The door bangs closed and the man behind the bar squints out at us. He gives Friar Tuck a wave and finishes wiping out a glass with a rag. He has two fingers missing on his left hand. I try not to stare, but I doubt I’m doing a good job. I’ve never seen anyone whose body did not heal itself.
“You’re coming next week, ain’t ya?” the barman asks with a lopsided grin. His teeth could use a good brushing, but who am I to say so? I haven’t brushed mine in two days.
“Indeed I am,” the friar replies. “Haven’t missed a chance to judge the sheriff’s archery contest in ten years.”
“Good to hear it,” the barman says with a satisfied nod. “You’re the only honest judge in the bunch.”
“It’s the sheriff I have to keep honest,” Friar Tuck replies in a low voice. Then he orders himself a large glass of ale and adds, “And my newest student here will have your finest wine.” Then he thinks better of it. “Make that water. And be sure to clean out the glass this time.”
But instead of water, the bartender hands me a chipped mug full of an orange liquid. “Pumpkin cider,” he says. “House specialty.” Steam rises from the top of the mug, and my hands feel warm holding it. I take a sip and instantly scald the roof of my mouth.
“Delicious!” I declare, trying not to show how much pain I’m in as I take big, gulping breaths. The drink tastes sweeter than the little blue fruit balls, if that’s possible. I manage to scald myself only a little bit less on the second sip. Friar Tuck shakes his head. “Didn’t your mother teach you to wait for your drink to cool?”
I shake my head. “Actually, no.” I don’t tell him it’s because I’ve never tasted anything hot before.
“Marrying off this young lady to an old coot, too?” a man hunched over the end of the bar suddenly asks. In the gloom, I hadn’t noticed him there. He steps forward, and I can see he is about twenty years old, dressed in colorful clothes and scarves and holding an instrument of some sort. He strums the strings and music fills the small room.
He bows his head in my direction. “Alan-a-Dale, wandering minstrel, at your service. You may call me Alan.” Then he turns to Friar Tuck, purses his lips, and gives him a hard stare.
Friar Tuck holds up his hand. “It is my duty to perform Lady Elly’s wedding, Alan. I am sorry her marrying causes you pain.” He pats the man gently on the shoulder.
Alan strums a melancholy tune and sighs. “ ’Tis wrong of me to blame you for doing your job. But we are in love. She does not love Sir Stephen — I’m certain of it.”
Friar Tuck shakes his head. “I’m afraid love has very little to do with marriage.”
Alan scoffs and turns back to me. “You don’t believe that, do you, young lady? A girl’s heart should be won with poetry and song and not given away to the highest bidder, no?”
His question takes me aback. I’m entirely unused to people asking me my thoughts on any subject, let alone a grown-up question like this. I decide to be honest. “Well, back home we do not marry for love, either.” I don’t add that I’m not even certain what romantic love is supposed to feel like.
He frowns. “That saddens me greatly. From where do you hail?”
I feel my cheeks grow hot as Friar Tuck also pauses in his drink for my answer. “It’s far from here, and, um, very different. A city, actually.”
I’m spared further questions by the door banging open. A hulking man dressed all in black steps inside — and all talking in the pub instantly halts. Instead of a hat or hood, the head of a skinned animal sits on the man’s head. For a split second I worry it’s Deedee, but this animal is darker and furrier. Was darker and furrier.
My stomach churns just the same.
Friar Tuck reaches out one arm and pushes me behind him. Alan steps forward, and together they hide me from view. The man grunts as he stomps past us, and my nose wrinkles at the dank smell that rises off him.
“Pint of ale!” he barks at the barman. “Now!”
“Sir Guy Gisborne,” Alan whispers as they shuffle me out the door, still hidden. “The sheriff’s number one henchman.”
“What’s a henchman?” I ask.
“A bad man doing the bidding of a worse one,” Friar Tuck answers. Once we’re back in the busy marketplace and have left the pub behind, his face relaxes again. “Where are you staying these days?” Friar Tuck asks Alan. “I know your family worries.”
“I am keeping safe,” he insists. “I have good people around me, and we take care of each other. Although I confess I am not the best company these days.” He holds up his instrument. “Still, a man with a harp is always welcome at the table.”
“Then we will be on our way,” the friar says. “Safe travels on your path.”
“To you as well,” Alan says with a nod. To me he adds, “Do not give up on romance, young miss. I know I won’t.” Then he rests his harp on his chest and strums the strings as he walks off toward the forest.
Friar Tuck sighs and shakes his head. “Musicians.” Then he points in the opposite direction of the forest, where I can see the roofs of low buildings tucked into the hillside. “We go that way,” he says. “To the School of the Perpetual Now.”
“The School of the what now?” I ask.
“The Perpetual Now,” he repeats. “We aim to live in the moment. Our modern lives are so busy, as I’m sure you know. We must learn to be where we are, at every moment. We do not worry about the future or dwell in the past. When our students finish their studies and go out in the world, they spread the message by example.”
I have to strain hard not to let my jaw fall open. He thinks his world is modern and busy? He has no idea. All I can do is nod politely. “I appreciate all that you’re doing for me,” I tell him as we leave the town square behind, “but I don’t have anything to pay you.”
“Don’t fret about that for now,” he says. “We’ll work something out with your family once you’re settled. I’m sure they will want to know you’re safe and not wandering through the forest.”
I open my mouth to tell him that he will find no family here when my eye catches the suitcase he’s been carrying for me since we left the forest. The suitcase with only one item of value in it now. Even though Grandmother can no longer speak, I think she’d be proud of me for what I’m doing. At least, I hope so. Pushing past the lump in my throat, I say, “Actually, I do have something I can pay you with. It’s in the suitcase.”
We stop on a dusty footpath that climbs into the hills for a rest. Friar Tuck lays the dented suitcase down on a flat rock. I give him a nod, and he swings it open. Grandmother’s headpiece glitters in the sunlight. Friar Tuck lifts it out and turns it around in his hands. He tucks it into his robes. “This will be more than sufficient.”
I feel a flash of panic that I just gave away my only bargaining tool in this new world. But Father always said never to be indebted to anyone for anything if you can help it. Now I am officially a student, albeit one without any way to pay for anything.
As the friar clicks the suitcase closed, I spot a tiny white marble and recognize it as the pearl on the necklace Robin stuffed in there. The rest had rolled underneath my old clothes. I have not given away my last item of worth after all. The knot in my throat loosens, and I mouth a silent thank you to Robin, wherever he is.
As we resume our walk up the winding path, Friar Tuck begins telling me the history of the school. Then he pauses at the sound of footfalls above us. My first thought is that somehow the men from the forest have found us — but no, of course they wouldn’t be here. Bounding down the hillside toward us is a pretty girl in brown pants and a red tunic. Her dark braid swings behind her.
“Was that Alan-a-Dale you were just talking to?” she asks Friar Tuck breathlessly when she reaches us. “He’s soooo handsome.” Her eyes get all soft and, well, gooey. “And he plays so beautifully.” She turns to me, waiting for me to agree, I suppose. “Um, he’s okay, I guess?” is the best I can offer.
A flash of surprise crosses her face as
she no doubt realizes I’m not someone she knows. “Oh, I’m sorry, we haven’t met. I’m Kylea, Friar Tuck’s favorite student.” She laughs and holds out her hand. She reminds me a little of Sarena, but perhaps that’s only because not many girls my age ever speak to me.
“I’m Marian,” I say, grasping her hand and shaking it. “Friar Tuck’s newest student.”
Kylea links her arm through mine. “Your voice sounds like a song! We shall be fast friends, I know it!” I can’t help but notice the bracelet of multicolored beads curled around her arm. She sees me looking and says, “These are mala beads. They help me meditate better. I’ll show you how to make your own in crafts class.” I can’t imagine owning anything that colorful, let alone wearing it on my body. I squeeze her arm with pleasure.
Friar Tuck chuckles. “You’ll need to get to know each other quickly, girls. You know what happens when we arrive at school.”
“What happens?” I ask, feeling my first trickle of worry. What have I signed up for?
The concern must have come through in my voice, because Kylea squeezes my arm. “It’s nothing bad, truly. The students just don’t talk. We’re in silent retreat on school grounds this month.”
Friar Tuck nods. “It is easiest to listen to the world around you when all you hear is the voice in your head. And when you turn that off, too? The silence will be like the loudest, purest music you’ve ever heard. You are at peace, in harmony with the present moment — the never-ending Perpetual Now.”
I have a hard time picturing Kylea silent, but the friar’s words stir up the same longing in me as when he first spoke of the school.
We travel a few more yards up the path, with Kylea chattering about the dormitory where we’ll live, how the friars sometimes start to spontaneously dance, and which foods to avoid at meals, when a strong breeze carries the sound of cheering and the clanging of metal up to us. I stop and turn back to the village below, trying to determine where it’s coming from.
The others stop, too. “Oh, that’s just the outlaws and vagabonds who live in Sherwood Forest,” Kylea says, waving a hand dismissively. “They’ve offended the Sheriff of Nottingham one way or another, so they hide out and cause trouble in the woods. They never come into the village, though, because they don’t want the sheriff’s men to spot them. And don’t worry — they never, ever come all the way to the school. We’re hidden away, like a secret.”
That’s not what I’m worried about. I glance at Friar Tuck. He puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “I’m certain your friend is fine,” he says. “He is no doubt far away from there by now.”
I nod. I’m sure he’s right. Robin is a fast runner. He’s probably found another town on the other side of the forest and is right now tasting the local fare like I did. Maybe he even has a lead on parts to repair our airship by now, or at least to fix the hole in the hull. Yes, I’m sure he’s left those men in his dust.
I link my arm back through Kylea’s.
“So, what were you saying about the turnip soup?” I ask.
I have just enough time to duck out of sight behind a tree before four boots burst onto the path, kicking up dirt. The rest of the men can’t be far behind.
“The noise came from here,” one says. “It must still be nearby.”
It? Now that’s insulting.
“You’re lucky you have such bad aim,” the other man says. I breathe a sigh of relief. I may be an “it,” but at least I won’t be shot with an arrow. Then he adds, “You know how attached the sheriff is to his deer.”
Wait, what? I risk taking a glance. Two uniformed men stand beneath a tree, one holding a tube to his eye to scan the area. These men in brown uniforms aren’t the ones we encountered by the stream. And I’m not their prey, nor is Marian or Friar Tuck. Deedee is! These must have been the men shooting into the trees. I look around and spot Deedee’s nose sticking out from behind a wide tree. Neither man is looking her way. Guess I’m going to have to start making some noise again to distract them.
I step out onto the dirt, loudly crunching leaves underfoot as I go. The men’s heads whirl around. “Who goes there?” the taller of the two demands.
“It is I, Robin Hood of Locksley.” I bow as gracefully as I can — which, I discover, I’m actually quite good at. “But you can call me Robin.”
“I have never seen you before,” the other says with narrowed eyes. The sun glints off the star-shaped badges on their chests. Sheriff’s Deputy. That sounds important. “I know everyone within a hundred miles of here. What business have you in Sherwood Forest?” he demands.
I can’t very well tell them that my airship from a spaceport many light-years away crash-landed here and now I’m trying to get us home. So I repeat what I told the other people we met on this planet. “Merely passing through, deputies. I’ll get out of your way now.” I tip my hat at them, willing Deedee to stay in place.
“Wait,” the taller guy says as I begin to turn away.
I knew it wouldn’t be that easy. I stop, prepared to be grabbed by the arm.
But all he does is ask, “Have you seen a small deer? Spots down his back and whatnot? We have to account for every last fawn or the sheriff gets grouchy. You don’t want to be around the sheriff when he’s grouchy.”
“No, sir, you do not,” the other deputy agrees. “Did you see it come this way?”
“Nope.” This is not a lie. I did not see Deedee come this way. They aren’t asking if I see her now, out of the corner of my eye, chewing a blade of grass. Which I do.
“This is a fool’s errand,” the tall deputy scoffs. “Let’s get back to the castle.” To me he says, “I wouldn’t linger in these woods past dark. Not safe for a stranger when outlaws have moved in. We just chased off a group of thieves now.”
He reaches into a bag and I gasp as he holds up my two small statues — the bird and the round-bellied man. “Found these things on the scoundrels! Bet the sheriff will forget all about the deer when we give him these. Not much to look at, but they should be worth a whole bunch of shillings.”
I start to sputter something like, Wha — That’s my — How did you — then make myself stop. The statues must have fallen from the pockets of my cloak when I was shooting. But if I try to claim them, these men will never believe I hadn’t stolen them in the first place.
The deputies don’t waste another minute on me. The man with my statues sticks two fingers into his mouth. A shrill whistle blasts the air between us, and a few seconds later two enormous creatures trot onto the path. They have to duck under the branches in order to fit!
I jump backward, smacking my back against a tree. The creatures stand beside the men, and I’m amazed that their thin, spindly legs can hold up their huge bodies and long necks.
The deputies swing their legs over the animals’ bodies and reach for the pieces of rope hanging on either side of the long, thick necks. Then the deputies dig in their heels, give a one-word command, and the animals carry them away. As the dust and leaves settle back down, the name comes to me. “Horses!” I shout to no one.
How I wish Marian could have been here to see them! Did I make the wrong choice to let her go? I don’t have a single thing to barter with now — just my charm, and that’s running pretty thin. What good is going into town with nothing to sell or barter? My stomach is rumbling, though, and I’m thirsty. The extra food rations I packed are lost in the void of space.
With Deedee at my side, I make my way back through the woods in the direction of the stream. I decide to approach it from much farther down, though, in case the deputies didn’t chase the outlaws away as well as they thought.
The water is just as crisp and refreshing as it was this morning, although having a deer as a drinking companion is not as much fun as having a person. Marian, specifically.
The stream is much wider and deeper at this end, with fallen trees making bridges across it every few yards. I entertain myself by running back and forth across them, not slipping once. Deedee puts one hoof o
n the log, but thinks better of it and watches from the shore.
“Think I can do it with my eyes closed?” I ask Deedee. “Let’s find out.” I slip off my shoes, relishing the feel of the bark beneath my feet as I inch forward. It’s slippery, but that makes it more of a challenge.
I’m already halfway across the stream when Deedee makes one of her bleeting noises. “Don’t worry,” I call over my shoulder. “I’m not going to fall.” I’m about to lift my right foot when a voice replies, “Oh, I’m not worried. This is very entertaining.”
My eyes fly open and I whirl around, feet sliding in all directions. I fall right on my butt and wince at the pain. Instinctively my arms grab for the log and only my feet wind up in the cold, rushing water.
It takes longer than it should for me to recognize that what I’m looking at is a man, and not a tree. He is twice the width of any man I’ve seen on this planet so far, and half again as tall.
His voice rumbles down at me. “You are trespassing on my bridge.”
“I didn’t realize the forest belonged to anyone,” I manage to say.
The man shrugs. “Nevertheless. Guess we’ll have to fight for it now.” He holds up what I assume at first to be a long branch. But then he flips it around in his hands and I see it’s more polished than that, with steel at both ends. It’s a weapon.
I scramble off the log to the opposite side of the stream. “No need,” I call across to him. “The bridge is all yours.”
But he shakes his head. “Are you afraid to fight me?”
Yes. But I can’t let him know that. I square my shoulders and put on my best fake-it-till-you-make-it voice. “Robin Hood is afraid of no one.”
“Then bring your quarterstaff and prove it.”
I don’t own a quarterstaff, nor do I know what one is. I’m about to tell him this, but he’s already stepping onto the log bridge, swinging his weapon back and forth over his head. I’m surprised the log can hold his weight, but I don’t have too long to marvel at it. I scan the ground until I find a fallen branch. It will have to do. I imitate the positioning of his hands — one in the center of the branch, and one midway to the top.