The Vanity of Hope

by G W Langdon

  “The slowness of nature takes me out of my own head. Nature helps me stop thinking.”

  “Why would you want to do that? Everybody thinks.”

  “I think too much… what happened in the church the other day.” He blew on his fingertips to calm his racing heart. “I’ve had time to think.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I mean, thinking is good; only not too much.”

  “You’re a typical Gemini. You love the feel of the earth, but you walk around with your head in the clouds looking elsewhere.”

  He enjoyed small talk with Sarra. Anything to not say what was really important and would change their lives forever. Maybe, because they had no choice, it was easier to pretend it was just another day. “Gemini?”

  “That’s your star sign. You want to save the world, but I’d be happy saving the town.”

  “It’s a pity they don’t have woman sheriffs.”

  “They should have. I could thump most of the clowns around here.”

  They both laughed, a little too loud. Sarra fiddled with a frill on the frock and her smile faded.

  “What is it?” Tom said.

  “It’s the way you are when you talk about things we can’t see or imagine. Not everyone cares about those things. Most of us are happy living day to day. That’s good enough for me, but for some reason you want to know what being alive is.”

  He made a small split in the stem of the daisy with his thumbnail. “It’s just that I can tell you things that I wouldn’t dare tell anybody else. You mean a lot to me, Sarra—more than a lot.”

  She leaned in and gave him a tight, brief hug. “That’s because you don’t lie. You might have a wild imagination, but I trust you—unless you are kidding, and that doesn’t count because I know you’re fooling.” She grabbed her bonnet against another sudden wind gust. The oak trees swayed and strained in the rising wind and their old timber creaked. A branch snapped and she gave a small startle. “Shouldn’t we hurry?”

  He threaded another daisy through a split stem. It was wrong to expect Sarra to just come with him to Europe—Spain… further away to Dalmatia, although he’d never say that aloud around here. Spain for ears; Dalmatia for thinking. What right did he have to ask her to turn her life upside down for an unknown future that was sure to be nothing that she was used to? If an alien demon considered them a pair, then they jolly well were. He gazed into her eyes. “You aren’t like the others. That’s what I love about you.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I have money—Peterson’s gold for killing the beast. I can read and write, blacksmith, break in horses, plow fields, hunt—and you can cook. My teeth are sound.”

  “Thomas Ryder, you’re babbling, again.” She brushed the creases off her frock. “I am eighteen years old, and you’re no spring chicken at twenty-two, even if it was the other day.”

  He placed the daisy chain around her neck and tied the ends with a granny knot. Now or never. He dropped to one knee. “Will you marry me? If it’s too soon after your mother and you want to be sure your head’s right before—”

  “A girl has a lot to consider. I don’t expect you to settle down and be ordinary, but you’ll have responsibilities, and not just to me. I understand it means a lot for you to live in a fair world, but this talk of a Republic? You’re no good to me hanging from the end of a rope. You give that up, or else… I’m not going to end up like my mother and have to raise children on my own.”

  “I would trade a Republic for you every time.”

  A wide smile beamed over her face. “As crazy as it is… yes. I will spend the rest of my life with you, Thomas Ryder.”

  He slipped the gold ring onto her wedding finger. “The smithy crafted it from one of Peterson’s coins. I promise to love and take care of you, forever.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and she draped her arms over his broad shoulders. He lifted her off the ground as they kissed and twirled her around in a tight spin.

  Marco and Ellie neighed and rubbed heads.

  An iridescent cloud of red and yellow insects shone in the sun that beamed through the forest as if there might be magic in the air. Tom let go of Sarra and danced his silly idea of the Rufty Tufty dance.

  She wiped the tears from her eyes and scrunched her nose. “You are crazy.”

  #

  The Midsummer festival always drew a big crowd, but this year’s doubled festivities had attracted over five hundred people. Most were from Bentley, Black Nest and around—regular enough to be called locals. The fancy coaches under the trees belonged to royalty who’d made the two-hour trip from London.

  Tom and Sarra tied their horses to the rail.

  “Here we go,” he said, drawing his staff from the leather sleeve by the saddlebag. Judging by the grey clouds peering above the horizon the wind would turn westerly later. Although a welcome sight, the clouds were far from drought-busters, but he kept his coat on—just in case the clouds came to something. Out of habit he looked down, expecting to see Dougal padding alongside, eyes fixed straight ahead and eager for the scraps of ‘dropped’ food and hugs from the small children.

  The main tent for the ceremony flapped in the warming breeze from the south.

  “It’s a big crowd,” Sarra said. “Should be easy for the little ones to get lost.”

  “If I was a parent, the first place I’d look is by the food stalls.” He shook his head at the tables of covered food. “They must have cleaned out half the forests around here to get that much ready for show.”

  “Royalty, dear. Everything’s about appearances.”

  “I know, but look at it all.” They stopped at the ceremony tent and peered in. “I’ll be damned. Is there anything left in the forests?”

  They moved onto the craft stalls of the smithies, local folk, and the widows forced to make something extra from yarn, thread, or cloth to get that little bit more on the kitchen table.

  “You look like you need a real necklace,” the gypsy said to Sarra.

  “Oh, this,” she said, nudging Tom. “It’s from an admirer.”

  “That ring’s worth plenty.”

  “It’s not for sale.” He reached across the table and picked up a ruby locket on a silver chain. “How much?”

  “Two shillings.”

  He dribbled three bits of silver from his pouch and held out his palm. “And the silver chain,” he said, closing his hand as the gypsy tried to swipe the coins before the deal was made.

  “You drive a hard bargain for someone who’s carrying a lot of money around his waist.”

  He rested his hand on his knife. “Don’t you or your little gang in the back of the tent get any ideas.”

  “Of course not. We know who you are,” she said, exchanging the chain and locket for the coins. “The beast slayer. But there might be out-of-towners around here. Best you be careful, Thomas Ryder, especially since you’re burdened down with her.”

  Sarra leaned over the table. “Who you calling a ‘burden’?”

  The gypsy dropped the coins down the inside of her tatty dress. “Enjoy your day.”

  They passed the fortune-tellers and other strangers who’d come for the money. He drew his knife and sliced off a curl of his hair. He placed the hair inside the ruby locket, closed it with a small snap, and gently lifted the locket over Sarra’s head. He passed her the chain and patiently looked across the festival as she reached around his neck and latched the ends of the chain together.

  Forest Ranger Peterson rang the bell and the crowd murmured quietly.

  “Thank you everybody for coming here today,” he said, holding up a shovel. He nodded to the small group seated in the front row of royals and Bishop Langton who had traveled up from Winchester on the coast. “I want to give a special thanks to the patrons who’ve made the trip here today to give their royal approval. The Lodge ensures the forests of Alice Holt and Woolmer will stay in prime condition for safe and prosperous hunting in the future. My fondest hope is you enjoy the day and hav
e a safe trip home.” Peterson handed the shovel to the bishop.

  Tom leaned on his staff. “Just get on with it,” he whispered to Ol’ Smokey.

  “Sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral on Tuesday,” he replied. “Had to make sure I had a good range of shoes in case one of the visitors’ horses needed one replaced to get back to London.”

  “That’s all right,” Tom said. “It was a small affair.”

  “Without further ado,” the bishop said, “it is my honor and privilege to turn the first sod for the new Lodge of Alice Holt Forest.” He turned the already-dug sod, puffed and wheezed upright, and leaned on the shovel handle.

  “The bishop looks like he might croak it,” Tom said, as the crowd cheered and clapped and blew loud whistles.

  “Maybe they’ll need the shovel later to dig a deeper hole.”

  “Let the festivities begin,” Peterson called out.

  The women folk broke away and clustered in groups to catch up on local and nearby news. The men, after shaking hands with old friends, headed over to the lifting and chopping events. Father Martin herded the children towards the pile of sacks for the first race.

  “Littlest ones grab the sack that’s the right size for you and get to the start line. You bigger ones get ready,” he said, glancing to the pile of sacks on the dray. “We’ve got the three-legged and the egg and spoon races to get done. Get a move on, or there won’t be time for a lolly scramble.”

  Tom peered over the field of hats and bonnets for his parents and spied his father above the crowd, but on the far side. “Peterson must be very pleased with the turnout for his new hunting lodge. June was a quiet time for the inner circles of London’s royal society and the chance to visit the peasants out in the country would be a welcome distraction from their boring lives of ease. Blast. He’s spied me. Now we’ll have to meet them.”

  “Come in,” Peterson said, cajoling Sarra into the heart of the London visitors. He fawned over her and smiled at her frock. “You look wonderful. And you do as well, Tom.”

  He removed his hat as he entered the royal den. Good ol’ Sarra. Despite the pageantry and feathery pomp, she was still the same, no-nonsense person on the inside—where it counted.

  “You saved us a lot of trouble,” Peterson said, “but the beast could have killed you. You should have organized a gang and played it safe.”

  The way his best friend, Willie, had organized a gang of men and dogs and ended up dead—ripped to pieces, and his horse, too. “Gamekeepers work alone,” Tom told him.

  “Alice Holt is again a safe place to build a life around,” Peterson said, smiling down at Sarra.

  “Look,” she said holding out her left hand. “Tom asked me to marry him.”

  Peterson coughed and stifled a splutter. “Well, that’s a surprise,” he said. He reached across and shook Tom’s hand. “Congratulations, you’ve hooked a good one in Sarra. It’s all happening for you right now. First the beast and now Sarra. Hope you haven’t got any more surprises for us.”

  Tom and Sarra looked at each other.

  “No, no,” she said. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing planned,” Tom said. “Just another regular day—except for the lodge. Your lodge.”

  Peterson raised his right brow. “Anyway, we’ll have to get Ol’ Smoky to make an iron sign to mark your bravery and skills. An archer with his bow drawn, aiming into the trees. A sign, for eternity.”

  Tom shrugged and shuffled his feet; he didn’t belong amongst their delicate costumes, perfumery, powders, and regal ribbons. “It’ll fall down in a hundred years and rust into the ground. Nothing lasts. Not you, not me.”

  “It was stupid to risk your life,” a royal visitor said. “Others would have got the boar, one day.”

  Tom stamped his staff into the ground. “Leave the dirty work for somebody else. That’s just it with your type. Your bloody wars and silly carry-ons.”

  “Here, here, Tom,” Peterson cut in. “There’s no need for that sort of talk. Show some respect.”

  “None of you have earned your place in the world. It’s all about the circles you mix in, or who your parents are,” he said, glaring at the young prince who would one day become King Henry the Eighth.

  Sarra squeezed his arm.

  A knight dressed in the Tudors’ white colors over a leather coat with armor mail stepped forward and tapped his sword on Tom’s chest. “So, the cat has claws,” he said. “I will make sure when we have our next ‘carry-on’ that you’re at the front.”

  “There’ll come a day without kings and queens, and you’ll have to work like the rest of us.” He pushed the sword away with the blade of his knife. “A republic is closer than you think.”

  “He hasn’t been himself, lately.” Peterson put his hand on the hilt of the other knight’s sword and guided Tom aside. “We heard about your turn in the church,” he whispered, “but you have to be more careful. These people have the power to make you disappear.” He turned to the knights. “It’s best we forget what just happened. No point in shedding blood over a misunderstanding.”

  The knight drew closer. “Haven’t I seen you on the docks hanging around with those troublemakers?”

  “I think he’s been in the sun too long,” Prince Henry said.

  They all laughed, except Sarra.

  “Spent too much time in the woods,” another added.

  “Head’s filled with rocks, I would say.”

  “Always the joker,” Peterson said. “I told you he’s a one of a kind. This sun really is too much. Refreshments are in the tent,” he added to the royals. “Follow me.”

  Sarra grabbed Tom’s elbow to leave. The knights blocked their way.

  “For a big man, you’ve got an even bigger mouth.”

  Peterson turned on his heels. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” he said to the knights. “I was referring to the shedding of your blood.”

  The knights bumped past.

  “We’ll catch up later,” Peterson called out, as he guided the knights towards the tent. “To discuss your ideas for the curtain tapestry in the lodge. No hurry.”

  “Yes, later.”

  Sarra kept a firm hold on Tom’s arm until they were out of earshot. “You can think those things, but you can’t say them out loud, at least not around their sort. He was being civilized and you barged in all boorish. I don’t ever want to hear talk of a Republic ever again. You promised.”

  “I’m sorry, but they need to hear the truth.”

  He quietly shook his head as his parents left Farmer George and Mrs. McGuire at the wood chopping and headed their way.

  “I know this won’t be easy,” Sarra said, as they walked to meet them, “but keep your emotions in line.”

  “Won’t do any good. Mother will know.”

  His father, William, leaned harder than usual on his walking stick. Too many wars had left him with a limping left leg, two dodgy shoulders, and three crippled fingers. Because of his size, he was always at the front or holding the line while the smaller soldiers fought around him. His father was a brave and courageous man because size only got you so far against dozens. ‘Stay and fight,’ he would say. ‘A Ryder never runs from a noble cause.’ He was a proud man who more than once said he’d do it all over again for the duke, even though the stupid battles against his countrymen had crippled him to where he could only help out with part-time blacksmithing at Ol’ Smokey’s stables. He was a practical man who had worked with his hands his entire life. If he had told him that when he cut the beast’s head off he found a half-inch ‘pearl’ in the spine and that was probably how the demon ‘talked’ and controlled the beast, he would have been marched out the stable doors and given a half-kick to help him on his way.

  “Hello, Mr. Ryder; Mrs. Ryder.”

  “Hello, Sarra.”

  Sarra held out her hand and turned it back and forth to catch the sun.

  “So, you finally got the gumption to ask,” his father said. “What brought this ab
out? I hope it wasn’t to do with Mrs. Chambers.”

  “We’ve known each other for a long time and the time just seemed right.” He glanced to his mother. “Nothing’s changed.”

  “When we were kids,” Mary began, “I would bring you to play with Willie, or you would run over by yourself and I’d have to come and get you.”

  “I used to tag along with them,” Sarra said. “Guess that’s where I first learned to stand up to the bully boys for myself. Never got any help from you,” she said, giving Tom a playful punch in the arm.

  “It’s Tom’s way.”

  “Three kids out having fun around the village. Tom, Willie, and me—just one of the boys.” She giggled. “Until I grew up.”

  “He’s always liked you. He would come home from your mother’s and talk about you more than Willie.”

  “Mother, you’re embarrassing me,” Tom said, feeling his face turning red.

  “One way or another, I always knew where to find you.”

  “Harden up, son. The world’s a tough place.”

  He took a deep breath. “Father, I’m sorry for all the arguments we’ve had over the years. None of it matters anymore.”

  “What brought that on? You sure you’re not up to something?”

  “The past is done with. Getting engaged, it’s about the future now.” He stepped forward and hugged his father. “I love you.” He turned to his mother who was already reaching for her handkerchief.

  “Oh, Thomas. You’re such a good boy,” she managed to say before the tears started.

  “Now I know something’s up.”

  “No, no, William,” Mary said. “Tom’s a grown man, and Sarra is the most beautiful daughter I could have wished for.” She hugged Sarra. “You make a wonderful pair.”

  Pair. The word stabbed. “Couple. We’re a couple.”

  “What are your plans? Have you set a day?”

  “No plans.”

  “Make sure you get a haircut, first,” William said.

  “Look,” Tom said, “there’s Father Martin. Let’s go and see what he’s got planned. No. First, I need a good lunch. This way,” he said, clasping Sarra by the hand.