When Robin lost his Hood

capitol aon deug: stories & ghosts

"The name's John, live around here, hope you don't mind the mess." The cottage is of the finest oak, sturdy and tall with pots of flowers dug in the front yard and as he opens the door, setting down his basket to push down the handle, I reach for the woven berries, lifting t with a heave to rest upon my hips- he doesn't say a word, raising a brow looking at me from a side eye and a nod before stepping in. "Oh I don't mind at all," I follow him inside, heel first, turning my neck this way and that as the livingroom and kitchen open up to me in cozy orange light- theres a rocking chair in front of the fireplace, crackling with burnt ember, and the mats are intricately woven, foreign and red with black dots. From the kitchen window hang dried plants lined in rows on the walls, jars of honey, butter, jam and spices and herbs of sorts which tickle my nose in curiosity. He's the smallest thing in the room, I think as I watch him, hunchbacked, staggering forward with his cane, frail and simple. He points with his cane to the island table. "You put the basket right here and I'll take care of it, lassie."

I do as I'm told. Opening my mouth to introduce myself he holds up his hand, taking off his coat, "None of that now, we've got enough time for that, yes, yes, quite enough. Take a seat I haven't baked any bread or pie of sorts, ti's been a long time I've had guests of sorts, yes, yes. But I'll bake it now, as she would have wanted."
I take a seat on one of the chairs, "Do you need any help?"

He stops again, pan and bowl in hand holding his blink. "No, that's quite alright." He blushes, humming as he cracks the eggs and mixes the wheat.

"I cook quite a lot you know, for my maiden and for others as well. I'm quite good. So you neednt be kind."

"Neednt be kind? Of course I will, I haven't seen a soul around here for a long time, yes, quite a long time."

"So you're not married?" I really dont know what's made me so daring, I strangle the cloak between my fingers, playing with the seams of the hood.

He stops whipping the cream, looking up again, "No." He hurriedly says, continuing to mix.

"People don't usually return for a second visit."

I still at the words, looking around for an ambush or a weapon he can use of sorts. He's small and frail but you never know. A child is young but strong in punches, I figure the same rule to apply to all those who look weak but are anything but.

"What they call ya?" A pause has stretched after his last sentence and by the time he asks me of my name, he's put the cake in the oven and taken a seat in the rocking chair, his legs dangling from the height.

Distrust has by then set in, "Amina." I tell him and he says, "You're not from Nottingham, aye? Dublin maybe? Maybe Edinburgh, you never know with those strange lots." I hadn't the slightest clue what he meant by this.

"Are you affiliated with the Merry Men?"

"What?"

"The... Robin Hood and the Merry Men, you're from Nottingham, I presume?"

"Aye," He lolls his head back to the chair, smoke puffs billowing from his lips as he puffs from his pipe. "But I hadn't the slightest clue who Ruben Toot and the Cheerful Men are. I've neither been cheerful or quite tooty these past years since the war ended."

I turned my head fully to regard him, from the illumination of the firelight, he looked almost fast asleep, his eyelids sunken down the windows of his eyes, the smoke like fog wrapping around him.

He turns his eyes to me again, never fully his head, only those blue eyes barely peeking out from his lids.

"Huh?" He grunts. What? He means to say, he reminds me of Maiden Marian's father.