REVISED EDITION of THE GREEN MAN of DESTINY — Part 1

Green Man/10: The End of…

Death Lurks

He woke and rolled onto his back, opening his mouth to scream. His rasping cry interrupted the silent stillness of the night. The scream muffled only by his dried and cracked body. He stopped the tears. Instead he curled up inside the Spirit Coat and fell into a deep sleep.

Close to dawn he awakened, a single word in thought and unspoken: Water.

Night became day. The sun bore down. He opened the coat and examined the lining near the bottom. He ran his fingers along the pitted inner surface and discovered a series of teats from the uru. He fingered them and pulled them out. He placed his lips on a teat and sucked.

Water.

It was salty and foul-tasting, and he recognized it as his perspiration. For a moment, continuing to suck on the teat, he won­dered how this could be. Then he found four more. It was wonderful. This was a row of pouches below the inner water bags already woven into the coat. He sucked on one more and then secured himself inside the tent of the coat for the day.

“Thank you, One,” he whispered with great reverence. I will look into the coat for water surprises, at sunset, he thought.

As the sun slid down the sky, Gren feasted inside the Spirit Coat. The water in the coat was foul, but it sustained his ability to eat the green cake and some of the brown. It restored his strength and his hope that he would see the tan sands of the desert again, and put the white salt behind him.

In the twilight at sunset he used his hands to see into the coat. He found no new caches of water, only some hard stones woven at the bottom. He wondered about their function.

He found his stride and his confidence. The nights wore on and the moon appeared and disappeared in its cycle. He found balance in the nights and the days. He remembered the words of wisdom his father had spoken over the years. He remembered the small blonde girl of the Gusha — Silken. He remembered their play in the stream down in the marsh. He recalled her sensual hands.

The salt flats stretched on. Now it was the sand that had become a dream from the past. He longed to see it. He remembered it in vagueres where dreams merged with rumors of sand turned to water. The sands held the promise of the rumored one-palm oasis. A few had made it to the edge of the salt flats. A few returned to tell of the bones of the ancestors, but if any had gone beyond, they had not returned.

The wind blew out of the south at his back and side. It began as a small breeze, making him feel colder in the already cold night. He decided to wait out the wind and set up camp, the Spirit Coat tent around him. By sunrise, the wind had increased to a fierce howl outside his shelter. He dared not get up. There was no sand blowing. It was only howling wind.

As was his custom, he fell to sleep as the sun climbed high into the sky.

When the sun was at its zenith the wind tore open his coat and flung Gren onto the ground. It ripped out the water pouches and the uru nipples. His pack and the magic staff were behind his back and he pulled them in. Although the Spirit Coat was still attached to him, the wind was making sport with it. The Spirit Coat acted as a sail and he was blown across the salt floor, all day moving north and west. Wind pushed him into a roll and forced him into unconsciousness.

When he woke again it was a calm night. The moon was a sliver in a huge sky. He was shivering. He pulled the coat around him and slept. He woke at noon, stepped out of the coat, and into the furnace of the day. He saw, with dull surprise, that he had come to the end of the salt: the sand was an arm’s length away. He looked up. There was a one-palm tree oasis alone in the desert, less than a day’s walk. He let his magic staff descend, gathered the coat around him, and walked toward the tree. At a distance the tree seemed full of green leaves.

When he arrived he didn’t notice the tree was without leaves, withered, and dying. Despite his thirst, he reminded himself not to drink fast — to take only small sips. He did drink greedily of the small pittance of water that had gathered at the oasis. It tasted foul, yet luxurious at the same time. He feasted on green cake and brown under the shade of the massive dying tree.

He thanked Great Spirit. He thanked the One. He thanked the Tradition and his father.

He thanked the tree and her shade. He took his mending kit from his sack and began to repair the water pouches. When he finished the sun set.

He slept with a smile but awoke with a deep pain in his gut.

It had been the water. He looked in his medicine kit for herbs. When he opened the kit dust from the herbs blew up into his face. Gone. Destroyed by the dry heat and the ripping wind. What to do? He seized the staff, got up, and pushed northwest.

Fight the pain.

Endure.

By the end of three days, he could barely move. Thirst and the sickness had weakened him. It was his fate to die there. He took one step after another. The sand seemed like a tattered cloth lifted by a slight movement of air. He scarcely noticed. His con­cern — moving his feet. Forward, one-step-and-another.

Faltered, Gren’s knees buckled. He collapsed. There was no more strength left.

He awoke as if in a cruel dream with the sun beating down. His eyes opened — a last look. And shut. His eyes crusted closed. The darkness prevailed.

The darkness of death.

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Thank you for joining me in the hero’s adventures across a dying planet ready for resurrection through the ways of alchemical magic. And in search of the Being to restore the world to greenery once again.

Blessings, Passion, and Grace on your journey. May whatever or whomever you looking for — find you.

(If you do NOT wish to be tagged, let me know, and I’ll tag you not):

Barbara Murray | K. Pearson Bradley | Rebecca Romanelli | Joseph Lieungh | Dr. Preeti Singh | Pene Hodge | Dr Mehmet Yildiz | Kris Bedenian | Alberto García 🚀🚀🚀 | Blaine Coleman | Lee David Tyrrell | DL Nemeril | David Price | Rip Parker | Annelise Lords | Libby Shively McAvoy | Marcus aka Gregory Maidman | Alison Hollingsead | Bruno T. | Vlad Casian