Green Man
It has been chiselled into cathedral
columns and sewn into lavish tapestries.
It has been carved into wooden lintels and misericords, sculpted in
stone to protect castle gatehouses, has grinned or scowled at us from walkways
and garden gates. Both male and
female—and some in-between—sometimes cheerful, sometimes grotesque... always
evocative.
It has become known as the Green Man.
But the Green Man is more than these
numerous and specific representations.
He is of us. From Neolithic times
to the Victorian era, crowned with horns or tressed with foliage, the Green Man
has been there, peeking from the corners of our subconscious. For all the arguments about what He is and
isn’t, one thing is clear: He characterises an oft-fierce and irrepressible
life, symbolises our own longings for a verdant, natural world. He is life, and nature.
It is an incarnation that Robin Hood was
born to take on.
Indeed, there are many theories (and
theories of this particular archer abound, believe me!) that wild Robin was
indeed born from tree spirits and misted glens.
That he dances a spiral over the fecund earth, the lord of misrule who
dares the wilderness both as the aspect of the Winter’s Holly King and the
Summer’s Oak King, evenly matched and embattled.
In my own particular re-imagining within
the Books of the Wode, Robyn Hode is wildly akin to that shadowy, leaf-crowned
and horned figure, a trickster quite at home in the deeps of primordial
forest. He is avatar to the natural
forces, a wild god taking aim at fate with the push of a longbow and the
release of an arrow dressed with peacock tufts—the symbol of an ever-watchful
goddess. He has his men beside him, and
his Maiden—only this time the Queen of the Shire Wode is his sister, with her
own fate and strength and choices. Robyn
instead finds his heart in another direction, and with a theological twist only a
stroppy dissident could come up with, Robyn swears he’ll defend the sacred
space of the Shire Wode to his last breath—if his god will let him be a
lover, not a fighter, to the nobleman’s son who is fated to wear the Oak crown
to Robyn’s Holly, as his archenemy.
Seeking change, before the old magics are forever strangled silent.
But then, the Green Man breeds change,
makes fertile the imagination and oversees the seasonal cycles, guards with
fierce leers the gates to both heaven and hell—so, too, is Robyn a symbol of
fertile growth. He disappears into the
safe and treacherous haven of the forest—a trickster, sure—but overall, a survivor. When we most long for a way back, a
reconnection with the power of nature, there he is, with two upthrust fingers
for the powers that be. Sedition, and
significance. Green is the colour of
balance, so it is no coincidence that the Green Man—or His best-loved avatar,
Robyn Hood—would supply both haven and havoc in a world wildly out of kilter.
He always reappears, just when we need him
most.
Greenwode
Book One of The Wode
J Tullos Hennig
Genre: Historical Fantasy, Robin Hood
Publisher: DSP Publications
Date of Publication: Oct. 28, 2014
ISBN: 978-1-63216-437-7 Paperback
ISBN: 978-1-63216-438-4 eBook
ASIN: B00NPD85GU
Number of pages: 350
Word Count: 151,000
Cover Artist: Shobana Appavu
Book Description:
The Hooded One. The one to breathe the dark and light and dusk between....
When an old druid foresees this harbinger of chaos, he also glimpses its future. A peasant from Loxley will wear the Hood and, with his sister, command a last, desperate bastion of Old Religion against New. Yet a devout nobleman's son could well be their destruction—Gamelyn Boundys, whom Rob and Marion have befriended. Such acquaintance challenges both duty and destiny. The old druid warns that Rob and Gamelyn will be cast as sworn enemies, locked in timeless and symbolic struggle for the greenwode's Maiden.
Instead, a defiant Rob dares his Horned God to reinterpret the ancient rites, allow Rob to take Gamelyn as lover instead of rival. But in the eyes of Gamelyn’s Church, sodomy is unthinkable... and the old pagan magics are an evil that must be vanquished.
Book Trailer: http://youtu.be/yA7dGnKlASs
Available at Amazon BN Kobo iTunes Audible OmniLit
Readers love
Greenwode
Winner in the 2013 Rainbow Awards: First: Best LGBT Novel, Best
B/T & LGBT Debut, Best B/T & LGBT Fantasy, Paranormal Romance &
Sci-fi / Futuristic
“I loved this story for taking a legend and giving it
a twist … I have to recommend this to those who love folklore, mystical
legends, historicals, fighting for a love against insurmountable odds, danger,
betrayal and an ending that is devastating while giving you faint hope.”
—MM Good Book Reviews
“This is a gutsy twist on a major classic that works.”
—Gerry Bernie
“There is so much good about this book I'm not even
sure where to start. … This one is a highly recommended read. Just read it. It
blew me away.”
—Better Read Than Dead
“Greenwode is legend. It is epic storytelling. It is fantasy and
history. It is religion and spirituality. It is a world in which faith is a
weapon, faith is a tool, faith is the enemy, and faith is the last vestige of
hope… when there seems nothing left to hope for. If you love epic fantasy, I
can’t recommend this book highly enough.”
—The Novel
Approach
“I can assure you the weaving of themes and legends in
GREENWODE is mesmerizing. … This novel will always be the one against which I
will judge all the others.”
—Christopher Hawthorne Moss
“…an interesting, spellbinding read.”
—Rainbow Book Reviews
“I highly recommend this any fan of an epic fantasy
with historical settings. It is long but worth it. I can’t wait for the second
book to come out.”
—Hearts on Fire Reviews
a Prelude b
In the Deeps of the Shire Wode
1175 ACE
“Wind and water, stone and tree….”
Firelight
flickered against rock, as if in time to the low melody. Both light and song
wavered as they traveled into the depths. Not that the voice was not strong or the
fire not warm—the caverns were that deep.
An old man, lean
and crystal-eyed, stared into the fire. Every now and then the fire would jerk
and start, as if some giant had spat upon it, but the cause was natural enough.
Thunder rumbled in the forest above, sending puffs of wind through unknown
entrances into the caverns. The old man could hear the stones embedded in the
earth above him creak, almost in reply; he tuned his low voice as if in
reverent time. Those rocks that formed the circle above him might be a tiny
imitation of the ring stones on the plain of Salisbury far to the south, but no
less eternal in their observance of the powers that he, too, had served for….
How long had it
been? Stubble had scarce grown on his now leathern cheeks when he’d first taken
up the mantle of the god. He had put aside his real name when, on a midsummer
night not long after King Stephen had taken up another, more politic authority,
a peasant gathering had crowned a young man with antlers and cried the god’s
name:
Cernunnos. Horned
One. Green-Father. Hunter.
Cernun.
Stephen had
relinquished his crown to his nephew Henry even as Cernun had groomed his own
successor, moving from Hunter to Hermit’s guise. It was the way of things.
Shaking a twisted lock of silver from his eyes, Cernun grumbled to himself
again, stirring at the fire with a long stick. He was old, but not infirm. The
Sight was still strong in him, his body still hale and sound of limb; the
forces of nature had rewarded him well for his service. Most men who had seen
over fifty winters were bent and aged, senile from hard, miserable lives. The
blood of the Barrow-lines ran strong. And he had been lucky.
He could only wish
his successor such fortune.
The fire sparked.
Cernun leaned closer, scrutinizing the writhing embers, watched them swell then
flare white, reaching for the low limestone overhead. Yes? he asked, silent beneath the swell of power. You speak, Lord?
Images assaulted
him. He saw what had been: the midsummer madness of dancing and singing, the
rejoicing in rites, which, for a short, sweet time, took his people from the
harsh reality of toil and hunger. Saw Horned Lord take Lady, clothed in Hunter
and Maiden, horns and moon-crown.
Saw children born,
Beltain-gotten, and the sweet green Wode prosper. As above, so below.
The fire damped,
the vision strayed. Cernun spoke a low, guttural word, grabbed a handful of
herbs from the cauldron at his side, and threw them onto the fire. The past was
a given—to what future led this vision?
Scented smoke
rose. It blossomed, damp cavern mists and heat writhing, tearing into wisps
then coalescing.
A scream. The Mother’s face reflecting flames and terror, the
woods aflame, and the Horned One on the Hunt. Downed in snow, horns broken,
wolves with blooded jaws snapping and snarling….
“No!” Cernun
hissed. He caught his breath as more shapes danced in the smoke, dissolving
then coalescing….
A cowled figure draws a freakishly long bow, the arrow’s flight
swift and sure, to split another arrow already in the black… a sister of the
White Christ bends over a kneeling soldier… clad in the red and white of the
Temple, he raises his fair head to let her make the sign of the Horns upon his
brow… a booted foot stomps the long bow, shattering it….
Cernun blinked,
shook his head. It made no sense, none of it. Smoke hissed, twisted into a pair
of cowled figures locked in struggle….
One slams the other up against a tree, yanks his head back, and
brings a drawn sword against the exposed artery, only to have the sword fall
from his hands, to stagger back as if he has seen some demon… or ghost….
Another twist of
smoke, and abruptly the flames flared high, gusting char against the old man’s
face. He didn’t move, in fact bent forward.
A figure, crouching naked in the fire, a silhouette amidst burning
ruins. The fire rises again, a spiral of sound and wind, and the figure rises
with it, backlit, stepping barefoot over the coals and extending pale arms as
if clothing itself in fire.
And, suddenly, it is. Flames whip, clad and cowl the figure in brilliant
scarlet that ebbs to black… then gray-ash rags. Winter blows through, snow
hissing in the coals and covering the figure. It walks back and forth, and in
its footsteps ice crystals form. Green, sharp-edged leaves unfurl amidst the
winter ice, revealing blood-red berries in their depths. The figure turns to
him, eyes glowing within its cowl, still pacing, like to a wild animal caged.
Wolf, it says, but does not speak. Witch. Hawk.
Wind gusted
through the cavern in a bank of noise and cold. The fire pitched down from
copper into indigo, sparks flying, smoke rising.
Cernun did not
bother to stir it. Instead he closed his eyes, tried to make sense of what he
had seen.
Wolf. The most skilled of hunters, yet hunted throughout the land by
another, even more treacherous predator. Or… outlaws were known as wolfshead.
Perhaps? But not likely. Cernun would tolerate no outlaw within his covenant.
Witch. What the White Christ’s followers called those who followed the
old ways of the heath and Barrow-lines, a calling turned to hatred by outside
forces, even as the Romans had done with another naming: Pagani.
Hawk. Proud birds, another hunter/predator forced to perform beneath
nobleman’s rule, barely tamed and kept from free flight, jessed, hooded.
“Hooded.” It came
out in a soft rush of breath. Not only the hawk but wolf and witch—predators
cornered—the struggling figures, the flame-gotten one… all cowled. By fire, by
ash, by blood. “Great Lord who lies incarnate in us. Has it come to this?”
He stared at the
dying embers, not wanting to believe. But the image persisted.
The one to walk
all worlds, to breathe the fates of dark and light and dusk between, male and
female; the Arrow of the goddess and the Horns of the god. The champion of the
old ways—and the beginning of their ending.
The Hooded One.
About the Author:
J Tullos Hennig has maintained a few professions over a lifetime--artist, dancer, equestrian--but never successfully managed to not be a writer. Ever. Since living on an island in Washington State merely encourages--nay, guarantees--already rampant hermetic and artistic tendencies, particularly in winter, Jen has become reconciled to never escaping this lifelong affliction. Comparisons have also been made to a bridge troll, one hopefully emulating the one under Fremont Bridge: moderately tolerant, but. You know. Bridge troll.
Jen is blessed with an understanding spouse, kids, and grandkids, as well as alternately plagued and blessed with a small herd of horses and a teenaged borzoi who alternates leaping over the furniture with lounging on it.
And, for the entirety of a lifetime, Jen has been possessed by a press gang of invisible ‘friends’ who Will. Not. S.T.F.U.
1 comment:
Thank you for a chance to win a copy of this book, I have found the tour fascinating, especially learning about the history and lore of this people of olde England :)
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