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.
He's also the Roarer, lord of the inebriating cup, master of dreams, wielder of hallucination and the flowering rod.
Dying-Rising Lord, mystagogue to the deep interior of sunlight and humus, inexorable: cut him down, lay him low, he'll spring up high. Again and again and again.
Give yourself up to him, if you will. Drink from his cup, and heed his midnight call.
But never doubt his power.
Fruitful and flowering lord, peerer from leaves, whisperer among the grasses.
Never doubt that he's calling.
Calling for you.