In a Dark Wood (14 page)

“Oh, you don't, actually.” Robin's eyes twinkled as he sat and poured himself wine from a chipped clay pitcher. “We belong with you, in your chamber, between your sheets. But since you would not have us, we must have you.”

“What did you do to Henry?”

“Nothing. He reeled from your chamber, already forgetting what you had told him to do, and I finished him off with a few pitchers of new ale.”

“It was that simple?”

“As easy as the telling of it.”

“I trusted him.”

“Don't think about it. We would have had you one way or another.”

23

It was probably still day, but it made no difference here. The fire was bright, and a buck was brought, hanging from a pole, its antlers dragging twin lines in the earth. The beautiful eyes looked into Geoffrey's. A single spot of ripe blood over the animal's heart showed where an arrow had hissed and taken the world away from the deer.

The deer is me, Geoffrey thought, and when the gutting knife glinted in the firelight, Geoffrey could not watch. Never before had the carcass of an animal shaken him like this. “You serve good wine,” said the sheriff.

“Only the best,” said Robin.

“My men would have devastated this little band.”

“They have done their best already. Shorn ears, chopped hands, gouged eyes.” Indeed, even as he spoke, the pink bud of a clipped ear protruded from lank hair in a nearby tent, a sleeve fell away to expose a stump, and a sightless eye pursed itself tighter.

“Tell me,” said Geoffrey. “Where did you get the pots?”

“Certainly you don't think I stole them.”

“Why not?”

“I bought them from a traveling potter. I paid him well, and he was pleased to be rid of his wares.”

Yet another deer sizzled over coals, and Geoffrey made a sour smile. “You help yourselves to the king's livestock.”

“We would be very hungry otherwise,” said Robin Hood.

When a slab of venison steamed before Geoffrey, and his glass had been filled, Robin Hood said, “What entertainment would you like? A battle with quarterstaffs perhaps? We are the best in the shire at staff-battles. It is, after all, the weapon of the peasant, and most of us are common.”

“I think not, but thank you.”

“An archery display!” said Robin Hood.

“No, I have seen enough of that.”

“Then a story.”

“Very well. A story.”

“Little John,” called Robin Hood, “tell us a story.”

The huge shape of a man detached itself from a tree, and the great tree-colored figure stood before them.

“We want a story, Little John.”

The giant looked deep into Geoffrey's eyes, as if reading something there.

“And since we avoided a fight today, let it be a story of battle,” said Robin Hood. “Let there be swords in it, and blood.”

Little John's eyes glittered in a face like a mossy bole. He closed his eyes and stood unmoving for a moment. Then his eyes opened again, and he slowly raised his arms. The forest itself seemed to grow silent, and only the fire whispered.

“Kanut was a warrior,” said Little John, his voice deep and clear. “He was a mighty swordsman. No one could defeat him in battle. His sword flashed like the noon sun, and blood pattered on the ground like piss.

“One day Kanut's lord commanded him to travel to a distant land where they needed the service of his sword.” Somewhere a hand stroked a lute, a discordant, quiet sound. Little John stared hard into Geoffrey's eyes, then raised his arms again. “A distant land, where he was to rescue the countryside from a monster.

“Kanut set sail across the sea in a storm, the water black and tossing, and gulls wheeling across the sky. When he arrived, he knelt and thanked Our Lady for his safe passage. The shore was a waste of sand and seaweed. The sky was the color of iron, and the farms were a tangle of weeds. Kanut walked the road with his sword in his hand, because the wind stank of death. There was silence, except for one sound: the sound of a woman weeping.

“‘What can trouble thee?' asked Kanut. ‘Fair maiden, answer me what grieves you.'”

“‘A monster has destroyed this land,' she said. ‘It has gutted the men, burned the hayricks, and left only myself to weep, so that the loss might be felt by one survivor, one person who remembered the world as it used to be, when men laughed and women sang.'”

“‘Where is this monster?' asked Kanut, shaking his sword. ‘I have come to kill him, and I will not leave without his head.'

“‘He lives in the cave beyond the Blue Marsh,' answered the maiden.

“And so Kanut found the Blue Marsh and crossed it in a scull, working his way across water that clung to his pole like paste. Birds cried through the air with a sound like infants bawling, and the sun was a stab in the sky.

“Kanut stood before the cave, sword in hand, and called, ‘Come forth, beast. I have come to slay you.' A flock of transparent sheep trotted forth from the cave, a herd of intestines and brains. But Kanut knew devil's work and stood his ground. ‘Come forth, beast,' he called, and a train of maidens came forth, beautiful and fair, singing in the voices of very old men, ‘Kanut, mighty among men, who fears no creature, leave us to our peace.' But Kanut knew devil's work and stood his ground. ‘Come forth, monster, that I might slay you and be finished.'”

“The wind stopped, and the herd of sheep and the beautiful maidens vanished. The clouds glowed like heated iron, and the sun was as pink as a scar. And then a child came forth, a little child. Kanut waited for the child to transform itself into a dragon, or a griffin, or a manticore, but the child took Kanut's hand and said softly, ‘I am the beast. Kill me.'

“And Kanut prayed, ‘Mary, Queen of Heaven, I cannot kill a child!'

“But the child said, ‘Kill me or I will waste more, and savage the world with my devouring.'

“And Kanut prayed, ‘Jesu, Prince of Paradise, I cannot kill a child!'

“But the child said again, ‘Kill me, for no evil done upon this land does not flow from these arms, no rapine does not come by these hands, no sorrow except by these fingers, this child's form.'”

“And Kanut slew the child before another word was spoken, with a single blow, his blade slicing the child as easily as a stick slicing wind.”

“The Blue Marsh cleared, crystal bright, and the scull was transformed into a barge of silk and damask, and the perfume of flowers was in the wind.”

“Ruddy-faced farmers embraced Kanut, thanking him for their deliverance. And their wives embraced him, thanking him for their lives, and the elders of the village embraced him, thanking him for returning them to the world.”

“But Kanut threw his sword into the sea, and dropped his shield upon the sand, and let his chain mail slump to the jetsam of the shore, because he had killed a child and had no more taste for battle.”

Little John turned slowly and picked up a knife and cut himself a chunk of venison. He sat and ate. The spice of the meat was in the air, and a drizzle began to fall, a small rain that made the band of men and women huddle in their cloaks.

“A good story!” said Robin. “A magnificent tale! What do you think, Sheriff?”

“A good story.”

“And what lesson does it tell?”

“I have no idea.”

“You were telling me the lessons of the bee—”

“That was something I learned in childhood. I have never heard this story before, so I can't guess what it might mean.”

“And you'll never hear it again. He made it up, on the spot.”

“He invented it?”

“Yes. Here and now.”

Geoffrey shook his head. “What a strange thing to do.”

Robin smiled, chewing and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “You never invent anything, do you, Sheriff?”

“I invent traps that fail.”

“But you never create anything new, something that was not there before you.”

“I don't understand.”

“You do not make things up.”

“I am not a craftsman,” said Geoffrey disdainfully. “I was never intended to work with my hands.”

“You are too good for that,” said Robin.

“Besides, I didn't really like the story.” He paused to see if anyone acted offended, but everyone chewed, seeming to ignore him. “It seemed pointless.”

“How was it pointless?” asked Robin.

“It seemed so to me. Ask the storyteller what it was supposed to mean.”

“Oh, Little John almost never talks, unless to tell a story.”

“He never speaks a truth, then,” said the sheriff peevishly.

Robin laughed so long Geoffrey stopped eating and pushed away his wooden plate. Robin wiped a tear and said, “Never tells a truth!”

“I amuse you. This is not surprising. This must be how you derive pleasure from your captives.”

“Forgive me, my good lord sheriff, but you are an amazing creature. A talking mute! A seeing blind man! A dead man with moving arms and legs.”

“I am glad I please you.”

“I expected a burly man, a man who was cruel but also fiery. A man filled with fury and hatred. I expected a man of muscle and little wit.”

Geoffrey tasted his wine. “And?”

“And I get a dry man.”

He said “dry man” as he might say “dried peach.”

Geoffrey gathered himself. “A pity that I disappoint you.”

“I am delighted! I see so few like you! You are a piece of furniture! You are a door knocker, a stirrup! You have lived so close to duty that your soul has shaped itself to it, like a glove worn so long that even when the hand is gone, it still has the full shape of a hand.”

“A guest should delight his host.”

“My good lord sheriff, I do you wrong. You have a muscular soul. You have fears and hopes. But”—Robin leaped to his feet—“you should laugh! The world, the very world, is pointless, just as Little John's tale seems meaningless. The story of all of it makes no sense, tells no lesson, makes no one wiser; it is a smear of honey pricked with flies, and a man who frowns all the time takes no more pleasure than the bee working from flower to flower, every day until he turns into an empty thimble.”

“My host is a philosopher.”

“Music!”

The lute jangled, and somewhere in the dark a bagpipe squeaked. The squeak swelled into a drone, and the pipe bleated as Geoffrey winced. Robin danced well, Geoffrey conceded to himself. The lute broke a string, but the bagpipe continued. Robin danced beside the fire, and Little John joined him, prancing like a frenzied bear.

“Dance, my lord sheriff!” said Robin. “Life is an inch!”

Geoffrey smiled grimly and sat where he was.

24

The sheriff woke. He could smell morning, a gentle stirring in the air, but it was still dark.

Geoffrey sat up, and the pine needles beside him crackled. He looked up, into the deep-set eyes of Little John. Little John placed the end of his quarterstaff on Geoffrey's chest, and Geoffrey lay flat again.

A night bird cried, a sharp, passionless scream, without fear or fury. His guard was gone, but Geoffrey sensed the men round the camp and cursed the darkness. How he hated night! And how easy these men seemed in the dark, at home in it, wearing it like disguise. He lay still, an organ in a gigantic, sleeping creature.

The darkness was rotten, a gray patch of mold spreading high above them. The charred logs lifted a single white thread of smoke. A figure stooped over a single red tooth and dropped a handful of shavings.

“You're awake,” said Robin Hood.

Geoffrey searched himself like a man who has just fallen. He groaned to his feet. “What are you going to do with me?”

“Are you still afraid?”

“Not anymore,” he answered truthfully. “Something about a new day gives me courage.”

Robin laughed.

Geoffrey took the crust of bread he was handed, a chunk the color and shape of a chunk of peat. He chewed, and sipped wine from the icy metal goblet. “My men will run you to the ground.”

“Such confidence, so early in the morning.”

“The wisest thing for you to do,” said Geoffrey, “would be to run me through, this moment, with your sword.”

“I knew you would have an eye for this,” said Robin, holding the blade into the drizzle. The bright steel was unblemished, the sword of a knight. “I was given it by a traveler once.”

“Most yeomen don't know how to use a sword.”

The pines dissolved in mist. Water pattered from the black boughs, and the world was gone. There was only this knot of blanket under a veil of smoke. The air was ripe with wood decay and a human odor, sweat and wet wool. There was a smell of horse manure from beyond the camp, and the crack of an axe.

Robin slipped the sword back into its scabbard. “I don't know if we will ever see you again.”

“How many times have I seen a hound kill a rabbit by shaking it once, like a rag? And how many times have I seen a pack of them tear a rabbit to bits?”

“Threats, my lord sheriff?”

“I wish you luck.”

“I will keep your fine horses, and thank you for them. In exchange I give you back your sword and this gift—”

Will Scathlock grinned toothlessly, leading a fine white palfrey.

She was beautiful. Slender and powerful-delicate, in that breathtaking way of the finest mares. She accepted Geoffrey's touch, giving over to him peacefully, her pink nostrils playing across the pine needles, puffing some of them aside to expose the dark ground.

Suddenly he was in darkness. The hood rasped over his ears, and the voices round him were distant, words in a dream. Whether he left the band or the band left him, he could not tell. His sword was buckled into place, and he was helped onto the palfrey. His hands were tied behind him with coarse rope.

Branches crackled, and the horse felt its way through the forest. “Who's with me?”