Free The Green Man by Michael Bedard Page B

Man.
    A few minutes later, O heard the swishing sound again. This time she got up from the desk, more curious thannervous. With the bakery right next door, mice were a fact of life in the Green Man, and Psycho was a touch too weird to be much of a mouser.
    She stamped her foot to frighten any tiny intruder back into its hole and heard what sounded like a light patter of footsteps in response. She walked to the near end of the left-hand range. Peering down the aisle, she thought she caught a glimpse of something rounding the corner at the other end. It was just a glimpse, and the light diffused through the dusty window gave everything at the front of the shop a ghostly glow, but she could have sworn she’d seen a figure in a long gown.
    “Is anyone there?” she called. Again, there was no reply. She walked to the front and stood at the door. The shop was empty, yet she felt sure someone had been there.
    As she moved back through the shop, she paused in the poetry section to pick up a book lying open on the floor. Returning it to its place on the shelf, she noticed that several other books had been disturbed. The picture of the reclusive poet hung slightly askew on the wall. As she straightened it, O looked again into those wide knowing eyes. Working at the Green Man could definitely get to you. Just the other day, she’d briefly caught sight of the figure on the stairs. By the end of the summer, she was going to be as batty as Emily.
    Back behind the desk, she plunged into the GreenMan book again. She learned that the Green Man had been adopted by medieval stonemasons and wood-carvers as their special symbol. They tucked the figure in out-of-the-way places in the vast cathedrals they built, as a sort of signature of their work. He was connected to what creativity meant for them. The vines that spilled from his mouth symbolized the outpouring of inspiration. He stood at the gateway between two worlds, at the place where imagination passed into creation.

14
    T he bell above the door tinkled lightly, and someone entered the shop. A small man with wiry gray hair and a short sparse beard came walking down the aisle, carrying two large coffees. His forehead was furrowed; his bright blue eyes set in a permanent squint, as if he’d spent a lifetime working in the sun.
    When he saw O sitting at the desk, he stopped short. Turning abruptly, he pretended to scan the shelves beside him as he worked his way slowly along the aisle and disappeared into the back room. O glanced up in the mirror mounted over the desk and saw him settle into the armchair. He set the two coffees down on the table.
    He was definitely a little odd, and she kept looking up at the mirror to keep track of where he was. He had taken a large book from the art shelf and sat with it open on his lap, but whenever she looked up, she found him looking back, studying her suspiciously, as if he thought she might have kidnapped Emily and commandeered the shop.
    A few minutes later, she glanced up from her work and found him standing by the desk, holding the two cups of coffee. She let out a little cry.
    “Sorry to startle you,” he said in a thin brittle voice. “I was wondering if Emily was around.”
    “She’s gone to a doctor’s appointment. She won’t be back for an hour or so.”
    “I see. You know, you look remarkably like her. When I first saw you sitting there, I thought she’d found the fountain of youth.”
    O chuckled. “I’m her niece.”
    “Pleased to meet you. I’m Leonard Wellman. Your aunt and I are old friends.”
    “The poet Leonard Wellman?”
    “Yes,” he beamed. “Now how on earth would a young slip of a thing like you happen to know of an old fellow like me?”
    “My father’s a big fan of your work.”
    “Really. Well, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance –”
    “O,” she said. She noted how he took the name in stride.
    “Well, O, would you like one of these coffees? I bought it for your aunt, actually. Double double,