I wake up every hour or so, hungry and sore. I drink more water. I pee off the edge of the platform. The rain stops and the sky slowly lightens. Birds sing. A fresh breeze blows through the treetops. The woods are a familiar place again.
But something’s missing. The woods are just woods after all. There’s nothing special or magical about them. Trees, just trees, that’s all I see now. Ordinary, real-life trees.
In the gray morning light, I look at all the dumb things I’ve made. One by one, I tear up my drawings and scatter them like flakes of snow. I keep my swords and shields and lances in case I need to defend myself, but I hurl my carvings of the Green Man as far away as I can. I never want to see them or him again. I was foolish to believe in myths and legends, to think he was anything but an old man pretending to be what I wanted him to be. I should have listened to Shea instead of getting angry.
I sit on the edge of the platform and peer down. Torn drawings are scattered on the ground or caught in branches. A bit of the Green Man here, a piece of Lady Shea there, shreds of knights and dragons, elves and fairies, castles and ogres—nothing now but scraps of paper.
My heart’s a heavy lump in my chest. My arms and legs hurt, my head aches, even my belly is sore from the beating.
I search my tree house for food. While I’m rummaging in my art box, thinking I might find a stale Twinkie hidden there, I come across a jar of green tempera paint. Suddenly I know what to do. I dump the paint in a bucket and add water until it’s about the consistency of cream. I yank off my clothes and throw them away. Like my drawings, they flutter down into the trees. Only my shoes make it all the way to the ground. Taking a deep breath, I smear the watery paint all over myself. Even though it stings, I rub it into my bald head with particular care.
When the paint’s gone, I’m green all over, or at least as much of me as I can reach. I wrap a rag around myself like a loincloth. I make a crown of leaves. Since I have no hair, my ears hold it up. With the aid of Shea’s mirror, I paint designs on my face. I don’t recognize the warrior I see in the mirror. I’m a savage now, a wild boy, strong and brave and fearless.
“The Green Man is dead!” I shout. “Long live the Green Man!”
My voice echoes back from trees and rocks. I, Brendan Doyle, have proclaimed myself the Spirit of the Forest, the true Green Man. I shall dwell here the rest of my life. I shall protect the birds and the beasts and the fish that swim in the streams. I shall protect the trees.
I’ll live on berries and roots. My hair will grow back, long and matted. I’ll wear rags and tatters of clothing. I’ll roam through the forest all the way down to Georgia, protecting birds and beasts. I’ll become a legend. There will be sightings. People will search the forest, hoping to get a photograph of me.
But nobody will find me. I’ll be safe.
Down below, I hear the bushes rustle softly. Someone is coming. I drop flat on my belly. If it’s the Green Man, I won’t answer when he calls. If it’s Shea, she’ll climb up here whether I answer or not.
THIRTEEN
BEFORE HE SPEAKS, his cough gives him away. “Brendan, my lad, are you up there?”
I lie still. Silent. Motionless. Invisible to anyone below.
He calls again. Then again. At last he says to himself, “Ah, he’s in summer school, that’s right. Bless me, I forgot.”
From the noises I hear, I know he’s settling down to stay awhile. Soon he’s snoring.
I lean over the edge of my platform and look down. I see an old man in dirty clothes lying on his back in the weeds. His hair is tangled and long and uncombed, his beard shaggy and stained. The soles of his shoes are worn through in places.
With new eyes, I recognize him for what he is. A bum. And, even worse, a liar for letting me believe he was the Green Man.
Hours pass. No matter how I lie, on my right side or my left side, on my back or my belly, I hurt. The sun shines down through the leaves, stabbing my eyes with shifting brightness. Mosquitoes buzz around my itchy head. Gnats go after my ears and eyes.
At last I hear Shea trying to sneak through the bushes and not succeeding. She’s as clumsy as an elephant’s child.
“Well, little lady,” the Green Man says. “What are you doing without your partner in crime?”
“He wasn’t in school this morning.” I imagine Shea biting her thumbnail the way she does when she’s puzzled or worried. “We were supposed to hand in our history reports today. He was doing his on the Battle of Gettysburg. Mine was on Antietam.” I hear Shea sit down. “Where do you think he is?”
“Maybe he was sick today.”
“He never gets sick.”
“Everybody gets sick.” As if to prove it, he coughs a horrible loose cough.
“I guess.”
Very cautiously, I peer over the edge of my platform. Shea’s sitting in the grass, her dark hair pulled back in a curly ponytail. Just as I thought, she’s chewing her thumbnail and frowning.
The Green Man sits beside her. “Did you happen to bring any refreshments?” he asks Shea.
She opens her backpack and pulls out half a sandwich and an apple. “I brought extra for Brendan. He’s always hungry.”
“You’re a good friend.”
Shea picks up a stone and throws it at a tree. Thunk. It hits the target. “I told him a pack of lies about my family and the great stuff we do on weekends,” she says in a low voice. “Saturday, he came to my house and found out the truth about me and my family and the dumpy house we live in. He said it was okay, he lied to me too, but maybe he’s mad now. Maybe he hates me.”
Shea sounds so sad that I’m tempted to call down and tell her I’m not mad at her, but I just lie there and say nothing. I don’t want to have anything to do with the Green Man. Not now, not ever. He’s a liar and a fake and a dirty old bum.
“Sometimes a lie starts by accident,” the Green Man says, “and before long it’s too late to admit it’s not true.”
“You know all about lying, don’t you?” Shea asks. “You aren’t the Green Man. I saw you once in the park with those homeless men. You were drinking whiskey out of a paper bag.”
I draw in my breath so hard, I almost choke. So it’s true, I’m right. He’s a liar and a bum.
The Green Man coughs, but he doesn’t deny what Shea has said.
“At first I thought you just looked like the man in the park,” Shea goes on. “When you stole that bottle of beer, I knew you weren’t the Green Man. But Brendan believed it with his whole heart and soul. Why did you let him?”
He shakes his head. “I believed it was a game and my part was to be the Green Man. I didn’t think Brendan really and truly believed I was a supernatural hero of some sort.”
“Well, he did,” Shea says. There’s an angry edge in her voice. “And so did I—for a while.”
The Green Man lowers his head. “It was a lovely game,” he says sadly. “I don’t know what Brendan will think of me if he finds out I’m just an ordinary old man.”
I jump to my feet, a wooden sword in my hand. “I already know the truth!” I shout at him. “Go away from here. I never want to see you again!”
They both look up at me, startled, then shocked.
“Where are your clothes?” Shea stares up at me. “What happened to your hair? And your skin? You’ve turned green.”
“You’re hurt.” The Green Man struggles to his feet. “Come down from that tree and let us help you. You look terrible.”
“I don’t need your help!” I shout. “I’m the Green Man now. The true Green Man!”
“Brendan, please come down,” Shea begs. “He’s right, you’re hurt.”
Is Shea on his side now? Is she a traitor too? My head hurts, my heart hurts, my whole body hurts. I’m so hungry that I’m dizzy. But I’m not climbing down there. They can’t make me. Even if Shea climbs up here, she can’t make me come down. Unless she pushes me off the edge, and I don’t think she’d do that.
“Brendan,” the Green Man calls. “I
know you’re angry with me, but I never meant to hurt you. I thought we were playing a game.”
Pretend. That’s all it was to him. A game little kids play in the woods. Maybe Shea never believed it either. I have no friends after all. Only enemies.
Shea looks at the drawings ripped to pieces and scattered everywhere. She picks up a crumpled sheet of paper and smoothes it. “Oh, Brendan, you tore up your pictures.”
“So what if I did?” I wave my sword. “You aren’t Princess Shea and he’s not the Green Man. It’s all kid stuff, not worth anything.”
“But I’m still your friend,” Shea says. “I’ll always be your friend. Even if you hate me.”
The Green Man runs his fingers through his beard, straightening it, getting rid of a few tangles. He doesn’t look at me.
Shea approaches the tree. “I’m coming up there,” she says.
“Don’t you dare.” I brandish my sword. “This is my tree now. I shouldn’t have let you climb up here. You’re a traitor just like him!”
“I’m not a traitor.” Shea disappears into the hollow trunk, and I hear her scrabbling up. Soon she’s on a branch, hitching herself higher hand over hand, feet walking up the tree trunk.
“You can’t make me come down,” I tell her. “You can’t make me do anything.”
She studies me. “Why did you cut off your hair and paint yourself green? Who gave you that black eye? And how did you get those cuts and scratches and bruises? Have you been in a fight?”
I scowl at her, trying hard to hate her, trying hard to stay angry. “It’s none of your business.”
“Where are your clothes?” Shea sounds embarrassed. “You can’t go around half naked.”
“I don’t need them anymore. I don’t need you, either. Or him.”
Shea turns away from me and sits on the edge of the platform, swinging her legs. She doesn’t say anything for a while. I can’t tell if she’s mad or worried or what. Maybe she’s embarrassed because of my loincloth.
I retreat silently to the opposite side of the platform and sit with my back to her. I’m beginning to feel embarrassed myself.
Finally she says, “Did you sleep here last night?”
I pretend she’s not here. I pretend he’s not here. It’s just me and the Green Wood. My kingdom now.
“I bet you’re hungry,” Shea says.
I don’t answer.
“I’m sorry I gave my sandwich to the Green Man,” she says softly. “If I’d known you were here—”
I can’t ignore her any longer. “I wouldn’t have eaten it anyway,” I tell her. “I don’t want anything from you.”
I glance at her over my shoulder. She’s still sitting on the edge of the platform, swinging her skinny legs. Sunlight splashes her shirt with shifting patterns. Without looking at me, she asks, “Does Mrs. Clancy know where you are?”
“I’m never going near her house again.”
Shea looks at me then, a long, hard stare. “What do you plan to do? Live in the woods like some kind of crazy boy?”
“I’m not a crazy boy! I just want to live here all by myself.” Crazy—why did she use that word? Does she think I’m crazy? Now I’m really angry.
“I just meant—” Shea begins, but I cut her off.
“I don’t care what you meant! Leave me alone and don’t tell anyone where I am.”
“Brendan,” the Green Man calls, “stop behaving like a jackass and come down here.”
“Go away,” I tell them. “Go away.” I sit down and hide my head in my arms. I’m scared, I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I hurt all over.
Shea gets to her feet and comes over to kneel beside me. “Let’s go to Mr. Hailey’s house. He’ll know what to do. His wife’s a nurse.”
I hesitate. “How do you know so much about Mr. Hailey and his wife? What makes you think they’d want me to show up at their door?”
“I was out with Tessa once,” Shea says, “and we walked down his street, only I didn’t know it was his street, and there he was, cutting the grass. It was hot, so he invited us in for a cold drink and I met his wife and she was wearing a nurse’s uniform to go to work.”
Shea takes my hand and tries to pull me to my feet. “Please, Brendan,” she says. “You look like Tessa when she’s coming down with something.”
I resist, still not sure. Part of me longs to stay here in the woods, but another part longs to go with Shea. I’m tired and achy, and my brain feels muddled, as if my head is full of sand or something. I don’t want to spend another night in the woods with no food. Like Shea says, I must be getting sick. That’s what’s wrong with me.
Finally I stop fighting and let her pull me to my feet. My legs have turned to spaghetti. I’m so dizzy I can’t tell if it’s the tree house or the woods that’s spinning. I’m not sure I can climb down from the tree without falling.
With Shea ahead of me, I inch my way toward the ground, slowly, carefully.
The Green Man is waiting for me. He looks at my loincloth and says, “You can’t go anywhere looking like that.”
He retrieves my underwear and jeans, but he can find only one shoe. And no socks.
“Eeee-yu.” Shea hands me my T-shirt. “It’s got blood all over it and it stinks.”
My underwear’s not very fresh either. My jeans are so filthy, I hate to think what Mrs. Clancy will say when she sees them.
“You are a sad sight, Brendan.” The Green Man comes closer and lays his big hand on my forehead. “You’re burning up with fever, boy.”
Without another word, he hoists me on his back and carries me piggyback.
I hold on tight and bury my face in the nape of his neck. I breathe in his familiar woodsy smell, I feel the texture of his curly hair against my cheek.
“Where were you? Why didn’t you rescue me?” I whisper in his ear. “I called and I called but you didn’t come. You didn’t hear me and I was so scared. I thought they’d kill me and you wouldn’t save me, you didn’t care.”
“Oh, Brendan, Brendan, I’m so sorry.” The Green Man slows to a stop and stands still. His shoulders sag. “I’m a foolish old man. I never meant to trick you into thinking I was more than I am.”
“I wanted you to be him so badly.”
“I know that now.” He sighs and his chest rattles. “I don’t blame you for being angry, but I hope you’ll forgive me.”
I close my eyes and hug him. I’m too tired to talk anymore.
Shea turns and looks back. “Come on,” she calls. “We have to get Brendan to Mr. Hailey’s house.”
The Green Man huffs and puffs behind her, but he won’t let me walk. I’m too weak, he says, and I know he’s right.
As we leave the grove, I look back at my tree. Will I ever see it again? The Green Man might be a phony, magic might be a fantasy, but I love my tree anyway.
I close my eyes, and the Green Man coughs and lurches through the woods with me on his back.
By the time we get to Mr. Hailey’s, I’m in a sort of waking nap or dream. The supposed real world is soft and fuzzy and out of focus. Houses tilt this way and that. The sky seems very close. I actually reach out to touch a cloud, but as soon as I do, it moves out of reach. The birds are too big and their songs are so loud, they hurt my ears. I’m freezing cold and then I’m boiling hot.
Mr. Hailey opens the door, but he wavers as if he’s made of smoke and then disappears, along with his house and yard. Poof. Everything disappears and I’m falling down down down into nowhere.
The next thing I know, I’m lying on a sofa in his house, and Mrs. Hailey is washing my face.
Shea is sitting near me, biting her thumbnail. Mr. Hailey is talking to the Green Man. Once in a while Shea says something, but all I hear are bits and pieces of conversation. I can’t make much sense of anything they say. Badly beaten . . . Night in the woods . . . Painted himself . . . Green Man . . . foster mother . . . hysterical . . . Missing child report . . . Police looking for him . . . Doesn’t want to go home . . .
/> “That’s right,” I say. “I’m going to live in the woods. All by myself.” I try to sit up but fall back on my pillow. What’s wrong with me? Why am I so weak? I must be really sick.
“Take it easy, Brendan,” Mr. Hailey says. “We’ve called your foster mother, and she’s on her way.”
“No, no,” I whisper. “She’ll be mad. They broke her umbrella, my clothes are ruined, I lost one of my shoes. . . . She’ll send me back to Social Services, maybe even the detention center.”
But it’s too late. A car pulls into the driveway, and a minute later Mrs. Clancy is standing over me. “Oh, my lord,” she says, “I’ve been so worried. What happened to you? Where have you been? Just look at your poor head.”
Without giving me a chance to answer, she pulls me up from the sofa. To my amazement, she hugs me. A quick, hard hug and then, “What were you thinking? Do you know how mortifying it is to tell the police your child is missing? How many questions they ask? I even got calls from Social Services.”
She keeps on talking as she leads me outside. My head feels like it’s going to float away, and I can barely stand up. Mr. Hailey helps get me into the car. He and Mrs. Hailey, Shea, and the Green Man stand in the driveway and wave until I can’t see them anymore.
“Who was that scruffy girl?” Mrs. Clancy asks. “And that man—I’ve seen him in the park. He’s a bum. A wino. What was he doing at Mr. Hailey’s house?”
I slide down in the seat and rest my head against the window. The town glides by. Mrs. Clancy’s voice is the soundtrack, and the streets and houses are a movie without a plot. A documentary, maybe. It should be in black-and-white.
“Don’t you have anything to say?”
I shake my head and mumble something about not feeling good.
“I guess not,” she says. “Have you had anything to eat?”
“Not hungry.”
“Chicken soup with rice, that’s what you need. Some applesauce, crackers, ginger ale. Hot tea with honey.”