~ by Kayla Kimberlin
William strode down the road whistling merrily. “It is a marvelous day to be alive,” he said to himself. “And no better way could this day be spent than traveling upon the road.”
Thus he went, oftentimes breaking into song. Past green fields and green meadows he went, and across merry streams; everything seemed cheery to him. As he neared a bend in the road, he heard what seemed to be the sound of a dozen men fighting. He broke into a run, eager to reach the spot. A merry fight will complete my day, he thought as he ran, for he was young and strong.
He rounded the bend, but alas, the fight was already over. The thieves, for he perceived that they were by their clothing, were running for their lives while a man stood yelling and shaking a staff at them.
“Be gone you vile thieves!” the stranger yelled after them.
The thieves had managed to break open the man’s pack and its contents were scattered all over the ground, so William bent over, and picking up a set of green clothes, he strode toward the man and laughed. “I was coming to your aid, sir, but I perceive that you need it not.” Then he marveled that the man did not need his aid, for he saw that the man was old.
The man turned and gazed upon the clothes that William had in his hands. Then springing forward in a fury, he gave William such a blow with his staff that it sent him tumbling to the ground.
Enraged, William leapt to his feet crying, “What is the meaning of this, sir!”
His fists were clenched and he was ready to give the stranger a clout, old though he be. For he had expected thanks and a greeting, not a blow.
“Give me that which you hold in your hands, thief!” the old man demanded, brandishing his staff to enforce it.
William handed it over to him, realizing even in his hot anger that the man had a staff and himself just his fists. “I am no thief,” he said, “and I think it a shame to judge me as such, when I was but helping you.”
The stranger looked ashamed and then roared with laughter. “I am sorry, my dear lad,” he said, clapping William on the shoulder. “If I had known you were a friend, I would not have done it. Then again, maybe I would have, for it does a young man good to be beaten once in a while.”
William’s anger left him, seeing his companion so merry, and he said, “I do not know if I agree with you or not, but here let me help you.” Then they both began collecting items, though the man still held the green clothing in his hand.
When they were finished, the man stretched out his hand and then chuckled again. “It seems we both have been rude this day, for neither of us have given the other his name. Mine is Tom, Old Tom they call me now.”
“And mine is William.”
The two shook hands.
“I have known quite a few good men who bore that name,” Tom said, and his face grew wistful. “Very good men, indeed.” He fingered the shirt and leggings that he held in his hand. Then of a sudden he cried aloud in a deeply distressed voice, “Alas! There is a tear in it. A curse be on those fiends, a curse!”
William looked at the tear. “It can be mended,” he offered. “In fact, I know a women in the next town that can…”
“No!” Tom cried. “It cannot be mended, for it needs a patch and nothing new will be added to this shirt.”
William was surprised, for he perceived that the man treasured the suit of clothing deeply. Though he couldn’t understand why, for it was just a shirt and leggings, of Lincoln green color, that could be made at any tailor’s.
“I see you hold these clothes at great value. May I ask why?” he inquired, hoping that a story might be here.
Tom was not angered by William’s request; instead, his face grew more sorrowful. “A great man gave these to me, perhaps the greatest man who ever lived. He was the best master and friend one could wish for, but has been gone for many a year now.” And at these words tears welled up in his eyes and he bowed his head and clutched the clothing.
William was surprised to see such a sturdy man cry. Yet he was touched. This man must have loved his master dear to still weep for him so many years after, he thought. He waited a while then asked, “Tom, who was your master that you weep for him so?”
“Robin Hood was his name,” Tom answered, and he lifted his head up high. “The best, kindest, bravest man you could ever find.”
“Robin Hood!” cried William, amazed. “I have heard great tales about him and his merry men. And you were one of them?”
Tom nodded his head. “I was and am right glad for being so.”
“That means, then, that those tales were real, and that such a man actually lived,” said William, still amazed.
“Of course he actually lived!” roared Tom. “Was I not with him, and did I not hunt with him, speak to him, and serve him!”
William stepped back a pace, for Tom had raised his staff again. Then Tom quieted down and lowered his staff. Grief came upon his face again.
“It has been not that long since he lived and yet they are already forgetting? Then again,” he was speaking more to himself now, “I was the youngest serving him, and most of the others are gone now.” He packed the green clothes and made ready to continue his journey.
William stood still while he did this. Then said gently, “Please, could you tell me of him? I have heard not enough of him, for my father did not approve of me listening to the serfs’ tales. He was the one who said he was not real.”
“Is your father a noble?” asked Tom, looking into William’s face. “If he is, that explains it, for Robin was no friend of rich nobles who oppressed the poor.”
“Yes he is,” William said, “but please, sir, could you tell me more?”
William was looking very eager, and didn’t seem to take offense at Tom’s words. So the old man began his tale as the two traveled together along the road. One listening eagerly, the other growing more and more animated as he talked. The more William listened, the more he wished that he might join in such adventures. Oh, that he was in Robin Hood’s time!
All too soon for William, they came to the crossroads. Tom, who was now his friend, said sadly, “We must go separate ways now.”
William nodded sadly. “Aye, if my mother wasn’t waiting for me, how gladly I would go with you!”
Tom smiled. “Thank you lad,”
“Robin Hood will be a legend for years to come,” said William. “He was a great man.”
Tom nodded, then sorrow came back into his face. “Yes that is how it should be, but I suspect I’m the last to truly remember him. The rest must only remember tales.”
William nodded again, then said wistfully, “I wish I could have been one of his merry men, that is if he would have had me.”
Tom looked at him, then said, “I believe he would have. I must be going now, farewell.” And he started down the other road.
“Farewell!” called William, then he started down his own road.
For a time he still felt wistful for the olden days and wished that he could share the love of Tom, but he was young and had his life to live. That feeling did not live long, but he always did remember Tom’s tales.
Tom, when he had rested that night in a good inn, carefully got out the set of lincoln clothing. Gently he smoothed them, and gently he examined them. To his great pleasure he had found that the tear was not as bad as he first thought. He stared at them for a while, then folded them and placed them back in his pack. Then he had smiled, and slipping into his bed, had gone to sleep.