Wild Greens

Line the bulwarks and ready the defenses. Cast a warding spell of sanctuary deep in the heart of the woods. Hold your arms around each other and nestle in tight together for “Protection,” the October theme of Wild Greens.

Maggie Topel’s digital logo combines a medieval-style shield with the Wild Greens “WG” as the crest of arms. Ngonidzashe Mhizha’s short story “The Last Dragon Fang Guardian” transports us to a fantasy realm of sword and sorcery. “Queen of Hot to Go,” a digital illustration by Ivona Mitankina, depicts Chappell Roan in tarot.

Angela Patera’s watercolor “Daisy Wheel” paints a protective symbol against deforestation and pollution. Inspired by the author’s time as an anthropologist and archeologist, Ron Wetherington’s creative nonfiction piece “Oracle Bones” explores ritual items from the past. “New Zealand,” a photograph by D C Nobes, captures leafy ferns that form a protective barrier over a sheer rock face.

Tanja Lau’s poem “First Aid Manual of Me” offers instructions for how to care for her in crisis. Melissa Lomax’s watercolor and wax oil pastel “Woodland Exploration” depicts the color and diversity of a woodland scene, and her ink and digital color painting on wood introduces us to “Thumbbodies Pine Friend and Thumbbodies Acorn Friend.”

Lauren Kimball’s essay with illustrations, “How to Install a Car Seat Like a Pro,” details the trials of a mother protecting her children. A hungry baby birds await their mother and food in Hayley J. Boyle’s watercolor cover, "No Peeping," reprised from the April 2023 issue of Wild Greens.

As we grow wild into our brightest selves, we protect each other—sharing our art, our creativity, our vision, sheltering that creative spark and encouraging it to shine.

-Rebecca

The Last Dragon Fang Guardian

by Ngonidzashe Mhizha

The soil was caked with dry blood, and the carnage was gruesome. I could have protected the innocent, but something beyond my wish and sympathy restrained me. Vultures circled in the sky while wild dogs buried their heads inside corpses, their fur smeared with crimson. Stench of burned human flesh and blood filled the air. I crawled beneath a heap of cadavers, staggered and tripped repeatedly before I regained balance.

My wounds took longer than usual to heal. I sat with my back resting on a rock splattered with blood and closed my eyes. It’s been long since I had visions. Some came in fragments, some blurry. My purpose was fulfilled, so I had to embrace these changes with honor. This was the reason I stayed incognito amongst the Kayamor people. The reason I couldn’t expose myself when the kingdom was massacred.

Suddenly my gift of vision transported me to a certain courtyard in a whim. Armed men were assembled before a man, supposedly a leader. He was fuming with so much fury, pacing restlessly back and forth. Another man arrived carrying a clay pot that was coughing smoke and seemed to be performing a ritual. He waved it in the air in circular motions then put it down. He stretched his hands up to the skies, shouting incantations in a strange language:

“Hishnar verdat peonid canrosa sumov.”

When I took a closer look at the leader, I recognized him at once. King Damoen, often referred to as the Death Angel. He was a ruthless, malevolent sorcerer who had been hunting my bloodline for years. His desire was to possess our greatest magical heirloom.

He raised his hand in command as he stepped forward. 

“We all have heard the tragedy that had befallen the Kayamor kingdom. That can possibly be a lead to the dragon fang quest. We are riding there now!” 

Soldiers bowed their heads in unison.

The vision snapped away and I was back looking at the corpses. The Death Angel knew I was at Kayamor. I had to escape before his claws clung unto my pendant. 

I shifted into my other form and soared in the sky heading home. The rush of wind through my feathers reminded me of my days when my power was unvanquished. Now I was fleeing like a coward because I was determined for my bloodline’s welfare. 

Suddenly I was home. The two gargoyles seated atop an entrance of the ancient castle seemed to frown down at me. Their stiff bodies were now covered with thick green moss, especially their arched wings. As guardians of the Torakem coven, they had fought numerous malevolent magic from infiltrating the castle. The creatures above me exhaled, their breath enveloping me in a windstorm of magical ripples and swirls. A heartfelt welcome I’d never anticipated. My moments outside the castle were over.

The brightest of the golden sunshine embraced me upon entering the courtyard. My skin tingled with an otherworldly warmth. The air was a mixture of incense, herbs, moisture, oils. Fiyardo, my wife rushed to me. Her thin arms adorned with amulets delicately held the front of her long robe to avoid tripping over. She fell into my arms and hid her face onto my shoulder. Soft sobs felt like petals falling into a tranquil pond as they faded into the fabric of my tunic. 

“You have made it,” she whispered, looking into my eyes, her own almond shaped glistening with tears. 

Our bloodline was gifted with pure magical powers that passed down through generations. Our greatest possession was the Pirdeva Sword. Numerous bloodthirsty sorcerers pursued it due to its magical abilities. However, their intentions were shrouded in evil. In order to protect the heirloom, our ancestors combined their magic together. They cast spells on its hilt and carved out its center part, engraved with the dragon fang. From it, they made a key worn around the neck like a precious pendant.

Prophecies about the bearers of the dragon fang were made, and chosen ones were gifted with distinct magical powers. These enabled them to protect it. As for me, I was a seer, a warrior, a shapeshifter and I was gifted with immortality for stipulated centuries. 

Fiyardo accompanied me to the sacred chambers where the council awaited. It was time to surrender the key to the coven elders. I was welcomed with reviving incense. Soothing harmonies from flutes and lyres made flames in the hearth dance in accordance. Their shadows wiggled in resonance and I felt the corners of my mouth lifting. 

We sat on our reserved places and held hands. My wife looked at me and smiled. We lifted chalices and drank wine that felt heavenly on my tongue. 

After centuries, the dragon fang was now to be bestowed upon my predecessor. Hers or his identity was unknown till the moment we all awaited. 

I fished out the pendant from my neck, walked to the dais and knelt before the altar. I laid down the souvenir neatly, recalling the moments we shared. As I bid my companion goodbye, a single tear fell from my eye and landed on the dragon fang pendant. The moment it touched the pendant, it illuminated a blinding glow and floated in the air. Mouths went agape and brows arched as we watched it dim slowly and fall down. 

“Behold, the last guardian of the dragon fang!” 

A voice echoed from the shadows. Suddenly Lord Giser, our coven leader and our greatest wizard, emerged, his purple robes sweeping the floor whimsically. A crescent moon-like silver crown sat neatly on his grey hair. He raised his magical staff and laid it on my shoulder and I instantly felt revived. When I looked back, Fiyardo’s shoulders now shook as her sobs intensified. It was something we all never anticipated. We had one last enemy to destroy, the Death Angel. After that, the legend of our guardianship had just begun.

Oracle Bones

by Ron Wetherington

The old man uses a stick to pick over the bones in the cooling embers. He levers the edge of one and flicks it out of the coals onto the hearthstone. Then another. He gingerly picks one up, examines it, turning it over in his hand. He uses his thumb to wipe away the ash that partially obscures its surface. A look of dissatisfaction briefly sweeps across his face as he turns it over. He taps it lightly with the back of his fingernail, the clipped sound breaking the silence. He casts it aside and retrieves the second bone, repeating the gestures, holding it closer. Tap-tap-tap. He explores the surfaces, deft fingers rotating it slowly. 

Here is a message he can read. He nods. The rejected one carried unclear markings. Not this one. It’s not easy. He looks up at the expectant faces of the three boys seated across the fire. You have to be careful. Misreading the message is sometimes the greater risk. And then what? The hunt would be unsuccessful, of course, but more critically the entire connection would be broken, protection lost.

This is their universe, you see. The encompassed stars are caught in these fractures. The streams and rockfalls are briefly captive here. The animals and forest. Most importantly, the human condition is defined here, and all of tomorrow’s intersections are revealed in the tiny fissures.

This charted world, laid out in a message on the burned shoulder blade of a deer, will be revealed cautiously. The young boys must receive the proper knowledge. This preparation for tomorrow’s hunt gives more than just instructions: it establishes proper conditions. You don’t just slog out like you’re on a scavenger hunt; you are part of an enterprise of reciprocity that must be reckoned with. 

❦

We fail to notice this, whose forest dwelling is asphalt and steel. We are masters here, where environmental reciprocity is alien, the human condition measured by our independence from nature. Not our fault, really. We chose this way innocently. We’re now far removed from that protected, enchanted world. 

We are born charmed, still, of course, but forbid it to remain beyond the early years of fairytales and myth-making. Our separation is prideful, not reluctant; victorious, not regretful.

So their cosmos is no longer ours, our lives no longer caught up in the ebb and flow of whispered possibilities and virtuous magic. We cannot return to that place, even with the growing need to do so, because we are over-baggaged. 

Assuredly, we will still make up fables and act wistful in short episodes. For our children. And that may have to be enough.

❦

Cross-legged beside the dying fire, the shaman begins the ceremony, chanting rhythmically, thumping on a small skin drum. He has tossed a sprig of juniper and some wild Artemisia onto the smoldering remnants, and the smoke carries their essence into an awakening spirit world. Together with the drum’s staccato resonance, a hypnotic mood arises, and the preparation for tomorrow has begun.

First Aid Manual of Me

Thumbbodies Pine Friend and Thumbbodies Acorn Friend

by Melissa Lomax

Ink with digital color on wood

Inspiration: "Thumbbodies” are tiny, magical creatures that live all over the world in hidden and sometimes unexpected places. They enjoy secretly making small positive differences in our lives. These two Thumbbodies live peacefully within the forest among their family and friends. Together they take part in caring for the animals and plants in the surrounding woodlands.