***
Elsewhere
Scree stopped a meter from the dying stranger, unwilling to get any closer. Magic whispered in his mind, picking at the edges of his consciousness like a vulture working at a carcass.
“Akawi,” the man said, “you must take the books and flee. You must. I know these men are just trolls and will not stop to steal two books, but they may burn them.” He coughed a dollop of blood onto the timber floor. One of his legs shook violently, drumming a ragged rhythm. “You must take the books.” He coughed again. “We are so close. I know it. Continue the search for the portals.”
Scree didn't move, hardly dared to breathe, and the dying man grew more urgent.
“Take the books and go. Flee.”
The troll could feel the vulture of magic growing more desperate, fluttering and scrabbling for something to grip. “Where's the books?” Scree asked in a hoarse whisper. “Where?”
“Where they have always been, Akawi. Where my precious books have always been.”
“Where's that?”
The man struggled to sit up, though he shouldn't have been alive at all. “Who are you? You are not Akawi.” The vulture finally took flight, and he slumped to the floor. Dead.
Scree finally stepped closer and kicked him. “Gutted cats. Where's they at?” Akawi, who ever he was, would know. “So, does I finds Akawi? Or does I finds something more useful, like food?” Food did sound good — he hadn't had a half-decent meal in days — but a dying man's last thoughts were for some books, not himself!
As if to decide the issue, a slim young man crept into the room, peering back over his shoulder.
Scree leapt up, a smile on his face, and grabbed the newcomer around the neck before he could react.
“Akawi,” he said, “how is ya?”
He received a gurgle in response.
“Your friends here was talking abouts some books.” He gestured vaguely. “Where's them books at?”
Akawi, if that was who it was, shook his head and gurgled again. Scree decided he might save himself some time by first discovering if he was talking to the right man.
“You is Akawi, ain't ya? Keeping in minds that if you ain't, thens I mightn't have any more use for you.”
The man nodded, eyes widening with fear as if he'd expected to live before that.
“Good, so hows about we makes a deal? You tells me where them books is hid, and I'll let you lives.” Scree smiled. “Sounds like a fair deals to me.”
Elsewhen
”The giant statues on Easter Island?” Dongoske said. “You know the ones, Miss McLean?”
Kim nodded. “Yeah, of course. In general.”
“Well, they're called 'moai'.”
“Tuki's people are called moai, right?”
Dongoske nodded. “But wait, there's more. My people, the Hopi, who were based to the south-east of here, have legends about our ancestors arriving from other worlds by climbing up through holes in the ground. That's why most of our ceremonies are carried out in an underground chamber called a Kiva.”
“Kiva is the name of Tuki's world,” Meledrin said.
“Correct. So, suddenly, ancient legends take on a whole new light. Here we are, within a few meters of an underground gateway to a world called Kiva.”
Kim shook her head. “But the Indian cultures aren't that old, are they?”
“They're a few thousand years old, but no, nowhere near the kind of time spans we're talking about here. We aren't saying that the Hopi really crossed from another world, but their legends had to start somewhere and the coincidences are starting to build up. The predecessors of the Hopi were called the Anasazi — a word that means 'ancient ones' or 'lost ones', depending on who you ask.”
“What about Roswell? That's around here somewhere, isn't it?”
Dongoske laughed. “Roswell is in New Mexico, not that close to here, but still within the Hopi and Anasazi regions. But, a spaceship did not crash there in 1954. A weather balloon crashed.” He smiled at the look of disappointment on Kim's face. “However, when the Air Force went to investigate, they did come across something.”
“A spaceship?”
Dongoske smiled some more.
1: Festival
Kim almost ran over Robin Hood. She hit the brakes and the crappy old car slid to a halt with a crunch of gravel and clatter of engine.
Winding down the window, with an effort, she poked her head out into the cool of the early afternoon. “Sorry.”
Robin waved away her apology. “No,” he said. “My fault. Should look for traffic before stepping onto the road. I'm not as spry as I used to be.”
Kim didn't doubt that at all. This Robin was getting on in years and had obviously spent too much time drinking ale and not enough time running from the sheriff. She pushed long dark hair away from her face. “Well, as long as we're all okay.”
“Don't worry, I'm fine.”
With a small nod to Robin, she got the car moving again.
The parking lot was packed and, after making her way up and down a few of the lanes, Kim started to wonder why she'd agreed to come here. She finally found a spot in the back corner where the roots of a large oak had broken the road surface, forcing the more careful drivers to leave a gap between cars. Kim really didn't care and ignored the metallic complaints as the car bumped and scraped over the roots. She was just about ready to hock the car to some other poor, unsuspecting backpacker and give up her wandering ways.
After a final clatter and hiss, the car fell silent. Kim sat and enjoyed the peace for a moment then climbed out, stretching her legs and back. Starting to feel normal again, she leaned in the back window and pulled her mobile phone from the pocket on the side of her pack. One message. She listened as Nina explained, in a French accent that probably drove guys crazy, that she wouldn't make it to Nottinghamshire until late in the afternoon.
“Shit.”
Kim looked at the people around her. Some were heading towards the Sherwood Forest Visitor Centre. Most were following a gravel path towards the wonder and merriment of the Robin Hood Festival. Knowing she was going to regret it, she pocketed her phone, locked the car, and followed this second group.
Beyond the plywood-castle gate the festivities were in full swing. Kim strolled along, watching the strange array of characters who'd made the journey to Sherwood Forest to celebrate Robin's birthday. Robin himself was popular, of course — silly tights and all. He ranged from babies in prams to men older than the one she'd almost run down earlier. Friar Tuck was popular as well — shaven scalp and all. Little John look-alikes were congregating around a tent selling cans of 'ye olde ale'. For the women, the three main choices seemed to be Maid Marion, witches, or fairy princesses. About half the people were dressed normally.
Kim nudged her way among the stalls, past a silver smith and a weaver, a potter and a dressmaker. There was carved timber, weaponry, wrought iron, and all sorts of things for sale. Historical societies had tents and camps where they could tell people about their little piece of the past. She followed the crowd, dodging past lacy wings, capes, drooping feathers, and curly-toed shoes. On any other day Kim could have happily wandered around taking it all in, but she was sore and tired from driving and pissed off that Nina had abandoned her, if only for a few hours.
She stopped to buy a hotdog and spent a moment wondering what such a delicacy might have been made of in the thirteenth century. Probably about the same as it was made from these days. A couple of minutes later she bought a salad sandwich and a drink for the second course. Making her way along the edge of the forest, she spotted a rare vacant seat at a picnic table and sat down with a grateful sigh.
Nearby, a young boy fired a blunt arrow at his sister and received a half-hearted smack from his father. A troubadour got down on one knee to serenade an embarrassed looking Goth girl. A knig
ht, helm under his arm, clanked and rattled through the crowd, smiling and bowing to almost any woman who looked his way. When he spotted Kim he paused.
Kim knew that look. She sighed as the knight jammed his helm onto his head and started in her direction. His armor gleamed in the late morning sunlight. The faceplate of his helm was lowered, offering only a small slit through which he could look.
When he was finally standing in front of Kim, he bowed with a rattle and a screech of metal that made him sound a lot like her car.
“My lady,” he said.
“You know, I'm really too tired to put up with this shit.” Kim shifted slightly on the hard wooden bench and examined her sandwich. “I just want to eat my lunch in peace.”
“Oh, I see.” But he stayed where he was.
“You see?” She was trying to be polite, but it was hard. “That's surprising with that stupid bloody helmet.”
He quickly reached up to remove the offending object and seemed to think he'd found an opening. “I apologize for my rudeness in hiding my face, but once I saw you I could think of nothing as trivial as my helm.” As if he hadn't put it on just a moment before. But, give a man a suit of armor and a classic phallic symbol like a sword, and he seemed to think he could do anything. “My name is Sir Douglas.”
Kim shook her head. “For Christ's sake, Doug, take a hint and piss off, would you.”
“Right.” He looked around, perhaps searching for witnesses he'd have to eliminate. “Right.” And he did as he was asked.
Kim turned her attention back to her sandwich. It tasted better than it looked, which was something.
As she chewed, a haggard old witch zeroed in on the recently vacated seat. The woman carried a twiggy broom in her arthritic hands and used it to clear a path. She sat down with a sigh of relief and spent a moment getting arranged. She leaned her broom against the tilting picnic table and set her pointed hat down carefully before turning to gaze around the fairground.
Kim looked as well, as if something might have changed in the last few minutes. It was a quaint setting. Picturesque. But, in her current mood, she could only take so much quaint and picturesque. She wondered how much worse her mood would have been if she'd been sitting in some dirty old city.
Several minutes later, when Kim was almost over the whole idea of sitting, the old woman spoke.
“I'll get you my pretty,” she said in a convincing Wicked-Witch-of-the-West voice. She added a cackle for good measure.
Kim thought about that for a moment, wondering if she was being offered a line for the second time that day and suddenly wishing she'd chosen bachelor number one. “Pardon.”
“I'll get you my pretty,” the woman said once more, this time in a normal voice. She shrugged apologetically. “I'd have gone for something out of MacBeth but I can never remember much more than 'When shall we three meet again', and, well, there are only two of us. My memory isn't what it used to be.”
Kim dismissed a couple of very lame jokes before saying, “MacBeth probably would've been more suitable to our surroundings. The Wicked Witch of the West is a bit far from home.” Or perhaps a fantasy wasn't out of place at all.
“I know. A bit of a shame really. Old Westie is a lot more interesting than anyone dreamed up for Robin Hood.”
“Yeah. At least you admit Robin Hood is a fantasy. Nobody else here seems to realize.”
The old woman fixed Kim with a surprisingly penetrative gaze. “You shouldn't be that cynical until you get to my age. I think most of these people know Robin was a fabrication, or a conglomeration at best. But they just want to have some fun on Robin's birthday. Look at the clothes they're wearing.” She gestured with a knobbly hand. “More of them are in fantasy costumes than traditional medieval ones. They're just having some fun and there's nothing wrong with that.”
“Fun is great. Idiots, not so great. If a fifty ton dragon turned up now, half these knights would draw their swords and run to fight it instead of running away and calling in some professionals.”
“Professional dragon hunters?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Perhaps. But maybe idiocy suits their disposition today. I know being the funny old grandma suits mine.”
“You're here with your grandkids?”
“My granddaughter.” The witch looked around. “That's her there, by the singer.”
“The fairy?” Kim asked, looking at a little girl with blonde, curly hair and pink wings. She was smiling and laughing at the contorted faces made by the singer. “Cute. Shouldn't you be with her?”
“No. That's my daughter just behind her.”
“Oh, that's all right then.”
“Yes, it is.” The old woman cackled her Wicked Witch cackle again as she collected her hat and broom. “They seem to have lost me. I'd better go, I suppose.” She smiled and pushed a lock of stringy grey hair away from her face. When she brought her hand away, a few strands were clinging to her fingers. She showed them to Kim with a look of mock horror on her face. “I'm moulting,” she wailed, then shuffled away through the crowd with a wave and a smile.
“Okey dokey, then.” Kim shook her head. “She's probably been waiting all day to do that joke.”
Eventually, Kim got to her feet and headed into the crowd once more. She examined some of the stalls and chatted to a woman about the origins of her very Scottish surname.
Just before 2 o'clock, the rhythm of the crowd changed. Kim joined a growing surge of people and jostled her way past several street performers as she crossed the main green. All the performers wore suitable medieval raiment, but one of the acts involved a monocycle called the 'one wheeled chariot of doom'. The two monks who owned the chariot, Brother Phil and Brother Terry, were soon lost from sight as the current moved Kim on. On the far side of the green the throng reached a bottleneck between two rows of stalls and the pace slowed but it wasn't long before Kim and everyone else broke into the clear and crossed a dirt road.
“Come to see the battle, have you?”
“What?” Kim turned and discovered she was once more looking at the Wicked Witch of the West. Or, at least, at the top of her pointy hat. The press of people was still too tight to make eye contact an easy task. Her daughter was hovering by her shoulder carrying the little girl with the pink wings.
“The battle,” the witch repeated.
“Which battle?”
“No, the usual kind. Not a single witch involved.” She cackled.
“Oh, har-de-har-har.”
The witch craned her neck. “This is the tourney field, otherwise know as the cricket ground. They have mock battles and such here. Can be interesting. On the other hand, if you don't find this sort of thing interesting, it can be boring.” She smiled.
They turned a corner and shuffled along with the crowd. The makeshift grandstand up ahead seemed to be filling fast, so Kim found a likely vantage point on the grassy bank that ran along the edge of the field. The old woman managed to sit down as well, with a grunt of effort and a wince of pain.
“This is my daughter, Karen,” she said, settling as comfortably as possible. “And that, is Jessie.”
Kim nodded. “Hi, Karen. And hello, Jessie. How are you?”
“Good, thank you,” the little girl said, cuddling up to her mother.
“That's good. Are you having fun?”
Jessie nodded. “I rode a horse and talked to a princess.”
“Really? Wow. I might have to go see if I can go find the horses later.”
Jessie laughed.
“They're only ponies, aren't they honey,” Karen said, straightening her daughter's wings.
“You're too big,” Jessie agreed.
“Oh well.”
“You're Australian?” Karen asked after a moment of silence.
Kim nodded. “Either that or American, whichever will get me through the door.”
“Oh.”
“Long story involving elopement, unimpressed grandparents, and the CIA.”
Normally a line like that got people interested, but Jessie asked a question and her mother was sidetracked. Kim was happy enough — she'd told the story too many times since hitting the road a couple of years earlier. She turned to look out over the field.
A dozen tents were clustered near the edge of the forest to the right. Weapons of all shapes and sizes were standing in racks nearby, most of them looking impressively real from a distance. Dozens of warriors, archers, and camp followers were milling around, but none of them seemed to be ready for action just yet.
The crowd continued to grow and eventually a group of eastern European soldiers from the early renaissance rolled three cannons out onto the field. Introductions and speeches were made over a loud speaker before the battle was declared open with a wadded-paper, three-gun salute. Parents opened their mouths wide in mock shock, children screamed with delight. Most other people seemed to prepare themselves for the real action.
Two teams filed onto the field as the announcer told the crowd a little about each group and the period and regions they represented. Then challenges were called and tributes offered to various damsels and princesses. It was all very awkward and over done. When the battle finally got underway, it was much the same. There were rules and obvious safety issues that kept it all very sterile and theatrical.
“So, is this as interesting as it gets?” Kim had spent eight years in the army and been involved in real military action, much to her mother's eternal mortification. So, while she had a slight appreciation for the fake battles as a form of art, she could not put much stock in them as a type of instruction.
“Oh, goodness, no. There is no limit to the excitement around here. There are archery displays later and jousting. And more battles of course.” The witch pulled a sheet of paper from inside her robe. “I have a map and itinerary.”
“Oh, boy.”
The witch wrinkled her nose for a moment then pointed to a spot on her map. “Here, this is the Major Oak where Robin kept a stash of food in case of emergencies.”
Jessie leaned over to have a look. “Can we go there later, gran?”
“We were there earlier, honey. That's the big tree.”
“Oh.”
The witch continued the inspection of the map. “The stream where Robin fought Little John is...” She turned it over as if something else might be on the back. The only thing there was a picture of the 'Sherwood Forest Country Park Visitor Centre'. “Well, I don't know where the stream is but it's around here somewhere, I'm sure.”
“All of this,” Kim said, glancing at the girl and wondering if she was about to give away a secret, “despite the fact he never existed. I suppose he's going to arrive later and hand out gifts?”
“He's busy stealing them from the rich at this very moment.”
Kim smiled and looked at the map. “Robin must have been very skilled. He lived in an area not really large enough to hide a group of sombre men, let alone a group of merry men.”
“The forest is quite a bit smaller now than it was, but Robin was very skilled. He'll be at the archery display later if you need proof.”
“Oh, my.”
After the second battle Kim decided she'd had enough. “This is wonderful,” she said to her companion, “but night is coming and I must get to grandmother's place before dark.”
“Really? I know a short cut.”
Kim smiled again. “Thanks,” she said. “You're the nicest evil witch I've ever met.”
“I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not.”
“It is.” She smiled at the little girl. “And you're the best fairy.”
“You really think so?”
“Oh, of course.”
With that she rose to her feet and sidled away though the crowd, back towards the main green. Amongst the stalls again she passed a man playing folk songs on a violin, an instrument that wouldn't be invented until a few hundred years after Robin Hood's time. For a while she watched a group of women working on a tapestry then moved on to a wood carver.
Soon, she'd gone up and down a few rows of stalls and stopped to listen to the shouts, cheers, and screams from the latest battle. Shaking her head, she started following a path northwards into the forest. A long line of people were strung out in front of her like beads on a child's necklace, though most were heading in the opposite direction. She continued forward with no clue as to where she might eventually end up. Perhaps she should have paid better attention to the old lady's map.
It was more than fifteen minutes before she arrived at her destination. The Major Oak, standing near the edge of a wide clearing, was about as exciting as one might expect for a tree. It was quite large, Kim had to admit, and quite hollow, with a high, narrow, curving split giving access to the dark interior. Some of the larger branches were propped up with metal braces.
Kim leaned on the fence that surrounded the tree. Monica loved James, apparently. And, according to another message carved into the moss covered trunk, Nick had been here about ten years ago. When the excitement became too much, she made her way to a log seat. She sat down with a sigh and closed her eye. Everyone else seemed to have wandered away leaving the clearing strangely quiet. The sound of the festival could still be heard, a football riot heard from outside the ground.
Just when she was about to nod off to sleep, sitting on the uncomfortable bench, Kim heard a voice. At first she thought she was asleep, and dreaming. But the voice came again, deep and rough, in a language she couldn't understand.
“[The tree is huge, you must be able to get in further than that.]”
About the Author
Scott J. Robinson has been writing fantasy and Science Fiction for as long as he can remember. He’s had short stories and poetry published in various publications over the last 25 years.
The Tribes of the Hakahei is a four part science fiction series comprising ofThe Space Between, Singing other Words, When The Time Comes and A Different Kind of Heaven. It mixes fantasy and science fiction in a story that spans moves from Sherwood Forest to the depths of space. The Brightest Light, a stand-alone retro sci-fi, is also available.
Scott lives in Woodford, a small town near Brisbane in Queensland, Australia with his wife and three children.
For more information visit www.tengama.com
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