Forbidden Forest by Michael Cadnum

with bark worn by weather and crossing footsteps.
    John was pleased to see this rude bridge, but it was the first sign of human intent that he had seen in hours and he took a moment before he entered the sunlight. How many years and how many crossings, he wondered, had it taken to tread this log so smooth? What humans lived in this forest, making their homes in this wood?
    The afternoon was calm, except for the bickering of birds and the muttering of the water. John made his way into the sunlight, and then he froze, and ducked back toward shelter.
    On the far side of the brook, a man in green parted from the trees.
    He was dressed like a forester, one of the freemen who tend the king’s woods, culling deer and arresting poachers. This man in green surveyed the meadow and the brook, taking a long moment to see who shared this place with him. He smiled, and John took in a long low breath.
    The man in green strode easily toward the log bridge. He continued to smile at the sight of John hulking behind the oak. Something about this smile made John step forward and begin to hurry toward the brook.
    The stranger wore a buckskin belt and leggings, and he carried a longbow along his back at an angle, a quiver of goose-feather arrows at his hip. John did not like to guess what a weapon like that could do. Even a fighting squire’s modest bow could drive a shaft through a man’s neck.
    On the other hip the stranger wore a horn, the kind hunters used to alert distant companions. The man timed his stride to reach the opposite end of the bridge just as John set one foot on it. John did not like the way this stranger’s cap and leggings were too exactly the shade of the greenwood, as though the woodsman had good reason to hide.
    The man in green put his hands on his hips and said, “In this forest we make a game of crossing bridges.”
    John took in the stranger’s bright eye, the set of his cap, the sun on his beard, and his smile. “I have no great love of games,” said John.
    â€œThen it will be my pleasure to teach you,” said the man in green, with what sounded like real zest.
    He had the straightforward, friendly tone of a yeoman. Foresters were solitary, hardworking servants to the king, and did not have a reputation for high spirits. This stranger was radiant.
    John felt his grip tighten around his staff. “What manner of man are you?” asked John.
    â€œDoes it matter to you,” the woodsman asked cheerfully in turn, “how men judge my trade?”
    John had seen many a market-day encounter turn to fists or even knives. A carefree word, a challenge, and soon someone was beaten senseless. “If you are an outlaw,” asserted John deliberately, “it will cost you blood.”
    John half expected the stranger to protest, or to apologize. But the man in green proceeded farther, and planted both feet midway across the bridge. He tested it with his weight. He was tall enough, and well built enough, to shift the bridge slightly, but no match, John knew, for someone his own size.
    â€œYou can call me what you like,” said the stranger with a smile. “But I’ll be a poor host if I don’t make you pay a toll.”
    John set his staff across his body, holding the weapon well balanced. Before he could advance, the man drew the bow from behind his shoulder.
    Then he hesitated. “What sort of game would that be,” the stranger asked, “a yew longbow against a span of wood?”
    â€œCut yourself a staff,” said John Little.

Chapter 11
    As John watched from the opposite bank, the woodsman selected a long, stout length of green oak and pared it artfully. He cut off leaf and twig, and quickly shaved the rough bark with his knife’s edge. The stranger sighted along the length of the new wood at last, and said, like a man at a craftsman’s stall offering a compliment, “This is a lusty staff.”
    John measured with his eye the