Walk the Wild With Me
Page 6
A young human female hid within the shadows in a simpler version of the elaborate gowns of the faery women. It stretched tightly across her full bosom—the faery women had none—and trailed loosely on the ground, too long for her. And her wings sagged rather than fluttering wide to catch any breeze. A human woman, not much older than himself, enslaved by the fae. He’d heard tales of people who wandered too deeply into the forest becoming ensnared by faery traps and never seen again by humankind.
He shivered in fear. Was he doomed to fall into such traps now that he saw the otherworldly creatures in their true form?
Shouts of triumph behind him drew his attention back to the archery contests.
* * *
Little John shook his fist at Queen Mab.
She laughed, throwing her head back and rising two body lengths into the air, barely flapping her shimmering gold-and-white wings.
He wished one of Robin Goodfellow’s arrows would go astray and pierce those wings, shatter her illusions, and allow him to grab Jane away from her control.
She hadn’t aged a day since the day she ran away from her father and found faery traps instead of John’s loving arms.
“Soon, my love. I will come for you soon.”
She buried her face in her hands and turned away from him, her back rippling with deep sobs.
He took one last lingering look at his beloved and turned back to the events and people he could help.
By narrowing his eyes, he discerned the fine grain of the arrows both the sheriff and Robin used. The wood spoke to him. Robin’s, of course; the grain of the wood was straight and true, barely needing smoothing to turn fallen branches into hunting tools. Perfect. The Green Man made certain his companion and friend received only the best materials. Robin’s points were flint, knapped precisely with no flaws.
The sheriff, on the other hand, didn’t have those choices. The grain in the arrows twisted. He’d taken larger branches and lathed them down to the proper diameter, but he paid no attention to the way the wood had flowed in different directions as the seasons changed. His aim might be exact, his fletching flashy, and his iron points tooled by an expert, but his arrows could not fly true because of the imperfections in the wood.
Robin didn’t need Little John’s interference to win this contest. But the villagers needed to believe that other agencies toyed with the sheriff’s aim.
What would winning gain him? Sir Philip hadn’t truly promised to petition King John for the return of Robin’s patrimony. And if he did return to his honors and his castle, would he be able to break the wizard’s curse on himself and his lady love? That must happen at the same time. Breaking one curse without the other would age them both to their normal human years and kill them both of old age in moments. Would Robin, once he broke the double curse, be able to remember his mother’s folk in the forest and his vow to honor and protect them?
Little John thought on that curse, which put Robin in much the same position as himself. Little John had to rescue Jane, but he had to find a way into the Faery Mound to do it. The only way Robin could break the curse that condemned him to live within his gnomish body at least half of each day, and awaken Marian, was to break both evil spells at the same time. But first, he had to find the Cave Outside of Time where Marian slept. At least Little John knew where Jane was held captive.
Even Little John, who was master of every plant, rock, and stream in the forest, did not know where to begin looking for the cave.
As Sir Philip Marc drew his bowstring back to his ear, John inhaled a deep breath, enough to fill a cauldron with air. At the instant Sir Philip loosed his arrow, Little John released his breath and allowed it to find its own natural path. The arrow wobbled but still flew long. The villagers held their breaths, half of them watching only the target. The others warily marked the sheriff’s reaction.
The arrow thudded into the barn wall. By Little John’s estimate, it vibrated two fingers wide of the bull’s eye painted on the sheepskin target. The strike sounded loud to Little John’s ears. Louder than the smattering of applause from Sir Philip’s entourage.
Then Robin stepped up to the line drawn in the turf, his bow already strung, and an arrow nocked.
With all of his forest powers, Little John whispered to the arrow, giving it words of advice on how to fly long and true, to honor the tree from which it sprang.
Faster than a mortal eye could follow, the arrow surged toward the target. Little John held his breath lest the slightest stirring of the air disrupt the arrow’s mission.
With a gentle thwapping sound, the arrow pieced the center of the painted eye. If it had indeed been a bull, the animal would be blinded or dead.
Robin smiled and bowed to the gathered villagers.
Sir Philip scowled and crossed himself as did his guardsmen.
“Step back ten paces,” Tuck called.
Men scrambled to retrieve the arrows and return them to the archers.
Sir Philip inspected his closely and cast it away. His upper lip lifted in disgust. All the while he kept his gaze fixed upon Robin.
Robin ran his fingers along the length of the retrieved arrow, whispering to it lovingly, knowing it to be his partner more than a tool. Then he smiled and stepped backward to the new line in the turf.
One of the abbey boys, the one who had warned Robin of the sheriff’s prowess with a bow, ran to the barn with a lump of charcoal in his fist. With a few deft strokes, he revitalized the eye drawing.
Little John marked the boy’s height and stance as one to keep an eye on. He had the spunk, and the initiative to be the one to help save Jane. But was he the one Elena had selected as her student?
* * *
Nick hastened away from the restored target. The sheriff was already drawing back his bowstring, heedless of who might stand between him and the barn at the edge of the village green.
Instinctively, Nick sought the location of each of the twelve boys from the abbey and counted. Ten familiar heads spread throughout the crowd. All of the boys were out of the path and range of the archery contest. Counting himself as number eleven, he realized one boy was missing.
Ah, Dom lingered by the dairymaid who had moved her cheeses to the far side, away from the sheriff’s prancing horses. The way they tilted their heads toward each other spoke volumes of a close friendship beginning.
Dom had never wanted a life in the Church. Perhaps he’d found an alternative. Perhaps not. So many folk were bound to the land, incapable of moving away from their homes to find a better life. Only the Church offered the opportunity for young men to escape serfdom. Without a land tie, Dom had little chance to find a life within the law.
Nick turned his attention back toward the two men who tested their bowstrings.
Without a word of warning or prompt from Tuck, Sir Philip nocked an arrow and let it fly. With a zinging thwap, the boar point on the arrow pierced the planed planks of the barn wall dead center of the drawn eye.
A gasp rippled around the crowd. Locksley could not possibly best that shot.
The sheriff stepped away, smiling. His compatriots slapped his back in congratulations. They all laughed loudly and turned back in mute challenge of his opponent.
The man in Lincoln green stepped up to the line in the turf. His eyes focused only on the target. He raised the bow, slowly and deliberately drawing the string back to his ear. His knuckles showed white. His cheek muscle throbbed. The cords and muscles in his neck bulged with strain. The string came back another inch. Then another.
Just when Nick thought the string would snap, Locksley released the arrow. It flew straight. It flew true. And it . . . it split the sheriff’s arrow down the center, shattered the brittle iron arrowhead, and embedded into the wall.
The crowd gasped, then burst into cheers.
Locksley sagged in relief. His illusion of humanity slipped a bit as he sh
rank in stature to about Nick’s height and his nose elongated. Then he drew in a deep breath and straightened, tall and handsome once more.
The sheriff called for his horse.
“My Lord Sheriff, you promised to petition King John for the return of my honors and lands if I won,” Locksley called.
“I promised nothing. I call this a draw. We will meet again when I will claim the Lady Ardenia as my own.” He shoved his foot into the stirrup.
“I am not yours, nor any man’s to claim!” The lady’s voice rang out from the depth of the forest, sounding more like the laughter of a wandering creek than human words.
An answering chuckle came into Nick’s mind from the three-faced pitcher in his sleeve.
Now that was an interesting way of thinking! Nick sauntered back to the brewer’s stand, whistling a jaunty tune that had not been born in the Church.
Seven
Deep shadows lay across the village green. The faeries had flown away, dragging Jane with them. Little John let his gaze linger on their fleeing flickers of light and dark.
He allowed his memories to go back to the laughing girl just ripening into womanhood who gleaned nuts and roots at the boundary of the forest. Each day she pushed her boundaries a bit farther into the woods, testing her courage.
Little John awaited her there, watching over her to make certain that no creature of the wood, human or otherwise, endangered her. They met. They snatched a few kisses. Made promises to each other. And always Little John made certain that she hastened back to her home before the shadows grew too long. The same time of day as now, betwixt and between light and dark, this world and the next. The time of day when faery magic was strongest, their illusions the most compelling.
Then came the day when Jane’s father made good on his threats to give Jane in marriage to the older man who owned the grist mill. He owed heavy tribute and taxes to the sheriff, but he owned the mill that served those outside the abbey’s protection. The land did not capture him into a life of serfdom. The miller had already buried three wives and sired children ranging from ten to thirty. Village rumor claimed the only way one of his wives would survive his beatings was to give him sons to help him run the mill and one day inherit it.
Jane ran away to the forest before she could recite her vows on the porch of the abbey church. She ran long and fast. She tripped and raised herself up. She cried and called to John to come for her.
But Little John had been far away, in the center of the stone circle, dealing with yet another dispute between Herne and Ardenia. Outside sounds and awareness deserted Little John while within the influence of the stones. The sun dropped to the horizon and still she ran. Once Little John became aware of her plight, he had raced toward her with mile-eating steps.
Then just as he reached out his arms for her, she ran toward him and tripped once more. This time, though, she stumbled not over a protruding root but over a cobweb-fine rope set by the faeries. The silky bonds slid around and around and around her body, holding her fast and beyond Little John’s grasp.
He shook off the memory and his tears. “Soon, Jane. Soon I will come for you.” Unable to cope with his anger and his pain, he stepped into a tree. Not his tree, but an old and sturdy willow that would restore his mind, body, and soul for a time. With a deep sigh, he thrust his fingers and arms along stout branches and allowed his hair and beard to blend with the inner pith of the wood.
The ache in his feet and his heart eased as he blended with the forest, sending his roots deep to converse with the soil and all the creatures that dwelt there. Tingling vibrations told him how a squirrel scurried toward her nest, how a sparrow flew high, singing a few notes of satisfaction, how a fox lurked within the underbrush waiting for a rabbit to cross his path . . . how a young boy pressed himself against the trunk of this tree, watching and waiting as the Woodwose and the Wild Folk danced along a secret path toward their own homes.
Little John caressed the boy’s back with smooth bark, shaping itself to fit him, and felt him lean into the comforting support. He whispered a welcome to the boy by rattling leaves.
“Hello,” a female voice whispered into his mind. “I brought him, as I promised. Introduce yourself. His name is Nick.”
Shocked that the goddess Elena spoke to him so clearly, Little John lost contact with the forest and with the boy.
In that moment, Nick removed himself from the tree’s embrace and ran back through the village to the abbey. Little John had promised to watch for signs that this boy carried a tiny silver pitcher formed of three women looking out into the world, carrying lanterns that lit without aid of a wick or fuel. Elena, the key to opening the Faery Mound on the night of Midsummer when the moons aligned, infused him with hope.
Elena’s laughter marked every step of the boy’s retreat, and her lanterns glowed faintly, showing Nick the way.
Eight
Cautiously, Nick approached the portal beside the broad, gated entrance to the abbey. Father Blaine stood firmly beside the brother who had drawn portal duty. The young priest counted heads as boys and monks returned from the May Day festivities.
Nick counted, too. The younger boys were his responsibility.
Dom and Henry stood before the partially open wooden door. The slide across the barred viewing window was firmly closed. No one would enter once this pedestrian entrance closed for the night. It was only wide enough to admit one at a time. And the window was big enough that the monitor could assess the worth or the danger of admitting whoever knocked.
The sun had only half dropped below the horizon. The door should not be locked yet.
The last three youngsters ran across the green, holding hands, and gasping for breath. Almost too late. Only a few rays of the sun shone above the horizon. They bobbed in deference to the priest and the monk before racing toward the refectory and their supper.
“We don’t know where Nick is,” Henry whined to Father Blaine.
“I know you three. You do nothing without the other two. You may not enter until the last of you arrives, and you will all receive the same punishment for being late. No supper.” Father Blaine opened the door a bit to peer along the road approaching the abbey.
“He left us right after the archery contests,” Dom said.
“Why would he do that?” Brother Theo asked, his voice booming into the evening like the big bass bell in the abbey church tower. He approached the portal, a frown on his face and worry lines making deep furrows across his brow and from the corners of his mouth to his chin.
Dom and Henry looked at each other and then turned back to their inquisitor. “We think he had a rendezvous with the dairymaid,” Dom lied.
Nick pressed his back against the abbey wall, wishing he could blend in with the stones.
Hold your breath.
Brother Theo opened the door wide and stomped out onto the road, leaving the door ajar. Dom and Henry scuttled inside. Nick started to follow.
Stupid boy, hold your breath!
Nick obeyed and slid inward, making certain he did not touch either of his friends. They ignored him, watching Brother Theo as he scanned the open approach to the abbey.
“He’s never been this late before.” Was that a note of concern in Brother Theo’s voice?
Nick stepped into the darkest shadow between the wall and the guesthouse. Then, gratefully, he released his breath and inhaled long and deeply.
Only when the sound of his breathing alerted them did Henry and Dom turn toward him. He stepped out of the shadow into the pool of light around the door.
“How long have you been hiding there?” Dom whispered.
“Long enough.” Nick leaned on the open portal door. “Brother Theo, I came home long ago. Why are you looking for me out there?” he called, trying hard to smother his laughter.
Deep in his sleeve pocket the goddess of the silver pitcher laughed for him.
“Asleep,” Nick lied. He kept his eyes cast downward, feigning shame. “There’s a very comfortable branch in the apple orchard that overhangs the wall. I crawled up there to sit a bit in the notch. Before I knew it, the sun had dropped almost to the horizon. I think the quiet that comes when the birds seek their nests must have alerted me.” He hadn’t done that today. But he had many times in the past. So it wasn’t totally a lie. He’d say three extra pater nostras with his prayers tonight in penance for the half-truth.
You’ll say five, the goddess told him, as sternly as Brother Theo.
“Yes, m’lady.”
Call me Elena. That is the name given to me by the first peoples to inhabit this isle. Before that . . . Never mind.
An emptiness opened at the base of Nick’s neck. The lady . . . Elena had withdrawn. He thought she slept.
* * *
By dawn, Nick resolved to remain in the abbey, obedient, as he was supposed to be. Trees caressing him, a pagan goddess advising him, watching faeries and other forest creatures slip from one guise to another and back again—it all seemed too wrong. The Holy Father might have put all of England under interdict, but that didn’t mean Nick should risk his soul by consorting with the godless creatures of the wood.
Except he’d really like to know more about all of it. He imagined himself defending his actions to Abbot Mæson. “How can I defend my soul against the uncanny events of yesterday if I don’t know how the Wild Folk live and what their relationship with the Woodwose is?”
The abbot used to listen to the boys. He taught them to think through the logic of their actions.