by Paul Kane
Mark gave Robert a hand to conceal the weapons again, then they made their way up and through the final winding corridor. Before they came to the exit, both of them paused. There was a display on their right. Behind cracked and smeared glass was an arrow embedded in some earth. "'And where this arrow is taken up,'" read Mark, "'There shall my grave be.'"
Robert pushed him out by the shoulder. "Not yet you don't."
The pair headed deep into the forest, with Robert preferring to make a new camp rather than seeking out an old one.
He'd noticed a change in himself almost as soon as he'd entered this place. His body had relaxed, but was still coiled and ready to attack if provoked; just like it had been when he'd first moved here. His mind was also more balanced than it had been in a long time. Robert had seen Sherwood in all seasons, so the bare trees were not a shock to him — in fact they only added to the beauty of the place on this winter's day, especially with that sprinkling of snow on them.
When they'd found the right spot — somewhere that was hard to locate if an intruder might be looking for it, but gave them a clear 360? view of the area — they set up their camp. "Your base camp should be the safest location in your territory," Robert said.
"This is all so cool," Mark told him. "Do you know how often I wished you'd teach me all this stuff when we were here before?"
Robert gave a half smile. "Well now I am, so pay attention."
He went through how to make a lean-to, using branches for poles and whatever foliage they could find — not easy at this time of year — then how to make a bed out of moss.
"Okay, time to go hunting," announced Robert. Nothing big at first, in fact just a couple of hares which they staked out near a warren. "Rabbits and hares don't hibernate in the winter," Robert explained in hushed tones, "but fortunately for us they become slower and less active to conserve energy. So they're easier to catch when they're rattled. Now keep well out of sight. Always let them come out into the open — then deliver your surprise."
Mark had grumbled a little about preying on such easy targets but, as Robert informed him, when you lived out here sometimes meat was in short supply. You took what you could find. Besides which, hare was tasty.
When they returned to camp, Robert taught him how to make a fire, tucking away the lighter and forcing Mark to use the tried and tested method of rubbing sticks together. When the boy had built up a sweat, Robert chuckled and finally showed him the easier way of using a little bow to create friction, feeding the flames when they began to catch light.
That night they cooked the animals over a spit and talked more about their time together here before. Most of the stories were preceded by: "Do you remember when?" and Robert was surprised by how many ended with them both laughing. It had been a trying period, out here waiting to be discovered or killed by De Falaise's troops, but it was also, in some ways, a happy time. With each moment that passed during that evening, Robert was more convinced he'd done the right thing by bringing Mark here.
As the fire died down a little, Robert caught Mark resting against his backpack and looking at his missing finger, lost in thought. "You still think about what happened back then, don't you?"
"Don't you?" Mark said, tossing aside a piece of bone that had been picked clean and taking a swig of the water they'd made from boiling down the plentiful supply of snow.
Robert nodded. "It takes a while to come to terms with our demons, whatever shape they take."
"Is this about facing your fear again?"
"Sort of. Only sometimes we get to face it in the flesh." Robert poked the fire, then jabbed a finger at it. "That was one of mine."
"Yeah, I remember what happened when the Mexican used those incendiary grenades. It sent you almost to pieces."
Robert stared directly at him. "It made me weak, that fear."
"Some folk might say it made you human," Mark countered.
"Then being human can get you killed."
"Or save you. Are you ever going to tell me why it frightens you so much?"
Buried memories intruded now: his house on fire, the knowledge that the men in yellow suits were cooking his wife and son, dead upstairs in the bedroom. His dog, Max, limping out, fur alight…
Robert ignored the question, and rolled onto his back, looking up into the night sky. "The stars seem so much clearer out here. Everything's clear, in fact. No distractions."
"You're going to have to open up someday," he heard Mark comment. "To me, Mary. Maybe even Reverend Tate."
"What I'm doing now," Robert broke in, totally off topic, "with you, I mean. Someone else did the same with me. His name was Eric Meadows. He showed me the ropes."
"I don't underst-"
"And do you know the most important thing, the first thing I learned from him?" Robert couldn't see Mark shaking his head, but he knew the boy was doing it. "To keep my mouth shut and listen." He rolled back onto his side, resting his head against his hand and looking past the fire at Mark. "He was older than me, more experienced. So I listened."
Mark looked down into the fire. "And was there ever a time when you were able to help him?"
Like most of Mark's questions, this caught him off guard, but his mind automatically supplied an answer. Another memory, not buried, just forgotten until now. Of Robert and Eric being called to a fight in a bar, where two twenty-somethings had decided to kick off over a girl who looked like she wanted nothing to do with either of them. By the time they'd arrived, the men were smashing bottles and throwing punches, so Eric had been the first to wade in. What he hadn't spotted was that one of the guys had mates in the corner, who came at Eric and were about to glass him when Robert stepped in. Several years down the line from the first collar he'd made, and he was a different officer. Confident, though not a risk-taker (because he had a wife to return to and they were planning on starting a family soon), but able to assess a situation like this and turn it to his advantage.
Robert had kicked the glass out of the attacker's hand, then followed up with a punch that sent him to the floor. Technically not the done thing, but Robert wasn't about to play nice in this powder keg of a situation. He'd been ready to tackle the others as well, but when the fighters heard sirens outside — Eric and Robert's backup — they'd fled the pub. Eric had cuffed the two original trouble-causers, leaving Robert to handle his. So he had no idea whether his mentor knew he'd probably saved his skin that night. Neither of them said anything to each other, as it was all in a day's work for Her Majesty's Constabulary, though Robert often wondered if he realised the favour had been returned.
But that wasn't what Mark had asked, was it? Had Robert been able to help him? Truly help him? Where was he when Eric had been injured at that football match? Robert couldn't even remember now. On holiday? Sequestered to one of the CID units? He hadn't been able to help Eric when it came to the real crunch, had he? Only postponed the inevitable.
"Never let them put you behind one of those. You stay out there, young Stokes. Stay where you can make a difference and leave all that to the paper pushers."
Was that what this was all about? Did he need to get back out there for Eric, do something for the man even though he was probably dead by now (Robert had absolutely no idea what his blood group was, but he had to be pushing seventy even if he had survived).
Robert realised that long minutes had passed and he hadn't said a word in reply to Mark. "I'm… I'm sorry. Just remembering something."
"About when you were able to help this Eric guy?" asked Mark, looking up at him.
"I think in my own way I'm helping him right now," Robert replied, not even attempting to explain. He wasn't sure he understood himself.
The fire was really dropping now, so they said their goodnights and retreated to their lean-tos. Robert faster than Mark, if anything. Not to get out of the cold, but to do what he'd come here to do all along: sleep.
And hope that the forest would find it in its heart to speak to him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
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br /> At first he thought one of the sparks from the fire must have caused it.
Set this whole portion of the forest alight. Robert felt dreadful; how could he have done this to his beloved home? The bark was on fire, the branches and twigs. It was a good thing there were no leaves because they would only have added to the conflagration. He looked around, frantically trying to find something to douse the flames with. If they'd been closer to the lake at Rufford then-
But they weren't. Robert had chosen this spot intentionally to be away from the locations he'd lived in alone, when he'd first come here. The locations he'd been drawn to so he could while away the rest of his time and die; be with his late wife and child. To run away from…
From the blaze.
But he was wasting time now, thinking about all that. He should be waking Mark, getting him to help put out this fire. Robert couldn't see the boy's lean-to anywhere — couldn't see his own for that matter. Perhaps they'd both been burnt away? If that was the case was Mark all right?
A sudden wave of heat forced Robert to shield his face. He tottered backwards. Then, through the shimmering air, he saw a figure caught in the midst of the licking flames. Blinking, he tried to make out the features, but they were unclear. Once, he would have held back no matter what — not even attempted to go into the heart of this inferno. Now Robert braced himself and, head down, rushed in to get closer to the figure. It was about Mark's height, could easily be him. Robert hoped not, because even now the person was catching light, going up like the forest around them.
"Hold on," Robert shouted. "I'm coming." He was aware that he must be cooking as well, but had to push through, had to save this person. He'd lost too much to the fire already, he wasn't about to lose the closest thing he had to a son as well.
Robert broke through into a clearing, the flames raging around him but not touching this section of the forest. In fact the only thing on fire was the figure directly ahead of him. Robert sucked in air, coughing, then refocused. He soon realised his mistake. This wasn't Mark at all; nothing like him. There, not ten feet away from him, was his old enemy: De Falaise.
Yes, he was on fire — the yellow and red rippling over him but apparently not eating him up. Robert was shocked. The last time he'd seen this man he'd killed him, and a blaze had played around them that day too. There was evidence of Robert's attack, because De Falaise no longer had eyes — and even though he was opening and closing his mouth, the Frenchman couldn't speak (a consequence of Robert having shoved an arrow as far down his throat as he could ram it). The arrow that had penetrated his heart — like a stake finishing off a vampire — was missing, but the hole was plainly there. De Falaise was saying something, but it was so faint Robert couldn't make it out.
It sounded like one word over and over.
Vengeance.
De Falaise smiled, those broken teeth even more yellow in the flames. The Frenchman opened his arms wide and let the full force of the fire take him, and this time it did crisp his skin, blackening his face and exposed hands. His dress suit — the one he'd worn for the executions at the castle — melted onto him, then that too turned black. Robert stood there watching, knowing he couldn't do a thing. Not really wanting to. This was a replay of past events — slightly different, but still a replay. What he wanted to know about was the future, about his new enemies.
As if to answer him directly, the figure burnt brighter… and redder. It took a step towards him, and when it did some of the black crust fell away. What was beneath was red, and it merged with the fire: creating a figure that was crimson from the feet upwards. Robert's mouth dropped open as he witnessed this transformation. That's the only way he could describe it, a fiery Phoenix rising from the ashes. Dressed head to toe in red leather.
The build of the two men was similar, but Robert could see they were very different. This person was stockier, looked like he could really handle himself. Looked like he had seen some action in the past, not just ordered people to their deaths. And he looked… somehow regal. Like the campfire from the night before, the flames died down and when they did, the man pulled on his greatcoat. Then he placed the peaked cap on his head.
He smirked at Robert. There was no denying the intent was the same. He was here to destroy The Hooded Man, just as The Sheriff had set out to do. Was this the distant future, some kind of reincarnation perhaps? Robert had no idea, and no more time to ponder, because the fire surrounding them was also changing.
Robert looked to his left and right. There were faces there; faces painted white and black like skulls, with tattoos on their foreheads. Yes, them! I came here to learn about them, Robert told the dreamscape, told the forest. I need to know how to defeat them. If I can defeat them!
Except behind the figures were more people, faces without make-up. The faces of soldiers, who were carrying automatic weapons. The ground was shaking — Robert felt the vibrations up through his legs, into his guts. To his left, breaking through the ground and knocking charred trees aside, a huge tank shot upwards and then righted itself with a metallic clang. To Robert's left, an armoured vehicle did the same, followed by a couple of jeeps. In the centre of this burning scene there was suddenly an army made up of two factions. Impossible to fight alone.
Where were his people? Where were his troops?
There were shadows behind the man in red, stepping out. Two Asian women, Robert saw, and a man in a sharp suit. Each was holding a body by the scruff of its neck, which they threw to the ground in front of Robert. The first belonged to Tate, lifeless and limp. Then came Sophie, piled on top. Followed by Mary. Robert's entire body stiffened when he saw her tossed there, like a Guy on a funeral pyre. Her beautiful eyes looked up at him in death.
"Noooo!" he screamed. "You can't do this!"
A larger shadow emerged, carrying two bodies — one in each hand. But he could manage them well enough, the size that he was. Robert's jaw dropped again when he saw Tanek, the Frenchman's second, assumed dead but very much alive here (though hadn't De Falaise been standing there only moments before… living or deceased, it didn't mean a thing in this place).
The two last bodies were thrown over towards Robert, Tanek grunting — more with satisfaction than effort. Robert recognised who they were as they landed: Jack, defeated and deflated… and Mark. Finally Mark. Beaten to a pulp and with more than his finger missing.
Robert sank to his knees, tears flowing freely. He knew it wasn't a good idea to show weakness in front of his enemies, but couldn't help it. When he reached up to wipe the salt-water away, he found his face altered. There were antlers on the side of his head. He had a snout too. As he looked up again, Tanek was approaching with that crossbow of his raised, a bolt in the chamber pointing at him. The shot was fired and, though it entered Robert's temple, he could somehow still hear and see everything around him: the flames, the assembled war machine. Tanek crouching, letting go of the crossbow and taking out a knife with a serrated edge.
Robert's vision went black for a second then red, like a filter had been placed over a camera lens. Tanek finished his cutting, sawing, standing again with something in his free hand. Robert's… the stag's head.
He handed the gory thing to the man in leather, who took off his peaked cap and replaced it with the antlers. They looked for all the world like a pair of horns.
In spite of the fire's warmth, Robert felt cold. It spread quickly throughout his body. If this was a vision of the future, as he'd wanted, then he was sorry he'd asked for it. Better to be ignorant than live with the knowledge that they would all soon die.
"Vengeance," said a voice close to his ear, a figure he couldn't see whispering to him. It sounded… familiar. De Falaise, but not him; the voice softer.
Then he felt hands on him, moving him.
Moving his corpse.
It was a revelation when he found he could move — grabbing the hands that were shaking him. "N-Not dead," Robert mumbled. "Not dead!"
"Sshh. Keep it down," another voice, a diffe
rent voice, whispered. "We're not alone."
Robert shook his head, clearing it. It had been a while since he'd slept so heavily, had a dream as intense. He'd forgotten how disorientating it could be. Mark was the person by his side — not the dead Mark with bits cut off, but the living Mark who he could still do something to save if he got his act together. Mark who had been trying to wake him for some time.
"People, circling the camp," he told Robert. "I caught a glimpse when I got up to pee. I managed to crawl across to your lean-to without them seeing, I think."
"How many?" asked Robert in hushed tones.
Mark shrugged. "A couple, maybe."
"That's the next lesson, then. Counting." Mark scowled, then Robert tapped him on his arm. "Come on, let's see what we're dealing with."
Grabbing his bow, arrows and sword, Robert emerged from the back of the lean-to with Mark beside him, using it to shield them both. Robert slipped the quiver and bow around his torso. It wasn't quite light, but the sun had started to come up over the horizon, giving everything a strange sepia look. There was also an early morning mist covering the ground, thin enough to see through close up, but out in the distance it could hide anything. Robert trusted the boy's instincts, because after years of living on his wits the lad had developed a sense about these things. He'd been the first to warn Bill about the attack on the market, and told Robert when Jack first entered Sherwood. Now he was telling him there was a potential threat in the woods and Robert took that very seriously.
This was real hunting.
Mark nudged him and gestured towards a nearby tree at 3 o'clock. He saw an elbow sticking out from behind the trunk. Robert nodded, then pointed across at another tree. He could tell Mark couldn't see it, but there was bark missing from one side, indicating that someone had scraped by it. Robert turned when he heard a noise behind him. Mark may well have dismissed it as a woodland animal, but he knew better. Even though it had been a while since he'd lived here, Robert still felt the rhythms of this place — could tell when there was something out of sync. So, he was surrounded, as in his dream. Robert just hoped the tanks and jeeps weren't about to shoot up from out of the ground.