The Mammoth Book of New Comic Fantasy

by Mike Ashley

  Robin Hood is dying in a comfortable bed with Maid Marian and Little John in the same room. They made the bed. Little John always has difficulties with duvet covers, he’s so clumsy. Robin can feel lumps in the bedding pressing down on his wounds. It’s not so merry. He is delirious and mutters strange phrases.

  “Go take a Frying Tuck at the moon!”

  “What’s that he’s saying?” asks Little John.

  Maid Marian shrugs. “Probably connected with forest business. That’s all he ever thinks about. Greenwood this, greenwood that. Bash a holy man on the head, rummage his surplice for his surplus. Code of honour, squirrels.”

  “Red or grey?”

  “I don’t believe the latter have been introduced yet.”

  “No I meant the holy men. Cardinal or monk.”

  “Ah, bishops mostly. But you know that surely? You did it!”

  “I was trying to make small-talk.”

  They twiddle each other’s thumbs, but it’s just friendly, not romantic. Then they sigh and scratch their chins and shrug.

  “This is taking ages. Perhaps we ought to ease his pain with some poison?”

  “Sorry, the river’s clean out of scorpions.”

  “You could hit him with your quarterstaff for a bit.”

  “I left it in the little room under the stairs at Will Scarlet’s house.”

  “You are simple, John, sometimes!”

  Before he can agree, Robin Hood suddenly sits up. His delirium has cleared just for an instant. He has to act quick before it returns.

  “Fetch me my bow! I shall fire an arrow out of this window. Where it lands, you must bury me under there!”

  He fires the arrow. He falls back. The recoil has finished him off.

  The Khazar god of dreaming is yawning through his glass walls. It has been a long journey from Scythia, through Turkey and Greece and Illyria and the Holy Roman Empire and France, and across the Channel to England. Now they are on the edge of Sherwood Forest and it is time to stop yawning, not because things have got interesting, but due to the lack of oxygen inside the sealed jar. There is none left to inhale. He feels sleepy, drunk on his own odour.

  “Hi in there! We’re here at last!”

  The cork pops and he gazes up at the lips of his mistress. They are red and swollen like his eyelids, but bigger and more kissable, depending on who you are, or who you aren’t. One day he will jump up and grab for her tongue and refuse to release it until she guarantees his freedom, but if he did that she wouldn’t be able to shout the command to let him go, and a stalemate would ensue. And she has more stamina than him.

  “Do you require my advice on something?”

  “Yes. Where must I walk to find this Robin Hood?”

  “Take one step into the forest and he will come to you.”

  “Did you dream that or make it up?”

  “Fiction is not my strength, alas!”

  “Good. So we’ll fight the duel and then go back to that nice Sheriff of Nottingham’s castle for a cup of tea. What do you think?”

  “Hush! I hear a sound. A whoooooshing noise!”

  “O bloody bugger, I’ve been shot!”

  So she has. The arrow protrudes from her lower abdomen. She doesn’t stagger, but merely leans on a tree for support. Scythia suddenly seems as far away as it really is.

  Guy of Gisborne is riding across the meadows. His surcoat flaps behind him. His chain-mail sparkles in the sun, spoiled in places by grass stains. Perhaps he has recently greengowned a maid, as the polite expression has it for outdoor rogering, before he felt compelled, or was ordered, to ride somewhere – don’t know where, he probably doesn’t either – though it’s not a routine mission, nor is he a routine cross-eyed bully, but blond and square jawed and a little bit effete but tough too, in calf and arm. Where are you going, Guy? That’s what the leaves seem to whisper in the wind as he enters the forest. But his helm fits so tightly over his ears that he doesn’t hear.

  The hooves of his horse kick up little twigs and clods of earth. This is no official route through the greenwood. So he knows he is heading the right way. The outlaws tend to move stealthily, like gibbons, whatever those are, through the trees, leaving no print or clue on the ground below. He still has no firm destination in mind. It’s just a question of trusting his intuition and avoiding the obvious paths. When he least expects it, he will come across what he seeks. But as he continues to ride through thicker undergrowth and nettles slap his mount’s flanks for free – though some men of his acquaintance in York would pay good money for that, or else in kind, which is unkind – the first real doubts enter his brain.

  Therefore he comes across a small gathering. He has traversed nearly the whole forest, almost coming out the other side.

  He sees Nina, Queen of the Amazons, idling against a tree.

  “Your Queeness!” he cries. “I have been sent by my master, the Sheriff of Nottingham, to confess that Robin Hood is probably already dead. Sorry. He couldn’t bear to tell you when you were in his castle. But his conscience bothered him.”

  “Does he have one?” she mutters.

  “Well he is a villain, but it isn’t his fault, so yes!”

  He looks around at the assembled company. He draws his sword with a cry.

  “Hello,” say Maid Marian and Little John.

  “Ooh, you blighters! What are you doing here?”

  “We’ve come to bury Robin.”

  “Can’t you do that in your own time? I’m busy!”

  “We have to bury him where the arrow landed.”

  They point and Guy of Gisborne follows the line of their converging fingers.

  “What? Inside Nina, the Queen of the Amazons?”

  “That was his final request. Code of chivalry and all that. Awkward, that’s for sure. No help for it. We’re just following orders. And stuff.”

  Nina, Queen of the Amazons, feels in a quandary. She is lying down in the middle of a clearing. She is very cold. Maid Marian, Little John and Guy of Gisborne have gone to fetch the body of the outlaw Robin Hood. They have also gone to collect a sharp knife, a needle and some thread, to cut her open and sew her back up. Certain traditions are sacred and the dying wishes of a folkhero must never be opposed. All the same, she feels nervous at the thought of the impending funeral. She can’t decide whether to hope for her own death or not before the actual burial. She is losing blood rapidly. The arrow still quivers in her womb. She reaches across for the jar and uncorks it with effort. The shape inside is whistling a dirge.

  “Cut that out! The mourners will be here soon.”

  The Khazar god of dreaming chuckles. “That’s right. How does it feel to be a grave? It’s a nightmare scenario I wish I’d invented!”

  “I don’t intend to give you any work tips . . .”

  “Haven’t been able to send dreams to my people since you shut me up in here. You might as well let me go. Break the glass.”

  “No. I think you should be buried inside me with Robin, as a sacrifice.”

  “What? You can’t mean that! I get claustrophobic enough as it is! Wombs are so dark and stuffy. Please don’t!”

  “What will you do for me if I spare you that fate?”

  “I’ll make your better, mistress! I promise!”

  “You mean I’ll get well again, even though this arrow is sticking in me? And I’ll survive the funeral too? It’s a deal.”

  “On condition that you release me afterward.”

  “I guess that’s fair enough. Done!”

  They don’t shake hands on it. The little god casts his spell and is still cooling his fingers when the mourners enter the clearing, marching slowly with black armbands. Little John carries the corpse over one shoulder, Maid Marian wields the knife. Guy of Gisborne shudders when the first spurt of blood hits him in the eye. He hates solemn occasions.

  The landlord of the Damsel & Pointy Hat has never known such a talkative group of revellers as the three strangers who are sitting in the corner,
quaffing mead and roaring with laughter at each other’s anecdotes. A lady with red hair, a scruffy giant with a bristling beard and a young blond man with blue eyes. Even when he was a carpenter, he never knew such rasping noises. They drink out of a Norman helmet, the nose-guard acting as a handle.

  “And then I caught him wearing lingerie!” the blond one is shouting.

  “Ho, ho, ho! Ha, ha, ha!” laugh the other two.

  They are obviously holding a sort of farewell party for a deceased comrade. They don’t seem to miss him too much. Perhaps he was overrated? Yes, that must be it.

  “If only Robin was here to buy us all another round! He was a noble enemy. I almost wept tears when my sword sliced through his lungs.”

  The lady mutters into her drink. “Actually he was always a stingy old sod.”

  “Really? His reputation is quite the opposite.”

  “Yes, he kept the facts safely under lock and key. He was a bloody awful lover too. Very poor aim. Absolutely no stamina.”

  The giant grits his teeth. “Not sorry to see him go.”

  “Well this is a surprise,” admits the blond fellow.

  The door of the tavern swings open and a very tall woman staggers over the threshold. There is an arrow protruding from her midriff. She wears a pained expression.

  “So this is where you got to? Charming, I’m sure, getting drunk while I have to lie on my back in the cold. Let me join you and make this a proper wake.”

  There is a spare seat. Nobody tries to remove it.

  “Um, are you better then?”

  “Indeed I am. Don’t act so astonished. I’m the Queen of the Amazons and I know plenty of tricks to get out of a tight spot. First time I’ve had a whole man inserted inside me, though. It’s a bit uncomfortable, but I won’t complain. Tell me instead, where the heck did you get black armbands from in the forest?”

  “Tore them in strips from Guy of Gisborne’s surcoat.”

  “Liar! That item of fashion was red, not black.”

  “We stained it with berries.”

  “In February? I doubt it! Come on, be serious.”

  “We can’t remember exactly. So there!”

  “But little details like that are very important . . . Wait! I’ve got this terrible pain in my pelvic area! I’m having contractions! I’m about to give birth!”

  “Quick! A towel and some hot water!”

  “Too late! Here comes its head!”

  “Ooh, what an ugly baby! Somebody give it a smack!”

  Little John steps forward, his fingers bunched into fists.

  “Wait! What’s that it’s saying as it plops fully out? It’s trying to articulate its first sentence! A touching moment, this. Be silent and listen.”

  They lean closer, cupping their ears.

  “Go take a Frying Tuck at the moon!”

  Maid Marian rolls her eyes. “It’s a boy! An overgrown, mansized boy!”

  The Sheriff of Nottingham has reached the clearing in the forest. There are fifty mounted knights with him. They wear full armour and never speak, so it is difficult to be sure that anybody is inside. They are probably automatons, created by the wizard who lived in the castle before him. Certainly he found them all stacked neatly in the cellar. He recalls how he spent a whole afternoon cleaning the rust off with a little brush.

  He reins his horse to a halt and sits creaking in the saddle. Beneath his own armour he can feel the tension of the stockings and suspender belt. They are wealing up his flesh nicely. And the black satin knickers are too tight. The year is 1193. Soon it will be the 13th century. He hopes his sex life improves in time.

  “Look at that! An item of evidence!”

  He points at the jar lying on the ground. It is empty now.

  Some of his knights swivel their heads and snort gently. “Phasswass.” That’s the only sound they ever make. And “Shoowshss.”

  The Sheriff rubs his chin. “I recognise that vessel. I saw it in the possession of Nina, Queen of the Amazons, when she came to stay with me. She never showed me its contents, but they have gone now. Maybe alcohol. This puts me in mind of my own thirst. There’s a tavern not far from here. If we gallop, we may reach it for a last one before closing time. And then we can resume our search for Guy of Gisborne!”

  “Phasswass . . . Shoowshss . . .”

  “Yes, I miss him too. Onwards!”

  Robin Hood is poking the tall woman with his finger. The firelight dances on his snarling face. A helmet of mead spills over as his leg knocks the edge of a table. There is shouting and many spluttered curses.

  “So you think you’re harder than me, do you, lady?”

  For answer, she slaps him across the cheek and off his feet.

  “In a word, yes,” she spits at last.

  He climbs to his knees, wiping the blood from his lips. “Play rough, eh? That’s your game, is it? I may have been born after yesterday, but you won’t gull me with another trick. Come on, lady, put them up.”

  “No trick!” she cries, as she slaps him with her other hand. “Just good honest violence. I’ve wrestled serpents in Lake Karatis.”

  Maid Marian, Little John and Guy of Gisborne are standing in a circle, clapping hands louder and louder. “Scrap! Scrap! Scrap!”

  Robin Hood staggers upright a second time.

  The landlord steps forward. “No brawling in the Damsel & Pointy Hat. This is a respectable establishment. Off the premises, the lot of you!”

  “We’ll settle this outside,” snarls Robin.

  Nina nods and turns to leave. As they all step through the door, Little John strokes his beard thoughtfully. “How come she gave birth to a live Robin Hood after they both died?”

  “A bit confusing, isn’t it?” agrees Guy of Gisborne.

  Maid Marian shrugs. “Perhaps she had some magic potion that restored her to health and once Robin was buried inside her womb, the spell must have worked for him too, by accident. That must be what happened.”

  Little John and Guy of Gisborne gape. “Of course! It’s so obvious!”

  They are standing outside the tavern now. The Prince of Thieves is squaring up to the Queen of the Amazons. They circle each other warily.

  “Look over there!” cried Robin suddenly. “It’s a unicorn!”

  She turns her head. “Where?”

  And Robin rushes in and delivers two mighty punches to the side of her jaw. She staggers back and he chortles. “The oldest trick in the book!”

  She glowers at him. Her rage is enormous.

  “I can play dirty too!” she booms. Twisting up her face, she reaches down and draws the arrow out of her abdomen. She holds it like a dagger. Then she rushes forward and stabs him straight through the heart.

  He groans once and collapses in the dust.

  “Robin Hood is dead a second time! I have won the duel!”

  Maid Marian, Little John and Guy of Gisborne crouch over the prone body and mutter to themselves. “Oh dear! Oh dear! We don’t mind that he’s dead. But we have to bury him wherever the arrow lands. And this has generated a paradox. We must bury him inside himself. How the hell can we sort this one out?”

  The Sheriff of Nottingham and his fifty knights reach the tavern just as the sun begins to set. So he assumes that the blood trickled around the entrance is a trick of the light. Then he notices the little funeral taking place in the shadows.

  “Show some respect, lads! Take your helmets off!”

  On second thoughts, he’s glad they can’t.

  He decides it’s his moral duty to ride closer and exchange some pleasantries with the mourners. After all, this is his fiefdom and these people are his children, in a metaphorical sense. He is amazed when he discovers who they are.

  “Guy of Gisborne! You traitor! You’ve joined my enemies!”

  The blond head shakes emphatically. “Not at all. But the laws of chivalry compel me to assist in the burial of Robin Hood, even though the task is impossible.”

  The Sheriff dismounts. “Fair
enough! But what’s the problem?”

  Guy of Gisborne waves a hand at the body, over which Maid Marian and Little John squat, exchanging ideas, all of them futile.

  “We have to bury him inside himself and we’re not sure how best to accomplish this. My view is that we ought to slit him open from throat to groin and fold his limbs into the gash and then apply enormous pressure on them until he turns inside-out. That’s the only way I can think of discharging his final request.”

  The Sheriffs eyes twinkle. “Oh, impetuous Guy! How I love thee!”

  “You think my idea has much merit?”

  “Not at all! But it was presented to me in a charming tone. That’s why I feel affection toward you. A big silly rascal, that’s what you are! Listen, if I remember the conventions of chivalry properly, and I studied them when I was younger, the standard wording of such requests includes the word under.”

  “What do you mean?” frowns Guy of Gisborne.

  “It’s not ‘bury me where the arrow lands’, but under where it lands!”

  Guy of Gisborne turns to the other two. “Hey! Did he say under?”

  Little John scratches his head. “Under? Yes, I believe he did.”

  Maid Marian pounds a fist into her palm. “Bugger! I forgot that! Damn it, there was no need to bury him inside Nina, Queen of the Amazons, after all. We should have just interred him at the spot directly below her feet.”

  “Well, it’s not too late to bury him that way now.”

  They regard the corpse. Guy of Gisborne clarifies the point: “You mean we just dig at that exact spot and put him in the hole?”

  “Yes, but a coffin would be more dignified. The landlord of this tavern used to be a carpenter. I’ll order him to knock up a box right away.”

  He turns and strides into the tavern. Without him, his knights grow restless.

  “Phasswass! Shoowshss! Now we can chat properly!”

  Isaac II Angelos, Emperor of Byzantium, sits on his throne and plays with his toys. The Magnaura Palace is very large and cold at night. There are hidden springs and cogs and levers in most items of furniture. In front of him stands a bronze tree with many branches, each of which is covered with little gilt birds. They sing various songs with their delicate metallic throats. Gone are the days when everything was very shiny. The mechanical tree, and the roaring gilt lions at the foot of the throne, are tarnished now and overused, for they date from the reign of Theophilus, who lived in the middle of the 9th century.