A Hoboken Hipster In Sherwood Forest

by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi

  He's right, I realize, surprised. This "poor me" attitude I have held on to my whole life—playing the victim, the one who always loses—it's been nothing more than a self-indulgence to comfort myself rather than to allow myself to grow into a fully functioning adult. When my mother left my brother and I for three days without food, we sat in our rooms, hungry, never thinking for a moment we should go outside and find help. When one foster father beat me, I allowed myself to believe I deserved the punishment. And when things with Danny started going south, it only made sense to my addled mind. I wasn't deserving of a loving relationship. That's what I told myself. And so I allowed the distance between us to widen. I never questioned his late nights or the fact that we stopped talking. I sat home alone, feeling sorry for myself instead of fighting for my marriage. No wonder he ended up in another woman's arms. Not that it was my fault—he's a bastard to have done it. But I didn't give him any reason to stay.

  "Seeing Marion again was hard, forsooth," Robin admitted. "Long lost childhood feelings dredged to the surface. But I knew well that if I never faced those feelings, never said to her all I needed to say, I could never get past them. I would be trapped in a cage of my own making forever and never find the freedom to love you as you deserve to be loved." Even through the darkness I can see Robin's gentle smile. "In the short time you have been here, Chrissie, you have become more to me than ten thousand Marions. As she and I sat by the fire and talked, I missed you. I wanted you to be there. I wondered where you went, if you were worried. Jealous. Marion spun a thousand fascinating tales, and yet all I wanted was to run after you, begging for you to understand. And then"—he pauses, swallowing hard—"she kissed me. I didn't know what to do."

  "I saw the kiss. That's when I left."

  "God's blood, I was afraid of that. But did you not stay a moment longer—to see me push her away and tell her that what had once been between us was over long ago? That I was in love with someone else? With you?"

  "But if that's true, how come it took her so long to get back to Nottingham Castle? She didn't show up right away."

  Robin sighs. "She begged me not to send her off, said that she'd lied to her guards and couldn't return right away. I didn't know what to do." He shakes his head. "I wanted her gone, but it seemed wise to keep her friendship—her goodwill. And then I was searching for you...." He shakes his head. "Now I see she spent the time learning about our operations only to share that knowledge with the sheriff himself."

  "Well, I guess there was no way you could have known."

  "But I tell you true, Chrissie," Robin says earnestly. "Nothing happened between us. Because I love only you. More than anything in this world. I've been such a fool to make you lie to the men. To cover up something so right and so good. To make you ashamed to be who you are. If you can ever forgive me..." Tears cascade down his face like rain, and he makes no effort to brush them away.

  "Of course," I say, trying to talk past the lump in my own throat. "I love you too. I'm sorry I didn't trust you. That I took off before getting your explanation. That I didn't fight for your love. Now I know. I should have stood up for myself—and for us."

  "Indeed, my love. Indeed." He cups my chin and pulls me close, pressing his lips against mine lovingly. "I love you Chrissie," he whispers against my mouth.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I awake the next morning to screaming. Robin's shaking me by the shoulders, his eyes wide and his expression grave.

  "What's going on?" I ask, struggling to regain full consciousness.

  " 'Tis the sheriffs men," he says. "They have come earlier than we expected."

  "What? No!" I bolt up in bed, looking around the tent. The sheriff’s men are here? Now? This morning?

  "Come. We must get out of here," Robin commands, pulling me by the hand.

  I follow him out of the tent and enter a battle zone. Swords clashing, arrows flying, men on the ground bleeding and begging for mercy—it's the worst thing I've ever seen.

  Robin turns to me. "Chrissie, I want you to go," he commands. "Run far away."

  "What?" I cry, disbelieving. "I can't—"

  He glances around, his expression anguished. "This is a disaster. They outnumber us and will easily kill us all. And I cannot bear the thought of anything happening to you." He stares at me, desperation in his eyes. I realize I've become a liability, something he always warned the others about. A weakness. A distraction.

  "Go," I say, pushing him forward. "Don't worry about me."

  He gives me an agonized look, then turns and runs to the weapons tent. John throws him a bow and together the two men shout orders to others.

  I duck behind a tent, searching for a viable escape route, wondering not for the first time what happens when one gets killed in the 12th century. Will I bounce back home, safe and sound? Or is this it? I try to decide which would be better. Sure, with the bounce-back theory I'd be comfy cozy in the present day USA, but I will have lost Robin forever. And I can't imagine living without him.

  I look around. There's carnage everywhere. Our men are falling at a rapid pace. There's no way—no plan—that could have saved us from this attack. There's just too many of them. They're just too well equipped. We're dead. Doomed.

  A noise behind me makes me whirl around. An armored soldier stands above me, wielding a huge sword. I'm caught. And likely dead.

  I fall back, hands over my face in a vain attempt to ward off my deathblow. The soldier draws his sword back to swing.

  This is it. The moment of death. It's over. Forever. I send up a quick prayer to whoever’s listening, apologizing for every wrongdoing I can remember from first grade on. I should have gone to confession before heading to the 12th century.

  I think about Robin and pray that he makes it somehow. That he escapes and lives a long happy life. I figure maybe he has a chance. After all, this isn't how the story is supposed to end....

  I wait for my death, hoping it's quick. Hoping it's painless and that the soldier won't gut me and leave me alive with my entrails hanging out like you see in movies.

  But the deathblow doesn't come. Confused, I open my eyes. The soldier is still standing above me, looking down. What is he waiting for? Just do it already!

  " ‘Tis you!"

  Huh? I squint my eyes at him, confused. The soldier pulls off his helmet. My mouth drops open as I recognize the guy. It's the guard from Locksley Castle. The one I told Robin not to kill. The one we freed afterward.

  "Oh, hey there," I say, surprised and overwhelmingly relieved. Holy small world, Batman. "How's it going? Off the castle-guarding gig, I see."

  "I am Duncan of Carlisle. Once you saved my life," the soldier says. It's hard to hear him over the din of battle. He lowers his sword. "And I promised you the same someday. It seems this is destined to be that day."

  I stare at him, shocked and disbelieving. He's really going to spare my life?

  "Look," he hisses, his eyes darting to the battlefield behind us. "I will spare your life, but I must wound you somehow or someone else will surely kill you. A blow to the head will knock you out, but I shall make sure you live. If you wake, play dead until you are sure we have all left."

  "No way!" I cry. Then I won't be able to help. There's too few of us left as it is. We need every man. Robin, my beloved—"

  "I am sorry, girl, but you have no choice in the matter. I must keep my promise to save your life." And before I can move, he lifts his sword and sends the pommel crashing down on my head. I swim into blackness.

  ###

  I awake to the sounds of birds chirping too cheerfully, their tweets pounding into my already aching head. I sit up, for a moment not knowing where I am or what I'm doing here. Every muscle in my body aches and I'm covered in mud and grime. I look around and my mouth drops open in horror as visions of the morning flash back in rapid sequence.

  The camp has been crushed beyond recognition. Bodies of formerly merry men are scattered throughout—pierced by arrows, slashed by swords, tramp
led by horses. The stench of dead bodies and unending gore under the hot afternoon sun invades my nostrils and I place a hand over my nose, scrambling to my feet in dismay. But it's not enough. I lean over and puke my guts out.

  I desperately scan the area, a vain attempt to find survivors, but no one's moving. My heart pounds and my hands shake as I walk from body to body, checking each for signs of life—a faint pulse, a flutter of eyelash.

  No one stirs.

  Tears stream down my cheeks and I can barely breathe through my sobs. All these men. Their hopes, dreams, lives. Their mothers, wives, children. Everything has been cruelly ripped from them because they decided to help save their world.

  This is all my fault.

  If I had not suggested that they rise up—if I'd not told them the plan to rob the rich to feed the poor— then the sheriff would have had no reason to launch such an attack. The men could have lived out their days drunk and stupid in Sherwood Forest, never bothered by the local government. But no. Because I'd read a few storybooks, because I thought I knew how the legend went, I destroyed these people's lives. I killed them. I'm practically a murderer.

  And what about Robin Hood? My partner. My true love. The man who said he would die for me? I suddenly realize that while the notion of someone dying for me sounds romantic in theory, I certainly didn't want him to actually go through with it.

  What if Robin's dead?

  I scan the bodies again, searching for a telltale feathered green cap. There's no sign of him.

  I run to my place of solace, the spot by the lake where he and I shared so many thoughts on so many nights. I collapse at its shore; tears streaming from my eyes, splashing into the otherwise still water, rippling out into infinity. My head pounds with both physical and emotional agony.

  Robin, my love. Where are you? Could you really be dead? Could I really have lost you forever?

  That guard did me no favor by sparing my life. Not if with his other hand he struck down the only man I will ever love. Not if now I'm destined to live a purgatorial, loveless existence, robbed of the one person who could make life worth living.

  "Chrissie!"

  Hope leaps into my chest at the sound of the voice, and I'm not sure I can believe my ears. And then I doubt my eyes—am I seeing a ghost? But no. He's real. Robin of Locksley. Robin Hood. Robin of mine. Standing in front of me. He's caked in mud and dirt, but he's here. He's alive. And he's looking at me with the same overwhelming relief I'm feeling while looking at him.

  "Robin!” I cry, jumping to my feet and throwing my arms around him. "Oh, Robin! I thought you were dead!"

  "Chrissie, my love! You live!" he cries, burying his head in my curls. "When I came back to see what happened to the hideout—"

  "Came back?" I pull away from the hug, confused. "Where did you go?"

  "Many of us not killed outright were taken captive. The sheriff wants to hang us in the castle courtyard, to show the kingdom what happens to outlaws. Little John, Allan a Dale, Friar Tuck, myself and Will Scarlet were all thrown into a barred wagon. Halfway to the castle, they stopped to give the horses a rest and the strangest thing happened. Duncan of Carlisle— the one whose life you made me spare at Castle Locksley, approached the wagon once the others had turned their backs. He said he would free me to repay the debt to his own life. I begged that he free us all, but he said 'twould be too obvious and they would come after us."

  "He saved my life during the battle as well." I smile, rubbing my head. "Though in a much more painful way."

  Robin looks impressed. "Then your foresight not to have him killed saved both of our lives."

  "Not foresight. Just human compassion. And good karma."

  "Karma?"

  "Er, never mind." We don't have time to get into the Hindu laws of cause and effect at the moment. "So he let you free?"

  "Aye. And I promised the others I'd return to rescue them before the hanging." He shakes his head. "So I rushed back here, hoping to find others to aid me. But you are the first living person I've found. It seems... all the others are lost."

  His sober words erase the joy I felt a moment ago upon learning he was alive. "Oh, Robin!" I sob into his shoulder. "This is all my fault. If I hadn't roused the men into action, if I hadn't suggested we rob—"

  "Shhh. Quiet, silly woman," Robin scolds, squeezing me into a tighter embrace. I can barely breathe he's hugging me so hard, but I don't mind. "You're speaking nonsense. You gave these men something no one else could. A reason to live. A sense of purpose. A noble cause. You saved starving children. You put roofs over people's heads. You gave the hopeless hope. We were a miserable band before you arrived. Now we are soldiers, fighting for our land and country."

  "But we've lost. Most of us are dead, and those of us who are left are captured. There's no way to rescue them. I mean, look at what happened last time you tried to storm a castle. And now it's just the two of us."

  "Aye, it does seem that two against an entire castle are not favorable odds," Robin agrees. "But I cannot leave the men to die at the hands of the sheriff. We must try."

  I pull back from the hug to smile at him. He's changed so much since I first arrived in Sherwood Forest. The old, defeated Robin wouldn't risk a fight with three men on horseback to save a boy's hand. Now he's ready to lay siege to an entire castle to rescue his drinking buddies. He's definitely back to his old self—the Robin Hood of legend.

  I've changed too, I realize. I'm no longer simply Chrissie Hayward of Hoboken. I've grown beyond the obedient magazine photographer who spent most of her life being walked on by others. I'm one of Robin's merry men. I'm a soldier for the cause. Sherwood Forest is my home, and I love our ragged gang as much as Robin does. If I have to die to save them, I will.

  "I'm with you," I say, pressing my lips together in determination. "Whatever it takes, I'm with you."

  "As am I!"

  "And I!"

  "And I!"

  Robin and I whirl around at the sound of voices behind us. My eyes widen as I see a ragtag team of peasants marching toward us. There's at least a hundred men, women and children led by two merry men. I breathe a sigh of relief. We may not have saved our camp, but at least we saved the villagers.

  "What happened?" asks one of the men, looking at the carnage with horror.

  "The sheriff came early," Robin says, relating all that had happened. "Those not killed were taken captive. They are to be hanged in the castle courtyard tomorrow."

  The villagers murmur amongst themselves. Then a bearded man steps forward. "We will help you get them back."

  Robin stares at him. "You will?" he asks, his voice laced with his disbelief.

  " ‘Tis only fair," pipes up a sweet-faced woman. “You risked yer hides to feed us when we was dying of starvation. You stood up to the sheriff’s men and saved the lives of our babes. We was glad to accept your charity, but now 'tis time we pay you back."

  Another steps forward, a boy, probably only fifteen. "We are not warriors, sir. But we are many. And we will fight with everything we have to help rescue your men."

  The woman nods. "You have taught us that we can fight back. That we can make a difference."

  "And we're ready to make that difference now. To throw the bastard Sheriff of Nottingham out of power and restore England to its rightful glory!"

  The bearded man raises a fist in the air and the crowd cheers. The noise is almost deafening. Did I say there were a hundred people? It sounds like nearly a thousand.

  Robin stares at them, tears rolling down his cheeks. He gets on his knees, humble, and bows his head.

  "Thank you, Lord," he says in prayer. "Thank you." Then he rises to his feet, jumps on a nearby boulder to get some height and starts addressing the crowd.

  "I welcome you all," he says. " ‘Tis a proud day for England indeed. Now here's what we're going to do."

  Chapter Twenty

  In a videogame I used to play with Danny they called it Zerging—named after a little creature called a Zergling th
at's cheap to make and can be sent, in massive quantities, to rush an enemy's base, defeating them with sheer numbers rather than strength of arms. Danny used to always create a million of the tiny buggers, bringing down my carefully constructed space stations every time.

  But Zerglings are made of pixels not people. And so Robin's suggestion that we basically storm the castle and rescue his men is not one I can comfortably go along with. "Too many people will die," I whisper into his ear. "There have already been enough wasted deaths today as it is."

  Then what do you suggest?" he asks.

  I think fast. How can we stage a castle rescue with no casualties, launch a war even Gandhi would approve of?

  That's it! Wow, what would I do in the Middle Ages without movie plots to fall back on? "We'll do a sit-in," I announce. "A peaceful protest."

  Robin and the rest of the villagers look at me as if I'm absolutely bonkers. "What do you mean?" he asks.

  "Look," I say. "There's a lot of us here, but there's no way we're going to be able to storm a castle on our own. No offense, but you guys are mostly farmers, armed with pitchforks. You can't go up against trained, armed guards. And I like you all. I don't want to see you get killed trying to help us. So, instead, we'll go sit outside the castle and shout stuff. Dance. Play instruments. Whatever."

  "A siege? You want to try to starve them out?" Robin asks. "That could take a long time. And the hangings are tomorrow morning.''

  "No, no." I shake my head. "The sit-in is just a distraction. All the guards are going to be watching us, waiting for us to make a violent move. In the meantime, a few men will go around the back. Remember that castle wall you told me about, Robin? The one you climbed to find Marion? You can lead our most-trained men in through there and go rescue the prisoners. Since most of the soldiers will be keeping an eye on the ruckus outside, there likely won't be a huge guard contingent to deal with."

  Robin nods his head slowly. "You know, Chrissie, that could actually work."

  The men and women nod and murmur in agreement. Robin squeezes my arm. I feel a sense of pride well up inside me. For the first time in my life I feel a strange sense of confidence. Like William Wallace, aka Mel Gibson, speaking to his men on the Scottish moor before the battle of their lives. Although, come to think of it, that didn't end so well. Obviously, old Bill the Scot had needed me and my movie plots.