A Hoboken Hipster in Sherwood Forest

by Mari Mancusi

  Instead, he pulls her into an embrace.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I stare at the two hugging figures for a second, wanting to pull out every hair in my head—or, preferably, every hair in Marion's perfect mane.

  Obviously Kat was wrong about the closure thing. On the contrary, these two look like they're about to totally hook up. Maybe they made peace with each other. Maybe Marion apologized or made some stupid excuse as to why she's ignored him this past year. Maybe the dumbass actually accepted her apology.

  Maybe they're back together.

  Maybe Robin and I are done, forever.

  Tears blur my vision and I rush back into the woods, unable to watch the scene a moment longer. I knew it! I knew he still had feelings for her. He was just using me until she came back.

  I should have known this would happen the second he suggested we keep our relationship a secret. I mean, hello? He was too ashamed to even tell anyone that we were dating! That's so got to be one of the golden He's Just Not That Into You rules. If he really loved me, if he really wanted our relationship to last, he would have sung it from the rooftops like Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge, consequences be damned.

  Unfortunately, knowing this in my head doesn't make my stomach hurt any less. Or my heart, for that matter. As the song says, love bites.

  I run and run and run, not looking or caring where I'm going or what I'm going to do once I get there. As long as I'm away—out of proximity of the lovebirds— I'll hopefully be able to breathe again. That, in and of itself, seems like it will be a major accomplishment at this point.

  The forest thins and I step out into a darkened meadow. A full moon illuminates the landscape, casting stark, frightening shadows at every bend. I look around warily, feeling like I've just stepped into some cheesy slasher flick. The home audience is screaming at me, begging me not to go off alone into the night. Not leave the safety of the camp, while Jason Voorhees, Freddy Kruger, Michael Myers and Leatherface all lie in wait, having joined forces to participate in my ultimate demise.

  Um, yeah. Imagination running wild, I know. But sadly it's almost more comforting at the moment to dwell on potential psycho axe-wielding killers than rerun my mental YouTube video of Marion kissing Robin for the ten-thousandth time in my brain.

  I try to catch my breath, hands on my knees. What now? Where do I go? What do I do? I certainly can't go back to the camp. Not now and probably not ever. After all, it would be way too torturous to sit around and watch Robin and Marion falling deeper and deeper in love as each day passes. To sit and listen to his trite apologies. His excuses.

  It's not you, it's me. Can't we just be friends? I need some space...

  Yeah, I'd pretty much rather pull out my own toenails one by one than listen to that bullshit.

  Problem is, if not back to camp, where do I go? I'm now stuck in the same situation I was in when I first arrived in the 12th century. Out of time. Trapped in medieval England until King Richard returns, and who the hell knows when that may be?

  I shiver under my thin tunic. It's cold out here on the moors, and in my haste to get the hell out of Sherwood all I grabbed was my camera bag instead of a much more practical warm cloak. At the same time, it's too dark to wander far. What if I tripped on a branch or slipped on moss or fell in a hole and hit my head on a rock? I'd be totally SOL.

  Resignedly, I gather up some stray sticks from the forest's edge and clear a spot to make a fire. Luckily the merry men taught me to light one the old fashioned way—without a Bic lighter. Otherwise I'd probably freeze to death. Nice thought.

  It takes me a few tries—rubbing two sticks together to spark a fire is so not as easy as they make it out to be in the movies—but in the end I manage to get a small blaze going. The process of feeding the fire, bringing it crackling to life, is somewhat soothing and takes my mind off my situation temporarily.

  But when it's lit and I sit down beside it, holding my now sooty hands out for warmth, all my pain comes rushing back, my brain flooding with instant replays and unwanted memories. My stomach aches and I feel like I'm going to throw up.

  I'm lost. I'm freezing. I'm probably going to be eaten by some random animal I don't even recognize, and once again, I've fallen for a man who would rather be with someone else. Who took me and used me and emptied me just because I was convenient, because I was there. And when he was done, he cast me aside. He reunited with his true love and left me alone once again.

  Okay, I need to get a grip here. I can't keep playing the victim. I purse my lips and try to remember what the self-help books told me. How I need to own my own power, not give it away to someone unworthy. That my destiny lies in my own hands. That I am a complete, wonderful, beautiful goddess who doesn't need a man to complete her.

  I am woman. Hear me roar.

  So how come all I want to do is whimper?

  ###

  I awake the next morning curled up beside the black coals of the burnt-out fire, soaking wet from the dewy grass I fell asleep on. Ugh. I sit up and try to brush myself off. Thank goodness no one's around to see me. I'm rumpled, tear-stained, and smell way too ripe—not exactly the beautiful goddess the self-help books want me to channel.

  Still, the sun is shining high in the sky, casting glittery light on the wet grass. A nearby bird twitters gaily, perhaps blissfully happy about the early morning worm he managed to score by not sleeping in. A warm breeze tickles my face, sharing the sweet scent of honeysuckle and wildflowers with me. And to top off the Disney-esque moment, I notice an adorable little spotted fawn a few yards away, casually munching grass next to her big brown-eyed mother. I watch as they enjoy their breakfast, seeming not to have a care in the world.

  Suddenly I feel somewhat better.

  So what if Robin and Danny are both losers with a capital L? My existence is not defined by whether a man likes me or not. I'm a 21st-century chick, after all. I could live a completely fulfilling life without any man at all, if I so desired. I don't need some stupid guy bringing me down.

  I stand up and toe the fire like the men taught me, making sure there are no glowing embers to annoy Smokey the Bear or to kill Bambi's dad. My sudden movement startles the deer and they glide off across the field in graceful leaps.

  I look back at the forest, wondering what to do. Part of me, the masochistic, likes-to-be-tortured part, wants to race back to the camp and see if Robin and Marion are sharing breakfast together after a night of passion. But, I realize, this option will only prolong my heartbreak and intensify my grief. I must be strong. I must let go. I must prove I can live without him by my side. After all, I don't have much choice.

  I square my shoulders, firming my resolve. I just need to hang someplace until King Richard returns. I don't need to stick around Sherwood Forest to survive. I can find my own place. In fact, I can head right to Nottingham Castle. After all, then I'll be nearby when King Richard returns with the grail. Maybe I can even get the 411 on that whole thing. Someone must know his ETA, right? Even if they're not looking forward to it.

  Sure, the last time I was there I had to run for my life, but that was me dressed as a boy. Surely if I throw on a dress and let down my hair no one's going to recognize me. Heck, maybe I'll even go get a job. Become self-sufficient.

  Screw Robin and his merry men. I don't need anyone but myself.

  I take stock of my surroundings and think back to the maps we used when planning our robberies. Nottingham should be south of here, and the rising sun to the east clues me in to which direction I should walk to get there. It's going to take me hours to get there by foot. But that's okay. It'll give me time to pep talk myself some more.

  I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darn it, Stuart Smalley, people like me.

  Um, yeah. Maybe I should just take in the scenery.

  Soon I reach a small village nestled against a grassy hillside. I realize it's the same town we brought our first robbery spoils to more than a month ago. Today it looks different than the sad, dilapida
ted village it once was. For one thing, the threadbare thatched roofs have been repaired and the crumbling stone wall has been rebuilt. Children play outside the village perimeter, running and screaming in glee as they chase each other and a scruffy-looking little dog. Sure, the people are still wearing rags, but they don't look as underfed as they did during our first visit. Today the faces are fuller, the eyes not as hollow. Okay, they're still probably not meeting the full RDA Pyramid of Nutrition, but they definitely seem better off.

  Pride warms my insides as I take in the scene. A few peasant women giggle as they hang laundry. Two men shout a happy arrival, showing off a freshly killed deer. The town seems happy and healthy and secure.

  And it's all because of me.

  Yes, little old me, who never did any good in her whole life before now is responsible for all of this. The girl who always stayed in the shadows of her drug-addicted mother or abusive foster parents or loud, vociferous husband. The girl who took an innocuous job as a fashion photographer because she was too afraid of applying to be a real photojournalist. That girl stepped out of her comfort zone, as the shrinks would say, and really made a difference. Okay, fine, it sounds kind of corny, but the evidence here more than proves it. These people are a thousand times better off than before I came to Sherwood Forest. Tears have been replaced by laughter. Empty stomachs are full. All because of me and my plan.

  I totally rock.

  The washerwomen finish hanging their clothes and head back into one of the thatched huts. I examine the garments they left, a plan forming in my mind. If I'm going to find a job in Nottingham, first thing I'll need is a dress. No reason to keep up the eunuch act once there. At the same time, I can't bring myself to just take clothes off the clothesline. After giving so much to these people, the last thing I want to do is take something away.

  I know, I'll buy one. I have ten silver pennies in my bag. That should be way more than enough.

  I knock on the cottage door. It's a tiny dwelling, crudely constructed of sticks and a straw thatched roof. Not the most secure-looking building, that's for sure. Certainly wouldn't have been a problem for the barrel-lunged wolf of legend to huff and puff and blow it all down.

  "A good morn to you, sire." A pretty young teenage girl (had I been expecting one of the three pigs?) answers the door, greeting me with a small curtsey. "You are one of Robin Hood's men, are you not? It’s a great honor to have ye knock on me humble door."

  "Shh," I say, finger to my lips, not wanting to clue the whole town in that I'm here. After all, I'm trying to keep a low profile. If Robin comes looking for me, I don't want him to know where I've gone. Not that he's likely to expend the energy on a search. He's probably worn out from screwing Marion all night. "I don't want to cause a scene. I was just wondering if I could buy a dress from you. Maybe one from the clothesline over there?" I point to the laundry.

  "A dress? What would ye be needin' a dress for?" the girl asks, looking a tad suspicious.

  "It's a long story," I say. "Involving... well, one of our adventures." There. Be as vague as possible, all while sounding unbearably cool.

  "Ach, you'll be usin' it to trick the Sheriff of Nottingham, aye?" the girl asks, her watery blue eyes wide and shining with excitement. I thought she seemed impressed before; now she's looking at me like she's from New Jersey and I'm Bon Jovi.

  "Er, yeah. Something like that," I agree. "So, can you spare a dress? I will pay you well, of course."

  "Aye, of course. In truth, I can do one better. Come inside." She pulls open the door and invites me in. I step over the threshold into a dimly lit living space. The girl asks me to wait and disappears into a back room.

  I look around. The small cottage is sparsely furnished and dirt-floored, but it seems clean and the fire pit is ventilated enough so the air is not overwhelmingly smoky. Still, a fire pit in a straw-roofed house? That should so be against some kind of code.

  The teen returns with a dress. My eyes widen as she holds it out for my inspection. This is not your typical scratchy linen, undyed peasant smock. She's offering me a fancy crimson-colored gown with bell sleeves, fluttery lace, and tiny sparkling beads seeded in the hems. Where did she—?

  " ‘Twas me mother's," the girl explains, pushing the dress into my hands. The material is soft, likely silk. "She was a fine lady, she was, back when King Richard ruled our land."

  "Ah. And, um, your mother won't mind you selling her dress?" I ask. After all, I know how teens can be. And I certainly don't want the missus of the house to come home from a day in the fields to learn that the last precious reminder of her former life has been sold for beer money.

  The girl casts her eyes to the floor and shakes her head sorrowfully. "She is dead, milord. Killed in a raid several months before Robin and his men arrived that first day. One of the sheriffs men demanded she give up the ruby ring my father had given her before going off to die in the crusades. My mother told 'im she'd rather die." The girl shrugs helplessly. "And so he killed her."

  I cringe. "Oh. I'm so sorry. That's terrible."

  The girl nods. "So if you be needin' a dress to outwit the sheriff, this is the one you should wear," she says, handing me the garment. The silk rustles as I take it carefully into my arms. "Me mother would be proud to have it go to such a good cause."

  "I can pay you for it," I interject, feeling a bit guilty that the dress isn't exactly being used as she might expect. I mean, sure, I technically didn't lie. I will be wearing it in an effort to trick the sheriff and the rest of the court. But it'll be more of a "lying on my resume to get a good job" kind of trick, rather than the “steal the court jewels and give them back to the people to repay them for all they've suffered under Prince John’s rule" type she might be hoping for.

  The girl waves a small brown hand. "Nay, I will not accept your silver. Forsooth, you and your men have done so much for our small village already. Look outside, milord. Children who once were at death's door now play without a care. My friends and neighbors smile as they go about an honest day's work, knowing now that their sweat and tears will not be in vain. Before you came we had nothing. No hope. No future. Now we thrive once again. So I am more than honored to give you my mother's dress. ‘Tis the very least I can do for all the happiness you have brought us."

  Pride wells up inside me. Again, wow. We really made a difference here. That's so cool. I've never saved a child from starving before. (Well, besides Eswin, the little boy from Guatemala I sponsor back in the 21st century for 'less than a dollar a day.' I'm such a sucker for Sally Struthers's pleas.)

  "Do not insult me mother's memory by refusing my gift," the girl adds. She's very well-spoken for being fifteen years old.

  "No, no. I won't," I assure her. "It's a beautiful dress, and I promise it'll be put to good use."

  The girl smiles, and I realize she's missing a few teeth. Too bad I couldn't rob a dentist and donate his services or something. Oh well, there's only so much I can do.

  She turns to tend the bubbling cooking pot over the firepit. I say good-bye and repeat my thanks, then slip out of the hut. But not before dropping three silver pennies onto a crude wooden table by the door. She'll thank me later.

  Now armed with a dress and a plan, I get directions to Nottingham Castle from one of the villagers and continue my journey. It's not as close as I would have liked, especially on foot, and the slow trip gives me way too much time to think. But I try to keep my mind off Robin and his betrayal, and instead concentrate on what yet lies in store for me.

  The way I figure it, the castle is the perfect place to hang while I wait for King Richard to return. After all, it's where royalty stays when it's in town, so it's likely he'll show up there first, right? And there I'll be, ready to convince him to give me a drop of Grail blood so I can get the hell out of Nottingham forever. Hopefully he's amenable to the idea. I can't imagine having waited all this time only to be turned down in the end.

  Then I'll be done. Mission accomplished. Nimue will somehow bring me
back to the 21st century and Kat can come back from the future. I wonder if time will have passed or if, like in Narnia, a thousand years here is like a day.

  Either way, Monday morning at work is going to be absolutely no fun. Total time-travel hangover.

  It's dusk by the time I reach the towering gray stone walls of Nottingham. Luckily they haven't yet closed the drawbridge for the night and I'm able to get myself inside. I wander around until I find a small inn and rent a room for the night. But that uses up the last of my money. Tomorrow I definitely need to find a job or I'll be forced to rob the rich to feed myself.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The morning sun streams through my window and I open my eyes, ready to greet day one of the rest of my life. This is a new chapter. A new start. And this time I'm going to do things right. No more hanging out in the forest, pretending I'm someone I'm not, mooning over someone who doesn't really want me. Starting today, I get to be myself again. Well, the 12th-century version of myself, but at least I'm back in dresses.

  I look around the medieval B&B where I spent the night. B #1 was moth-eaten and lumpy, and I'm not holding out much hope for B #2 being anything vegetarian. But that's okay. I'm rested and raring to go. Watch out Nottingham, Chrissie is in town.

  There's no shower, obviously, so I can't exactly freshen up the way I normally would back home. But I do convince the innkeeper to supply me with a pitcher of water and a small bar of soap to sponge bathe. Then I don the dress I got from the village teen. It feels a little loose—her mother must have been a bit heftier than I—but it's attractive and courtly looking. (At least in my mind. Admittedly, I skipped Fashion 101 of 12th century England.)

  I primp a bit more, though the polished metal that serves as a mirror doesn't exactly give me a crystal clear vision of my appearance. I pull my unruly hair into a bun and pinch my cheeks like Scarlett O'Hara used to, in an effort to achieve that sans-Cover Girl glow. It seems so odd to be worrying about things like hair and makeup again. But at the same time, it's kind of nice. Not that I ever was some fashionista like Kat, but I do like to look pretty on occasion.