The Green Man by Newton Webb

A Folk Horror Short Story: In the depths of Sherwood Forest, two brothers encounter an eerie silence and a mysterious presence that haunts their every step.

The Green Man by Newton Webb

1195 AD, Sherwood Forest, England

The ferns parted as the two brothers, Will and Eld, pushed through the thick foliage, wary eyes watching behind them. Their fear compelled a punishing pace. Huge oak trees, intermingled with silver birch trees, towered over them. The ghostly white bark starkly contrasted the rich browns of the forest, a reminder of the brothers’ last piece of good luck before their lives turned sour.

Eld’s head was bleeding. Will had bandaged it as best he could, but the red blood dripped, joining the wildflowers as they strove to break up the carpet of greens and browns on the forest floor.

Will glanced back, concerned. “Come on, Eld. We need to keep up the pace. You’re leaving a trail even city folk could follow.”

“You should have left me,” Eld retorted. “I’m slowing you down.”

“I ain’t leaving you. Family is everything. You taught me that.”

The brothers had long since abandoned stealth in favour of speed. Even at seventeen years, Will and his older brother were veteran woodsmen. They planned to live in the darkest parts of the forest for as long as necessary until the Sheriff’s men gave up their search.

The sun was setting, its fading light casting long shadows through the oak leaves. Eld stopped to lean against a tree.

“Eld, you have to keep--”

“Listen,” the older man murmured.

“No, you listen--”

“Listen!” Eld interrupted, pointing to where his ear would have been if it hadn’t been covered in bandages.

Frustration flashed across Will’s face, replaced swiftly by fear as he obeyed. He instinctively readied his bow.

No cooing pigeons, no cawing crows, no barking foxes, no chirping insects, no rustling deer.

Silence.

When Will shifted his stance, a twig cracked under his boot, its echo deafening. The forest’s stillness could mean only one thing: the presence of a predator. Will nocked an arrow and defocused his eyes as he watched the foliage for movement, his experienced eyes waiting to snap into focus at any hint of the unusual.

The brothers stood, tense, alert, but nothing attacked. No creatures appeared. The forest felt as though life had abandoned it, leaving only the towering trees as silent sentinels.

“We need to move on,” Will said eventually.

“It isn’t right. It isn’t right at all,” Eld replied, though he followed.

Will listened to Eld’s laboured breathing. “Nothing has been right since you loosed that arrow,” Eld grumbled.

“Quit your complaining. You jealous sod, no one else could have made that shot,” Will retorted.

Eld responded with silence as they trudged on. Abruptly, he stopped. “We’re going in circles. I recognise that tree.”

Will dismissed him. “Look at the sun’s position. We’ve been marching due east all day.” He looked at Eld closely. “You look pale. I think you’re feverish. We should check your head wound.” He reached out.

Eld waved him away. “Begone with you. I’m fine. But I am telling you, and we’ve been here before,” Eld insisted. “Ain’t never known the forest to be like that.”

Will tried again. “Let me check your wound before you—“

Eld spun around, stick raised. “Damn your eyes and damn your miracles. I’m walking. I’m fine.”

Will held up his hands in surrender. “Fine, but if you drop dead, I’m not staying to bury you.”

“You buried us the moment you shot that deer,” Eld muttered.

Will pressed on, leaving Eld behind.

Superstitious fool. I bet he—A grin spread across Will’s face. “A cave! Let’s stop here for the night. We can even have a small fire. See, our luck has changed!”

As Will spoke, wolves howled in the distance, the sound oddly reassuring. A fire would deter all but the most determined wolf. “The wolves must have scared away the local wildlife. See? Come and settle down. I’ll get a fire going.”

The sandstone cave was large enough to shelter the two brothers and for them to light a fire at the entrance. Will quickly got a blaze going. The cooler evening air bit at their exposed skin. “While there’s still some light, I’m going to set some snares,” Will said, offering Eld his bone-handled hunting knife.

Eld shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. The wolves won’t want to go anywhere near a fire.”

When Will returned, he found Eld reclined, his cloak wrapped around him. Blood dripped onto the floor from his wound, forming a black stain on the shadowy cave floor.

How much blood can a man lose and still live?

Will considered asking to look at the wound, to clean it at least.

Eld saw him looking and gave a warning look. “It’s feeling better. Leave it alone.”

He shrugged. If Eld wanted to be stubborn, that was his choice. The fire made them feel better. Even Eld lost his sour expression as he made himself comfortable. Will shared his water flask, and some of his hardtack. Eld had lost his supplies when the outlaws jumped him earlier. He’d been carrying a flask of birch wine, which would have gone down a treat.

As the last rays of a dying sun bled into the horizon, Eld cleared his throat. “Seems we have time for me to tell you a story about Herne the Hunter.”

“You and your stories,” Will chuckled. “Go on then, I could use some help sleeping.”

Eld continued. “Herne had once been a man, a royal huntsman in the service of King Edward the Confessor and briefly with King Harold II. He’d been unrivalled. His skills in tracking and hunting were legendary until one fateful day, while fighting the Normans, he’d been mortally wounded. Left to die under the sprawling limbs of an ancient oak, he was visited by the Morrígan. She promised him life in exchange for his service to the forest. Without a second thought, Herne agreed.”

“Would that the Morrígan were here, eh, old man? Perhaps you might let her look at your head?”

Eld didn’t dignify the comment with a response. “Resurrected as a spectral entity, he emerged from the shadows of Sherwood Forest. Antler-crowned and ghostly, his form shrouded in an ethereal mist, he appeared as a phantom of nature—wild, untamed, and eerily majestic.”

Will pulled out his hunting knife, spat on his whetstone and sharpened the blade as he listened to his brother.

“Herne was bound to the forest, a guardian of the woodland realm. His existence was a whisper on the wind, a chill running down the spine of those who dared trespass under his watchful eyes.”

1068 AD - Herne The Hunter

One crisp autumn night, the thunderous hooves of approaching horses disrupted the silence of Sherwood. The unwelcome sound echoed through the trees, shattering the tranquillity. Herne, from his oak, watched as a party of soldiers galloped into the clearing, their intentions spelt out clearly by the captive boy they dragged behind.

The soldiers served William the Conqueror, a new ruler seeking to enforce his bloody reign. The boy, barely more than ten, was the son of a Saxon noble, a symbol of the rebellion brewing in the North that the Conqueror sought to quash. Fear radiated from the child. His whimpered pleas were a bitter melody amidst the soldiers’ crude laughter.

Something within Herne stirred. A memory of his past life, of injustices he’d witnessed, of the merciless rule of power. His eyes, glowing like moonlit silver, hardened. His hated enemy was hunting on his grounds.

A haunting wind picked up, whirling leaves into a frenzied dance. The soldiers, uneasy, drew their swords, peering into the forest’s impenetrable darkness. From this darkness, a low growl rumbled, followed by the spectral sound of a hunting horn. Their laughter died, replaced by fear.

The Normans might have been scared. They might have been murderous butchers, but they were also professional soldiers. They formed up into a tight circle, presenting a barrier of spears to the night.

Herne emerged from the shadows, an ethereal figure bathed in the ghostly glow of the moon. The sight of the antlered man silenced the clearing, his very presence commanding their terror. His voice echoed through the night, a promise of violence to those who dared hunt in his woods. Behind him, his huntsmen appeared: half wolf, half man. They were the spectral hounds of the fabled huntmaster.

The soldiers, overtaken by fear, made the only decision they could: they turned to flee, but they weren’t fast enough. Herne set upon them like a wild storm, his hounds tearing into the panicked men. Chaos and screams filled the forest, a macabre symphony to the reign of natural justice.

By dawn, the forest had reclaimed its serenity. Herne, standing by the boy, freed him from the shackles of mortal oppression. The child changed, growing larger. Horns erupted from his skull as he turned into a majestic white fawn. Herne gestured to the forest path. The fawn, bowing in obeisance, darted away, leaving the hunter alone once more.

As the sun cast its first light over Sherwood, Herne disappeared into the welcoming embrace of the forest. In the forest’s heart, under the watchful gaze of an ancient oak, the spectral guardian waited. Herne stood ready to remind men of their place in nature’s unforgiving order.

1195 AD, Sherwood Forest, England

Will huffed. “I get it. You blame all this on me for killing and skinning that stupid deer.” He looked at Eld. “But now I’m a child killer, too? The reason we’re in this mess is because you let yourself get jumped. Come on, Eld, you’d tan my hide if I’d let a couple of brigands creep up on me like that.”

“I didn’t let them. I didn’t hear them.” Eld coughed, and there was blood in his hand. “I was looking at that damned pelt. It wasn’t normal.”

“Nothing is normal to you,” Will complained. He looked at his brother with concern. Eld’s head wound was still bleeding. 

How much blood could the human body hold? 

He feared the wound was mortal. But he wanted to take a look at it, to be sure. With a shuddering realisation, he knew that Eld knew it was mortal, too. That was why he didn’t want Will to look at it.

Will added fuel to the fire. “I’ll keep watch tonight,” he said bitterly.

Eld didn’t respond. His eyes were closed and his breathing sounded weak, rattling with each breath.

In the distance, a wolf howled, reminding Will of Eld’s story. At least it was evidence of life in the forest. The night should have been alive with the chirping of insects, not this hellish quiet.

Will was glad when the first rays of sunlight appeared in the cave. Left alone with his thoughts, the only sound had been Eld’s weakening death rattle. With no other sounds for his ears to latch onto, it had seemed to grow in volume until the cave was filled with the thunderous sound of Eld’s rattling breath. He whispered to Eld, “Are you awake?”

Eld didn’t open his eyes. He just murmured, “Of course I am.”

“It’s daylight, and we are out of food. I’ll leave you the last of the water while I go to find more. You can have my knife, I’ll take my bow.” Will proffered the waterskin, only to have it waved away.

Eld kept his eyes closed. “I don’t need any damned water, nor do I need your knife.” He patted the stick by his side. “Get ye gone, I’m fine here.”

Will hesitated.

“Get out,” Eld said, his whisper loud enough to trigger a coughing fit. “You damned fool. I promise not to die until you get back.”

Will nodded, obeying his older brother out of long habit, and slipped out of the cave into the silent forest. His heart sank as he checked each of his snares‌—empty. He could see no signs of life, no spoor, or tracks, and still couldn’t hear or see any birds or animals. At a whim, he lifted a decaying log and was horrified to see no woodlice, no earwigs, no larvae. The forest, brightly illuminated by the morning sun, carried the rich, earthy scent of damp soil and decomposing leaves. The tangy freshness of green foliage, and the warm, comforting perfume of oak and birch bark.

So, where were its inhabitants hiding?

What do the wolves eat?

There had to be a pond or a creek nearby. Sherwood forest was riddled with them. Yet they hadn’t come across any in their walk, not even a puddle in a tree root.

He set off, exhausted by lack of sleep, hungry, and thirsty. There had to be food—the forest of Sherwood had always been fruitful for its inhabitants. Yet, as he walked around, he saw carpets of bluebells, delicate wood anemones, and celandines, but no nettles, no wild garlic, not even bilberries.

This isn’t a forest. It is a tomb. Could Eld be right? Are we cursed?

He trekked through the forest, patrolling the woods in an ever-widening pattern. For the briefest of moments, he saw wood sorrel and felt hope that it might signify a pool or at least boggy ground. But the surrounding ground was unnaturally dry. The healthy-looking white flowers mocked him in their unlikely habitat, and he stamped at them with rage.

As the sunlight dwindled, he returned to face Eld. He had at least gathered plenty of good firewood. The forest might be determined to starve them, but it wouldn’t let them go cold.

Eld was waiting, his face as pale as snow, skin taut like parchment. Dried blood coated the cave floor as his head continued to bleed. His breathing had become worse. Will quietly approached, intent on shaking him.

“I’m awake, Will,” Eld muttered, his voice a dry whisper. He didn’t open his eyes. How he had sensed Will’s approach was a mystery.

The fire had died down, so Will stacked the firewood—they had enough to keep them going through the night. He rebuilt the fire and, as he did, he reluctantly spoke. “There wasn’t any food in the woods, nor any water. I’ve seen nothing like this.”

Eld made a snuffling sound, and it took a while for Will to recognise it as laughter. “The only thing in this forest is death.” He paused, then said. “Come closer to me. I have another story.”

“You should save your energy,” Will said, concern knotted his brow. His brother was a stubborn mule, but he was the only family Will had.

“For what? Starvation? No, come close, so I can tell you another tale. You see, before there was the legend of Herne the Hunter, he was known by another name. The name that filled the inhabitants of the forest with dread was Cernunnos.”

637 AD - Cernunnos

Sherwood Forest is ancient. It was here long before humans were and will be here when we are gone. Believe it or not, it was even bigger in the old days, more primal. The trees reached towards the heavens, and the undergrowth teemed with life. One weekend, a young maiden, Eithne, had wandered too far into the forest. As twilight fell, and the scents of the night rose up, she found a white fawn caught in the brambles. Its flank was smeared with blood from where it had struggled to get free but had just bound itself tighter.

Eithne approached the fawn slowly, quietly, and, gently whispering to it, sought to calm it. Pulling out her hunting knife, she looked at it. One slice and her family would feast for the night. The beautiful white pelt would fetch a fair price, and she would be lauded.

Her knife slashed down. The brambles parted, and the fawn sprang free. Such a creature didn’t deserve that fate.

The whispers of Cernunnos filtered through the wind, surrounded her. She froze and looked around in fear. It was said that at twilight, the threshold between day and night, there was always a chance that you would see him emerge from the heart of the forest, half-hidden in the shadows, his silhouette illuminated by the dying light. A figure, both man and beast, he wore a crown of antlers that cast a maze of shadows on the forest floor.

Every creature, from the smallest insect to the greatest fawn, would fall silent at his approach, their eyes gleaming in the darkness, mirroring the deep respect and underlying fear he commanded. The forest, usually a symphony of natural sounds, would hush as if holding its breath.

She found herself in the presence of Cernunnos. Trembling, she saw the wild god seated on a fallen log, surrounded by creatures of the night. An ethereal green light seemed to radiate from him.

But there was no malice in the eyes that met hers, only a primal understanding, a silent communication that connected every living being. 

Without a word, Cernunnos extended a hand. In his palm, a single acorn. Eithne hesitated before stepping forward to take the tiny seed. His gaze never wavered from hers, his silence as potent as any spoken word.

Weeks passed since that strange encounter. Eithne had planted the acorn and tended to it with reverence. From it sprouted an oak sapling, and as it grew, so did the prosperity of her village.

The crops thrived, the forest overflowed with game, and a sense of harmony settled over the people. They felt it, the silent blessing of the Horned God. Though none saw him as Eithne did that fateful evening, they all benefited from his gift. Eithne’s reward went unrecognised by the villagers, but she knew; she understood what had happened.

1195 AD, Sherwood Forest, England

“Again with the white fawn? You don’t think we have bigger issues right now?” Will said angrily. “If you mention it again, I will get up and leave you in this cave to rot. Do you understand?”

“Do you?” Eld whispered.

Will’s response was cut off by the sounds of wolves. They were closer tonight; the sounds seemed to come from all sides of the cave. Will put his bow to one side. “Eld, I’m going to need your stick.”

Eld didn’t reply; instead, he lay still, his eyes closed. Binding his bone hunting knife to the end of the stick, Will kept his eyes on the cave entrance. He banked up the fire and waited.

As the dying light of day succumbed to the embrace of night, the wolves emerged from the shadows, their forms hazy and indistinct. They were the first animals Will had seen in days. In the flickering glow of the firelight, their fur took on an otherworldly quality. The warm tones of the firelight played across their thick, coarse coats, illuminating them with hues of amber, gold and russet.

Their eyes were gleaming orbs of untamed wilderness reflecting the firelight like polished gemstones. Their piercing gaze was entrancing and disquieting. Within those fiery depths, Will saw a creature both fearsome and beautifully savage.

As they circled around the cave entrance, their silhouettes morphed and danced in the shadows. Muscles rippled beneath their coats; every movement was a silent testament to their predatory prowess. Their breath fogged in the cool night air, creating ghostly puffs that disappeared as quickly as they formed.

“We are in trouble, Eld.” Will muttered, adding more wood to the fire, watching as the flame grew and the wolves retreated. Their eyes were still locked onto his. It wasn’t the blank, vacant stare of a creature operating on pure instinct. No, the wolves’ gaze was alert, calculated. The wolves’ eyes were a glimpse into the untamed heart of the wild. Raw, beautiful, and utterly terrifying.

As long as we have enough wood, they should keep their distance.

Will couldn’t say how long he waited in the cave, feeding the fire, holding his spear, adrenaline banishing the hunger, the thirst, and the bone-aching exhaustion. Eventually, before the woodpile dwindled, the wolves left, perhaps seeking an easier prey.

Had he closed his eyes for a second? Minutes? They snapped open with the heart-pounding realisation that he’d dropped off. Will looked around the cave. The sun was slowly starting to rise. Without the birds, it was the sole herald of the morning. Sheer panic gripped Will as he saw the cave floor with its lacquer of black, dried blood. But no Eld.

Eld was gone.Will leaped to his feet, trampling over the dying fire and looking around for tracks, any evidence of Eld’s passing.

He couldn’t have got up and walked out. He was a heartbeat from death.

Scanning the ground, he found no footprints, no blood.

Where are the wolf tracks?

The ground was pristine, the few markings were caused by Will’s boots over the past few days. Will could have cried as fear warred with confusion. He was called a forester by those of a kindly disposition, a poacher by those with a more realistic worldview. Will could read tracks before he could speak. He could find food in areas that others claimed to have picked clean. This forest was not the one he had grown up in. The cheery sunlight, the dappled oaks, beautiful flowers. It was all a glamour cast over the hellish prison, designed to trap and torment him.

I must find my brother.

Just as yesterday, he set out in an expanding circular pattern, looking frantically for any signs of his brother, but there was nothing. For the briefest of moments, he felt a flicker of hope when he found a piece of cloth snagged on a branch. But then, he had looked down and seen the tear in his breeches that matched it. It must have happened yesterday.

Drained of sustenance and exhausted, Will cried out for Eld, his dry throat shouting into the mockingly quiet woods.

Reluctantly, he returned to the cave as the light dwindled. Exhausted, he collapsed. He forced himself to bank the fire, and then his eyes drooped.

He awoke when he heard shuffling next to him. His hand slipped down to where his knife always was as he sat bolt upright.

“Your knife is on the side, there.” Eld said, sitting facing away from him as he tended the fire. “You tried to make it into a spear. I thought I’d taught you better knotwork than that.”

“Where have you been?” Will rubbed his eyes and looked at his brother. He seemed healthy; his skin was vibrant and coloured, his bandages were black with dried blood but were no longer leaking. “I searched all day for you. I was worried.”

Eld snorted. “You see, the answer to that involves another story, but most of this one you know.” He turned to face Will. His eyes, normally a grey-blue, shone like burnished gold in the firelight.

Will scrambled back until he was pressed against the rear of the cave, breathing rapidly.

“See, before he was called Cernunnos, he was called just The Green Man.” Eld regarded Will closely. “You took something of his, and now he has taken something of yours.”

Will’s breath caught in his throat, and he stifled a scream as his brother removed his bandages. From his fractured skull, ivy erupted in a dark green mane, falling down to his shoulders.

Eld suddenly kicked the fire. A flurry of sparks erupted into the air as the flaming logs scattered across the ground by the cave entrance. “I have a new family now, Will.” He looked over his shoulder. “I’m sorry it ends this way, but they are very hungry.” Eld’s mouth opened, exposing two large canines. Behind him, slinking out of the trees, emerged the wolves. Their eyes locked on Will as the last of the flaming branches sputtered and died.

“Family is everything, after all.”

For more stories about the god Cernunnos, see Festival of the Damned.

For more stories about the goddesses known as the Morrígan, see The Morrígan.

If you enjoyed this free short story, then please consider Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1. My first collected works on Amazon containing sixteen short stories and novellas by Newton Webb.