Gravity Box and Other Spaces

by Mark Tiedemann

  Sean’s feet snagged against rocks. He fell, arms wide, straight backward into the shock of ice cold water. His arms flailed, trying to find something to hang onto, as he went under. He swallowed water, twisted, and managed to find the bottom. He got his footing and lifted his head out of the stream, gagging and freezing. He heard the man running away.

  Sean climbed out of the water, soaked through. Shivering, he checked his other snares—all empty—and reset the one the poacher had emptied. Then he made his way back to his camp.

  He undressed, laid the icy-damp clothing out near the fire, and dried himself with the single towel he had brought. Staying close to the fire, he dressed quickly. After a time he ate some fruit and bread then fell asleep.

  He woke in darkness, hacking raggedly. His fire was nearly out. With an aching head, he dropped kindling onto the embers and got a blaze going again. His lungs hurt. He could not shake off the chill. Returning to sleep was impossible. He stared into the yellow tongues that licked the wood, coughing from time to time, until dawn.

  In the morning he found two rabbits caught in his snares. One was dead, but the other was very much alive and slipped from his fingers, running off into the dense wood. He reset the trap and took the other rabbit back to camp.

  He felt terrible, feverish and achy, but managed to skin the rabbit. He spitted it and propped it over the fire then started scraping the hide. He could not concentrate. His chest felt as though a giant gripped him and squeezed now and then, making him choke and sputter. He wiped his forehead and found it damp. He shivered. He put more clothes on over what he wore.

  A good hot meal is what I need, he thought, but when the rabbit was cooked he found he had little appetite. He made himself eat, but the meat soured his stomach. He lay on his duffle, curled on his side, and tried to sleep.

  If he lay on his stomach he did not cough so much and could rest longer at a stretch. In the morning he felt better. He ate what remained of the rabbit. It was tough now and chewy, almost tasteless. When he was finished, though, he felt well enough to go back to the stream.

  The poacher was there again.

  “Those are mine,” Sean called to him.

  “Aye? Says who?” The man had two rabbits. He stuffed them into his coat pockets.

  “I set the snares. They’re mine.”

  “We’re both of us thieves, so who’s to say which has better claim? Ye don’t look like you miss any meals. Who are ye?”

  Sean licked his lips and coughed. “Robbing—” he began and coughed again.

  “Robin, is it? Well, Robin, just consider this your gift to the poor for the day.” He laughed. “Bit young t’ be startin’ a life o’ crime, ain’t ye, Robin?” He laughed again and backed away carefully. When he was far enough, he turned and ran.

  Sean swallowed hard through a dry throat. His headache was back and he shivered. His chest felt bruised. He checked the other snares, but they were empty.

  On the way back to his camp, Sean thought about what the poacher had said. He had misunderstood. Sean had intended to say “Robbing me isn’t necessary. We can share.” But the cough cut him short and the man took his name to be “Robin.” He laughed to himself.

  I need to move the snares, he thought. Or set more—

  He fell to the ground when he reached his campfire.

  Sean knew he was in real trouble the next day when he could not stand up. He crawled to his store of kindling and dragged enough back to feed the fire, but that exhausted his strength. How long had he been in the forest? Not long, he reckoned, but already he had done everything wrong. There would be no band of men now to rally for the king when he came to take back his throne. He would recruit no one.

  He slept most of the morning. When he came awake it was to the smell of rabbit roasting. He pushed himself up.

  Roy grinned at him across the fire. “Hey, you’re awake. Hungry?”

  Sean blinked, startled. “Roy—?”

  Roy took the spit from the fire and gingerly pulled a leg from the blackened rabbit carcass. He returned the spit and came over to Sean.

  “It’s hot now.” He peeled a little meat off and fed it to Sean. “You’re looking a bit pale, my brother.”

  “I’m—all right—how—?”

  “King’s business,” Roy said. “Any day now he’ll be coming back to rule England.”

  “He—abdicated—”

  “Ah, that’s what they’d have you believe. But it’ll work itself out. Here. Eat.”

  Sean chewed on the bitter meat. “I intended to call the Arrows together—live out here and be ready—”

  “It’d get a bit crowded, Sean. There’s already enough.”

  Sean heard the dull thud of something hard striking thick wood. He looked past Roy and saw a group of men with bows having target practice on a big oak fifty yards away. He watched as one nocked an arrow to his longbow and let fly. There was a tight pattern of arrows already in the center of a red spot on the tree. The arrow smacked in among them, splinters flying.

  “We’ve always been here, Sean. Always will be. There’s other work for you. Alan needs you. Other work for the living. Here, eat.”

  “Roy—I thought you died.”

  “There was a riot,” Roy said. “In Jerusalem. Enough talk now. Eat.”

  Silently, he let Roy feed him rabbit until he fell asleep.

  He opened his eyes slowly. His lids felt gummy and his vision blurred. He saw movement and brought up his hand to rub the crust from his eyes.

  The poacher had scattered all his belongings across the ground and was squatted over them, picking through. Sean tried to push himself to his feet, but he barely managed to lift his shoulders from the ground. The poacher started and then grunted.

  “Forest ain’t no place f’someone ain’t good at it,” the man said. “The way you feel I wouldn’t give ha’pence that ye live till morning. Ye won’t be needin’ none o’ this then. So if ye don’t mind, I’ll just he’p meself—”

  “You—” Sean began, only to be wracked by coughing.

  The poacher laughed.

  Suddenly Sean heard another sound. A thud, a shout, and what seemed to be something large sliding over the leaf-strewn ground.

  “Here, now—”

  “Leave off!”

  Sean tried to open his eyes again. He thought he saw two men struggling near the embers of his campfire—the poacher and another in a gray coat—but he could not be sure.

  “—found him like this, out ’ere all alone. He’s pretty sick, he is. Got him to eat some, but he’s been talking out of his head. There was some’ne robbin’ ’im, too, but he run off.”

  “My God, he’s burning up!”

  “Did what I could. I didn’t want to leave ’im alone, so I had me wife watch ’im while I come for help.”

  “Good, good; you did well.”

  “I can’t get ’is name out of ’im.”

  “Sean Petty.”

  “Roy’s brother? My God. I wondered where e’d got a Broad Arrow.”

  “He’s been missing five days. Alan’s been worried sick.”

  “I hope e’ll be all right.”

  Sean listened to the coronation of George VI in the living room with Alan. England had a king again, though it was not the same one who had been driven from his throne. Alan had tried to explain what had become of Edward VIII, but Sean refused to understand. It no longer mattered.

  A new king—they would have to wait and see if he was a good replacement and not another John, out to take advantage—

  Sean stopped the thought. Alan had been right. He was foolish and had nearly died. Better to believe in what lay right in front of him than any nonsense about Robin Hood or the King’s Arrows. It hurt. He wished he could recover the way he had been, seeing his duty clearly and simply, and accepting on faith that the stories had been true and that Roy had known they were the truth. But he could not. Something had gone out of him with his pneumonia and the stolen rabbits.

  The c
oronation broadcast ended and Alan turned the radio off.

  “Maybe things’ll be better now, eh?”

  “Maybe.”

  Sean pulled on a jacket and went outside. Spring was full on the countryside, turning it green and bright.

  Someone stood by the gate near the road. Sean thought he recognized the gray overcoat.

  “Who’s that, now?” Alan, behind him, wondered.

  The stranger raised an arm in greeting. Alan walked toward him. After a few moments’ hesitation, Sean followed.

  To Sean’s surprise, Alan said, “Will Scuppin!”

  The man smiled shyly. “Aye, it’s Will. How ye been, Alan?”

  “Not bad, Will, but—come in, would you? I heard from Jim and Mike that it was you found Sean. I wanted to thank you. Can I get you something to drink? God, it’s been—how long?”

  “Oh, years, I suppose.” The man stepped through the gate with a bit of hesitation. He blinked at Sean. “How ye feelin’, son?”

  “Better,” Sean said.

  “Pleased,” Will Scuppin replied.

  Sean asked Alan, “How do you know him?”

  Alan did not answer immediately. In the pause, Will said, “We was one o’ Roy’s Arrows.”

  “Come inside, Will,” Alan said. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

  “No, I really don’t have time. I got a job down the road a piece. Mike hired me on, and I wanted to come by and see that everything was all right.”

  “Then let us invite you to dinner this Friday, after you get done.”

  “I got a family, now, Alan.”

  “Them, too. It would be good.”

  “I’d like that. I would. Thank you.”

  Will came by Friday with his wife and two children. The oldest was barely four and the other was two. All of them looked underfed. Alan set a table to make up the difference.

  Sean listened to them talk about the hard times since ’29 with only half his attention. He had heard most of it already and hearing it again did nothing to make it more interesting, even from someone who had saved his life.

  Then, in a lull, Will said, “Do ye still have your pin?”

  Alan shook his head. “Somewhere. I don’t know. Do you?”

  Will nodded and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small object and handed it to Alan, who stared at it until his eyes grew moist. He handed it back, and Will passed it across to Sean.

  It was a wood carving of two arrowheads, one jammed into the base of the other. The paint had flaked, but at one time it had been bright red. Sean vaguely remembered them.

  “A King’s Arrow pin,” he said.

  “Aye, I’ve lost near everything else in me life, but I hung onto that.”

  “Why?” Sean asked.

  Will frowned thoughtfully. “Your dear brother, Roy, meant everything t’ me then. ’e was the first person what ever give me a chance.”

  “A chance at what?”

  Will looked surprised. “Alan, doesn’t ’e know?”

  Alan shook his head. “I don’t think—”

  “Ye haven’t told ’im? But—”

  “Will—”

  “Told me what?” He recognized a sudden desire to know about the Arrows again, a desire he had thought he put aside after his illness. Impatient with himself, he stood. “I have to clean up.”

  “Sean—” Alan started to say.

  “I could care less about your daft Arrows. All that rot almost killed me. For all I know, it killed Roy.”

  He scooped up the plates from everyone and hurried into the kitchen. He leaned on the sink and waited for the crying urge to pass. The door swung open behind him.

  “Sean?” It was Will. “Your brother’s gone out to the barn. Can I talk to ye?”

  “About what?”

  “The Arrows. Alan never told ye what we were?”

  “No. I finally understood that it was nothing important.”

  “That’s wrong. It was very important. See, we were all wards.”

  Sean turned. “Wards?”

  “Delinquents. Bad kids. We’d all been in jail. Even Alan.”

  “Alan?”

  “That’s where ’e and I met. When we got out, your brother Roy started an organization for us, the King’s Arrows. ’e took the lot of us. Most of us were war orphans, our fathers dead, our mothers, most of us, gone or dead, too, from grief if nothin’ else. Anyway, we got into trouble and ended up in bad situations. Alan got caught poachin’ on public land—”

  “You mean the King’s land?”

  “Aye. Ten months. I robbed a shop and got a year and a half. A lot o’ the Arrows had done as bad or worse. Roy taught us t’ do better.”

  “Taught you to run around like the merry men?”

  Will laughed. “He thought the stories meant somethin’. Maybe ’e was right. ’e said it wasn’t the stealin’ part that was important, but the charity. Lookin’ out for others, especially them what can’t do for themselves. A lot of us turned our lives around.”

  “Even you?”

  Will nodded, but he seemed embarrassed. “Times get hard. Doesn’t matter much how good a person ye are, trouble falls on ye. Ye get by best as ye can. People extend a hand, give ye some help. Then ye do the same when it’s your turn. It was the Arrows that brought you in. Alan had them searchin’ for you all along. I’m glad ye made it home all right.”

  Sean felt grateful. The Arrows had saved him after all.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “I’m glad I got t’ do a turn for Roy’s little brother. ’e was a good man, Sean. Ye should be proud of ’im.”

  Will left the kitchen then. Sean stood there, letting his feelings work at him until he felt he might burst. He went out the back door into the night air.

  “Sean?”

  Alan stood near the corner of the house.

  “Yes?”

  “Come here. I want to show you something.”

  “Leave me be.”

  “Please, Sean. It’s important.”

  Reluctantly, Sean followed Alan to the barn. He did not want to see the locker, the room where the memories were stored. But Alan unlocked the door and took the lantern inside. Sean stepped in after him.

  “You didn’t burn it,” Sean said, staring around, surprised. Everything was back where it had been—the banner, the photograph, the bows and quivers. “I thought you were—”

  “How could I do that? It’s all that’s left of Roy.” He went to the wall by the banner and pulled something down. It was one of the shirts Sean had found.

  “Roy used to say that every legend, no matter how silly, had a core of truth to it. That’s why he always told us the stories of Robin Hood were real. But first look at this.”

  He spread the shirt out against the oak slab.

  “Prison uniform,” Alan said. “Mine. That’s called the ‘Broad Arrow’ usually, but it used to be called the ‘King’s Arrow.’”

  “That’s where Roy got the name?”

  “Partly. There was a company of soldiers during the crusades, Saxon and Welsh bowmen, who were said to be the best archers in the world. They were also called the ‘King’s Arrows.’ Roy told us that Robin had been one of them. He had been the best. He told us that we could believe this even if we believed none of the rest.”

  “Why?”

  Alan slapped the oak table. “He cut this old tree down when our dad was in Europe during the Great War. He kept this part. A lucky cut, this. It would have been easy enough to lose it.” He pulled it from the wall and Sean saw then that a cord attached it to the beam above. With an effort, Alan turned it over and eased it back against the wall.

  He pointed. Sean came closer. Several inches in from the top edge were two old metal arrowheads, one right behind the other. There was a hollow trough through the wood where the shafts had been. All that remained now were the points, in a line, locked in the oak, one right behind the other.

  “Roy used to tell us that to get anything done you ha
ve to believe in what you’re doing. He said sometimes that faith is all you’re going to get to see it through. But that once in a while, providence provides us with some proof that what we believe is real.”

  Sean stared at the arrowheads for a long time. “I miss him.”

  “I do, too.” Alan laid a hand on Sean’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I never told you. I thought—I was afraid you wouldn’t understand. Roy explained things better than I ever could.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled something out. “Here. I thought I’d give you this when you got older, but—well, it seems proper now.”

  He laid one of the arrowhead pins in Sean’s hand.

  “That one was Roy’s.”

  Sean hugged his brother. Sean looked up at the arrowheads and knew then that everything would be all right.

  He left the barn then and walked up to the stone fence and gazed across the field to the tree line. Briefly, he thought he saw movement in the shadows, under the green cover, a single hand raised in farewell. He blinked and it was gone.

  The Disinterred

  Thomas Auerbach, legs trembling, stepped unsteadily from the carriage and waited for the apparition to follow him. After a few moments, he turned around and saw only an empty seat where for the entire ride from the landing at Newburgh-on-the-Hudson the specter of his dead son had kept him silent company. Thomas blinked, unsure whether he felt relief or disappointment.

  “Will that be all, sir?”

  Thomas looked up at the coachman. “Yes, I—forgive me.” He fumbled in his waistcoat for coins and handed them uninspected to the driver. “Thank you.”

  The man touched a finger to his aging tricorn and flicked the reins. The pair of sweat-sleeked horses broke into a lazy canter. Dust billowed, obscuring the coach as it rumbled down the road.

  Thomas squinted up at the house. Heavily whitewashed, it seemed to glow in the harsh morning sunlight. The window shutters were a fading spring green, but it was otherwise plain.

  Sweat traced a ticklish path down his face, and he swallowed around the lump in his throat. He wanted a drink from the pocket flask in his coat. Instead, giving the road a last quick look for his son, he went to the front door. He had raised his cane to rap when it opened.