Wild Boy by Nancy Springer Page B

cast a wondering glance around him, but if he felt the presence of the spirits, he did not fear them.
    Rook gave him a nod of greeting.
    “Is that it?” Tod asked. “Is that the marker?” He pointed his chin toward it—just a flat forest stone much like any of the others that dotted the linden grove.
    Rook looked to Robin Hood. “This is where my father lies?”
    “Yes. That is Jack Woodsby’s stone. I promise you.”
    And where better could he lie than within the silver ring of this holy grove.
    Rook swallowed, nodded, and knelt, with Runkling snuffling and grunting by his side. Runkling did not root or slobber at the soft grass. Even the animals seemed to know this was a sacred place. Tykell sat like a wolf-dog statue at Rowan’s feet, as if he had forgotten for the time being how badly he wanted to eat Runkling.
    Kneeling, Rook clutched the bundle of flowers he had carried here, wild roses and day’s-eye and key-of-heaven flowers, the sweetest that earth had to offer. Rook felt very much his father’s son with a forest breeze ruffling his shorn hair, with his jerkin and leggings and the pigskin shoes, well oiled now, soft on his feet. One by one he scattered the flowers. For a moment he knelt amid their sweetness to remember his father’s gentle face and kind hands.
    Then he stood, drifting in the moment like a trout in a deep river pool, just being. Clouds stirred ever so slightly in the sky. The
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hovered like silver mist. Somewhere a robin rejoiced. Somewhere a dove mourned.
    Tod spoke. “Rook,” he asked in a voice much softer than his usual piping tones, “did your father beat you?”
    “No.” Jack Swineherd had seldom so much as raised his voice in anger. Remembering, Rook felt his voice go soft. “He wasn’t like that.”
    Tod nodded and turned his face upward to the tall man beside him. “Robin, did you have a father?”
    “Of course, Tod.” Robin’s tone crinkled with a glint of his usual merriment.
    “Did he beat you?”
    “No, lad.” No merriment now.
    “Was he—your father—did he—if you got lost, would he want you back?”
    “Yes, lad.” Rook had never heard Robin’s voice so gentle, so sad.
    Tod stood silent for a moment, then asked one last question. “Is he—Robin, is your father yet alive?”
    “No, he’s long dead, Tod.” Hugging Rowan even closer to his side, Robin put his other arm around the Sheriff’s son. Yet his blue-eyed gaze met Rook’s eyes as if he were speaking to Rook alone. “He’s dead and gone. But he lives on in my heart.”
    Holding Runkling, Rook rubbed noses with the piglet, then offered it with outstretched hands to Tod. “Take him with you.”
    On horseback, sheltered by the last great oak at the eastern edge of Sherwood Forest, Tod gazed out over open, rolling hills. But he shifted his gaze to gawk at Rook. “Take Runkling? But he’s yours!”
    “Take him.” Rook laid Runkling on the saddle in front of Tod.
    “I can’t!” Still, Tod couldn’t keep from clutching at the little pig, lifting Runkling into a one-armed hug. With his other hand he kept tight rein on the hot-blooded horse Robin’s merry men had stolen from Nottingham’s stables for him. It had been two full moons since Tod had hurt himself. He needed no splint on his leg anymore, and he could walk without a staff, but he could not have walked the journey that lay before him, a distance of many leagues. He had accepted the horse gladly.
    Even more gladly he held Runkling to his shoulder, although he told Rook, “You can’t give him to me.”
    “No? But methinks I can. Take him.”
    From the back of the tall charger, Tod gazed down at Rook. “You’re smiling,” he said, his tone soft with wonder. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile before.”
    “I’m glad to be rid of you,” Rook lied, teasing.
    “Really? Well, then, I’ll be sure to come back someday. To annoy you.”
    “Do that,” Rook said.
    From the forest shadows another voice spoke. “You