Mojitos with Merry Men (6 page)

Robin grabs the curved horn that dangles from his leather belt and blows into it. At the deep, almost mournful sound, the men drop what they're doing and direct their attention to the hill where we're standing. Power may be a "tricky lass," but as Mick Jagger once said, Robin's got them under his thumb.

"We have a visitor," Robin announces to the group—in case, I guess, they assumed the strange person standing next to him was a dear friend they'd forgotten they had. "Young Christian has succeeded in angering the good Sheriff of Nottingham this fine day and has thus been invited to dinner."

His words spark cheers from the gang. Cheers for me! How cool is that? I ticked off the sheriff, and now I'm instantly the
It
girl (er, boy) with the outlaw contingent.

"Does this mean we eat venison tonight?" calls out one man from the back.

Hm. Then again, maybe they're just hungry. Oh well.

Robin chuckles, his green eyes flashing with amusement. He really does have great eyes. Not that I'm staring at them or anything.

"But of course, my good sir," he says. "We'd be ill hosts indeed to have an enemy of the Sheriff of Nottingham dining on berries we foraged from the forest."

Even though in this case she'd
prefer
berries foraged from the forest. Or, I think wistfully, some Franken Berry cereal to munch on…

The camp erupts in excited murmurs—probably arguing who gets the leg meat and who's dining on the vital organs. Robin narrows his eyes, seemingly displeased by the ruckus.

"Did your mothers raise you as Saxons?" he demands, which I'm assuming he means as an insult. The camp falls silent again, the men properly rebuked. "Or would you care to introduce yourselves to our guest?"

I hear a few muttered apologies amidst a few more muttered protests over the Saxon barb. Finally, one man steps forward. And when I say man, I mean a jolly green giant. If he had been born in the 21st century he'd be a linebacker for the Miami Dolphins. He's got to be at least seven feet tall with the broadest shoulders I've ever encountered. He has bushy black hair that's probably never seen a comb, chubby cheeks, and a beard so thick a bird could build a nest in it. He's wearing a belted leather tunic that must have taken the skins of a half dozen deer to fit all the way around his massive circumference.

I smile to myself. That's got to be—

"I am John Little," he says, patting himself on his burly chest with large hands. "Though thanks to Robin here, most now call me Little John."

Ah-ha! I was right. Little John. Robin's right-hand man. His lieutenant. A big and burly oaf, good-hearted if none too bright. Played by a bear in the Disney cartoon.

"And I am Allan a Dale," says the next man. He's tall and thin, with an almost effeminate face and beak-like nose. He wears a feathered cap and carries some kind of harp-like instrument in his delicate hands. He strums a chord before speaking again, the notes decidedly out of tune. Though I'm no Tom Morello myself, so I shouldn't judge. "The minstrel who entertains this ragged band of thieves."

And then, out of the blue, he breaks into song:

"Good Christian has come to our lair,

He has not been eaten by a bear.

He angered the good Sheriff of Nottingham

A man that likely has no mum."

Huh. Well, not exactly something Gwen Stefani and Blake Shelton would thumbs-up, perhaps, but I guess I should cut him some slack, seeing as he made it up on the fly.

I clap my hands, all good vibes, and he bows low. "Thank you, sir," he says, and I can see he's blushing a bit. Makes me glad I didn't go with my initial reaction of hands over my ears to stop the pain. But hey, I've sat through worse on open-mic night down at EarthMatters.

I wonder if he ever sings songs about what a coward Robin is, like his
Monty Python and the Holy Grail
counterpart. I could totally give him the
defeated on the log by a simple gymnastics trick
anecdote if he needs new material.

"I'm—
hiccup—
Friar Tuck," bellows another man, not moving from his spot by the keg. He's short and bald and extremely fat, wearing a long brown robe with a loose tie around his waist. He lifts his mug in way of greeting. "If it's praying ye need, I be yer man."

"If it's beer ye need, more like," Little John quips. The camp breaks out in laughter. At first, Friar Tuck looks offended, but then he just laughs and raises his glass to the group and downs a mammoth gulp of ale.

"The Good Lord asks that we enjoy all the fine gifts he has given us," he says after swallowing, "and I always like to do what the Good Lord asks." He sets down the mug on a nearby tree stump and belches loudly.

"If you are quite finished, my dear drunken friar, may I go next?" A richly dressed boy of about eighteen steps into the open. While the others are clothed in mainly gray rags and rugged leather, he wears a scarlet tunic of fine silk. Not so suitable for hiding out in the woods, mind you. It's very expensive-looking.

"Will Scarlet I am," he says gallantly, sweeping off his feathered hat and bowing low. "And 'tis a great honor to make thy acquaintance."

Hm. While I'd never want to make judgments of sexual preference based on someone's dandyish dress—he could very well be a medieval metrosexual, after all—the sly once-over he gives me as he rises from his bow does make me a little curious as to what team the boy's batting for.

Others step forward then, introducing themselves one by one. There are probably fifty Merry Men all together, though I'm not quite sure "merry" is the appropriate term. Overall, they seem kind of a beaten-down lot. I guess being outlawed and forced to live in the middle of nowhere in 12th-century England will do that to a person. And, thanks to Robin "Slacker" Hood here, they don't have any robbing-the-rich, feeding-the-poor distraction to while away the hours.

"Enough loafing around for you all," Robin says, clapping his hands after introductions. "Let us prepare for the feast."

They all spring into action, and soon the camp is crawling with very productive men. It's like a mini-factory. Everyone seems to have a job to do. Makes me feel a bit slacker-ish, myself, and I realize I should pitch in. After all, I'm not some princess who needs to be waited on hand and foot. Not like Kat probably demands, wherever in time she is. I, Chrissie Hayward, can pull my own weight.

"Anything I can do to help?" I ask Robin, wondering what kind of task I'd be good at. Anything, I suppose, except preparing tonight's dinner. Skinning the deer.

"You could skin the deer," Robin replies automatically.

Of course.

My stomach roils at the thought. They really expect me to jump in and start disemboweling without a care in the world? I'm supposed to actually scoop out the bloody innards of an innocent forest creature that was forced to sacrifice his life in celebration of my untimely arrival to 12th-century Britain? Lovely.

"Um, anything else available? I make a mean salad, you know." Actually, my specialty is this amazing vegan Jell-O mold off a recipe I found on Pinterest, but I highly doubt that's on the menu tonight.

Robin chuckles. "Too fancy to get your hands dirty, eh lad? Perhaps you'd like to entertain the men with a church hymn instead? Though, sad truth be told, I think they enjoy bawdier tunes—music I'm sure 'twould offend your delicate ears."

I narrow my eyes. Hmph. I see how it is. He thinks I'm some total wimp. Some church boy who won't be able to survive an outlaw's life. Well, I'll show him.

"I'm not too fancy for anything," I growl. "Pass me the knife, and bring on Bambi." Robin shoots me a confused look. "Uh, the deer," I clarify. "The one for dinner. I nicknamed him Bambi. Seems like a deer-ish name, don't you think? I mean, much better than, say, Fred." Man, I've got to stay in character here. Not be so stupid. The last thing I need is for it to be found out that I'm not only a chick but a chick from the future. I'm sure that would go over
real
well.

Robin snorts. "Very well then," he says, his eyes sparkling. He knows he's trapped me in a dare and is way too amused by it for my liking. "Go see Little John then. He will offer you the proper tools you need."

I head down the little hill and into the bowels of the camp. Ew. My nose wrinkles in protest as I near the fire. They are so not using Glade PlugIns or washing with Irish Spring here in Sherwood. The place reeks of sweat, rot, and some other unidentified substances that I would prefer stay that way. And I haven't even gotten to the deer carcass yet. Great.

I shake my head to clear my 21st-century thoughts. So Febreze has yet to be invented. Big freaking deal.
You probably don't smell of roses either, toots
, I remind myself.

When in Rome, smell like the Romans do, I guess. Or the medieval Britons, in this case.

"Excuse me?" I say as I approach the giant called Little. He's bending over to tend to the fire, and his butt looks bigger than a cow's, his tunic straining at the seams. I guess whatever the starvation state of the rest of the kingdom, Robin keeps his men well fed.

Little John turns, a wide grin on his face. His hair sticks out in the weirdest places, and he's missing several teeth. But his smile is friendly. Infectious, even, and I grin back at him. Definitely a gentle giant, though I still would not like to get on his bad side.

"I'm here to help you clean the deer," I announce, uneasily shifting from foot to foot. I really can't believe what I've gotten myself into this time.

Neither can John, evidently. He raises a skeptical eyebrow and gives me a once-over from head to toe. "Are ye sure ye want to be dirtying your hands, boy?" he asks, though much more genuinely in tone than dear Robin did. "I dunna mean to insult you, but it's a bloody job, it is. Not one meant for a squeamish stomach."

"Sure, I'm sure," I say, mustering up a bit of false bravado after a quick glance up the hill to where Robin is still standing. He's watching me closely, a smirk on his otherwise handsome face.

Little John shrugs and nods toward the woods. "The men have just returned." He hands me a knife caked with blood and gristle or something. I feel my stomach gurgle just at the sight. I can only imagine how it's going to react to slicing flesh. My kingdom for an Amy's California Veggie Burger.

But it's too late to turn back now. I sit down on a rock and watch as two men carry a large brown deer over to us. It's upside down, its legs tied to a long wooden pole, and its head flops to one side, its glassy eyes staring at me accusingly. As if I were to blame for its early demise. Which I am, in a way. Bleh.

The men stick one end of the pole into the dirt, and the deer is now hanging vertically. Little John motions for me to make the first cut.

"Just slice down its stomach," he says, tracing a pudgy finger down the deer's furry belly.

I take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut then open them again.
I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.
I lift the blade, realizing my right hand is trembling like crazy.

Come on, Chrissie, this is your big test. You've got to prove you're one of the men.

"Sure you don't want to go wash pans down by the lake instead?" a voice behind me jeers. I whirl around. Robin's come down the hill and is watching me, arms folded across his chest. "Or gather berries in the woods?"

What a jerk. He knows this is totally uncomfortable for me, and yet he still feels he has the right to tease. I guess after I bested him in a fight, saved the little boy's hand, and witnessed him getting lost in his own forest, he's probably dying for me to fail at something.

I grit my teeth. Failure is not an option. I
will
skin this deer, and I will skin it without running screaming into the woods.

"Do you mind? We're trying to prepare dinner here," I say.

Robin holds up his hands in front of him, his eyes glittering with even more amusement than before. "By all means, young Chris, please continue."

Angry now, I jab the blade into the deer. Blood pools instantly around the dagger, gushing out in spurts. It's redder than I imagined it would be, coating the fur in crimson. Coating my hand with some horrible steaming goo.

It's red. It's hot. It's disgusting. I've never been good with blood. Not since the time my friend and I hosted a
Friday the 13th
marathon party when we were eight. Now I'm stuck playing a real-life Jason to this poor sweet deer that did nothing wrong.

My head starts to swim. I can feel myself swaying, and I struggle to keep consciousness while holding on to the blade with both hands, dragging it down the deer's stomach. It sounds like ripping fabric, and little wet drops spatter my face. I swallow back the vomit that threatens to spew from me like Linda Blair in
The Exorcist.

"Are you all right?" I can hear Robin's voice from a distance. He doesn't sound amused anymore, at least. But still, I'm going to see this thing through. Is the cut long enough? What next?

The deer's entrails suddenly flop out of its body in a tangle of what looks like sauce-covered spaghetti.

Screw this. I'm so fainting.

I wake up under a large pile of soft fur. I open one eye, then the other. Where am I? It looks like I'm in a tent. How did I get in a tent? Was there camping at King Arthur's Faire? Where's Kat? What time is it?

Then it all comes rushing back to me. The phone call from Kat. My mission impossible—to retrieve the Holy Grail and thus help my coworker get back from the future. Meeting Robin Hood and his not-so-merry men. My volunteering to help clean out a deer carcass just to prove I'm a man. My fainting at the sight of the deer carcass, proving perhaps that I am not.

My stomach heaves as my mind replays the vision of the disemboweled creature and dangling entrails. What had I been thinking? Did I really need to prove my point that badly?

"Ah, awake, are you?"

I look over to the tent entrance. Robin pulls back the flap to step inside. The tent's tall enough that he only has to crouch down a little.