Excerpt: The Bow

“There was a minstrel in town, Father, a minstrel!”

“Is that so?” Father leaned back, frowning and arching his body before settling into the chair.

“Yes,” I said, “and he sang a song about you.”
“Did he?”

“Father, you aren’t paying attention!”

“Sorry, Rosamond,” he said, his voice abandoning the airy away-ness it had had a moment ago. “What did he sing about?”

“Little John,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows. “Little who?”

“Little John,” I said, bouncing over to him and sitting down at his feet, where I nestled my face against his trouser leg. “I didn’t recognize his name. Why haven’t you told me about him?”

“Um,” Father said, “Little John, eh?”

“Are you embarrassed?” I craned my neck up to look into his face. I imagined that the confused look on it was put on. “Because he beat you?”

“Beat me?”

“Yes!” I said, “I was thinking, on the way home, that the only reason you haven’t told me is because he beat you, and knocked you into the water.”
“What?”

“Father!” I said, “don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly,” he said, “I haven’t an earthly idea what you’re talking about.”

I craned my neck again.

“Perhaps you could tell me?” he said, stroking my hair.

“All right,” I said. “He said that the year was 1192.”

“I’m with you so far,” he said. “That’s...nine years ago, and a year after your mother.”

“And the band was growing rapidly.”

“I suppose.”

“And you were bored.”
“Was I?”

“Yes, so you thought you’d go to the Blue Boar Inn and--”

“--waste money on an inn?”

“Beer, Father. Don’t be silly!”

“I’m not being silly,” he repeated.

“You hoped you would find adventure along the way.”

“I never hope that,” he said, “adventure is a very time consuming and annoying thing.”

“But you were bored.”

“Well,” he said.

“Stop interrupting.”

“Yes, Little Miss.”

“You got to a bridge over a stream,” I said. “It’s hard to tell this story and not sing it.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“FAthER!”

“My apologies.”

“But there was a big man standing on the other side of the stream--over a foot taller than you!”

“That’s not very tall, Rosamond,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, frowning. My voice sounded funny with my ear pressed against his leg. “I thought that was weird to call him huge, a foot taller than you, and then say seven feet tall! That’s not consistent.”

He laughed.

“What?”

“Your big words, now, go on.”

“You both stepped onto the bridge at the same time.”

“The bridge?”

“It was a log really.”

“I see.”

“'Step aside, little man!' the big man said.

“'You step aside!' you replied.

“I did?” my father said, incredulous.

I looked at him again. “Yes, you did. Does this sound familiar now?”

“Not in the slightest.”
I sighed. “You have a bad memory, Father.”

“I suppose I might.”

“Then you said you would shoot him if he didn’t get off the bridge, and he said he would hit you with the big stick (I didn’t tell you about the stick, did I, Father?) that he was carrying. You said that that was silly--you could shoot him before he could hit you!”

“Goodness! I don’t remember being so violent!”

“Do you remember him?”

“No. There was one person...I’ll tell you later.”

“All right,” I said. “Then he called you a coward, so you said you would get yourself a big stick too!”

“Did I indeed?”

“Yes, and then you fought for a long time, and he dunked you in the water!”

“Ouch.”

“Then he helped you back out--”

“Strange...”

“And you invited him to be a part of your band (because he came to Sherwood looking for you, anyway)!”

Father was laughing. Hard.

“Father, what is it?” I said, standing up and staring at him in surprise.

“Little...John!”

“Oh!” I said, “I forgot. You could him Little John because his name was John Little, but...”

I trailed off, baffled.

“Do you remember now, Father?”

He subsided. “The only time I remember,” he said, sitting up and leaning forward, his eyes dancing, “is the time where I was helping a young maid across a stream on a log, and I lost my balance, nearly fell of the ‘bridge’ and finally did fall off, and she followed me.”

“That doesn’t sound at all like the story I heard,” I said.

“It wasn’t at all like the story you heard,” he said, laughing again. “Little John. Where do they get the things?”