Wild Boy by Nancy Springer

chest, making him feel even wobblier than before. He lay down, Runkling in his arms, blinking up at rowan fronds with hints of bud showing already; in a few weeks the trees would flower heavenly white.
    Rook had never bedded in the rowan grove before. He had kept to himself in his caves in the rocks nearby. In a few days, when he felt better, he assured himself, he would move back to one of his caves, and his hair would grow again, and things would be as they were before.
    Except … it felt like an embrace to have the rowan hollow around him, with its ever-flowing spring and the warm blaze of the campfire and Lionel bringing more wood in, still bickering with Beau, as Rowan materialized like a good spirit beside Rook to study him.
    “Hungry?” she asked again.
    Rook nodded.
    A few days later, even though he felt much stronger, Rook stayed in the rowan hollow with the others. Any time now, he told himself, he would go back to his cave. Be on his own again, except that he’d take Runkling with him. In a day or two.
    He napped a lot, with Runkling snoring by his side. One sunny afternoon he napped so well that he awoke to find that night had already fallen. The campfire burned low and warm, sending aromas of ember-baked bread and roasting partridge into the night. In the fire’s tawny glow sat Robin Hood, visiting with Rowan.
    “What think you?” he was asking as she studied some kind of staff he was showing to her.
    She stood up and tucked its fur-padded Y-shaped end under her arm. “Handsomely done, once you’ve trimmed it.”
    “How? Trimmed it where?”
    “Trimmed it for Tod’s height.”
    “‘Tis the right height.”
    “Then it couldn’t be better.” She swung the crutch by gripping a stub halfway down its shaft. “What most people forget is the handle.” A branch cut to the right length, its end whittled round. Robin Hood had made this crutch for Tod by searching out a young tree with the right natural form, then cutting and shaping it, the way Rook had made a boar spear. But Robin had taken great pains with polishing and smoothing, so much so that Rook pushed Runkling aside and sat up to take a better look.
    “Rook, lad!” Robin turned to him at once. “How are you?”
    A creature of the wild does not care how it feels. But the breeze blew sweet through the rowans. And on the breeze floated music even sweeter, the honey-golden notes of Lionel’s harp. Rook could not help but feel blessed. He gave Robin a quiet look and a nod.
    Runkling awoke with a grunt, scrabbled up and trotted to Robin Hood, his tail twirling. Selecting a stick from the kindling pile, Robin rubbed the tip of it along Runkling’s back. Stiff-legged, with his eyes closed, Runkling stood groaning in porcine ecstasy.
    Robin Hood, scratching a pig? Rook blurted, “You know swine?”
    Robin smiled, his eyes sparkling in the firelight. “I know many swine. The king’s foresters, bounty hunters, Guy of Gisborn, Lord Roderick, the Sheriff of Nottingham …” But then his grin faded. Still looking at the piglet, he said quietly, “Yes, I used to help your father with his swine from time to time. Rook, lad, I am ashamed of myself.”
    The harp music hit a startled sour note, then ceased. “What?” exclaimed voices from the darkness beyond the campfire—Beau, Lionel. Rowan stood stone still, the crutch still under her arm, staring at her father.Rook’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Somewhere in the tree-thick darkness an owl hooted as if it were laughing at the very idea: Robin Hood, ashamed? Unheard of. He had to be joking, or playing one of his tricks.
    But he didn’t seem to be. He laid his pig-scratching stick aside and turned to face Rook. “I saw you in the forest many times with your father,” he said. “We didn’t want to burden you with knowledge of outlaws and such, lad, but your father and I would talk when you weren’t looking. He was proud of how you helped him and never complained, how you shortened the