Angry Green Men

As I carved the final cut on my latest Green Man, a bearded face growing from a maple leaf with vines sprouting in curls from the ears and nose, I grimaced as I noted, too late, that his toothless smile looked lustful, the eyes hungry instead of passively observant. I set him aside, disappointed. It was a good time to chop wood, so I gathered my jacket and headed out into the gusty but clear day. 

Woodcarving was a little easier here, but chopping wood was a lot harder. On Hyacinth, despite the gravity more akin to the old Moon’s, ax work proved more difficult. One cannot split the wood along the grain, which spiraled and made it impossible. But wood needed to be chopped, as the firestove crackled with the remains of my supply.  

The extra second to catch a glass elbowed from a table was nice. The reflexes adjusted in a few months. Less grav meant less stress on the spine, the knees. But the helix tree wood stressed the shoulders more when chopping and splitting. Errant chips and blocks fly faster. Only five minutes into the work and one hearty chop launched a sizeable chunk. It struck like a club to the face. I nearly blacked out. Yet the pain brought clarity and distraction. I needed both. 

From my pocket I pulled a dirty rag and pressed it, gently, to my bleeding nose. I opened it to check the amount of blood and a gust of wind carried it away. No chance of catching it. Hyacinth needed it more than I. They didn’t mention the harsh winds in the brochure. Every hut was fashioned from poured concrete and designed with a low, sloping, single-story profile. When the weatherbot called out the warning, retreat inside and close the storm shutters. And don’t forget the trash bin. 

But what weighed the same on Hyacinth as on Earth was the heart. The bonds of love are stable, be they a strong or a weak force, they remain constant planet to planet. 

“What’s wrong with staying here?” asked Viola when I sent the happily-colored brochure to her phone: gentle teal rivers, orange-leafed forests, russet grasslands. My head spun with fantasies of living on a new planet. “Earth is far from perfect, but our friends and family are here. Everything we’ve ever known is here.” 

I wore her down eventually and we cut a deal: migration in five years. Some more time with friends and family, then we’d spend the remainder of our retirement in a new place making new friends under a new sky and a new sun. Such a romantic notion! For me. I couldn’t stop talking about it. Viola would gently tell me to change the subject when I became too annoying. For her, the permanence of migration was troubling. There was no return if we didn’t like it. 

We said our goodbyes at several dinners and parties. All the showered love made Viola more hesitant. But she climbed aboard the hibernation prep bed, always true to her word, even when she sensed a mistake in the making. And she loved me. We lay next to one another for the pre-hibernation procedure, our final moments on Earth. I smiled at her reassuringly and reached for her hand. She turned away. Nerves, I thought at the time. Viola didn’t like doctors and still wasn’t all-in on leaving our home world forever. I knew she’d warm up to the new place. The ad pics and vids looked so beautiful. 

The wood on Hyacinth was harder to chop. The brochures and the contract didn’t explicitly assure guaranteed access to a broadcast power node. Some things you just expect without being writ. The twenty-acre parcel was a steal, but retirees, non-essential personnel they’d deemed us, were dumped into the rural periphery. The power node was promised…someday. Since the brochure that lured me was created nearly a hundred years before my arrival, I had no hope of a home with modern conveniences. At least water flowed from the well. Most of the time. 

I was a novice wood carver on Earth, something I took up once I’d retired from the mortuary business. After migration, I’d become quite good. Expert, even. People respected my skill and remarked kindly. 

All of my carvings were in the Green Man aesthetic. I’d become obsessed with the theme of rebirth, I suppose. But the face always emerged from the wood with a grin too satisfied, too jealous, too greedy. Or even crooked. Never benevolent. Never serene. Always selfish. Always hungry. A narcissistic Green Man. A Green Man no one liked. 

Despite the compliments, no one bought my carvings. Once in a while, I threw one in the firestove. It saved a bit of wood chopping. 

One in a thousand. Viola was one in a thousand. My heart weighed heavy here despite the lighter grav. Hibernation complications occurred in one in a thousand travelers. 

Will I carve a thousand Green Men? Will I be doomed to carve twisted greedy smiles until my grave is carved from the Hyacinth soil beside Viola’s? 

Perhaps Viola cursed me before she slept. I don’t blame her. Even in the loneliest of days, I never cursed her back.