The Fable Online Issue 3 May, 2015
Editor-in-Chief Sarah Kedar
2015, The Fable Online|Contributing Authors Picture used in cover creation by Keoni Cabral. CC licence. Font used in cover creation and within the document created by Chris Hansen.
Contributing Authors
Abi Hynes Ben Bales Charles Bane Jr Diane Bonavist John Lewis Lela Marie De La Garza Rene Salinas
Poetry
Come, Beloved by Charles Bane Jr. I am hungry; come soon. I looked tonight at flames like you upon the west and jewels winging home. I hold you in my eyes when I see what cannot be stamped again. All the earth is of a kind but for the rarities that clamber unknowing of their gifts on vales of purest light, and look at the common life of us in shade. Come beloved, soon.
Charles Bane Jr. is the American author of The Chapbook (Curbside Splendor) , Love Poems (Aldrich Press) , and Three Seasons: Writing Donald Hall (Collection of Houghton Library, Harvard University). He created and contributes to The Meaning Of Poetry series for The Gutenberg Project, and is a current nominee as Poet Laureate of Florida. Find him on his website here.
Erase my Scars by Rene Salinas Cornered by the image of relentless guilt through adjudication. As my impressions pummel me into suppression. I can’t stop this paranoid ideation… It prevents any form of Self – reflection; the constant thoughts of perversion threaten to leave me to my own devices unless I cave – in; “accept the deadening rising” they say. I’ve become compiled through desolation — making my physicality stiff and inert. A one sided polarity of my Will, in Extremis, in automation. Who controls my extremities? May I ask? I just behold them — assuming my task. Propelling myself to leave the boundaries of perception; all in search for those voices with authoritarian declarations: “Hide or not, you'll be mine either way” the illusions proclaim, “My teachings will grind your Soul until there is no more sense.” The devastation of the apparitions bleeds through my sequestered cognition. “If only the repose of the angels would pave the way to a state in which I could find the silence of my soothing shroud innocence,” I exclaim… Yet the auditory hallucinations roaring howl deafens all reason. Now this static gaze through oblivious precipitation makes me empty and strained — surrounded by an unmoving deception like a burning mass of emotional combustion, enraged by years of oppression. Oh, but to be devoured by this darkened sun with its bright rays of chaos engraving, carving in my subconscious a plaque of thankless retribution, twisting my mind into convulsions, ignited through suffering unveiled. The incandescent corruption blazing through my head — I'm on my half of the bed, my face turned away; my heart's now aflame with regret. My lack of Self permeated by the feeling of lies from something within a somewhere that won’t comply to my muted voices screaming aloud. A terminal Non - Self overload followed by an encircling of vicious intent returning to take me away. Will I be reprieved? Or is this futility, waiting to impart an inner destiny given by the forgotten art. The misgivings sealed, ready to rip apart.
Salvation not willing to erase my scars. Maybe in this life, you can never be reborn within…
Rene Salinas is an IT technician from the UK that loves to write; has participated for years in national and international competitions. Driven for the need of exploration in writing and the desire to follow in particular the path laid by Jack Kerouac and his views onto the methodology of ‘Spontaneous Prose.’
Flash Fiction
The Babysitter by Abi Hynes He watches me – the little cherub – from underneath the tablecloth. His silver eyes glint at me, glistening mischievously in their sockets. Hide and seek was a mistake. He’s fucking up to something. I try those parenting clichés you see on SuperNanny – so first I pretend I haven’t noticed, and get on with my crossword. After twenty minutes, I look down to find the little shit has made himself invisible. Bollocks. If you don’t come out when I count to three – you’re going straight to the naughty step! As I say this, I smell smoke. The stairs are on fire. Fuck it. You’re not supposed to reward bad behaviour, but who cares – I’ll be handing him back to Mummy in an hour. Offering my hair for him to pull doesn’t work; neither does tempting him out with strips of raw meat. Fine, then. The cat. Come on, sweetie, I call. Look what I have for you!
Abi is a drama, fiction and poetry writer. She is Artistic Director of theatre and film company Faro Productions, and runs Manchester-based cabaret collective First Draft. She has had her work performed at The Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh, Grosvenor Open Air Theatre, Chester, Bolton Octagon Theatre, Manchester Literature Festival, Manchester Histories Festival and as part of the 24:7 Theatre Festival. She also performs at live literature nights pretty much whenever anyone will give her any stage time. Follow her on Twitter: @AbiFaro
Just Another Hustle by John Lewis It was the 1980’s and a hustle was hard to come by, due to the emphasis being placed on education then. That meant any fourteen-year-old boy like me found wandering the streets during school hours would be picked up and shipped to the reform-school, to be reformed into a homosexual. With my kind of hustle, they would pick me up even after school hours. That’s why I was standing here in the darkness next to the city market, picking my teeth with a toothpick from a Chinese restaurant, and waiting. I’d bought a Chicken Fried Rice for dinner, and had eaten three-quarters. The balance, with the bones, were left in a lighted spot on the pavement, and there was a noose around it. It was almost nine ‘o’ clock, according to the market clock. The night before I’d already made my contribution, as a patriotic citizen. A dog manifested out of the darkness…no, no! Not that one, it was too mangy and too skinny. It headed straight for the food. I quickly aimed, and shot it with my sling-shot. It yelped, but hunger drove it on; I shot the poor guy again. At last he got the message and backed off. I held my rope in readiness, for I knew that the sound made by that dog would attract others. What did I tell you? Up came a stray that met the specifications. It began to wolf down my bait without placing its forelegs inside the noose! I learned that dogs can slip a noose that closes on the neck alone before one can tighten it, at the distance I stood. I had to do something, the box was almost empty! I took out my slingshot and shot a pebble against the metal fence behind the animal. Startled, it jumped forward, and I pulled my rope and kept it taut until the struggling creature was three feet from my DMS high-top boots. All I had to do then was mash its neck, and tie its jaws with a strip of cloth. One less vermin roaming the streets of our beautiful city. Now properly under my control, I would take the stray for a bath, with sweet-soap. The last stage of the operation was to take the animal to a certain point on the wharf, next to
the guard hut; and secure the leash against the chain-link fence. I would then throw a few pebbles against the guard hut to wake the guard. He would come out and inspect the dog; try to pay much less than the foreign sailors left for me; threaten to send me to reform school‌Eventually, he would give me about sixty percent. As usual, I would settle for that because I couldn’t do the hustle without his co-operation; besides, he was my father.
John S. Lewis is an African Guyanese short story writer who has had published over forty short stories via newspapers and magazines; and one novella--Nine Lives of Livingstone Crandon. He is currently seeking avenues to share his numerous stories with readers worldwide. John loves story-telling, fishing, hiking through lonesome untamed regions, observing Man and the rest of nature, and listening to songs that tell stories.
Burglary for (and by) Dummies by Lela Marie De La Garza Charlie Gene Sullivan got everything he could into the pillowcase and hastily climbed out the window, which he had found open. Charlie had no finesse, no talent, and no skills. He was unable to pick a lock or jimmy a window. All he could do was wander around darkened back yards until he found something opened. If anyone was home, he just ran. Tonight he’d been lucky. Officers Adam Teller and Roy Hernandez watched him trudge down the sidewalk with his bag of loot. Adam started to pull up beside him and then stopped. “What’s the matter?” Roy asked. “Aren’t we going to bust him now while he’s carrying the proof?” “No. Charlie will have to go to a fence, and we’ll take them both.” Charlie did have a fence, but he didn’t go straight there. He went home first, where he had a sandwich, watched the 87th rerun of “I Love Lucy,” and looked at his haul. He’d grabbed an expensive looking clock off the dresser and then gone through the drawers. There was an evening bag set with what might have been pearls and a lacy gold textured scarf. It wasn’t worth anything, but his girlfriend would like it. There was a statuette, a silver (possibly) vase, and a small jewelry box. Charlie hadn’t looked inside it but loaded it with the rest of the stuff. Then the pillowcase was full. He hadn’t gone into the rest of the house; the bedroom alone had been a treasure horde. Now Charlie opened the jewelry box and examined the few pieces in it. The pendant might be made of real diamonds. Maybe the ring and bracelet were set with rubies. Francher knew all that. Their agreement was always a 60 (Francher’s)/40 (Charlie’s) split. Sometimes Charlie realized twenty dollars; sometimes as much as fifty. This might be one of those times. He put everything back into the pillowcase and left the house on foot with it. Officers Teller and Hernandez followed him. Charlie didn’t go in a straight line but through back alleys and side streets. He never noticed the police car right behind him. Eventually, he was in a seedy area of town with boarded up buildings. He stopped at one. Adam and Roy watched as he knocked three times, paused, then knocked three times again. The door opened. Adam got out of the squad car.
“What are you doing?” Roy asked. “I’m going after Charlie.” “Suppose he has a gun?” “Charlie? A gun? You’ve got to be kidding.” “But maybe the fence has one.” “If so, he knows enough not to shoot a police officer. Better to do a little time. Neither one of them would get more than a few years. I’ll call you if I need backup.” The door Charlie had gone through was locked when Officer Teller got there. However, he had finesse, skill, talent, and a small tool which he took out of his pocket. The door opened quickly, and he went inside, where there was no sign of Charlie. He saw an elevator and a staircase. Deciding on the staircase, he climbed carefully, testing each step for squeaks. At the top, he saw several doors. Light was coming from under the crack of one. Then he heard something behind him and whirled, his hand on his gun. Then he relaxed. It was his anxious partner. “I’m pretty sure he’s in there,” Adam whispered. He tried the handle, but it wouldn’t turn. “Do we break the door down,” Roy asked. “No.” Adam knocked three times, paused, then knocked again. The door was opened by an extremely thin man with bulging frog eyes. Adam recognized him as Alan Francher. He’d been arrested several time, but never convicted. “Francher,” Adam acknowledged, as he and Roy pushed their way into the room without waiting for an invitation. “What are you doing here? This is an abandoned building.” “I own it. I have a right to be here. But you don’t. You’re invading my privacy, and I demand—” Adam ignored him and pointed to a door on the other side of the room. “What’s in there?” “Mind if we take a look in there?” “I certainly do. In fact, I mind you being here at all. I’m going to have to insist that you leave and return with a warrant if you want to search my property.” Adam pondered for a few seconds. If he took the time to get a search warrant he knew when he got back all the evidence would be gone. On the other hand, suppose he broke in and found the room empty? He wouldn’t be able to convict anyone, and…
The problem was solved when Charlie came out of the room. “What’s taking so long?” he complained. “I need to get rid of this stuff so I can get home in time to watch ‘Gilligan’s Island’.” “Hello, Charlie,” Roy said, cuffing him and reading him his rights. “Alan Francher, you’re under arrest on suspicion of receiving and selling stolen goods--” Adam started to say. “Nonsense!” Francher snorted. “I don’t deal in stolen property. Charlie brought me a few things to evaluate for him, and I was doing it as a favor. I had no intention of selling them.” “That’s not true!” Charlie protested. “You said you could get me thirty dollars.” Francher glared at Charlie. Then he put out his wrists. Adam patted Charlie on the shoulder. “We’ll get you processed through as quickly as possible. Then you can join the other inmates in the rec room. They all love ‘Gilligan’s Island.’
Lela Marie De La Garza has had work published in Creepy Gnome, Passion Beyond Words, Black Denim, Yellow Mama, Bewildering Stories, and The Western Online. Her latest novel, Mistral, was published in December of 2014. She was born in Denver, CO. in 1943 while her father was serving in WWII. She currently resides in San Antonio, TX. with three and a half cats and a visiting raccoon.
Short Story
Equilibrium by Ben Bales Four. And he was only a couple of minutes late. If he had gotten there a little earlier he would have beaten the fire department, and maybe it would be less. Now the men in yellow were swarming the scene and keeping everyone back. Paul stood in the street watching the burning building and couldn’t help thinking that his four could have been in there. He sighed and walked away. There would always be more opportunities. More ways to get his four. He climbed into his old beat-up Buick parked a few blocks away. From here he could barely see the distant glow of the flames. He wouldn’t be adding any blue names in his notebook tonight. “I was too late,” he said to an empty car. He tore his eyes off the far away fire and began rummaging around the trashy interior of his vehicle. All of his possessions lay somewhere on the cracked, purple leather. Piles of clothes, both clean and dirty, filled the backseat. Papers littered the dashboard, with a swaying hula dancer stuck to the center. “So, where to next?” Paul said aloud, as he fished a map out from the pile of junk in the passenger seat. The car was silent and still, save for the gentle movement of the hula dancer. Paul studied the map for a few minutes. Without a word, he folded the map and put the keys in the ignition. # “So now you know,” Paul said. A simple statement carrying heavy meaning. Jessie just sat at the small kitchen table, staring at the small notebook between them. “Please say something, Jessie.” “I … I don’t know what to say.” An audible silence filled the room. Paul looked at Jessie. She lowered her head, causing a lock of brown hair to slide across her forehead. Paul leaned across the table to gently sweep it out of the way, but she pulled back before he could. “I think you should go,” she said. Paul stopped, his mouth open. He regained composure and said, “Please don’t. Please.” “You can’t be here. I don’t want you here, knowing what you did. Knowing what you do.”
“I don’t do that anymore though,” Paul said, standing abruptly. He noticed Jessie’s slight flinch and said quietly, “I’m done. I’ve quit.” “That doesn’t erase what you’ve already done. How many people’s lives have you destroyed?” Jessie’s voice quivered and threatened to break. Paul looked at the floor and whispered, “A lot.” “How can I be okay with that?” Jessie stood up, putting more room between the two of them. “You’ve done so much,” she scrunched up her face as she searched for the right word. “...evil. You’ve done too many bad things, and not enough good things.” # “Hey buddy,” a guy from down the bar said, “Long day?” Paul just stared at the glass in front of him. The stranger got up and sat on the stool next to Paul. This unwelcome guest gestured at the mug in front of Paul. “You gonna finish that?” Paul slid the full beer over to the man, hoping that would end the interaction. “Are you too good to talk to me or something?” Paul shook his head, but still didn’t say anything. He looked up, wanting the barkeeper to do something about it, but the barkeeper must have gone into the back room. It was just Paul and the man pestering him. “Oh, I get it.” The man was standing now; “You’re one of those retards, right? Can’t form full sentences.” He laughed at this. Paul’s hand was in his pocket, holding the small switchblade he kept there. “Leave me alone.” The man gasped. “So it can speak,” He was talking loudly as if he was putting on a show for the whole room, except he and Paul were the only two customers. “Let’s go, idiot, say something else!” Paul slid his hand out of his pocket. # “Look at how many names are in this book!” Jessie said, grabbing the notebook from the table. She turned page after page filled with black names. “It was my job. It’s what I did for Dom,” Paul said, hanging his head, no longer able to meet her eyes. Jessie looked like she was about to say something else, then dropped the book back onto the table and turned away. # Five. Paul sat in the driver’s seat, slowly cleaning his knife. He opened the notebook that he kept on his dash. After flipping past pages and pages of names, he added the name
he had found in the stranger’s wallet to the end of his list. It had been a long time since his number had gone up, but going from four to five wasn’t a huge setback. After all, he had started at so much higher a year and a half ago, the number of black names in his notebook would attest to that. Throughout that time, the number of blue names had slowly grown and was now close to equaling the black names. “Don’t give me that look,” Paul said to the wobbling dancer, “you weren’t there. You don’t know what he was like.” It was hours later and many miles from the bar, but Paul still couldn’t shake the feeling of regret. “I don’t care what you say,” he said, continuing his one sided argument. “That guy was worth having five. Now can we drop it?” The car fell silent, except for the occasional crackle of news from the police scanner. Paul was just starting to doze off when he heard what he had been waiting for. There was a fire. He tore through his map, desperately searching for the location stated over the police scanner. He found it and peeled away. It was close, he could make it there in time. The dancer swayed as the street lights flashed by. # “I’m done, I’m out. I’m not going to do those things anymore.” “But what will you do, Paul? Can you do anything to make up for…that?” she gestured towards the book on the table. “What do you mean?” “I guess I’m asking, when’s the last time that you’ve helped someone?” “You want me to go help people? I can help people,” Paul said. “Paul,” Jessie said, looking off into nowhere, “I want you to be someone who has helped more people than you’ve hurt.” # “You’re a hero,” said the EMT wrapping Paul’s hand. “He’s an idiot, that’s what he is,” said a nearby fireman. “What were you thinking, running into a burning building like that?” “I don’t know,” said Paul, trying his best to hide his smile. The scene was very similar to the one from the night before. An apartment building was smoking heavily, and flames flickered through various windows. People stood outside staring. Some were talking and pointing, others were just crying. “He saved that family over there.” The EMT nodded towards four people with oxygen
masks sitting on the curb. The fireman shrugged his shoulders, and then went back to his truck. “Are you sure you won’t go to the hospital? Even with minor burns like that, it’s better to play it safe.” Paul shook his head. “Alright,” the EMT said. “Just keep that hand wrapped and it should be good in a few days.” Paul stood, and again walked the few blocks to his car. Unlike the previous night, though, he was bringing the hula dancer good news. # “I can do that Jessie. I can be that person.” Paul paused. “For you.” Jessie looked up and held his gaze. She gave him a small smile. Paul smiled back and held his hand out to her. “Come on. We can do this. We can make this work.” She stared at his outstretched palm, not saying anything. Paul stood frozen in that position, hoping for the best. She reached out and took his hand. # One. Four more names were inked in blue in Paul’s notebook. Paul’s elation would have been perfect had it not been for the nagging thought that he would be at zero if it hadn’t been for the man from the bar. He did his best to force this thought to the back of his mind and focus on how close he was. One. Only one. He had never dropped four numbers at once, and now he was unexpectedly so close to zero. He was so close to not being a negative force in the world. His old car was pointed toward his hometown, toward Jessie, and he was already in the outskirts. He knew he could get at least one here somehow. Then he would find Jessie. He pulled into a motel parking lot, and thought about the possibility that he would find his one tomorrow. That was his last thought before falling asleep. Paul awoke in a better mood than he had ever been in, at least for the past year and a half. He grabbed his coat and headed out, planning to get breakfast before he checked out. The diner was everything you would expect from a mid-western suburb. Old people lining their usual booths, truckers laughing loudly in the corner, and waitresses tending to everyone in their mustard yellow uniforms. This atmosphere that had irritated him so much now washed over him as a warm sensation that he was back home. He slid into a
booth and opened his menu. “Paul?” Paul closed his eyes. He willed with all his might for the voice to not be connected to the person that he recognized it was coming from. “It is you, Paul. Hey fellas, look who I found.” “Hello Dom,” Paul said, opening his eyes to see the short, greasy balding man he had so feared to see. “Long time no see, Paul. Where ya been?” Dom was soon flanked by two men that dwarfed him, each the very epitome of what it was to be a goon. “Traveling.” “That’s my Paul, never did like talking. Traveling, huh? Strangest thing, I can’t remember giving you no vacation.” Dom scratched his head in an exaggerated motion. “Did I give you a vacation Paul?” “No bo-” Paul barely stopped himself from slipping into his old routine of saying ‘boss’. “No, Dom, you didn’t.” Dom’s lip curled at the specific emphasis Paul had put on his name. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. You of all people should know how much I dislike it when my employees take vacations without my knowing.” A waitress interrupted, “Should I set out three more plates for you folks?” “No,” Dom said, “we were just leaving.” Paul was pushed out of the diner without too much commotion, and was soon behind the diner. “Well, Paul, are you coming back to the family?” Dom asked. Paul shook his head. “I didn’t think so,” said Dom, and he motioned to the two large men beside him. Paul shoved his hand into his pocket. # “No. I can’t,” Jessie said, ripping her hand from Paul’s after only a moment. “You aren’t the person I thought you were.” Paul ran his hand through his hair and tried to think of how to put his thoughts into words. “Jessie,” Paul said, “ever since I met you I’ve wanted to be better, to be everything you want me to be. However many names are in that book I’ll match with people I’ve helped. I’ll be equal.” # Four. It was hours later and Paul’s entire body still felt numb. Four. Again. He sat on the floor of the dirty motel shower cleaning the blood off of his knife and himself. Three more black names in his book and he was back to four. He had been so close, so close to
zero. His hands started to shake, and the knife clanged to the porcelain. He raised his eyes to the ceiling and began to weep. His sobs echoed out through his empty motel room. It would take him so much longer now. So much more time before he could be back at zero. So much longer before he could be equal. Paul looked back down at the water, now almost completely devoid of red blood, flowing into the drain. “I’ll get there. I will.” # “And how long will that take Paul?” Jessie asked, turning towards the window once more. Paul had never felt further from her. “I’ll make this right, I swear,” Paul said, “I won’t be a negative force on the world anymore.” He turned and hurried out of the apartment, not stopping to close the door. “It’s not about being equal, Paul; it’s about what you’ve done. I could never be with you after what you’ve done,” Jessie said, turning around. But Paul was already gone.
Ben Bales works as an engineer at a small optics company and lives with his aging Jack Russell Terrier, Chloe.
Two Namings by Diane Bonavist I’m that rare man who lives to see old age. And that rarer still who survives to hear songs sung about his deeds, although my beginnings are modest. I come from a line of tuckers, the men who blow tuckets on their horns to herald meals, although by the time my father inherited the post he was cooking the meals and the horn had been replaced by a bell. But the name remained and was shortened to Tuck. In the rhymes and songs of the greenwood I am a friar. And though it is true, like all cooks, I did bake, broil, and fry, I was never a monk or a man of the church. I was just Tuck, one of Sir Robert’s many companions. As the younger son, I had no prospects in the kitchen, where there were already too many cooks for the lord’s small estates. So, soon after I turned seventeen, my father gave me the dozen pennies he had saved, and I set out from our home. Two days of walking took me to the harbor where I found a job as a deck hand and cook on a big broad cog. Almost every inch of the ship was filled with the goods it carried, but for two days The Stout Lady stayed docked in the waters of Biscay, waiting for a load of plate to be shipped north. Then one day a man appeared on the dock requesting to come aboard. “I’m Sir Robert.” The stranger spoke good French but with an accent I couldn’t place. “Is that not a common English name?” the first mate called down, none too warmly. “Sir or Robert?” said the stranger. The first mate smirked. “A wagon follows soon with the shipment of plate you’ve been awaiting from Limoges,” the stranger said. “And two large barrels of rum and one of ale.” The first mate’s face grew suddenly friendly and he gave permission to board. This Sir Robert went into the forecastle to talk to the captain. Later, as I was helping to load the barrels of drink an older man, who appeared to be Sir Robert’s companion boarded as well. We set sail and that night Sir Robert slept on deck with the rest of us, but his companion
stayed in the small aftcastle, a hut that usually lodged animals. The first day out the rumors began. By the third the truth was out. The old man on board was the king of England. The crew may have been rough and unschooled men, but they heard the news of the world in every port of call. Richard was infamous for loving neither France, where he ruled, nor England, where he had abdicated rule to his brother John. Throughout our journey, the man with the heart of a lion spoke to no one on board. But when we docked he thanked us for our service to the crown. He told us that he was in the region suppressing a revolt by a certain viscount, and he offered an unnamed sum to any one of us willing to join him. I cut my eyes toward the captain, expecting him to be furious with the king for trying to steal his crew. But he didn’t look worried, and he needn’t have, since the only volunteer Richard won was a young deck hand who had talked about nothing since he joined on, but his desire for a noble calling such as the king offered. The rest of us stayed where we were. We were seamen, not soldiers. King Richard departed from us at the new moon of February. Not two months later he would die from a crossbow wound received in the siege he had urged us to join. It took about six months before I got tired of the sea and yearned for plains and meadows, mountains and fields like the countryside which had shaped me. I took up a wanderer’s life, earning my way sowing and picking, drifting north until finally I reached the northern coast. I had promised myself that I wouldn’t get back on a boat for a long time. But sooner or later there will be water in front of you and nothing to do but mount it. And I had heard that the growing season was longer in England. I was bound for Cornwall, but the crossing was rough so I only went as far as Dover. Soon after I disembarked, I ran into Sir Robert in a tavern by the quay. At once I was struck by the change in him. His face had more lines than just the year should have etched, although he did look strong, lean and muscled. A new, raw slash scarred his neck. I greeted him respectfully and reminded him where we had met. He wasn’t welcoming, but he wasn’t cold either, simply offhand. Eventually everyone comes back to me, his manner seemed to say. He had lost everything during his crusading years, but he looked on life with rich regard,
as a puzzling, rousing game that was somehow all part of God’s plan. In our cups one night, he explained how he saw the world as linked in ways he couldn’t fathom and felt he was bound to search for signs and portents that would help explain the joinery in the puzzles that beset us all. He was a deep-natured man, but straight forward too. Together we looked for work and were often hired as a pair; most of the jobs were unloading freight and didn’t pay much. Sir was not proud, he would labor at anything although he did not like the field. Until we met, he had been paying a penny a week to sleep in a cupboard. With our money pooled, we moved to a stall in one of the stables. It was ripe but dry and came with all the bedstraw we needed. There are many songs about Sir Robert, me, his merry men and, of course, the lady Marian. In truth, her name was Viviane. Sir Robert met that fair maiden at a wedding. We hadn’t set out to attend a bridal feast, Sir Robert had simply awakened one morning in early June with the sudden urge to be off the docks and deep in the greenwood for St. John’s Day. He said his friend was lord of a great demesne in Somerset, where he’d spent many a gladsome midsummer feast. He proposed we set out at once to pay a visit. Until now Sir had, as I said, avoided field labors, but it was soon clear that was the only work we’d find. An early, sunny spring had followed a mild winter and everything was knee high. We took work as we traveled hoeing, weeding, cleaning up, and there was sometimes a hut to be built or a pen. Sir Robert was educated and could draft an engineer’s plan for almost anything. For a fortnight we worked our way through the country side. It was a beautiful green place of many merits with steep gorges, rolling meadows, and much small game for an easy meal. Although Sir Robert pushed us along to arrive in time for the celebrations, he was uncertain exactly where our final destination lay. It had been twenty years since he’d been to his friend Guy’s. One evening, after supping on the last of our wine and food, Sir Robert suggested that in the morning I head east and he due north, to double our efforts to find Sir Guy’s demense. At dawn we parted, pledging to meet up the next day here in this pasture by the egg-shaped pond when the sun was overhead.
Walking east all I reached was the sea where I wandered about for hours, exploring tide pools, filling my sack with shells. I was too drunk with the heat to head back inland so I slept that night on the beach. The sound of the water smacking against sand pulled me into a deep dream from which I didn’t awake until late morning.By the time I made it back to the egg-shaped pond, the sun had sunk well past midday. No doubt tired of waiting for me, Sir Robert had fallen asleep near a hay stile, his head pillowed on a folded cloak. Remembering the seashells, I pulled a few from the bottom of my sack and pelted him with them. It took three before he awoke. “Tuck. Thank the sweet savior you’re here.” I could see he was in a fine mood. “I had success in finding the home of my good friend Guy. We are arriving, it seems, at an auspicious time, for his son’s getting married today. We have found a haven for a week or so, but there are a few little ruts in the road before we can set our cart down.”He put his hand on my shoulder. “I need you to be a priest.” I knew his moods and I could tell he wasn’t joking. “Our host has remarked, emphatically, that he does not believe me to be sufficiently pious.” “You’re not.” “Twenty years of crusades should hold some weight, but since they don’t, I told him my companion is a holy man. I was not specific, so a priest or a monk. Whichever you choose, I think a clerical hair cut will lend authenticity.” He picked up the robe he had been sleeping on, a plain homespun monk’s garment. Inside its folds was a shaving blade. Now I understood he wanted me to cut a tonsure. I had just turned eighteen but was about to go bald. Once shaved and dressed in the colorless cloak, I began to feel clerical, until Sir Robert warned me to stop patting the top of my head. We soon arrived at Guy’s house. Two high stories of timber and stone rambled off a large
center hall in a muddle of rooms bursting with people. Despite the crowd, Sir Robert had found a place for us to sleep in the corner of a storeroom. I left my sack and bedroll there and we returned to the hall. It was decorated in garlands of greens and flowers with pitchers of wine everywhere. We weren’t seated at high table, but close to it considering we were two strange ruffians. One of the men at our table explained to us Guy’s predicament. The priest who was to marry the bride and groom had taken a fall. A replacement was on the way here, he said, but no one knew when he’d turn up. The woman beside him cut in. “Everyone will want to be going home in two days when midsummer ends. We have work to do, sir, work to do.” Just as I was beginning to understand the real reason for Sir Robert’s making me into a monk, the host, Guy of Somerset, approached our table and confirmed it. “Have you ever performed a wedding before?” he asked. “No sir, I have not.” I sized him up. He was slender with limbs like a fleet hound. “How difficult could it be?” Sir Robert beamed at us, delighting in his game. “We can put the wedding off for a day or two in hopes the priest will arrive. But if he is not here when midsummer ends, you,” he pointed at me, “will offer the sacrament of matrimony for my son and his wife.” That’s when I began to plan my escape. I would not stay here and risk performing an illegal marriage; men have been hung for less. “Now, my friends, I know you’ll all get bad-tempered if we don’t bring out the cakes,” said sir Guy. People at our table laughed, but I didn’t know what it was about. I had never been to a wedding before. The bride and groom entered soon afterward and joined Guy and his wife at high table. A bell rang. When the room had quieted, Guy told his guests of the marriage postponement, but that the feast would commence any way, quickly adding that the
kissing cakes would now be served. A cheer went up. “What’s a kissing cake?” I asked of no one in particular. A woman who had just joined our table, told me. “Cakes the size of the circle your hands make when you put your fingers together.” She demonstrated with her long, shapely fingers. She was good looking, the way all women are when they are young and slim as a barley stalk. “I’m Viviane, Guy’s niece.” One of her finest features was her voice. It was mirthful, but not sardonic, just wondrous with an echo in it of soft bells. She had enchanted me already. “I’m Tuck.” Then I remembered I was supposed to be a priest and my hand went without forethought to my bald head. “Friar Tuck.” While we were speaking, I was aware of servants carrying in stacks of small cakes which they placed on the tables. Some were covered in jams and jellies, others with rose colored icings or sprinkled with sugar, fruit and small flowers made to be eaten. After awhile, when all had partaken of their first fill of sweets and wine, the bridegroom and bride came forward to the center of the room. She was dressed in red with many colored ribbons tied all around her person. Taking one of these long ribbons from round her neck she wound it loosely around the groom. “What is she doing now?” I asked. Viviane, to whom I had slid closer when the man beside me got up, explained. “That ribbon is the first of many good luck bands that will be given away this night.” The groom threw the ends, weighted with red and blue wooden rings, out to the guests. Several young men began scrambling for it. The one who came out on top held up the ribbon end. People cheered. The bride pulled the ribbon off herself, her groom gave it the youth, and then the music began. “I would have thought you’d seen many weddings, father, performing your duties, and that these customs would not be strange. And yet, I do hear the sound of another shore
in your English.” I laughed, but didn’t tell. Then she was asked to dance one after the other, and I settled in to eat and drink and watch the revelries. The merrymaking went on into the night. A drummer, a piper, and vielle player squeezed into a tiny gallery over the hall. They never seemed to tire. It was not until just before first light that the music finally stopped. With dancers parting, the bride walked carefully to the center of the floor on the arm of the not-so-steady groom. She looked a bit pickled too as she held out her arms. “It means it’s time to pluck the remaining good luck from her.” Viviane had found me again, seeking me out to explain. I wondered why. “Usually this is a custom reserved for the women.” “Not this time.” I watched Sir Robert, who had pushed to the front of the crowd, dive for one. “Those wide ribbons signify fertility.” She chuckled. “He’s a bit old for that.” “It’s not fruitfulness he’s after,” I told her, “It’s winning.” After a raucous scramble, Sir Robert held up the red band for me to see, his face alight with triumph. “You’ve won it!” Guy shouted across the hall “Come, both of you, drink with me.” Guy seated us beside him and when we all had wine, he raised a cup first to the bride and groom, then to King John who was also soon to marry. “The girl’s thirteen years old I hear, a child,” remarked Robert a bit priggishly I thought. “The new king may not welcome the criticism of his marriage from the liege of his dead brother.” Guy took the ribbon from his friend’s hand and wound it around his neck. “Have you thought of that, Sir Robert of Huntington?”
“I have not, Sir Guy. But why would King John care what I say?” “Because you’re an agitator and a wit.” “Annoying traits. Therefore, me and my lieges, who are therefore yours. Guard yourself, lie low, find another name.” He pulled a ring from his finger. Took Robert’s pointer finger and slipped a thick silver ring with the head of a wolf carved on the signare. “My friends will become yours, and when they see this sign, they will know you as one of us. Yourself to those who profess to be my friends.” Guy leaned toward Sir Robert and lowering his voice said, “We are watchful of the new king. Join us in our vigilance.” Then he raised his cup. “To Robin Wolf’ Head.” Thus were two namings made that night. I was dubbed Friar Tuck and Sir Robert, Robin Wolf Head. I don’t know why or how it changed, but by the following Saint John’s Day, it had become Robin Hood.
Diane Bonavist is the author of three historical novels, her most recent, Cathars, will be published this year by Bagwyn Books. Her work has appeared in Tiferet and The Milo Review.
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