by K. Kibbee
Sam gulped. His eyes flitted from the sour man in the crown to his book-end henchmen, who seemed to be growing darker, nearer, and more beastly by the second. The shopkeeper’s spindly legs began to wobble just as Theodore arrived at his heel. Immediately, they steadied.
One of the stoic and previously silent riders sniggered. “What’s this? The scabby not-a-peasant-peasant has a ruddly lil’ dog what’s gonna defend him, has he?”
Theodore silently wished that the rider had remained mute, and then he glanced backward, towards Robin Hound, in search of reinforcements. At first, he found no sign of the formidable dog, but then he spied a bulbous, black nose and two bee-bee-sized eyes peeking out from a large bush at the side of the road. Theodore locked eyes with the camouflaged hound and offered a coaxing nod of encouragement, but Robin Hound didn’t budge. The bush began to quiver.
Theodore muttered, “So much for the valiant Robin Hound,” before he had a mind to stop himself.
Now the second silent rider jolted on his mount. “Aye! Who said that?”
Theodore’s mouth clapped shut. The sound seemed deafening.
Henchman Number One was still chuckling at his own cleverness, but stopped abruptly at his cohort startled. “What kinda mischief you up to, you not-a-peasant-peasant?”
Sam struggled, and spat, and stammered—but nothing intelligible, or even English, came out. His legs went jiggly again. Theodore stepped around to block them.
“Wasn’t him. It was me,” the Corgi proudly proclaimed.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Three jaws dropped.
“And he’s NOT a peasant.”
The men were frozen. Their horses were frozen. Six sets of eyes fixed squarely upon this bold little dog, no bigger than a breadbox, who was speaking just as surely as they had been. Then there was a curdling gasp—a type of gasp that Theodore had heard only once before, when his young friend Nan had encountered a rather sinister and very hairy spider weaving its web over the Fantasy section at the bookstore. But this time, it came from a man—a man with fair, curly hair, and the sensibilities to match.
In that instant, the horses spooked, and then they bolted. Perhaps they would’ve flattened Sam and Theodore in their departing stampede, had the animals not been so wary of the diminutive little Corgi, who was sidestepped like a den of rattlesnakes. When the dust from twelve heavy hooves settled, Sam and Theo were thoroughly carpeted in muck, but no worse for the wear. They were both mid-cough as Robin Hound emerged from his hidey-bush and sauntered onto the road.
“Well, then, that was a bit o’ luck then, wasn’t it?” Robin jubilantly observed. “Good thing they were such a mess of cowards!”
Theodore pawed at his spectacles, wiping a fine fur of dust from their lenses. Once he could see properly, he gave Robin an exacerbated glare. “Really? You’re callin’ them cowards?”
Robin blinked and gazed at the sinking sun, pretending that Theodore’s glare didn’t carry ten times its heat. “Aye, they was. All that fussin’ and wailin’ and what-not. Why—they was like a bunch o’ little baby childrens, they were.”
Theodore snorted.
Sam copied his companion. “He says they’re cowards?”
The Corgi arched his eyebrows until they resembled wooly caterpillars inching across his forehead. He nodded.
Sam rolled his eyes.
Robin Hound had begun to spout some nonsense about readying himself for an ambush when a louder, busier, click-clop, click-clop came sounding down the road. The hound dog retreated to his hidey bush faster than a buck on the opening day of hunting season, leaving Sam and Theodore to greet the onslaught of approaching horsemen alone.
“Helloooo!” was a decidedly warmer greeting than the last men had offered them, but when Theodore saw that it had come from the mouth of none other than the emerald-capped Robin Hood himself, the Corgi’s stomach sank a little.
“Boss, it’s that crazy feller again,” followed from the mouth of Little John, whose saucer-like eyes settled on Theodore and began to sparkle like muddy brown water stirred by raindrops. “And he’s got his wee talkin’ dog, too!”
“Aye, so he does.”
Theodore counted up the riders that flanked either side of Robin like bookends and noted that the entire lot of merry men seemed to be present and accounted for. Each of them was simpering, grinning, or seemingly otherwise amused by the peculiar stranger and his curious little dog—save the Friar, who regarded Sam as if the shopkeeper’s head might start spinning and dispensing green vomit. Sam, meanwhile, shot eyes towards the bloodhound-shaped bush into which Robin Hound had vanished, silently willing the dog to appear. His voice was but a whisper as he urged, “Psst. Psst—Robin. You’re pal’s here. C’mon out.”
Theodore thought he saw the bush quake, but the hound didn’t emerge. Robin Hound’s much bolder counterpart, however, addressed Sam without hesitation.
“Well, I expect I can’t put much stock in the ravings of a mad man, but as you’re the only soul we’ve seen on the road in hours, I’ll ask you, all the same,” Robin began as he came to a stop just a few feet from Sam and Theodore. “Have you seen three fellows come by—one a rather . . . kingly . . . sort?”
Sam seemed to shrink in the shadow of Robin’s sizeable horse, and his voice was accordingly weak as it peeped out, “Yes.”
Instantly, the marauder’s eyes lit. “Ah, is that so?”
Robin scanned the tree line and the road beyond, before adding, “And what did this fellow look like—exactly?”
Sam didn’t respond as first. He panned the faces of Robin’s men, and just when it seemed he’d mustered up the moxie to speak, one of the men—a portly, red-headed gent—goaded him, “And more importantly, did he have a talkin’ horse?”
Laughter exploded like a fire amongst the men, gaining strength as it consumed each and every last one of them. Little John was so tickled that he nearly toppled from his horse, which, based upon its pained expression, would’ve welcomed the reprieve. Even the Friar momentarily forgot his fears and indulged in the gaiety, wiggling on his mule until it shook like one of those children’s rides in front of the Safeway. But Robin was quick to extinguish the blaze and return his attentions to Sam. His air was stoic as he repeated his question a second time: “What did he look like?”
“K-K-Kingly, I ‘spose,” Sam sputtered. “Yeah, kingly—like you said.”
Robin leaned forward on his horse and glared daggers at the shopkeeper, urging a continued response.
Theodore thought he heard Robin Hound rustle in his nearby bush, but the bloodhound never reemerged, and as the silence grew to a lengthy, uncomfortable degree, Sam began raking at his mane of shaggy hair. “I-I-I don’t know,” he went on. “Kingly—like with a crown, and a white horse, and a snotty ‘tude and all. Kingly.”
Robin jerked back until he was again upright, and puzzled over Sam for a moment. Then he asked, “With little blonde curls? Like a child’s doll?”
Sam nodded. “Yup. That’s him!”
Robin beamed. “Splendid!” He flicked at the brim of his bycocket cap, until it exposed a small patch of forehead and a sheen of sweat. “Well then, my man,” he said. “Which way did he go?”
“That way,” Sam answered back, pointing into the horizon. “Left not a few moments before you arrived.”
“Excellent!” was Robin’s only reply as he set boot heels to his horse, causing it to rear up and take off at a start. Soon the rest of his men were copying their fearless leader, and racing past Sam and Theodore one blur at a time.
“Sam—the book!” was all Theodore could get out before the tail end of the entourage came to a grinding halt. The Friar, who was little more than a few feet away, spun his mule to face Sam and Theodore. His eyes were engorged. If it was possible, even his mule assumed a flabbergasted look.
“D-di-did you just speak?” the Friar sputtered.
Theodore snapped his muzzle closed. He resisted the urge to shake his head in de
nial.
The Friar was needling with his eyes, hardening and narrowing them in on the little dog. “You did, didn’t you?” he seethed.
Sam interjected with a “Pfft” and stepped up and around Theodore, until only the nub of the Corgi’s tail was visible behind his pant leg. “No, of course not. That’s . . . well, that’s just impossible.”
“Impossible! Why, you yourself said he could talk!”
Another “Pfft” came from Sam as he scuffed at the ground with his loafer, stirring up a cloud of dust that hid Theo all the better. “Naw, I was just—. I just—. I think I ate some bad berries in the forest or something.”
The Friar glared on as Sam pretended not to notice. A heavy sort of silence grew in the space between them until one of the Merry men—a strapping fellow with a bushy beard—returned to the scene, asking, “Aye-Tuck—what’s you on about? We’re losin’ daylight—losin’ the fellas. Robin’s gonna be cross if’n we don’t catch up.”
“Aye, I’m comin’,” seemed to be begrudgingly drawn out of the Friar, but as he and the bearded man turned to leave, Theodore materialized from his dust cloud, and recaptured their interest.
“I did talk,” was all it took. Both men dropped their jaws and gawked at the little dog who’d just spoken as clearly as they had. Then, they pounced.
Part Five
Nasty, Malicious, and possibly Vicious
“Why on earth did you do that?” Sam demanded, regarding Theodore like he’d just lifted his leg on the sofa.
Both the shopkeeper and his canine companion were tethered to the smelly hind ends of horses and dodging the occasional turd that such a position produced as they trailed behind Friar Tuck and his bearded brother-in-arms, who had diverted from the rest of the Merry Men to return their prisoners to camp. After deciding that the talkative little Corgi was “an evil dog,” Friar Tuck had made Theo a baby noose and tentatively looped it over the dog’s head as if his sinister touch might be contagious. Sam, of course, had been similarly bound and handled with a notable air of caution, after which both men had selected a rope, and with it, a prisoner.
Theodore loped to keep pace with Friar Tuck’s exuberant mule, panting. “W-we-we would’a lost ‘em if I didn’t. We Wou-would—. Would’a lost the book.”
The Friar shot eyes over his shoulder and hit upon the chatty little dog. Though Theodore had previously thought it impossible, the man’s expression grew even more sour. No wonder his horse was so eager to get home and be rid of him.
“Yeah, but—,” Sam countered, raising his shackled hands along with an eyebrow.
“Just trust me,” came from Theodore at little more than a whisper, but the Friar glared his way just the same and then barked something about hellfire and brimstone, at which Theodore clapped his trap shut with an audible snap. Nary a word was spoken for the remainder of their journey, which ended at Robin Hood’s much anticipated campsite—nowhere near the bumbling hound dog’s “shortcut.”
Twilight had set in, bathing the camp in weak, warm light. Men milled around the clearing, attending to tents and campfires, stew pots and hearty laughter. The bearded fellow who’d played captor to Sam for their short journey led both the beleaguered shopkeeper and his little dog to the far end of the camp, where a wooden cage no bigger than a telephone booth sat empty. “In ya’ git,” he told them, and they obeyed. He’d no more than closed the door when Friar Tuck came skulking by and gave Theodore the stink-eye.
“I think he likes me,” Theodore teased Sam.
The bearded man, still securing a rudimentary latch, sniggered. “Friend—either your lil’ dog there’s real thick in the head, or he’s just ‘bout crazy as you are.”
Sam said nothing, but gave a weak sigh—like something very heavy rested upon his chest. He then dropped his eyes to the hay-lined cage bottom and sunk into its amber waves. Another sigh. A third sigh came as Theodore inched into his master’s lap and curled into a ball there, but this final sigh was different; somehow lighter. They sat like that—Theodore fitted perfectly into the arch of Sam’s crossed legs; Sam stroking the Corgi’s fine fur—until the sun had vanished and the moon had taken its place. That’s when the Friar returned.
“There—there he is!” the Friar roared, gesturing at Theodore with a book that was clamped in his right hand. “Can’t you see—? Can’t you see how he works his magic, even now—even on the very hand that feeds him!”
A visibly puzzled Robin Hood followed the Friar’s emphatic waves towards Sam and Theodore’s cage, where the trapped twosome mirrored his confusion. He examined them briefly and then offered, “I’ve seen many a man take comfort from his dog, Tuck. Don’t make it some kinda hell hound, or whatever it is you’ve branded this creature.”
Friar Tuck growled. His face reddened to mimic a beet. “Tis not the beast’s beguiling nature that troubles me, Robin—though surely that’s of the Devil’s doing, as well. Nay, ‘tis his forked tongue that vexes me. He spoke, Robin—HE SPOKE!”
Robin Hood did not reply right away. He tipped up his cap and crossed his arms over his broad chest, studying Theodore all the while. He then told the little dog, “Well then—out with it, beast. Speak if you’ve the voice to do it!”
Theodore blinked.
“Speak!”
Theodore blinked again. He tilted his head. He gave Robin puzzled puppy eyes.
“SPEAK!”
And so Theodore spoke—offering a very shrill and very dog-like BARK!—following which Robin Hood launched into laughter. “Well, that’s quite a frightening little critter you’ve got there, Tuck,” the capped crusader teased. “He’s downright nasty and malicious. Possibly vicious! Why—I wouldn’t be surprised if he was plotting to steal our souls along with the discarded stew bones at this very moment!”
Friar Tuck let out a low, deep growl which mimicked a cement mixer that Theodore had once heard rumble past the bookstore—and his face turned nearly as ashen as its concrete-splattered belly. “The beast is clearly up to its trickery,” the defeated Friar muttered, dropping his eyes. As his focus fell, he fixed on the book in his hand and then raised both his hand and the book into the air with renewed enthusiasm. “But what of this, Robin?” he insisted, shaking it. “What of this otherworldly text—steeped in your secrets and foretelling of your conquests yet to come? Surely this is of the Devil’s making.”
Robin grinned, and his smile all but glittered. “Ah, nothing more than a child’s storybook,” he lightly replied. “Some tale pieced together through campfire tellings and whispers passed amongst the peasants.”
Robin’s grin widened as he fell into silent satisfaction, and Theodore noticed a slight blush warming the woodman’s cheeks. The Friar, on the other hand, grew even colder as the color drained from his face.
“I trust this wicked creation about as much as an old hag with a gingerbread house!” the Friar roared, casting the book into the dust beside Theodore and Sam’s cage. “’Tis the Devil’s work, just the same as these two!”
Robin Hood gave the Friar a soft pat on the back, which seemed to calm the overwound little man. “Awe, Tuck—give it a rest. Come, have some ale. Make merry with me,” he pressed, offering another charming smile.
Friar Tuck bobbed his head slowly, as if he’d spent all of his energy, and then followed Robin towards a glowing fire that was surrounded by chattering men—their voices warm and their hands heavy with mugs of drink. A dozen or more fireflies hung over the group—casting a warm, orange light—but as Robin and Tuck joined the circle, the insects scattered and then melted into the night sky like stars. Theodore watched them wistfully for a moment or two before he felt a prod from Sam’s index finger.
“Look,” the shopkeeper whispered, pointing at the earth near their shared cage. “The book—the one from the store. That’s what the Friar was going on about. It’s the Robin Hood book!”
Theodore’s attention shifted in a millisecond—as if he’d caught a squirrel sneaking thr
ough his peripheral vision—and there, in the dirt, just finger lengths away, he saw the very book that he and Sam had been searching for. It was peppered in mud and a bit worse for the wear, but certainly the same book that had transported them to the wilds of Sherwood Forest. Theodore’s eyes lit up like the fireflies. “Wowza, it is the book!”
As if on instinct, Theodore dropped to his belly and snaked his paw through the cage bars, swiping at the earth just beyond them. Sam mimicked him from above, but neither could reach the book. Close—but not quite. Somehow, having the book near enough to smell the must on its pages, and yet not being able to retrieve it, seemed worse than not knowing where it was at all. It was suddenly like a bright yellow tennis ball on a high shelf, and poor Theodore huffed and puffed as he continued to strain to reach it.
“It’s no good, Theo,” Sam finally lamented, pulling his face away from the side of the cage, along with a series of long, thin impressions left by its bars.
“You look a little like a zebra,” Theodore chuckled.
“Huh?”
“Oh, the cage . . . from pressing your face—.” Theo stopped short as a loud rustle emanated from the brush just a few feet from their ramshackle prison. His ears pricked. “You hear that?”
Sam peered in the direction of the sound, big-eyed. “I did,” he whispered back.
The hairs between Theodore’s shoulder blades stood on end. His eyes shrunk to razors as he set them on the brush. It rustled a second time, and then trembled in a most unnatural way. Then, a long nose emerged from the waxy leaves, followed by a mess of wrinkles and two twinkling, honey-brown eyes. “Robin Hound!”
The dopey hound dog burst out of the foliage with all the grace of a hippopotamus on roller skates and came bounding towards Sam and Theo’s cage. “Hey, fellas!” he excitedly drawled. “Knew I was gettin’ close—sure as shootin’! I could smell ya’s!”