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Do an image-search for Green Man Chair. Go ahead. You'll be amazed at what you find.

There must be hundreds of thousands—if not millions—of Green Man chairs out there. I've got a couple down in the dining-room myself.

And that's just the chairs.

We tend to think of the Green Man as a being carved in stone, but that's mere coincidence of survival. Stone outlasts wood.

Artists have been carving (and painting) Green Men for some 2000 years now but, starting in the Middle Ages, Green Men (aptly enough) began to sprout everywhere.

What could be more appropriate than that the image and likeness of the God of Plants should be rendered in wood: the symbol and the reality in one. To sit in the Green Man's Chair is to be embraced by the Lord of Vegetation.

There's a Dark Stranger standing in the living room.

He who, yesterday, stood between Earth and Heaven, now stands between ceiling and floor.

The son of the forest now comes indoors.

His fragrance fills the house.

Soon we will bestow him with lights, and all the royal heirlooms of the feast: every one a prayer.

But for now he stands in shadow, and naked beauty.

Why is the Green God, Lord of Leaf and Tendril, called 'Frith-God,' god of peace?

Not hard.

In days before the White Flag came to denote cessation of hostilities, truce, and peaceful negotiation, the Green Branch bore these meanings, and its bearers.

The wielders of the Green Branch bear no weapon, but the sign of life and growth.

Indeed, they bear the sign of the strong God Who Makes War on None, yet in the end wins nonetheless, through patience and persistence.

Called by the drums, we gather to the fire.

The chant begins.

Green God, Maple God,

living god of the forest:

hey ho hey ho

come to us.

It is the chant of calling. Biome by biome we call, back and forth: wetlands, prairies, tundra, orchards, gardens, fields, vineyards.

Hoo-hoo-hoo.

One from each quarter, the Green Men burst into our midst from behind, hooting. They rush in to the fire and turn, eyes bright.

Four there are: green, naked, rustling with leaves at head and wrist and ankle.

So, Posch.

You say that the Horned and the Green Man are not one god, but two: the Divine Twins, Master of Beasts and Master of Plants respectively.

You also say that in our day They reveal Themselves through art.

So what about all those Horned Green Men that we see?

All summer long, he has been our bonny god in green, and we have loved him for it.

But now come the days—so poignant, so bittersweet—for which he is called in the Old Language of the Witches Wulder, for his splendor.

His festive coat of colors he dons now, different each day: Earth's yearly gift of favor to her first-born and (they say) best-loved child.

Alas, such gifts of favor are apt to be preludes to deeds of blood.

They say that he's god of women, and the artists show him naked amid the women's pulsing dance.

Verdelet, the witches named him: the Master-in-Green.

He's green.

(They say that in the old days they greened him with copper and ground malachite.)

There's a shaggy crown of leaves bound round his head, and leafy ruffs at his wrists and ankles as well. He rustles when he moves. He's the Green.

Green lord of chlorophyll, twin to the blood lord of beasts: like his brother, both wild and tame. Of the two, he's the rooted, the calm one, the peaceful, the thinker of long thoughts.

Don't be fooled.