days for him, always chattering and laughing and singing….”
“What!” Beau and Lionel exclaimed anew. Rowan laid the crutch on the ground and walked over to sit beside Rook as if she thought he might need her. As if she knew how his stomach had turned to quivering water, remembering those days that seemed to have taken place in a different person’s life.
Far off in the wilderness night a rabbit screamed, dying in the fangs of a fox, or maybe a wolf. Rook tightened his jaw.
“You had your hair cut short so it wouldn’t catch in the bushes,” Robin was saying. “You were a fine, strong lad helping your father, running with the shoats, herding them by playing with them. I remember you climbing trees in a warm sheepskin cape and sheepskin leggings, a yellow cap on your head, happy as the day was long.”
Rook gave only a growl, a warning.
Robin nodded a kind of acknowledgment. “My men and I were roaming Barnesdale forest, north of here, when it happened,” he said. “We heard about Jack Woodsby when we wandered back this way.” Robin’s eyes winced. “But I never heard what had happened to Jack’s son, the boy he called Runkling. I thought most likely someone from the village had taken him in.”
“Oh,” Rowan whispered; Rook heard her close to his side. “Oh, I see.”
Rook began to see, also, why Robin Hood had said he was ashamed, but understanding did not help him. Dark, barbed emotions raked his heart.
Robin Hood looked him in the eyes and said it. “All this time, I didn’t know you.”
“But Father, no one could have known.” Rowan leaned toward him. “From what you say, he’d changed so….”
Robin’s blue-eyed gaze shifted to Rowan, and Rook had never seen those eyes so shadowed, like deep water. “That’s what harrows me themost, how his father’s death changed him. I can scarcely imagine—the pain.”
Pain? A wild thing feels no pain. Deep in Rook’s chest his growl rumbled louder.
“Rook.” Robin faced him again. “There’s only one comfort I can offer you, not nearly enough, but here it is. When we heard what had happened to Jack By-the-Woods, my men and I went and found the man trap. We took your father from it. We carried him to a certain grove and buried him there and marked the place with a stone and said the blessing of the Lady over him.”
Rook felt his growling stop for a moment—along with his breath. He felt his soul turning and turning like an eddying pool, felt himself floating like a maple wing, could have gone lilting in sky like a butterfly or swimming in greenshadow like a trout or flowing wherever the river took him, no bitter blackthorn tangle in his chest, nothing but …
Nothing. Fearsome nothingness, as if he were a dead, dried cattle-bean pod and would blow away in the wind.
Robin Hood said, “Anytime you want me to, I will take you and show you the place where your father lies.”
Somewhere in the wild distance, a wolf howled as if its heart would break. Rook breathed out, stood up and stumbled back from Robin, the campfire, the others. Runkling trotted to him, giving a snouty smile, but Rook wanted no smiles. He clenched his fists, his teeth. A welter of feelings, sharp, dark, barbed, surged back to fill the terrifying emptiness within his chest. Good. Thorns were good, brambles were good. A wild thing needs a thicket in which to lie and lick its wounds.
Scooping up Runkling with one hand, Rook climbed out of the rowan hollow and strode into the night, heading toward his cold cave. He did not look back.
No one would follow. They knew better.
Ten
T hree days later, Rook huddled in his favorite cave, sharing his breakfast with Runkling and telling himself things were back the way he wanted them. No more bandages and blankets and jerkins on him. Bare-shouldered. No more nursemaids. Alone. Breakfast was cold undercooked grayling left over from the day before, when he’d caught it with his bare, cold hands and fixed it himself.
And
“What!” Beau and Lionel exclaimed anew. Rowan laid the crutch on the ground and walked over to sit beside Rook as if she thought he might need her. As if she knew how his stomach had turned to quivering water, remembering those days that seemed to have taken place in a different person’s life.
Far off in the wilderness night a rabbit screamed, dying in the fangs of a fox, or maybe a wolf. Rook tightened his jaw.
“You had your hair cut short so it wouldn’t catch in the bushes,” Robin was saying. “You were a fine, strong lad helping your father, running with the shoats, herding them by playing with them. I remember you climbing trees in a warm sheepskin cape and sheepskin leggings, a yellow cap on your head, happy as the day was long.”
Rook gave only a growl, a warning.
Robin nodded a kind of acknowledgment. “My men and I were roaming Barnesdale forest, north of here, when it happened,” he said. “We heard about Jack Woodsby when we wandered back this way.” Robin’s eyes winced. “But I never heard what had happened to Jack’s son, the boy he called Runkling. I thought most likely someone from the village had taken him in.”
“Oh,” Rowan whispered; Rook heard her close to his side. “Oh, I see.”
Rook began to see, also, why Robin Hood had said he was ashamed, but understanding did not help him. Dark, barbed emotions raked his heart.
Robin Hood looked him in the eyes and said it. “All this time, I didn’t know you.”
“But Father, no one could have known.” Rowan leaned toward him. “From what you say, he’d changed so….”
Robin’s blue-eyed gaze shifted to Rowan, and Rook had never seen those eyes so shadowed, like deep water. “That’s what harrows me themost, how his father’s death changed him. I can scarcely imagine—the pain.”
Pain? A wild thing feels no pain. Deep in Rook’s chest his growl rumbled louder.
“Rook.” Robin faced him again. “There’s only one comfort I can offer you, not nearly enough, but here it is. When we heard what had happened to Jack By-the-Woods, my men and I went and found the man trap. We took your father from it. We carried him to a certain grove and buried him there and marked the place with a stone and said the blessing of the Lady over him.”
Rook felt his growling stop for a moment—along with his breath. He felt his soul turning and turning like an eddying pool, felt himself floating like a maple wing, could have gone lilting in sky like a butterfly or swimming in greenshadow like a trout or flowing wherever the river took him, no bitter blackthorn tangle in his chest, nothing but …
Nothing. Fearsome nothingness, as if he were a dead, dried cattle-bean pod and would blow away in the wind.
Robin Hood said, “Anytime you want me to, I will take you and show you the place where your father lies.”
Somewhere in the wild distance, a wolf howled as if its heart would break. Rook breathed out, stood up and stumbled back from Robin, the campfire, the others. Runkling trotted to him, giving a snouty smile, but Rook wanted no smiles. He clenched his fists, his teeth. A welter of feelings, sharp, dark, barbed, surged back to fill the terrifying emptiness within his chest. Good. Thorns were good, brambles were good. A wild thing needs a thicket in which to lie and lick its wounds.
Scooping up Runkling with one hand, Rook climbed out of the rowan hollow and strode into the night, heading toward his cold cave. He did not look back.
No one would follow. They knew better.
Ten
T hree days later, Rook huddled in his favorite cave, sharing his breakfast with Runkling and telling himself things were back the way he wanted them. No more bandages and blankets and jerkins on him. Bare-shouldered. No more nursemaids. Alone. Breakfast was cold undercooked grayling left over from the day before, when he’d caught it with his bare, cold hands and fixed it himself.
And
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