked and enjoined each
word., hHis arched brow smoothed and relaxed, and his smile, though crooked, not
easily offeredwon, came and went; a candle next to the sun; like the beauty of the
Princess to any other maid, like her sagaciousness when compared to any countries’
sage; like the Swineherd's fine beard and hair, like his quickness of magic, beyond
compare; or the Herb Witch, so feckish and charming or her many wares when
compared to the wares of the Creelwitch, scaled and finned; or the Mage's incantations
and marvels miraculous and bandied, never presented for view; or the Dreamer’s
words, multitudinous, mellifluous and dangerous, sharp and hewn or the Alchemists’
books and halls, dark and grimy, though newly purchased, sepulchral; even to these,
nothing compared to his smile, hard won. I'm sorry, nothing compared.
“You easily do the work of three men,” the Townspeople exalted, exclaimed, and cried
to the end.

And the Townspeople, so dangerously near the truth, didn't know, never knew, that the
Woodcutter held three faces beneath his nonplussed veneer. Held them close as he
stared through the fire at home near the Forest where he was truly at home.

The Child, The Adversary, and the least of the three, the Woodcutter himself, kept their
company at home, uneasy, sitting, staring through the hearth, crowded but alone. For
the Woodcutter, he was only ever at home in the Fforest among his children, each
unique Tree. He wasn't comfortable when besieged by the Townspeople when he
ventured to Town, he wasn't at home when he was home alone, he wasn't happy at all
unless he was swinging his Axe, giving his due, making the Forest a better place for
every Tree it's true.

OThe Child, one of the others that lived in the Woodcutter, the Child, was telling the
Woodcutter's and the other's (the Adversary’s?) favorite story?. Sometimes, the
Woodcutter, sitting close enough to the fire, close enough to bake his skin red, yet not
close enough to blister (because what would the Townspeople say to blistered arms
and ugly scars), would call the Child, seek the Child and when the façade seemed near,
invoke the child, entreat the child, with the Child's favorite treats so dear:

Peaches and Plums,

and Bars
Oof Candy;
Mountains and rails of the Finest-Delicate-White-Powder-
ed Sugar.

And the Child, more often than not, when called, and often, when not called, would
come nonetheless and the pretense, the mask, the disguise, of the Woodcutter would
slide into the impudent frontispiece of the Child.

While the Child held sway, quizzical eyebrow aloft with mirth, twisted and venal, yet
glorious and easy smile and unsteady, mistaken, palatinate(?) eyes marking signs and
sigils amongst the leaves of the Trees: fairyprints and elftrack marking every leaf and
the very breeze. He marveled at sights and sounds no other had ever heard, his Forest
transformed from an earthly boscage, to an evanescent, ethereal, ebullienteubullint,
manifestation of Sylvan amazement. The Woodsman would settle his Axe on his
shoulder, it seemingly weighed nothing against his body, and he would twirl it and swipe
it effortlessly. Each Stroke an orchestral success, each Stroke landing where it was
intended.

Once the Woodcutter had all he could stomach of the wonders of his Forest
transformed, he longed for others and the Woodcutter would walk, and, walk, and walk
again, back to the town, ignorant of the Teeth of Wolves. Though Wolves lurked in the
shadows of the berm of the Forest wary of the Axe, sensing that the Woodcutter was
changed and ridden by some other. He was unfeeling of the cold of the snow. He was
uncaring of the sight of strangers, as a matter of fact, he longed for someone, anyone
that he could share this with and he knew of the people of the Town, he alone, with his
cyanic eyes, could see what he saw.

The Woodcutter would stride back to this town, back to where we all live, and the
Townspeople, as though enthralled by cerulean eyes, quizzical brow and easy,
crooked(?) smile would welcome him, open arms and hope that this time was as fun as
the time before, and the time before that, and the time before that, and the time
BEFORE that, and the TIME BEFORE that, and THE TIME BEFORE THAT.

The townspeople exalted and exclaimed: “For the Woodcutter to struggle through the
cold of the snow, and brave the fearsome threat of Wolves, just to visit our town, this
must be an occasion!”

None of the townspeople, all through the town, from greatest to least and the greatest,
being a Princess fair of face and sharp of mind, cloistered in a library, and the least
being Tthe Swineherd, who would soon walk through the forest with the Woodcutter,
though the townspeople may have struggled and strained and fought and p-u-l-l-e-d
against the touch of yes, once again and then again, when the Woodcutter sparked and
blazed with delight, they all succumbed, each and every night... eventually.

Eventually, some sooner than most. The Princess, always first, back to books and toil,
and court, and monarchs in the garden, and the Swineherd always last, back to pigs,
and seduction, band secret reveling of his own, and dalliances everywhere but in the
fForest, and most longer than best, fell back and down and away, back to their lives with
their wives, and home and life.

Cerulean(?) eyes blazing and burning and shining bright eventually faded to the blue of
river stone at each and any and every real, or imagined slight.

This is when the Adversary, lurking and looming behind every tragedy of spilled milk,
the horror of the momentary, every adversity of loss and misplacement, or the loss, the
misplacement(?), or single, ill aimed stroke of his Axe would subsume him and usurp
him, as he always did, time, and time, and time, and time, and Time, and TIME again.

Because just as the Child's aspect regarded and delighted in the mad dancing and
twirling of the best to the least, the pPrincess with the sSwineherd and the Lady Mayor
with the Mage and the Herb Witch with Threat or Venom and Tthe Lady Mayor(?) with
Dreamer, who was not yet the Woodcutter's son.

Because, just as the Child’s aspect regaled and delighted in the mad gamboling of the
tTownspeople trying new steps and dipping and spinning, twirling to music only the
Child could hear, the Adversary, stone eyes, crooked brow, broken mouth, relished the
swipes and flurries of the Woodcutter's untamed Axe.

Of course the Townspeople noticed. They weren't fools, you see. “His eyes change with
his mood, like the sky, like the sea., hHe can be so terribly rude.” And they noted and
fretted and stopped talking when stone held sway, fearing the Axe.

Eventually, the people of the town, no longer concerned with the care of the Forest, no
longer interested in the idylls of the Woodcutter, consulted the Alchemists, long white
cowls, cloistered, hidden, too new to be part of the town, and mysterious with their
secrets and otherworldly learning, not the church but at the building now kitty-cornered,
aslant, diametrically opposited(?) the church. They had come in the night and had set
up shop, seeking out those who were unhappy, different or strange, and strove to make
them just like everyone else.

The Alchemists listened to the Ttownspeople's pleas. They nodded and smiled and put
the townspeople at ease.

As often as they could, and more than they should've, The Alchemists walked, and
walked, and walked again, to knock on the Woodcutter's door. “Come with us,” they
smiled and cajoled, “We can dampen this with Alchemy. We can dampen this with
Philes and Philters; Powders and Viles and the Stings of Bees.

And each time the Woodcutter submitted, he settled for melancholy, still doing the work
of three men, but with the face of none: dull eyes, furrowed brow, no smile. The
Woodcutter went into The Forest, each Tree, no longer in unique. Each Tree, a
problem, awaiting another day.

And the Woodcutter, eyes that or which? who should have been the blue of denim of his
overalls, furrowed brows, sneering smile, Axe, as sharp as ever, unused, stopped going
to town. Stopped calling The Child and stopped. He stopped. (I’m OK w/you going back
to the same descriptive words, here.)

The Adversary, of whom few words are spoken. For to name him is to call him, to call
him is to invoke him, to invoke him is to is to be him, and to be him is to live him, and to
live him is to sit in a room.

As the Woodcutter mourned Tthe Child, the Adversary stalked his prey, Tthe Alchemists
walked, watching, knowing, remembering, believing there was no other way. They
seemed to hunger, standing at his door. Hunger for something he had. cCerealien eyes
saw this. sStone eyes saw this. aAnd, denim eyes saw this. (Not just being nit-picky,
here. Actually was confused about the meaning w/o the punctuation.) And it wasn't long,
while in the Adversary's clutches, that The Woodcutter agreed to let them try. The
Woodcutter tried to not accede to the Alchemists’ wishes. He tried to get out of bed and
go to the Forest and tend his trees, but it didn't matter. Things dropped off one by one
until nothing mattered and the Adversary used his body to do what it wished with no
complaint from the Woodcutter, hidden behind stone eyes. The Woodcutter finally with
the Alchemists named Nacer stood at his door.

Hood up over frazzled hair, the Alchemist stood after walking again, and again, and
again, and again back to the Woodcutter's home. (Nancer?)

So, Once Upon a Time, a few days ago, the Woodcutter went to the Alchemists and a
bargain was struck. “Let me keep my denim eyes. I need the quizzical brow of Tthe
Child. I will hold the broken mouth of Tthe Adversary close, keep it in check, though
pain, and unreason froth and fume about.”

The Alchemists hung their heads and shook their quills in disbelief., “Haven't you said
that again and again? Six times, at least?. We must remove what's different about you,
we must make you well like everyone else in the Town.”

Nacer stared into the Woodcutter's eyes and for a moment he heard the strain of the
other worldly music that plagued the Child in the forest. “If you can't let us fix all of you,
you'll just have to try and be better on your own. It won't last long and there may be
times that the Child or the Adversary could still hold sway.”

“I'll keep them and hold them. I mourn them; they're mine. I’ll keep them and check
them. This has to be the last time.”
And the Alchemists convened, consulted their Craft, the parchments of owls glaring
down from walls acceded, at last. They compromised and won. The bargain would hold
fast.

And starting first with Powders, they, to a man consulted the traveling Apothecary, there
being none within the town. Tthe Apothecary, not believing in the case of names
insisted on being called Adrianna, and not by her most important appellation that named
what she did. What she did was mix Powders to assuage the Child's hunger for Sweets,
but left his quizzical brow. She pulled lyre strings and mixed elevated concoctions, not
to banish the Adversary, but to placate him enough that he no longer lurked in every
mis-swung stroke of the Woodcutter’s axe and could be leashed, keeping the
Woodcutter's broken mouth in check. And finally, The Alchemists demanded that they
use their last resort: the Stings of Bees. The Woodcutter was placed in a room, once a
week, sometimes more, with a hive and was made to ruminate on all of his failings while
suffering each and every moment, suffering The Stings of Bees.

And the Woodcutter was made to be just like the rest of the Townspeople. Most of the
time.

The End

So, after all of that, after being at the Alchemists mercy, now, some nights, on nights like tonight, the Woodcutter
would venture back to town.

Now, wary of wolves, no longer seeing sigils and signs awaft in each and every breeze, no longer the toast of the
Town, but if you lay close to the fire that you burn on cold nights you may see him. You may catch a glimpse of him,
or the twist or a twirl of his quizzical brow., i If you close your eyes, you may imagine eyes cast down,. Ii If you rest
your mind, hurt from words may come unbidden through broken mouth,. bBut, always and always, now and forever,
no matter furrowed brow, no matter words cast asunder, the Woodcutter's eyes remain as denim as his jeans.

And just for tonight, since you tried to raise your head up and away from the printed screen, just for tonight, while
you dream awake, for a moment or two, this can be as true or as little untrue as a you wish it; wish it true and
know this: I do wish so too.

.I know it's hard for you to stay still through the whole story, but you did it this time.

And for that, you get to decide now whether you're going to put your tablet, or phone down. What will it be?
Will you read the next story, vainly watching for yourself to be featured, or looking for a tale of Witches, or
Apothecaries who call dragons, Tthe Lady Mayor and her snow white hair? Are you longing for the appearance of
BThoeot and Lybb so you can understand what I mean when I refer to them in third person rather than part of
me?.

Keep reading. This story is the key. It's the Introduction to the Town., i It's the introduction of the type of people
you'll meet there. People and A Simple Shade of Green.

I think that I’ll tell the story I love best next, maybe you'll be able to tell me why the Woodcutter doesn't just write
the Swineherd off. I'll see if you can figure out why. (Has he written him off?)