It's Not Over

Robin Talks and Listens

Robin Talks and Listens

“Sorry.” I wiped my tear-stained face on my sleeve. “Grown men aren’t supposed to cry.”

“I have seen lots of men crying, including my father,” Jasmina said, in that matter-of-fact, uninhibited way that children have of speaking. “Or did you forget that I was in Acre, too? I don’t see why men shouldn’t cry if they are hurt or upset about something. Much is always crying.”

“That’s true,” I said, summoning up a small smile. “And when he’s not crying, he’s hungry or complaining; sometimes all three at once.”

Jasmina grinned, little dimples blooming on her dusky cheeks.

“He is truly a funny fellow, but I like him. Nearly as much as I like you, Robin.”

I got to my feet, my legs aching after kneeling on the hard floor of the grain store.

“I know that man.”

“What man?” Jasmina asked.

“Marian’s husband. His name is Guy. I knew him as a boy. We both lived in Locksley for a while.”

“Is that why you were crying? Because your lady love married your best friend?”

I snorted, unable to contain my scorn. “Guy was never my best friend. We played together because our families encouraged us to spend time with each other. In truth, we mostly argued; sometimes we even came to blows. Guy was ill-natured and had a violent temper, cruel, too. He used to pull the wings off flies and the legs off spiders so he could watch the poor things suffer.”

Jasmina pushed out her lower lip and then said, “That is a horrible thing to do.”

A ripple of guilt ran through me as I recalled some of the less than kind things I said and did to Guy.

“It was,” I agreed. “But he was a child and I don’t think we should judge him on such childish misdeeds. The truth is—” I shook my head as if to shake away my thoughts. I didn’t want to dwell on my boyhood in Locksley.

“What is the truth?” Jasmina asked, staring up at me with those inquisitive brown eyes of hers.  

I thought of Much, voicing his woes, both large and small. Although he never said so, I gained the impression that he always felt better for having disclosed what was on his mind or in his heart; not that I paid him much attention, I guiltily realised.

Patting a large sack of grain, I bade Jasmina to sit next to me; I thought it would be easier to confide in her if she were not looking directly at me.

“I’m going to tell you a few things about me. And about Guy.” I took a deep breath and then exhaled, slowly, uncertain where to start.

Jasmina fidgeted, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy sack of grain. Her legs dangled. I noticed a dusting of spilled flour on her worn leather shoes. It reminded me of a patch of powdery earth by my mother’s grave, the grass worn away by my constant visits.

“I know what it’s like to lose your mother at a young age,” I began, “because I lost my mother when I was only ten summers old.”

Jasmina went very still, doubtless recalling the loss of her parents. I was sorry I had mentioned my mother’s passing, but I had said it now, so I carried on.

“After she died, I wasn’t very nice to Guy. I wasn’t very nice to anyone. I guess I just wanted to take out my anger on someone. With no brothers or sisters to torment, I took it out on Guy. I was always teasing him and I used to blame him for mistakes that I made.”