jack in the green

Steve Rogers sits in the bar, his sketchbooks open on the table in front of him. One shows the drawing of Yggdrasil, the other shows the drawing he made during his nightmare. He rubs his chin, deep in thought, but no matter how much he ponders he can't figure out the connection between the blank-faced man and the myth.

The man-shaped tree called Jack--who, for the record, does not have a blank face but rather has a very animated and even handsome one--walks past, apple in hand, when he happens to glance down. "The world ash," he remarks, and Steve looks up.

"Sorry, what did you call it?"

"The world tree? It's ash. Protective, you see."

"Hm," says Steve, and then stands and holds out his hand. "Steve Rogers, 1944, Earth, currently in London. Can you sit for a little while? Talk to me?"

"Of course, Steve Rogers," says Jack and shakes his hand. He takes the nearest chair. "I'm called Jack Green." He makes an apple and offers it to Steve, who stares at it a moment before he cautiously takes it.

"Not an ordinary fella, I take it."

"Nope." Crunch into his own apple. "Tree god."

That causes Steve's eyebrows to crawl up his forehead. "Really. So is this guy--" He pushes the nightmare drawing to Jack. "Is he one of yours?"

Jack takes the sketchbook and studies the drawing, frowning. "You saw him?"

"After I drew this."

Jack traces the dark lines. "We've spoken. Well, not spoken, exactly. Communicated. He is not mine, but he is ... like me. Sort of. It's hard to explain."

"I think you need to explain anyway," says Steve and a muscle tenses in his jaw.

Jack smiles at him. "At ease, soldier." He points to himself. "I'm called the Green Man, god of trees and rain and new beginnings. I like apples and babies and making things grow.

"There were more like me once, long ago, when forests were deeper and denser, but most have faded away as the trees came down. Belief makes us strong, you see, and when the belief fades, it takes great strength of will to continue existing."

"And him?" Steve gestures to the drawing.

"I don't know, exactly. I think--I suspect--he is one of those old gods, left alone for so long that he's forgotten even who he is. If I could find even his name maybe I could do something, but as it is..."

"He's making people sick," Steve says. "He's making them scared--brave people, too. Not to mention the cold and the mist and the symbol he's leaving everywhere." He points to the Xed-out circles in his drawing.

"He's upsetting the trees," says Jack.

"How do you know that?"

Jack looks up. "They tell me, of course."

"Oh," says Steve and finally bites into his apple. "Of course."

Jack smiles and looks at the other drawing, the one of Yggdrasil. "Back in the day," he says, "ash trees were planted by springs to protect them. It was thought the ash kept the springs pure, and made sick children well."

"Ooshin," says Steve and Jack looks up again. Steve shrugs. "My Irish grandmother used to give me ash sap when I was a kid. It was supposed to make me healthy."

"So there's some ash in you," Jack says, and looks at the drawing again with an entirely new understanding. "Uinsinn," he adds softly. "That's the Gaelic word for the ash tree."

"I guess so," says Steve thoughtfully. "I had this image in my head so I drew it, but I didn't know why. I'm still not entirely sure what it means."

"I'm not entirely sure either." Jack gives Steve back his sketchbooks. "But we'll speak again when I am." He rises, tosses Steve another apple, and thinks, You are the uinsinn, Steve Rogers, as he continues on his way.

Previously: "It's always good to have company."

The god called Jack has not done anything like this for centuries. It has been generations and generations since he has walked the land and scattered seeds--not arbitrarily, of course, there's no sense in planting something that needs acidic soil in clay or something that needs damp where the weather is arid. Of course, most of the land in this world is gasping for life, desperate for it, and he feels that every seedling is a soothing balm. Aloe on a sunburn, water on parched lips.

~

As the land reawakens, Jack realizes he's reawakening too; the parts of himself that have been lying dormant since Gil's death are beginning to blink and stretch and look around. There is still love, of course, he still loves everyone he's ever loved, but the grief is quiet, asleep instead of constantly gnawing.

Through the network of roots that stretch back to Oasis, Jack tells Harold, "I don't think I could have done this a year ago. I was too unhappy. Being a widower is something I've never managed well. Of course, I've never managed not being married well, either.

"I miss him a little less with every seed. I think that's good. I think that's very good."

~

Jack plants trees. Plants flowers, fruit and grain. Plants weeds, even, because weeds are part of the system and the system is what works.

Jack encourages the small things to spread and grow, too, the tiny creatures that are also part of the system, every insect and mammal and bird. They needs to nibble leaves, eat fruits, drink nectar.

Even the big things, that would attack a mortal man, know who he is and obey when he asks for their help, following instincts they may have forgotten they even had. They scratch themselves against tree trunks, carry pollen in the pads of their feet, eat fruit and leave the seeds in their droppings as far as their strength will carry them.

(His voice to them is like the river. His hand is like the breeze.)

Jack leaves blessings with every seed. His children's blessings of protection and abundance, his own to thrive and feed and nourish.

It takes effort, but he brings rain, and soon there's a soft misty carpet of grass on the slopes and plains.

~

It will take time. It always takes time. But that's the thing about time. It always comes back around.

[ooc: Post art lessons with Ingress.]

Mortals like names: they like knowing the correct word to call things. Words make things real. If it has a name, it exists. (This is why some languages have many words for snow or fish or brother. Culture and language are intertwined.)

"Jack Green" is just a name. "Jack Green" is an affable fellow who likes pie and babies and apples and drawing.

But the god who wears that name is very old, occasionally wise, mostly good, and deeply loving.

And he loves Milliways.

The green man can also be fierce. He is the leader of the Wild Hunt once a year, you know.

Upon learning that the White Rider has returned to the end of the universe, Jack went looking for a ruined apple tree. He didn't find it, but upon inquiry (trees, because they talk slowly and thus only when it's important, observe everything) he learned that the tree has been remade into something else.

He has no doubt that this is a good thing, and will be the guardian force to protect a precious doorway. Still, there is more to Milliways than just its doors. More things that need protecting.

Jack takes an apple from his pocket and tosses it from hand to hand as he walks along the edge of the forest, the greenhouse to his back. He stops at a place about forty paces from both the bar and the lake's edge, and holds out his arms. For a long moment he stands completely still--so still that were anyone watching, they would not see mild Jack Green but would instead see a great and mighty oak tree.

Abruptly he turns and throws the apple into the lake, as hard as he can.

When the waves settle, he nods and goes back into the bar.

 

In the morning, there is a new apple tree growing at the forest's edge.

Its apples are delicious.

Jack is drawing, a contemplative expression on his face; and Georgia, because she wants to be just like Papa, is coloring, her face scrunched up with concentration as she draws with big toddler-sized crayons.

(Keiran tried to eat the crayons. Thus, he has been allowed only a teething ring for the time being, which he is gnawing quite happily.)

The tree god and the comfort goddess are also having a serious conversation.

Tremble with fear, mortals.

"There's so many sad people, sweetheart. I want to do something . . ."

Georgia considers, then nods, red curls bouncing. "Make sad go 'way."

"Oh? You think it's as simple as that?"

"Make sad go 'way," she says in her duh, Papa voice.

"Well. Apparently you do. And how do you suggest we make the sad go away?"

Georgia considers. Keiran tries to grab another crayon. Georgia giggles and shoves a fresh piece of paper at her Papa. "All gone!"

Jack picks up the paper, smiles at her, and nods. "Yes. Yes, I think you're right."

. . . the front door opens.

"Gil? Georgie? I'm home."