by Wendy Mass
Too quickly he reaches my side of the shore and is upon me, his first blow leaving a long scrape down my arm. I feel the sting and catch sight of blood out of the corner of my eye. My first thought is that I must take a trip to the nurse for healing. My second thought is how crazy my first thought was.
Summoning my old fencing skills, I come out swinging. I lunge, he parries, and my branch hits air. Then he lunges to the left, and I block the blow by raising my branch to meet his staff with a split second to spare. His face registers surprise; then he breaks into a smile and says, “And here I was thinking this wouldn’t be a fair fight.”
We continue to swing and thrust, each of us getting in the occasional hit against the other. I quickly realize the quarterstaff is different than fencing, and have to adjust my moves to counter his. He is much bigger, but I am faster and have youth on my side. He backs me up to the edge of the stream, and I have no choice but to hop onto the nearest log bridge or wind up in the water.
I fight him off as I scramble backward on the log, slipping and regaining my balance over and over. I’m quickly tiring, but trying not to show it. It feels like we’ve been at this forever, but in truth it probably hasn’t even been ten minutes.
And now he’s on the log with me! “Is that a deer?” he shouts, and when I’m stupid enough to turn my head, he swings his staff in front of him and sweeps my feet right off the log. The rest of my body follows, sailing through the air and landing facedown in the icy water.
The water is refreshing when you’re drinking it. Not so much when you’re submerged in it and don’t know how to swim. The only body of water I’ve ever been in is a bathtub, and this ain’t that.
Two huge hands grab under my armpits and lift me straight out of the water like I don’t weigh more than a leaf. He drops me, sputtering, onto the shore. I watch as my staff/branch drifts downstream, well out of reach. I close my eyes and wait for the final blow to come.
“John Little is the name,” the man booms. “Glad to have such a worthy opponent. No one’s ever lasted that long before.”
I allow myself to peek up at him, and see that he’s smiling! I scramble to my feet and shake the hand he’s holding out. “John Little?” I repeat. “Your name should be Little John instead. You know, to be funny. Because you’re enormous.”
He throws his head back with a deep laugh. “I like it! From now on, I’m Little John.” He leans over, fishes my soaking-wet hat out of the water, and plops it on my head. The feather hangs limply over my ear. I push it back and smooth it into place.
“Sorry about using your bridge,” I tell him. “I’ll be on my way.”
“Where you headed?” he asks.
I have no idea doesn’t sound like a good enough answer. So I don’t say anything.
“You live nearby?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Got any money?”
I shake my head again. “I had some items of value, but the sheriff’s deputies took them.”
He grimaces. “You will have to pay double their worth to get them back.”
“I’d need a job first.”
“You got any talents? You’re good with the staff, so that’s something.”
“I can fence,” I tell him. “And shoot arrows. I can juggle fire sticks without setting anything on fire. Usually.”
He appraises me, then says, “We have fencers and archers, and every jester can juggle. What else you got?”
Is getting in trouble a lot a talent? “Um, I can make things disappear,” I say, scooping up a pebble from the edge of the stream. I hold it up with my right hand, pretend to place it in my left, and close that hand tight. While he’s looking there, I use my right thumb to push the pebble between two fingers of my right hand until it’s sticking out the back toward me. Then I hold both hands palm up to show they’re empty. His eyes widen with delight, and he clasps me on the shoulder with his big hand.
“Good enough! You’ll come with me. The boys can always use some entertaining. It’s a hard life, hiding out in the woods. And don’t get me wrong, but you don’t look like you’ve spent much time outdoors.”
Can’t argue with that. “I appreciate the offer, but are you an … outlaw?” I don’t have much interest in spending any more time with the group I met earlier.
“We don’t like that word,” Little John replies. “Makes it sound like we did something wrong. It’s the sheriff’s rules that are impossible to live by. You chop down a tree for wood to heat your home and the sheriff brands you a thief and takes your house. You shoot a deer to feed your family? He tosses you in jail. He thinks he owns these whole woods. No one can own the woods.”
“Um, don’t you own that bridge?”
He chuckles. “Nah. Just felt like a good fight.”
I shake my head. “Hope I gave you one.”
He rubs a purple bump forming on his arm and grimaces. “That you did. So you coming or not?”
I nod. I don’t think I’ll be getting a better offer today.
He leads me away from the stream, away from where the ship landed, toward a part of the forest I haven’t seen before. The trees and grasses are much denser here, with no path to help me keep my bearings. We march on in silence for a long time. Then he says, “Anything else you want to tell me? Besides why you’re wearing all green. You look like an overgrown clump of grass.”
I let the insult pass. “What do you want to know?”
He gestures behind us with his thumb without stopping his march. “You can tell me why one of the sheriff’s deer has been following us since we left the stream.”
“You’re not going to trick me with that twice,” I say innocently.
He rolls his eyes but doesn’t ask again.
“Home away from home,” he finally announces, pushing aside heavy branches and gesturing around us. I hear the loud clanging of metal before I see anyone. Little John makes a wide berth around two groups of men practicing sword fighting, and we step into a clearing, where tents and lean-tos and even some mud houses crowd between the trees. Men of all shapes and sizes are busy sharpening weapons, stirring pots over fires, eating, drinking, and singing.
Singing?
“Attention, everyone!” Little John calls out. “We’ve got a new member of the gang. He’s brave enough to fight me, he’s quick, and he can make things disappear. I give you Robin Hat!”
“Er, Hood,” I correct him as the sword fights halt and the group shouts their welcomes. “Not Hat.” As silly as Hood sounds, it’s the name Marian gave me, and that means something.
“Oops, sorry, men,” Little John says. “That’s Hood, Robin Hood.”
A few men wave and others nod at me. Then they start belting out their rowdy tune again. I turn to my new friend. “For outlaws they’re certainly a merry bunch of men.”
Little John turns back to the crowd. “Robin Hood here just christened you the Merry Men!” he shouts. “And you all may call me Little John now!”
The men cheer, “Long live Little John and Robin Hood and the Merry Men!” and break into another song. They really are merry.
I scan the crowd and am relieved when I only recognize one person from the group Marian and I encountered earlier. It is the man with the yellow hair, the one the leader had suggested be Marian’s groom. Thankfully he had been the least obnoxious of the bunch.
He recognizes me and dashes over. “I apologize for my companions’ poor treatment of you and your maiden earlier,” he says, grasping my hand. “My cousin and his friends can be crude, but they took me in when I didn’t have anyone else.” He keeps shaking my hand, up and down, up and down. “The name is Much, the miller’s son.”
“Much?” I repeat.
“Yessir. My father — may he rest in peace — gave me that name because he said I had as much energy as five kids.”
Suddenly Hood doesn’t seem as odd. “Well, Much, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Let poor Robin eat,” Little John says, tugging me toward the
closest fire pit. “Can’t you see he’s wasting away?”
Well, I don’t know about that. Everyone’s skinny where I come from. Our food squares don’t allow us to store up much fat. My stomach growls loudly, which makes Little John and Much laugh. “Do you guys do this often? Pick up strangers on the street and share your food with them?”
They shake their heads. “We avoid everyone who crosses the Great North Road through the forest whenever possible,” Much says. “You can’t be too careful these days. People can be more dangerous than they look.”
“But you approached me,” I remind Little John. “What if I’m more dangerous than I look?”
He makes a show of looking me up and down. “Nah. You’re less dangerous than you look.”
I’m about to argue that he hasn’t seen me with a bow and arrow, but I’ve just been handed some kind of food wrapped up in some other kind of food and it smells delicious. All other thoughts vanish.
I eat until my stomach groans. “What is this called?” I ask Much, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
Much shrugs. “We’re not picky here. It’s a stew made out of yesterday’s dinner.”
“Well, what was yesterday’s dinner?”
He shrugs again. “A stew made from the day before’s dinner!”
I see I’m not going to get anywhere, so I just pat my belly. “Delicious! You could charge a fortune for this!”
Little John laughs. “You must not be too picky either.”
A new arrival steps into the clearing. “Minstrel! Play us a tune!” the group shouts.
But the young man, garbed in scarves of orange, yellow, and blue, shakes his head and sets down his instrument. “I am too heartbroken to play.”
Little John nods knowingly. “This is Alan-a-Dale, the finest minstrel in the whole county of Nottingham.”
Does anyone here have a normal name?
“He taught us every song we know,” Much adds. “He’s usually very cheery.”
Alan plops down on the log beside me and puts his face in his hands.
“His true love is marrying another a few days hence,” Much explains. “A wealthy old bore with boils on his nose.”
“Ouch.”
“Elly and I are in love,” Alan says with a sigh. “But it would take more money than I could make in five years to compete with the man her greedy father has chosen for her.”
He launches into a love song about two hearts bound together that, before I met Marian, would probably have made me want to gag. But now … it’s kinda nice. And sad. And I find myself swept along with his voice like everyone else.
Then, before I can stop myself, I jump up from the log and announce, “The wedding must be stopped!”
Alan doesn’t even look up from his instrument. “And who’s going to stop it?”
“I will!” I declare — then instantly want to bite my tongue.
Now he looks up and seems to really notice me for the first time. “And you are?”
“He’s Robin Hood!” Much says. “The bravest of the brave! The most clever, daring, charming outlaw in Sherwood Forest, nay, all of Nottingham!”
The men all begin to chant, “Robin! Robin! Robin!”
Hmm, not sure about all those things he said, but I stand a little taller.
“You must have a lost love you need to win back, too!” Alan says, his eyes glittering now with excitement. “For you to understand so well.”
“Of course he does!” Much shouts. Then he lowers his voice. “Do you?”
“I do!” I hear myself say. I mean, I am trying to get Marian back home safely, so that counts, right? And just like Alan, I’ll need money to do it.
“What is your plan?” Little John asks me when the cheers die down.
I take a minute to answer. Then half to myself I mumble, “If Shane were here he’d come up with something.”
“Shall we go find this Shane person?” Little John asks, rising from the log.
I pull him back down. “No, he’s very far away.”
“I have long legs,” Little John says. “I can walk quickly.”
“Trust me, it’s farther than your legs could ever carry you.” My mind runs through some of my exploits back on Delta Z, but tricking little kids into giving up their tokens probably won’t work here. But maybe something else will — like Shane’s con with the card game! First let them play, then make them pay. An idea starts to form.
“What if we find rich people on the road who are tired and hungry from travel — and offer them a meal and some entertainment?” I ask. “Then at the end, we tell them to pay for it?”
Little John considers this. “And if they won’t pay?”
“Well then, we can let them barter something of worth that we can sell later. Or challenge them to a quarterstaff fight with you, or an archery match with me. And when they lose — and they will lose — they’ll have no choice but to pay up.”
“You’re that good?” he asks.
“I am.”
“It’s pretty sneaky,” Little John says uncertainly. “But it’s for love, right?”
The men gathered around start cheering, “Do it for love! Do it for love!”
I look at Alan. He nods. “Yes,” I reply. “It’s for love.” A tiny gnawing feeling in my stomach tells me that Marian would not approve of my methods any more than she had of Shane’s, but I push that aside. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.
It’s been a week since I arrived at the School of the Perpetual Now. At first my belly had a constant ache from all the strange new foods and drinks, but as long as I don’t stuff myself, I’m usually okay. I miss some of the comforts of home, but a vita-square definitely isn’t one of them.
I’ve already learned more here than in ten years of school in The City, and I’ve made friends — friends who don’t have to be nice to me just because of who my parents are. Even though we can’t speak to one another with words, it’s amazing how much you can communicate with facial expressions. Kylea is a whiz at the eye roll, and I’m a natural at wide-eyed wonder, since it’s what I feel all the time. The pledge of silence has relieved me of answering questions about my past, which is a relief. It’s not like I could tell that story with just my face!
The school’s library has become my second home. I wander through the shelves for hours at a time, trailing my fingertips along the books’ spines, mesmerized by all the knowledge and stories they contain. I even tried putting one on my head once and walking with it. Forget improving my posture — that thing was heavy! Perhaps my teacher had been wrong about that historical practice. Plus, I got strange looks.
When I’m not reading out in the garden or watching the friars dance on the lawn, I’m standing over the scribes’ desks, watching them transform blank paper into words and drawings. They call their “paper” vellum, and it’s made from animal skin, a fact I’m trying very hard to ignore. I want to tell the scribes that they can make paper out of trees or rocks, but that pesky pledge of silence keeps me mute. No doubt the scribes are grateful for that pledge, because without it I’d be badgering them with questions all day.
I watch in awe as they color in the letters and paint tiny pictures around the margins of the pages with even tinier brushes. Kylea promised to show me how to make different color paints for them out of crushed fruits, flowers, and eggs. She’s been very kind to me. I am very glad she was assigned as my roommate, even though last night her snores were as loud as an airship coming in for a landing.
My hands haven’t gotten that numb, anxious feeling all week.
“Ready?” Friar Tuck asks, putting his hand on my shoulder. I nod and step away from the scribe. I’m fairly certain I hear the scribe give a sigh of relief.
Today is my first private meditation session, and I’m a little nervous, but it’s a manageable nervous. I’ve watched the daily meditation hour each day from the front lawn, but I couldn’t hear the instructions. Everyone seems so happy and calm after. Starting mediation is th
e only thing that would make me want to leave the warm, cozy embrace of the library.
Well, that and mealtime. I probably shouldn’t have had that extra helping (okay, two helpings) of blackberry pie at dinner last night. My stomach is churning a bit as I follow Friar Tuck out to the garden where the classes are held.
“The first thing we’re going to do is teach you how to eat correctly,” he says.
Uh-oh! Have I been eating wrong? I feel my cheeks get hot.
He leads me over to a small table where a slice of orange, a lump of meat, and a cup of tea lie on a tin plate. “Have you noticed you eat a bit … differently from the others at your table?”
I open my mouth to answer, then remember the pledge of silence and shake my head instead. But if I have to be fully honest, I haven’t really been looking up from my plate enough to notice how others are eating. Those etiquette classes at home didn’t cover mealtimes. Why would they when all we eat are vita-squares?
“I’ve watched you,” he says, pulling a stool out for me from under the table. “You eat like it’s a competition. You need to learn to savor your food, to be fully present in the act of nourishing your body. You want to eat each meal like it’s your first.”
How can I explain that each meal practically IS my first? He instructs me on how to chew the orange slice slowly, to feel the sweetness on my tongue, to silently thank the orange tree that grew it so that I could enjoy its juice. That’s a lot to remember while eating an orange!
But I do as he says, and find that it actually elevates the experience to a whole new level of wonderfulness (and messiness). I’m sure my juice-filled smile is letting the friar know that. If I ever get back home, the first thing I’m going to do is show Grandmother how to eat an orange.
“Excellent,” he says when I lay down the peel. “Now try the hare.” He points to the lump of meat. I pick it up in my hands and bring it toward my mouth.
“Thank the rabbit for giving its life to nourish yours, and then — Is everything all right, child?”