The Green Nutter
Paul F Walsh
The Green Nutter
I hear them mutter
and yet they cannot see
that everything she says or does
is in the beauty of a tree
The Green Nutter
I hear them cry
and yet they cannot hear
that everything they say or do
is in the echo of her tear
The two teenagers were wearing their Year 12 jerseys. They were sitting under a shady fig tree in Lambton Park. The boy carried the legend Narc on his jersey while the girl boasted Echo on her jersey.
‘This bloody heat sucks,’ the boy said.
‘Bloody heat sucks!’ The girl seemed to agree.
‘Next you’ll be saying Narc is sus!’ The boy grinned prophetically.
‘Narc is sus!’ the girl said.
The diminutive fairy, perched high above in the fig tree, could see and hear the two young humans below. She had often observed this beautiful boy in all of his ugliness. Narc is sus, she thought, but even the ugliest of grubs could metamorphose into a butterfly.
The girl was a repetitive unknown, from a veritable chorus of unknowns who were inevitably attracted to the boy’s beauty while being blinded to his ugliness.
Narc suited the boy, since he was clearly addicted to himself. In another age, he could have appeared in Ovid’s Metamorphoses.
‘Let’s stone The Green Nutter!’ Narc urged.
‘The Green Nutter!’ the girl cried.
And the girl and the boy picked up stones and hurled them at the tiny fairy.
The stones missed, but they still hurt. The fairy was a sensitive soul with a spiritual mandate to nurture nature in Lambton Park. She had accepted this mandate before the arrival of mankind, before the park was a park, and she would continue to nurture nature in this sacred space after mankind was transformed.
In another age, this tiny fairy could have inspired Ovid’s Metamorphoses.
Perhaps she did.
It was Narc who had labelled her The Green Nutter.
Narc hated any rival to his apparent beauty.
Narc hated trees.
Narc hated flowers.
Narc hated leaves.
Narc hated …
It was a long list of hate.
Narc hated The Green Nutter.
And Narc hated love.
‘Next you’ll be saying I love you,’ Narc advised the girl.
‘I love you,’ the girl said.
And Narc immediately rejected her.
The girl was devastated. She wasted away until only her voice could be heard, repeating, always repeating.
And the girl’s bones turned into fairy stones for other children to throw at The Green Nutter.
And Narc was pleased.
But Narc had no more time for stones.
Narc had no more time for Echo.
Narc only had time for himself.
Narc would lie and lie beside Kerrai Creek.
Narc was utterly consumed by the ugly beauty of his own reflection.
He eventually loved himself to death, and from death to life, and he became what he had hated.
Narc metamorphosed into a beautiful flower.
And The Green Nutter marvelled that the nature she nurtured could transform ugliness into such beauty.
And there was stone-throwing ugliness and savage beauty in the metamorphosis of mankind into a soul butterfly, but, nevertheless, The Green Nutter would shed a solitary tear, a very solitary tear, over the leaf-shrouded remains in Lambton Park, year after year after year …
The Green Nutter
I heard them mutter
and yet they could not see
that everything she said or did
‘twas in the beauty of a tree
The Green Nutter
I heard them cry
and yet they could not hear
that everything they said or did
‘twas in the echo of her tear
Copyright Paul F Walsh 2020