The silence is so profound it seems to have taken on a form of its own, creeping and stalking its way through the forest, feral and wild. Birdsong has faded, the air now only carrying the stillness of birds; creatures have stopped abruptly in their tracks, tasks at hand forgotten, even the breeze has been distracted from pushing branches back and forth in a game of tug-o-war. The silence that remains is deafening and thick with expectancy. Something is about to happen.

A solitary leaf signals the prelude as it taps on bark the rhythm of a tiny heartbeat, flickering in the sunlight as it oscillates from shadow to light. Other leaves follow, dancing left to right as they rap out the same pulsing beat, a percussive choir composing a gradually building soundtrack waiting for the main theme to flood in, like bones waiting for their flesh. The sun, tired of winter skies, spotlights their performance with dazzling columns of gold, setting apart the vivid greens of moss from the deep burnt umbers of the tree, a patchwork of nature's russets, warm and glowing. From somewhere deep within the shadows, someone is watching.

Birds rise with a frantic clap of wings and rush of wind as a surging crack from above splits the ochre sky in two, fragmented by a zigzagging vein of light. Sparks of electric blue fly from bark as Thor's lightning dagger pierces the ancient tree's trunk, sending a confetti shower of woody debris tumbling to its gnarled roots. Emanating from the deep core of the mighty Oak is a low resonating groan, the bass so deep it reverberates through the soil causing the scattered leaves to tremble and rocks to dislodge themselves, a groan so full and primal it has a language of its own, speaking it continuously, simultaneously, until there are no more words. More of an entity than a sound, with a structure one could live within, its own eco-system, its own moon. If the forest could talk, the very origins of the forest, this would be its voice. The emerald green sap glistens in the light as it seeps from the bark, the rich scent of nature's blood permeating the air as it drips from the branches of the shuddering tree.

Mist fills the hush that follows, until the crisp sound of crunching leaves fills the mist, as his feet find ground. Dark black eyes, so deep they house undersea volcanoes, peer out from a tapestry of leaves and moss, their gaze reaching far beyond the webbed vines surrounding them. The leaves, twigs and feathers at first seem like a mask covering his angular face, yet the way they merge into his bark skin, the green of his brow and forehead, the umber hue of his cheek, renders a more ambiguous identity. He appears like a man, well built and tall, casting a long shadow across the loam, and yet not like a man at all. Branch-like antlers sprout from his head of mossy-haired tangles and twigs, making his figure seem taller and more imposing still, the weight of them not even a consideration for him. There's a gentle creaking as he steps forward from the hollow of the Oak, his footsteps faltering while memory of his body gradually returns to him, and as he moves away his cloak of leaves, feathers, bone and bracken spreads from the tree and moves with him. This mass array of Gaia's treasures structuring his cloak almost has a breath of its own, it undulates as he walks, glistens with the collected rain water that now runs freely through it, and bequeaths to the soil on the ground behind him a trail of new vivid green shoots, unfurling in his shadow.

The land has been sleeping. Its twisted tree skeletons standing in silent meditation against the horizon, memories dwelling in their hollows, life moving slowly in shadows. Winter likes it that way. For her reign of the seasons she dances with silver chiffon across the terrain, icy fog softly spreading from her white hair, cool crystallised raindrops falling from her fingertips. While the geese are heading south she is busy binding trees, rocks and grasses with her threads of stillness before gently pulling nature's breath inside of her, seeping deep into the underworld, to sleep. The landscape in monochrome holds on to its secrets until it's time for him to collect them.

The wheel has turned and he can feel the bounds between what was and what will be, deep within his bones. This transitioning is what woke him, the thing that brought him away from the wilderness of the Underworld to wander these dense forests now. The power in him rises and moves, he can feel it flowing under his skin, swimming in the river of his blood searching for the surface. Already the hues around him are moving from grey to green, brown to red, the trees are thickening with fibres of viridian spinning themselves into pointed leaves and vines, dappled movements of branches and briar reveal awakening buds and the promise of fruit and flower. The sound moves from the echoes of cold whirring air to the rushing of stream water, its gargle as it furls around pebbles and somersaults along the brook, a perfectly choreographed dance. Scents pirouette from must, to sage, to sap to blossom endlessly on the sweet candyfloss breeze fusing them together. The forest's exploding palette of colour reflects in his dark eyes, yielding only the briefest glimpse of the fire that flickers and burns deep within them, the fire that scorches deep into the earth through his roots. The more he awakens the more the land comes alive. The exhalation of his breath forms a hazy mist bursting into facets of glimmering pink and orange, contrasted by the black Ravens flying through it, the running Stag followed by Deer, Coyote, Hare, Butterfly, Wolf, and a further myriad of creatures who dwell in the wild places, finding their locus in life renewed.

The man of leaf, twig and flesh, the Guardian of the wood, stands with arms outstretched and drinks in the scene playing out before him. The domino effect of rebirth rippling through the terrain, the meandering of budding green, dew kissed petals and sun diamonds sparkling on the singing river, the chorus of birdsong and symphony of scents. But the ache inside him remains. The force surging beneath his skin grows until he starts to shudder with the pressure; he cups his head in his hands to find comfort and focus. The trees are talking. They whisper from one to the next, across the shape of the vista, the curvature of hills, the recess of valleys, they recount stories that spread from forest to field, carrying on the rustle of grasses, the tapping of twigs, the gentle bowing of boughs towards their neighbouring tree. They tell him of the brothers they've lost, brick boxes with shiny-wheeled metal in their place, they speak of their animal cousins murdered for trophy and fun. They weep over poisoned waters, stolen land, concrete prisons and blood in the air. They share in the pain of the two-leggeds, as well as suffering the pain of abuse and neglect they've endured by their hand.

He hushes the trees with a gentle lullaby, easing their hurts, letting them forget. The man of leaf wistfully recalls the names he's had through the ages, 'Jack-o-the-woods, Herne, Wodwo, The Green Man, and he tastes clarity, the hazy veil of reverie finally cast off. He throws his head back, heaves out his ivy twined chest and releases a booming, resonating roar from the depths of his bones, uprooted from the primordial depths of the earth itself. The carmine red wings of his howl spread across the sky, carrying upon them The Green Man's rage and passion, his carnal energy, the memory and fervour from centuries of the great wheel's turning. Like a bird of prey it soars the skies then swoops to the ground, covering every plant, every living thing with a warm blanket of protection, a nurturing layer knitted from his bone and marrow, the life force of the Wodwo. He intrinsically understands the delicate balance of light and shadow, and he softly laughs to himself through his assemblage of leaves, as he takes his place in the heart of all things.

The luminous, verdant forest encompassed by its tall tree sentinels, is suddenly immersed in a blaze of white light, so intense and glowing it seems as if a new sun is being born. It engulfs form, senses and sounds, even time itself. But the light is gone in an instant, fading back to the woodland hues, and gone with it is The Green Man. A rapidly reforming imprint of feet in the grass where he stood is the only echo of his presence. But the forest knows. It knows that if someone should ever take a walk through the woods they will need to be mindful of the black ink eyes watching them, peering out from a nestle of leaves in dark hollows. Knows that caught in the intricate web of his gaze the woodland walker must prove to be a child of the forest, if they enter the wild green with harmful intent they will find themselves stumbling over rocks and losing their footing in a labyrinth of towering trees, tripping over creeping, crawling vines. They will hear the trees chattering their woody language, gradually shuffling closer to inhale human scent, bark faces grimacing, and sap filled forlorn eyes. They will hear his laughter as the Green Man claims their mind, leaving them drowning in a pool of their own madness, clawing their way out of his wood.

The forest stands tall in her Spring Splendour, shadows and light dancing through her trails, chasing each other like a ribbon of faeries threading through the trees. Yet the wild reaches of this place stretch deeper than imagination can gauge, the ancient forest harbouring its stories and secrets. And there he will remain, Guardian of the wood, hunter and healer, until the sands of time are no more than dust in the loam.

By Toni Cogdell

Path of the Dream Walker

"I grew up dreaming. Armed with paintbrushes, sketchbooks and an ocean-deep heart I stepped onto the path of Art and walked in the direction of my dreams, knowing it wasn't an easy route I had chosen, but the only one that will lead me home.

Working and living in Bristol, in the South West of England, I spend my days painting in a woodland studio under the watchful gaze of squirrel, deer and a myriad of forest dwellers.

I have always had a passion for painting figuratively, seeking to convey emotion and spirit through the human form. The natural world with the legends and archetypes our earth is steeped in provides an endless source of inspiration for me.

Painting isn't something I do; it's more a case of who I am. My first language, my truest love, whether drawing, or painting in oils, acrylics or watercolour I seek to tell my story, your story and the ancient stories Gaia whispers to the trees."

Toni has been a member of Enchanted Folk since September 2007

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