by Kate Danley
Still, he followed the bird.
The sound of a stream called to him.
This time, he did not just jog after the bird, he ran. He crested a hill and spotted between the trees a fast-moving river. A log had been placed across it, reaching from bank-to-bank. The raven sat on the far side.
Robin skidded down to a rocky shore and scooped the cool, fresh water to his mouth. It was better than any wine, better than any ale. He did not know if he had ever tasted anything that rivaled its clear, sweet taste. It washed away the ash and soot from his tongue. He splashed his face, washing away the blood and dirt that bound him to yesterday.
But as he drank, another man sped from the opposite direction.
Robin stood with fear.
The man was a giant. His fists were like anvils. His hulking shoulders were as broad and strong as an ox. Though he was almost seven-feet-tall, his dark face seemed young. The man carried a quarterstaff, which he used as a walking stick as he slid towards the river.
His movements startled the raven, who took off and disappeared into the trees. Panic rose in Robin's throat.
Robin ran to the log, his thirst forgotten, but arrived just as the other man did, too.
"I must pass!" Robin shouted at the stupid man blocking his way.
"As must I!" insisted the other, fearfully looking over his shoulder. "Upon my life, move!"
"I am about to lose my guide!" Robin replied, pointing towards the forest.
"Led by the fair folk and fairies when real men hunt me? Give way!" said the man, stepping onto the log. It bent beneath his weight.
But this did not deter Robin, who stepped onto the log, too. He lobbed his quiver at the far shore, where it landed with a rattling crash, but he kept his unstrung bow and held it up like a cudgel. "Do not make me fight you."
The man spun his quarterstaff and sliced the air powerfully. "I would say the same to you."
And then the battle was joined. Robin swiped at the man's ankles with his bow, but he jumped over the bent yew. For a burly giant, he moved with the grace of a dancer. He replied with a blow to Robin's back, putting the strength of his added weight behind it. Unsteady, Robin began to fall. He rocked back the other way to right himself, and as he did, the log tilted, dumping both men in the water.
They sat in the river and regarded each other.
Neither said a word.
Robin wiped the water from his eyes.
And then he began to laugh.
It was as if all the sound suddenly returned to the forest.
"I had been thirsty," Robin said, reaching down to cup his palm in the water and lift it to his lips. "I thank you, good sir, for the drink. And while I appreciate your generosity, perhaps a smaller serving next time."
The shock and anger on other man's face began to fade, and he began to laugh, too, at the ridiculousness of it all.
Robin held out his hand in friendship. "Robin Hood."
"John Little," said the other, reaching back, his mouth cracked into a broad smile. "Although, many call me Little John."
Robin looked up at the way that rejected them both. "The log won."
"Yes, it did," commented Little John.
"Do you need to continue running?" asked Robin, hooking his thumb towards the opposite bank. "It appears to be clear now."
Little John dunked himself beneath the shimmering surface of the river and then sputtering, sat up again. "My cooler head is prevailing," he apologized. A calm relief settled in as he gazed back the way he had come. "Those who chased me must have given up. Our fight would have drawn them out if they were near. I think I am safe."
"Shall we make our way to the bank?"
"Either that or sit here and feed the fish," replied Little John. He helped Robin to his feet.
As they splashed towards the shore, Robin asked, "What causes you to fight when a desperate man crosses your path?"
"Most likely the same reason that caused you to fight for a log when I stood upon it."
Robin weighed the cost of telling the truth. But then, he realized he had nothing to take and nothing to lose. "Does the Sheriff want you dead?"
"To hang from a tree branch so high, even my feet could not touch the earth," confessed Little John.
"Aye," said Robin, the weight of their plight hanging heavily over the conversation. "And, also, I. My father's land has been seized by the Sheriff."
"Bah!" said Little John. "Grabbing the land and money from the kingdom's poorest so he might feast on the king's pheasant?"
They flung themselves onto the pebbly shore and sat in silence, the lapping water speaking the volumes unsaid.
"So, you have run," Little John finally commented.
"Aye, and you?"
"Aye."
Robin gathered up his quiver, careful not to reveal the golden arrow he still had from the May Games. "Where are you from?"
"Hathersage in Derbyshire."
"Barnsdale."
"I am a nail maker by trade. The need for nails was not much this year. Can't use wood from King Henry's forest for building. Everyone's been turning to mud and thatch. But to keep my little ones fed, I made the mistake..." His eyes shifting as he weighed how much to tell Robin. "Well, I made a mistake. I escaped, but the forest is where I was forced to flee and now I must find a new home."
"I was following a bird," admitted Robin.
Little John began to laugh, and soon he began to roar. "A bird?"
"He led me to you, so it seems our meeting was fated."
Once more the silence hung between them, but this time the rushing water spoke a question.
"Have you a plan to survive?"
Little John shook his head, his face falling. "No. I was focused on escape. I know the things I learned at my father's side, but these woods are filled with outlaws and wolves. He taught me to kill both on sight, not how to live with them as neighbors."
Robin gazed up at the tree boughs. "I have never been this far. I do not even know where I am."
"Well, at least I have that on you," remarked Little John with mock cheerfulness.
Feeling almost as nervous as the first time he had joined hands with a girl in a carole dance, Robin cleared his throat. "Two men can do what one man cannot..."
Little John pondered Robin's words, the conflicting thoughts flitting across his face. But in the end, he nodded. There was an air of both defeat and hope. "Not many men have ever come as close as you have to besting me with the staff."
"My friend, as you are with the staff, I am with an arrow and bow. Shall we see if two men together can survive this forest better than two men apart?"
"There is strength in unity," Little John said, reaching out to Robin to seal the pact. "We are agreed."
And they joined their hands together.
CHAPTER FIVE
A semi-circular cliff face wrapped around a secret clearing. Slender birch trees at the top of the bluff shivered their bright green leaves in the wind. The dappled light fell upon the space, like facets of a gem revealing the hidden fire of a jewel.
Despite their circumstances, Little John's voice was filled with nostalgia. "I stumbled on this place when I was a lad. Used to imagine it was my castle and all of Sherwood my kingdom." He chuckled, but a hard edge crept in. "I can think of quite a few other fancies I would have preferred coming true to this one." He stepped forward, clearing away fallen branches from the forest floor as if needing the distraction. "I've been back a few times on hunting trips. Never seen anyone here. The way the land slopes, most people are scared of falling over the top. It should hide us from view." He pointed at the stone face. "The walls will protect us from the worst of winter when it comes. Those hollows in the sandstone are not deep, but they might give us a place to sleep off the ground, perhaps a store for our food until we can build a permanent shelter."
"It is only May," Robin replied.
John looked at Robin, and there was a sadness there.
Reality struck.
It
would take an official pardon from King Henry himself to be allowed to go home. The likelihood of such an event was laughable. Unless something changed, this would be their forever.
Robin swallowed. "You're right." He contemplated how they could possibly build a shelter and necessaries for survival with no tools. "Any chance you brought an ax?"
Little John sighed. "What I would give to be back in my forge. I could have made you anything."
"Perhaps we could build a forge?" offered Robin Hood.
Little John snorted. "Anvils? Firestones? Coal? Not to mention the smoke from the forge's hearth that would give us away?"
"Still..." said Robin.
Little John waved away his suggestion. "No, the old ways are lost to us. We move on."
"Perhaps we can return to our homes, in a day or so. Perhaps something remains," offered Robin, trying to color his words with a hope he did not feel.
"Perhaps," said Little John. He heaved a heavy sigh of resignation. "But we may have to resort to the same tactics as the highwaymen to survive."
"Rob those on the Great North Road?"
"What other choice do we have?"
The weight of harming others for their own survival pressed like a weight on Robin's chest. "It would be nice if we could find out the sort of men who traveled and only take from those who deserved it," Robin remarked. "I wouldn't mind lightening the Sheriff's lackeys of some of their load."
"Indeed, that would almost make it pleasant." Little John shook off the gloom like a dog shaking water from his coat. "I have no appetite for this. None at all."
"Neither do I. I was supposed to take over my father's farm." He affected a forced cheerfulness. "Only yesterday I attended an archery tournament and one of the Sheriff's men said I should look for a job in the guards." Robin rested his fists on his waist as the images of what came next flashed across his memory. "May they all burn in hell where they belong."
Little John folded his arms and regarded him with some surprise. "Really? I, too, took part in the Sheriff's tournament. They said I was the finest fighter they had ever seen. They gave me words of such flattery. And then the Sheriff pressed me into service."
"Pressed into service?" Robin repeated to make sure he heard Little John correctly. "But you're a tradesman. A nailer."
"Aye." Little John nodded. The protective shield the burly man had formed around his story began to thaw. "I had gone to Nottingham Castle, lured there by their prizes. I have little ones to feed. But the Sheriff saw me fight in the tournament and forced me to join the ranks of his guards. Forced me to leave my home and wife and forge." Little John shivered. "I had no appetite for his methods. I tried to make myself the worst member ever assigned to the Sheriff's guard in the hopes he would end my conscription. When it didn't, I befriended a cook and he helped me escape. If I show my face again, though, I'll be executed as a deserter."
Robin realized, listening to Little John's story, that even if his father had not been murdered and their lands seized, he would not have been allowed to return home. He thought of Guy of Gisborne's praise, his invitation for a celebratory drink. He would have been forced to join the guards of Nottinghamshire. The sinister purpose of the games sent a chill through his bones.
"That would have been my fate, too," Robin murmured in shock. He touched his tunic, still stiff with rust-colored stains that no dousing in a river could wash away. That morning before the May Games would have been the last happy memory he would have had with his father one way or the other. Tears tightened his throat. He could not allow his new acquaintance to see them. He set his jaw and forced everything deep. "You've been inside Nottingham Castle and the Sheriff's prison?" he asked gruffly.
Little John nodded. "Indeed. Gloomy places, heavy with sadness. I'm glad to be free of them all."
"Ever since King John refused to honor the Magna Carta, even though King Henry promised to reinstate it..." Robin rambled, trying to keep the feeling of holding his dying father at bay. His father's body was so light in his arms. The image kept flashing, kept repeating in his mind. He dug the pointed toe of his shoe into the earth. "Everything has gotten worse and worse."
His voice thickened and caused Little John to look at him with concern. Robin was so lost in his memories, he didn't even notice. His vision narrowed and it was like he was back in the cave and all he could see was one small opening of light. His heart began racing. He could not feel his own skin.
But John understood.
Like a master with an injured animal, John became very soft and still. His heavy limbs, capable of so much violence, became careful. He kept his rumbling tone gentle, offering up the distraction of conversation. He spoke with as much passion as a person discussing the weather, allowing Robin to decide which direction it should turn. "I heard there were over twenty-seven clauses in the Magna Carta to rein in the Sheriff's powers. Twenty-seven! One even calling specifically for Philip Marc's resignation as High Sheriff. All abandoned. And that madman now runs around, doing whatever he pleases, taking his salary from whomever he pleases, burning down the homes of people who don't pay him."
It was the wrong thing to say. Robin screwed up his face, the smell of his home burning fresh in his nose like he was still there.
Little John saw Robin's struggle, the tremble in his body like he might collapse or explode, but didn't know which. "That Barons' War..." He reached out and rested his hand on Robin's shoulder with understanding. "I lost my uncle in it... Horribly. And he was the lucky one. Those who lived had a difficult time afterward."
Robin closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. He nodded, trying to reassure this new friend he was going to be all right, but the panic would not ease.
Little John pulled back and reflected, "There was nothing civil about that civil war." He continued to talk, allowing Robin the space to work through whatever he needed to without judgment. "It started, though, when Prince John decided to take a stand against King Richard, his own brother, in Nottingham castle. That siege created chaos all the way down. And the repairs still have not been completed. Although, should we be so surprised with John's son now on the throne? Oh, I could tell you stories about the things I saw while working at the castle. That Sheriff sits there, complaining he must eat pheasant instead of swan when the king is away, as his servants fight for the food he throws to the dogs and swine. And when King Henry is in Nottingham? All he does is take hunting parties out into Sherwood Forest and give away our oak trees to his friends. They build castles while the people in my village were not even allowed to buy the wood and had to live in houses of mud!"
"The poor in my village were crippled with taxes and tithes while the priests promised them comforts in the afterlife and the Sheriff added new rooms his home." Robin's voice stumbled. "The Sheriff killed my father because we were starving. My father poached a deer, and the Sheriff killed him for it." Robin's chest heaved, and then he confessed, "And all I did was run."
Little John leaned against his quarterstaff. Although he began talking about his own life, it was as if he was trying to explain something important to Robin. "I believed I could stomach serving the Sheriff of Nottingham if it meant keeping my family fed. They told me I should be grateful for the employment, grateful for the roof that kept me dry, that I should keep my mouth shut and thank my lucky stars." Little John shook his massive head. "But you see what that man does, taking from people who have nothing. The Sheriff is evil, and I do not say that lightly. Whatever happened, there is nothing a man can do against a force like that, except take any means he can to survive."
John and Robin looked at each other.
Robin took a deep, shuddering breath as Little John, once again, rested his paw on Robin's shoulder, reminding him they were both alive.
"You saw much, did you?" asked Robin.
"Aye," said John. His face was suddenly aged and haggard. "Things that would keep a good man awake at night wondering if there is a God. As I believe you did, too."
They stood in s
ilence, and then Little John's stomach broke the moment, letting out an enormous growl. They both laughed. John rubbed his belly, ruefully. "But speaking of starving under the Sheriff's rule..."
Robin's fingers worried his bow as he thought. They were outlaws, no longer beholden to a cruel king like John or a weak king like Henry. They no longer needed to tithe to the corrupt churches who promised heaven tomorrow to the people who were living in hell today. They would pay no more taxes to fill the Sheriff's treasury. They were beyond the law. "Do you know how to find the king's pale?"
"Where he keeps his deer?" asked John with curiosity. "Aye, I know enough to stay far away from it."
"If we are going to be forced into this life, we might as well give the Sheriff of Nottingham a reason for banishing us. I did not even get to taste the deer my father slew." Robin jerked his chin towards the direction they had come. "Wouldn't some venison be nice?"
A smile crossed Little John's face.
CHAPTER SIX
Robin Hood ran through the forest, the branches brushing against his face. He feet flew so fast, it felt like soaring.
There was nothing but him and Little John and the wind and the trees. His empty belly would, at last, be filled and at the expense of the king and the Sheriff of Nottingham. The idea carried him like an arrow through the air. There was a moment of joy, a whisper of lightness, in that sliver of possible retribution. He could not help the whoop of joy that sang from his lungs, a whoop that ended with a laugh. Little John threw him a warning glance, but it was with a grin. He felt it, too.
The trees finally parted, opening to the cleared land inside the king's pale. A herd of fat deer grazed peacefully unaware. Robin and John hid behind the fence posts of the preserve, eyeing their prey.
"That looks like a good one." Little John pointed to a younger buck. "Just the sort of animal that would be missed."
Robin could almost taste the roasted venison on his tongue as he nocked his bow. But as he aimed, his concentration was broken by the sound of two men approaching. He and Little John crept back and hid beneath the green fronds of the forest's ferns.
