journal entry, march 18, 1188
we found ourselves on the road between york and nottingham on a hunting trip, as well as expecting to conduct some insignificant business in the market below the nottingham castle...when travelers approached us, decent folk it seemed, but downtrodden and worn. they sought comfort, food and protection within our camp grounds that nite, as we passed ale around, my men and i fought back tears as they told horrific tales of injustices, of nothing less than highway robbery from the sheriff of nottingham and his evil deputies.
somehow, with our King, Richard Coeur de Lion, away fighting in the holy lands, this once quite shire had been given over to the likes of a treacherous selfish and unsavory band riding the dales under the guise of the law.
someone had take a stand.
and on that nite, my men and i decided we would take these woods, sherwood forest, and offer them as a sanctuary for all in need of refuge and protection.
from here, we have launch attacks against the sheriff and are wrking to bring order and justice back to these lands...in the name of our noble King Richard.
we have faced the enemy, and more often than not, they have fled our arrows and the power of your righteous swords. we have lost very dear friends in this battle. yet, we know our cause is just.
the villagers and the country folk retreat often. and next year, as spring breaks through the snow and cold north winds, we have chosen to offer these woods as a gathering place for merriment, for festivities; for music and theatre; for jugglers and troubadors; for merchants, artisans and farmers to sell or barter their wares. we shall call it sherwood forest faire...and all will be welcome.
i personally will guarentee their safety.
your humble servant,
robin of loxley
spread the word. prepare for the feast and festivities. we will celebrate the new year, the victories of our King abroad, and of good and decent friends and family!
this is a post i'd ask any of you to add your own story to as part of sherwood experience. we will make this quite epic-- a mixture of real and fantasy--as we collectively build this forest faire. write from your own character's perspective. help us create the story of sherwood from many many different perspectives. where you come from, what you do, what brings you to nottinghamshire, what do you seek - what do you offer within the realm of sherwood.
just as we build the structures of the faire, we build the grand human play...which all of you will be a part of.
take your pen. begin to write your ever-evolving character into our extraordinary story.
rengypsy
journal entry, may 6th, 1188AD
it is the fifth month in the 1188th year of our lord.
the ice and snow have melted some time ago.
the trees are fully leafed and filled with wildlife.
yesterday, before the sun set, we heard the creaking of a wagon approaching.
we hailed them entry into the forest.
(we have set up an outer fence..and man the perimeter with our bowmen)
they set up camp--gypsies. pans and pots clanking in the winds.
lots of noise from the young ones, barefooted, draped in flowing cloth...
an old crone sat on a bucket beside the fire, mumbling, casting runes, hands flailing wildly to the heavens.
then on one occasion, she seemed to pass out and fall onto the ground.
one of my men stood to help, but what we believed to be one of her children waived him to be seated...and in a few minutes, she rose and sat again atop her perch...but was quieted the rest of the night.
and soon after, others brought out musical instruments to play for us.
the women and children danced about the flames.
it was magical, i am sure, because, besides what stirred within my soul, we all witnessed the forest come alive.
damned if it did not happen, but the fae even danced in the shadows and with their wonderous shirled voice mezmorized us into a trance--not one that scared us, but one that lured us deeper into our mother's arms...and we felt our celtic roots reaching deeply into the earth.
when we awoke today, there around us was the fairie circle of mushrooms and small, dainty pedals from the nightshade.
"Little john meets a coward in the woods"
The mighty Yeoman Little john did lean him to an oak
He drew an arrow tight and true until the bow 'most broke
He spied along the pathway someone riding at full speed
And he felled a bough of stout green wood, to make the rider heed
The stranger landed on his feet and hyed him to some cover
His voice rose warbling shrill and loud from the briars and the clover
"Beseech thee do I good Yeoman" he called to John Betimes
"I pray that thou wouldst let me live, for I have committed no crime!"
"Then hie thee home" quoth Little john and made for the stranger's horse
He took her bridle and led her along and tied her up in course
He laughed as if broad thunder claps did cut through the forest air
And stroked her mane of dapple grey, a fine horse and a fair
A sound came from the stranger's direction, as if a poor damsel were crying
Hastened Little john to the place where the poor little fellow was lying
"Get you up!" quothe Little john, "for that is no way to meet danger!"
"Fly you hence or bear your arms, thou cowardly awkward stranger!"
"My name is Lance- of nobility born- but a poor man yet shall I bee'
Take all I have in this old green Earth, but leave me my fast pony.
I hasten to fetch a philosopher rare who cures the ills of poison
My sister is bitten" the young man sobbed, and john's eyes began to moisten
Little john leapt astride the grey mare with the young man over his shoulder
And they reached a farmhouse upon a hill before the morning was over
An old man there was standing still like a statue in the garden
He held up his hand and vanished thin before they could ask a question
Little john he was a stout man, a large man and a brave
But that foul sight did startle him, and chilled him to the grave
He badd the boy stay with the mare, while he for the old man spied
He turned his foot to the farmhouse, and boldly wend he inside
The walls were bare of hearth and rug and the floor was dusty and flat
Nor a table nor stool nor even a chair, except where the old man sat
He spoke in plain words to Little john, who could scarcely stand in the room
But as they spake together, the old man's mouth never moved
"Why do you come here oh son of Adam, intruding on me so
Am I to call the North Wind in, to cover thee with snow?
Or shall I make thee a spider small to dance in an old cobweb
Give me your answer straight away or you'll find yourself spell bound instead!"
Little john stood perfectly still, and spake without jawbone nor tongue
He told of the young girl poisoned, who lay there where she was stung
But he could not hide his rage nor his anger towards the old man
And he found himself alone again, locked in, unable to stand
He looked through a window made fast with iron, and watched on the scene in dismay
The old man had mounted the old grey mare, and on her was riding away.
The cowardly lad was running like mad from the farmhouse out into the wood
And john was unable to break down the door, though he ordinarily could
He sat there two days without vittles nor beer and had given himself up to prayer
He had wanted to die among his good friends but was glad to have none of them there
So he got himself up for a last hopeless swing at the door that would not sway
He braced himself on it to muster a blow, and fell out into the bright day
The grey mare was standing before him; the young lad was standing there too
The old man was wielding a barrel of beer and satchel that smelled like food
"Go wash yourself, man" said the wizard with an earthly wag of his jaw
"Our friends shall be coming to dinner, so don't keep them waiting too long"
Now Little john's pride was full sore then, but his belly the worse, Alas!
He followed the boy to a stream there, and asked him of the young lass
The wizard, he said had cured her, with a wave of his hand a root
"He found her by tracking me backyards, my scent as his only boote
" He then set her down in the Grene wode, where stays true Robin Hood
For he knew that in all of our England, no one could protect her so good
Then by my tracks and my odours, he rooted me out of the forest
Living on radishes, berries and eggs, living as poor as the poorest"
"That is a lie!" Shouted Little john then "For I in my shelter had less!
Without any berry or root to chew on, not a crumb nor a morsel to bless
And I had a small window, thou cowardly weed puller, through which I might have been fed
An thou had come back just a half moment later, I would have been cold, stiff and dead.
"But let us not linger on cards poorly played, for soon it is said we shall dine
Let good hard bread and beer wash away all the cheerlessness from our two minds"
The lad, Master Lance smiled up at him then and said much to Little john's glee
"And soon will come hither good Robin Hood's band to sup with I and thee."
Little john hastened to find the old man, and begged him to help play a jest
John would play dead before Robin appeared, and lay ready to be put to rest
The old man agreed, and they laid up poor john on a table that haply appeared
And the wizard cast soft little underhill spells to pale him and whiten his beard
The old man and young man were crying, and acting their part quite good
When there came along twelve jolly yeomen, and ahead of them bold Robin Hood
He asked the old man of the brother of the bonny young lass by his side
The old man told him the youth was whole, but the other poor fellow had died
"Alas for that poor fellow" said Robin Hood with a solemn bow
"I would that I might pay my respects be he stranger, friend, or foe"
Robin Hood stepped in the farm house, and fell upon his knee
He knew that face was Little john's, and his figure assured it was he
"Little john fellow, thou stubourn old soul, who once caught me crossing a stream
Thou couldst have killed me, but gentle thou wast ,when thou dist whip me like a cream
I beg thy pardon for failing thee now – my dear friend of so many years"
Then Robin Hood embraced his friend, and shed him bitter tears
"I forgive thee, Robin Hood!" Quoth Little john betimes
" I forgive thee for losing me, and for all thy other crimes.
"Thank thee, Friend." Said Robin Hood, then jumped nigh through the rafters
"Alas that I am made the weed puller! I thought thou wast hereafter!"
Said john "I'll ask a blessing for curdling thy blood
But let me ask it at a table with fruit and bread and suds!"
And all did have a merry fest, inside the wizard's home
With drink and food and stories good, and everybody whole.
journal entry, may 6th, 1188 A.D.
I am the son of a seer. We had traveled far. Several towns did not allow us refuge within their borders. "Gypsies & Travelers Not Welcome!" We moved on. Pitched camp in byways and ditches.
The weather has been windy and much rain. Two of our old are frail and ailing, one already died since we crossed the channel some months back.
Yesterday, off the path, we saw smoke and thought we would take a chance there might be friendly travelers to spend the evening with. Instead we came to some woods with a picket fence around it. And woodsmen at a gate welcomed us in.
Quite unusual. But, being weary and tired, we accepted their offer...and circled our wagons close to the campgrounds they had established.
They offered us food and drink. They gave use seats around their fire. What be their motives? Has not word traveled of the Roma folk this far north of London? I am sure that cannot be the case. We are an ancient people and persecution follows us like the plague.
But, they welcomed us.
Mama scared them with her soothsaying and touched ways. I think they thought her dead at one point last night; but she was fine. She had just broken through the spirit world and made contact with the world of fae...asking them to join us.
We played our music. We danced. We drank. We did not lift a single trinket from these men's pockets or tents. Instead, we asked the spirit of fae to watch them and return their generosity to them ten fold.
I am unsure if we will stay long. But for now, there is no reason to move on.
Talmund
While walking through the wood near Camelot, collecting herbs, Queen Bonnie and her faithful familiar, Tachi , the cat came upon a quavering ,glistening portal. These are not found often- Merlin had told her to beware- but Bonnie gathered her herbs and wizard staff and Tachi in her arms and boldly walked through the portal. She had done this a few times before. I do hope King Arthur can spare me for a while, Bonnie thought. I wonder when I will be this time! And where too?
There was a tingly sensation and a pleasant chiming sound and then the sunlight changed to clouds and the warm air turned colder- but there was the sound of merry voices singing ahead and a smell of roasting meat! Was it a village or an inn? She was still in a vast wood.
Bonnie adjusted her crown- and asked Tachi what he thought about the advisability of going on to see what the music was about or was a more cautious approach needed. Tachi just looked wise and said ROWWWR! He was hungry! The two continued towards the sound of merry voices- and another adventure! Unaware that a shadow followed them through the portal in time!
journal entry, the 10th of may, in the year of 1188...
mama was a bit frail today. she woke with a croup. one of my sisters gathered herbs within the forest, mixed them in a brew and gave them to her in her morning tea.
i sat beside her and told her stories of the old land, stories she told me a thousand times in the past...
i brushed her hair. a bathed her sweaty forehead. and i sang a few gentle songs of fae as she drifted off to sleep.
i worry about mama. she is old. she gets sicker more often. and her ailments are not chased away as quickly as they once were. i am glad this spirit is not upon her during the cold nights. the spring flowers and leaves within this forest bed are like medicine to her soul.
when she sees into the future with her runes or her cards, she never lets us know what she sees of her our tomorrows. i assume her days are few--surely fewer than we would all wish. but what of wishes when one is against the fates and mother nature...who calls us all into the warmth of her bosom in her own good time.
for now, among these welcoming strangers, she will recover, i am certain. i sense she has something yet to tell them--some reason we happened upon them. it seems we are always called to a place for the passing on of a mystery or secret she has been led to reveal.
usually, i am about finding sustenance for the tribe, but these woodsmen have kept us fed. they are still a puzzle to me...but for now, i have no reason to mistrust them. yet trust, except among family, is a long earned treasure.
i will sit here beside mama for a while longer. i will sing a few more ballads of her ancestors back in Roma...so her dreams will be filled with much happiness.
Talmund
construction began on some permanent structures today. we felled trees--ailing ones, sick ones...not healthy trees. we feel the forest pulse. the men are cutting slabs to build several stages for performers. some rumor has it that King Richard has sent word from the holy lands that nobles' sons not warring should prepare to demonstrate their jousting talents at our faire. there is not a lot of open room betwixt the trees, but if the King so wishes, we shall surely accommodate the games.
the sheriff's men have been snooping at the edges of the wood...attempting to make sense of all the happenings within sherwood. i am certain his spies have infiltrated the outer fences and know well of our intentions to provide safe haven for the village and country folk to celebrate the coming of spring next year.
we will eventually set traps for the likes of the sheriff's spies...but for now, we shant bother. it would only distract our work.
the gypsies remain within our encampment. no troubles. much of the worries two of my men voiced about their disreputable ways have been laid to rest.
we enjoy their company, their music, and their connection to the forces of fae about us. it seems our walls are stronger now as roots and vines weave neatly in and out of the boards.
i worry about the old crone. she seems so frail. i doubt she will survive the summer...and if she does manage this, there is no way her old bones will make it through the cold winter to come in six to nine months. i hope her pains and suffering are minimized. her family tends to her well. i feel a bit of guilt that i did not attend to my own parents when they were dying.
robin
May 19, 1188
Journal Entry
an artisan from nottingham arrived yesterday. he brought materials and begun construction of a structure to sell his jewelry from...
i hear word others are on their way.
before too long, these woods will be stirring with hammers and saws as village and country folk prepare for the grand faire in february.
the trees shade the grounds such that the oncoming summer heat is quite bearable.
we welcome the company!
robin
the end of may
mama has seen better days
her bouts with fainting, her uncontrolled flailing of her limbs, seem to be signs of her life energies waning, or omens--good or bad--filling the air about these woods
she does not moan or cry or want for anything, it seems
but her pains are obvious
i wish there was more i could do
she tells me not to fret
just the ailments of an old woman
melting back into the earth from whence she came
she takes it all in stride
i guess i should as well
but when it is mama, it is less easy to accept the ways of aging
but we are, as she says, from mother earth...and into her care we will return
the family gathers herbs each morning and evening, as she directs
sister mixes them into the boiling water beside the campfire
and mama sips them
the spirits within the leaves offer her comfort
once or twice a week, she feels the calling to throw stones in the sands
and foretell of tomorrows we have yet to see
sometimes, the signs are spoken
sometimes, in winces
aunt jasmine says the signs are good tellings of upcoming events
i don't know
i am more a tinker and a hunter than a seer
i do know these forest men are decent
not once have they given any indication we should move on
we share their food
they share ours
we dance around their flames and entertain them with our song
yes, decent folk
some of us made the short journey into nottingham
there, the townsfolk are less welcoming
damn the sheriff and his men
he had us thrown out of town shortly after our arrival and made it clear that no gypsies were welcome inside the walls of nottingham
i picked the deputy's pockets as he threw me out the gate--two silver coins. ha!
he can throw me out anytime.
talmund
Captains Log- Capt. Black Bonnie MacPhearson.
Scurvy Cat
I think it is Wednesday?
We must make for the nearest land. The ship has taken much damage and blown off course in a gale so common to these parts. The crew is hungry and thirsty as most of our provisions have been lost in the storm. The treasure from our last raid also. I fear I do not have a happy crew. We must make land soon to make repairs or we shall founder.
Saturday
Land is sighted!
We are saved. I think we are somewhere on the Gulf Coast. The fog is too thick to tell.
Monday?
We are ashore. I am leading a small band to search for provisions- and who knows what else we may find? The crew's morale is much improved. Perhaps we might find rum? Then all will be happy. There seems to be a village ahead. We are also in need of a physician as many of the crew suffered during the gale. Many are wounded. Can we hope for a haven for our sort here?
Thus Begins the Grawpiad;or, HOW the BROTHERS GRAWP won a Kingdom's Gratitude; or, Its Just Dirt
Here follows a description of clan Grawp, famous mud herders of the Sherwood district.
Father Grawp, or Grawp Prime, or El Grawppo, King of Mud: a very rich, reclusive patriarch who runs Grawp Industries on the outskirts of Sherwood Forest; he has, however, not been seen in many moons... but despite his absence, Grawp Industries continues to keep itself in 'the black'.
Grawp Grawp: eldest son; really slow, but has the mystical 'black thumb' of the Grawp clan: can smell out various muds and quicken them with magical properties, which are much sought after by wealthy of this land; can only grasp the idea of being a Grawp, so most of the clan calls him by their last name, so as not to confuse him unduly.
Grape Grawp: second son, always drunk and has an outrageously impenetrable Scottish accent, but resorts to Received Pronunciation (TM England) when sober... which never happens if he can help it. Is a bit of a jerk, too.
Grope Grawp: third son, currently in jail for... well, for being him... his favorite thing is to run up to women and demand to check their bosom, and it goes on from there. They've also taken to gagging him, as he says the most inappropriate things; is never seen but always spoken of by the Grawp clan in terms of reverent horror.
Group Grawp: fourth son, the actual intellectual of the bunch... he's mastered school, become a Dean at Oxford, but his family still makes fun of his 'speech impediment' (ie, using words of two syllables or more) and load him with all the nasty chores... he's older than Grip Grawp, the fifth son, but somehow Grip always sweetalks him into hijinks and mudfield loads of trouble...
Grip Grawp: fifth son, a thief, con-man, and flimflam artist, he's always got an angle and seems to profit well for himself and, tangentially, his family, though they usually speak of his loose grasp of the law as 'shocking' and 'indecent'... except only Group would use those words, because the rest of the family are imbeciles.
There are four other Grawps, but since they've not yet made it to fourteen years of age, are considered 'still expendable' and are not given names...
Soon, the Brothers Grawp encounter a crisis... El Grawppo is gone!
---continued
Robert Deike
The
Grawpiad, continued:
<
scene: a resplendent barn with beautiful siding, within which the
Grawp family resides; inside, many rooms, all floored with dirt and mud, but the one that concerns us is the kitchen, to which a back door opens onto the herb garden>
<back door bangs open, in walks
Grape Grawp, drunk>
Grape: Oy, farlimentryo de sack dal nae winny, is nwt prolifligittle...
<
Grape sits down, very steady, and looks at his part of the table, then does a quick-scan search of the rest of the table, contemplates, then screams>
Grape: Grate Grawp Grenada! Wheers mah WISQUEBAUGH?!?
<out tumbles
Group Grawp from the Sleeping Bunker>
Group: What, what, what? Shut up, it's not yet Waking Time.
Grape: Ize not wan more thahn to nOO trubble ya, boot mah boddle of WISQUEBAUGH, she's naw here! Ah esspressly mcsaid ta nae take m'WISQUEBAUGHTTLE awee fruhm here, boot iz nae here, nae, izzit?
Group: You know how to speak King's English, you rotten drunk, so why don't you use THAT instead of this mongrel baiting you're throwing at me.
Grape: Ah, soo nae, yoo knoo hooze d'Mongrel noo, do ye? Yur thae stuntiest runt oov d'litter, nae, are ya nae, my puppy, yarp?
Group: Oh, you are the most pusillanimous of villains, oh my brother. I don't know where your rotten liquor's gone off to, and even if I knew, good riddance to bad rubbish, I say! That 'wisquebaugh' is distilled pestilence, that still derives a petulance on its distiller. Take heed you not succumb!
Grape: Oy, fahst, whaht the bleedin' marmoset y'talkin boot? Pyooseahoomalous? Whut th'ken is thet, foo? Yoose the God-given single syllable words the Grate Goood hass'given oos and nae blaspheme his pro-noonssements in raechin' farther than yoo moost needs indulge, y'ken? Speek simplay, Maan.
Group: Oh, from the mouth of a TURD-FARMER. <assembles dignity> I'm going back to bed... you child. You should go to bed, imbecile, too. Your abundant snoring is less annoying than your wisquebaugh braying. <leaves>
Grape: <calls after him> OY! Wharz m'WHISQUEBAUGH!!!
Group: <shouts back> GO TO BED, YOU BIG DUMMY!
--continued
RD
My Name is Andover. No fool am I, though I once aspired to be. I live outside the castle gates working my profession among the people of the shire. I am a hot stone merchant. I apprenticed with a sort of wizardy old fellow once upon a time. He wouldn't never show me anything useful nor magical, but he let me carry his things about, and would never eat without my joining him, though he ate frightfully little. I soon wore as thin as a pine branch, and he told me he had not the gold for feeding a lad of my age, nor the time to bother with it. He told me to be on my way, and I found myself upon my knees, begging to stay along with him, though I'd been starving to death on his tiny meals. I knew not which way to go; my professional career had been crushed when I was expelled from court, and my only relatives was mum and dad, who were very funny fools - subjects to the Prince they was. The day I left Mum packed me up some biscuits of sorts, and dad gave me a half bottle of Sherry. They walked with me to the castle gate, where a pair of henchmen tossed me into the dirt. "Not to return on pain of Death" read the warrant. I walked along the path. I never had been on a path before. Must have walked a number of miles before I fell cold on the cobbles. 'Twas the fault of some berries I'd ate. That's what the old Wizard told me. I had always been told I would have to live on berries if I was thrown out of court.
When I begged him not to leave me, the old man said, "poor Andover, my boy, the Prince hath placed thee outside the walls, but thou mayst yet serve a purpose to the people in them". Scarcely could I conceive of such puzzles, yet he learned me a way all the same, to make a living from the castle without I had to go inside. "Rocks! My boy, rocks!" that's what he told me. "Not just any rocks, but heated rocks--- to guard against the cold." He made a fire that day outside the main gate, which I have been tending all these years. When a poor fellow without much on's back comes a-shivering out to the fields, or the mill, or wher'er he may go, why I offer him a hot stone, and he may break me off a piece of toast or a radish or what have you.
Business is a challenge in the summer. Lo! How the months go by. Only doctors and laudry women seem to need my wares those times. Flattening shirts, and boiling pails of water and the like. What a lot odd professions those castle folk carry on with.
I don't miss the court so much, but I do miss all the pie--- or they miss me, I suppose. My father always said ''tis better to have a pie in the face, than to have no pie at all". A old file of wisdom, he was. Castle folk say he still fools for the Prince, but mother has taken to cleaning since I was sacked. I do so wish they would both come sell rocks with me.
Robin Hood Diaries---a prelude-------1184AD, Robin 23 yrs old traveling in the holy lands
Gisborne and his ilk aim to take my family's land whilst I, along with our king, wage war against the keepers of the Holy Lands. So many brothers, from every land in Christendom falling dead for God and Country as the great warriors of yesterday's battles divide the lands of England amongst themselves and the sinister clergy.
'Tis for aught we have breached these God-forsaken Holy Lands. We were told of monsters and demons holding Jerusalem ransom, but all we have found are the meekest of poor and the worthiest of enemies, men of quiet concentration in the heat of battle, and villages filled with decent people, who welcome even their own conquerors with fresh food and water. They pray in strange tongues, but do not sound to me as though they are praying with any Devils. Charity was I shown when the court of Saladin turned me out of prison. There are six of us journeying by foot to seek passage to Britain, the next port being 800 miles from where we set out. The people of Araby can see we have no weapons. All they see are poor men in the street, and they try to send us homeward with more than we can carry. Lentil beans and skins of milk they offer to the men who fought and killed against their brethren.
In course we meet hostility, as one must meet in every land. Being a half dozen strong we have managed to stay whole, though one or two of us have received worse than he was given by Saladin. We must travel bare-handed or risk the villagers' mistrust. Edward hath been cut along the leg so badly, that he must be supported by another of our number, slowing us all, yet helping us keep a pace to match the southern sun. We bear little more than letters for the Prince, and what food we can carry. And I also carry a manuscript from England, the obvious hand of a dear friend detailing the plot against my family's estate, along with other unwelcome news of England's decline since the decent men of Christendom were sent to die in the desert.
The Beer-swilling bishops who commanded us southwards, and the olde generals who spurned our horses will never hear the Holy songs echoing in the streets of Jerusalem. My mates and I heard them from the grates of a dungeon; and they lifted our spirits, for when we heard the foreign words we felt the presence of God, and we felt that the Lands of Jesus were not in the hands of the Devil as the Murderers of Beckett would have us believe. Every morning at 5 o' the sun, the voices arise from the city's center. And such is the practice in every hamlet on our trying road back home, a moment of peace before a day of such miseries and discomforts of a journey by foot in the harshness of a desert sun.
This day was met with a special kind of respite. A journey of no less than 3 days, drinking only on a very strict allowance of water, finds us in the midst of a celebration not unlike Michaelmas. Enjoying, from afar, the voices of children singing, we were approached by an old man, who led us to the edge of a crowd of happy revelers, and bade us sit. We were among the ragged and babbling of the townspeople, the ones too poor and too halt to make their ragged faces smile. Yet was the spirit of the festival in them. They clapped their hands with the crowd, and swayed their bodies with the rhythm of the people. I had bidden my companions not to join in, as we were scarcely guests and certainly outsiders. But nothing could stop our hands from clapping as the evening wore on. We were not looked upon with welcoming glances, nor were we looked upon at all it seemed. The old Fellow seemed to vouch for us, and ere long we were given simple food and drink, which was a feast to our weary frames. The singing and the clapping continued well into the night, and mixed with our dreams when we were not holding vigil.
I dreamed last night of Nottingham. A thousand dreams of home, but only small impressions could I hold 'til morning. The color of grass and trees. The idle banter of the family around the house. And Marian's smiling face... the one face that haunts all of my dreams, the lady for whom I struggle homewards – though she may scarcely take notice should I manage to return. I remember also in my dreams, the old man who showed us to our place at the festival. I dreamt he was driving me in a wagon through the forests of Yorkshire, all the while talking and talking in good olde English. I awoke laughing at the thought, feeling merrier than ever I have since leaving Faire Nottingham.
A devil of a scorcher this day. And my rock selling hath been less than prodigious. I have to sit fathoms from my fire just to keep from feeling sickly, and thus no one can see plainly that i've a load of lovely baked rocks for sale.
Never the less, I've had a bit of fortune when a merchant rummbled by not half an hourglass since. Says I: "sir, i can see you could use a warm rock on your way up the hill. I offer you one for whatever it may be worth to you, sir."
"Mr. Rock monger, i should adore a fine stone as one of those that you offer, but i bear a great enough burthen with these manuscripts." Said the gentleman, as he fanned himself with handful of parchment sheets.
Many a humble fellow, out of politeness, hath refused my perfectly roasted stones and pebbles before. "Ah, good sir," said I, "you shall have to carry it no great distance, for it is customary for my customaries to discard the full weight of them when they grow cold."
The fellow began laughing then, and said that on a day like today he should never be done with it, for the sun would keep it from growing cold. "What are you doing selling hot rocks in the summertime anyway, mister...mister..."
"Andover, if you please. sir"
"Hand over what?"
"Andover." and I held my hand out for to shake hello."Andover."
"I'll be hanged if I hand anything over to you. You haven't got any manners if you are begging, and you don't scare me a bit if it is a threat." the fellow said, becoming loud, and rather sanguine. " 'Hand Over' INDEED!" he shouted, and began to box me about the ears with his papers over and over and over. I felt so much as though I were back at court that I became home sick. I could have given him a great kiss on his cheek for that. But I only gave him a great hug to be not so familiar with a gentleman. He froze stiff, acting ever so peculiar. But he pulled forth his purse and asked to buy all the warm rocks I recomended he carry. Well, with business being slow, I asked him for a very small sum to take my three favorites. He took them hastily, as i had detained him so long, and insisted on paying me double my estimate. He sped off with such a spring in his heels, well, it speaks to how they really do warm you up, my rocks do... And so does being friendly... and it pays!
Oh the forest has been hot--unseasonably hot for the shires of middle England. The leaves on many a tree droop in the heat and from absence of water. Is it displeasure of mankind by the gods of nature, or the God of the Old Testament?
Or signs foreboding of worse times to come?
Has our Lord and King, Richard, run a foul of his good fortune in the Holy Lands?
The old crone seldom appears around the campfire at night. She lays in bed for days at time...moaning and grumbling in guttural sounds only her children can interpret...and they say very little to us.
No dance. Few songs strummed on lyre or beat out on drum.
Surviving the heat. Praying for some relief to come soon.
Not even the Sheriff's men are riding out this way of late.
But the building of the Forest fortress walls continue. And, an occasional cloud reminds us that even this shall pass.
Soon, very soon, these woods will be the site of festivities, music, theatre, good food and ale. Not even the oppression of the summer heat will challenge the future celebration within these grounds.
the following is an excerpt from the Diary of Shayhan ElaShayde. From August 8th; In the Year of Our Lord 1188.
...That nights moon was so bright! I have never seen it so! Almost garish. She cast shadows like pools on the soft, blue pallet that was the forests floor. The music was all around. Drums from the darkness of the Forest; chanting. Will' o' The Wisps abounded; Faeries here & there... and, a Centaur? There twas still the remnant of heat from the day, but there twas also a breeze. I could feel the sticks, rocks, and other debris through the thin leather soles of me boots. It had gotten too hot to wear all the clothes, and possibly the Sylphs song helped, so only the kilt, me boots & sword remained. One could feel the Fire in the Ether. Retiscent when first ask, fearing I may never make it back, but then realizing that being lost in the older parts of the forest is what I was supposed to do.
And then we where all in a circle holding hands; the chanting had bayed us so. Thirty to forty of us in all, scantilly clad, dancing and singing and howling under Luna, full & radiant! Accompanied only in her majesty by the goddess Venus; together, their radiance blotted out all other radiance on the stage that was that nights sky. And I soon forgot the more civilized parts of me...and then, I think, a Minotaur rushed forth from the Forest; and we all ran in all directions, as if kernals of fire escaping to the wind...
And then just six or eight of us, all men, on smaller stages throughout the Forest; acting in prose and singing. And a beautiful women lying on her back twas there; swinging chains with orbs of fire over her, defying that which pulls everything else down to Mother Earth; as if i'twer magic. And I sang until the dim bulb crowed, and Demeter only knows what else...
We awoke only hours later to find all was well. I cooked beans for our parties breakfast. With black coffee & orange peel ale (which was very refreshing) did we eat them, and sausages! And we did laugh at our fortune and sing again!
And that cold, wonderful waterfall in the forest with me wife, Calypso. I shant ever forget her visit. She comes and goes like rain. Wherever she goes, there be water. Sometimes, it just springs forth from the Earth, as if to say "Pardon me, Faire Lady of the Waves. Forgive Us for this dry, parched Earth that cracks your blue feet. Water be scant now, but for visiting royalty such as you, we shall make it gurgle forth, as if to make a path..."
And then again we men took another journey to smoke and sound philosophical (because tis what we Men do!); and Autoloucus showed us his secret find. His murder house, and I was mesmerized. Untouched for a century or more...twas but one room; dilapidated, in the middle of the forest. No road led to or fro. Inside sat a couch. A chest. A sink. With a plate in it. Curtains on rods, rotted mostly away. Twas the Mad Hermits Olde Home said Autoloucus; Worshipper of Boccob. As if the last murder happened, and he just walked away...and we found it untouched a thousand years later.
So I stole a souvenir; I hope the hermit doesnt miss it upon his return; A perfect walking stick; a slender metal rod, rusted for beauty and to give it the perfect texture, topped on BOTH ends with a perfect little shining silver ball; on one side, so that it doesnt get stuck in the earth. On the other, so as to be soft on the Masters hand (me!). The perfect handle it has; I believe someone once must have mistook it for a curtain rod...
Outside the house, the thickest Pine I have ever laid my eyes on sat. It was particularly peculiar, not only because of its girth, but also because its limbs where very low; too low,so low in fact that we believed something unnatural, something.. perhaps horrible, must have happened in its making. And soon Erroneous (a Druid, of sorts) confirmed this and discerned its oddity; it had drank up blood as opposed to water in its growth. How many years had the Hermit been here? The branchs began so low that one could grab them and climb up. And they where prolific; so one could climb up far...and one of us did...a new fellow. Until we noticed the Old Tree seeming to try and cradle him. At first it appeared to only move...naturally; as if in the breeze. But then I realized that at that particular moment there was no breeze. Quickly the new man was down from its clutches. And, needless to say, we where soon away! Very interesting fellow, this new one. Reminded me of a Djinn Strongman. I am shine with names though...
Oh yes, and ofcoarse by this time I had acquired a ridiculously floppy olde wizards hat, and a pair of spectacles...magical in nature me thinks; which blocked out the sun! Sherwood be full of such treasures. These, when added to kilt & knee high leather boots, made for quite a sight! I believe I scared off more than one faerie! Good! Little bastards!
...So then we where on again, and once again, had been lured too far into Olde Sherwood. This time to find a dried up lake bed...I could tell because of the bowl like topography (a word I have created to refer to the general shape of a land) and the really odd plants that stood some six to eight feet tall. They where different; not from here. And I soon realized why we had strayed again; The spirits of the olde dead ponds inhabitants...Nymphs me thinks. They walked between the giant stalks. Their songs still made lustfull men do ignominous things. But I wanted one of those giant flowers! They where protected by a wall of thorns that only Erroneous and I where brave enough to conquer. I wanted one of those otherworldly stalks! They had tiny little flowers on the ends of red and yellow; they looked as though tiny little Orchids; like the female sex. And I wanted to bring one back for Calypso...for she adores such treasures, and all the women...hearing them chant in my head, "Hail the Conquering Heroes! For they hath travelled deep into the haunted areas of Olde Sherwood! And yet hath returned from the Dark World baring Botanical Oddities and Other Wonders as of yet unknown to Men....". We made it out, bloody around the knees, but alive. I then realized how ignorant it had been to do such a thing for a flower...but how many more anserine things had been done in the name of Love? Surely there was atleast one...
And a thousand more things did we do! That Festival twas but a couple of fortnights, but to us there it lasted much longer (damn faeries!), and Im not convinced we all made it back... but I am tired now, and so, shall write no more tonight...
...the thought of that moon though... My God! God Damn! How doth one write it to convey the audacity of the thing?! It was SO BRIGHT! So I am going to have a whiskey & me pipe out on the safety of me Manor grounds, and hope this nights moon tis a quarter what that nights was...
april 12, 1189
the faire is over. some still linger. mostly gypsy families like my own. it was more than i expected. we arrived months ago. whispers along the roads had told of this place. we had nothing pressing. nothing demanding of our presence (in truth, when is anything really pressing for Roma folk?)...so, we headed to sherwood to see what all the talk was about. this forest, a sanctuary for travelers, a place protected by the likes of a lesser lord at odds with the sheriff and even the prince. but, a former archer in king richard's crussades.
something in his life had surely changed him. letting in his family bands of poor farmers, peasants, and vagabonds . . .
when we arrrived, we expected it all to hype--lies, maybe even a trap. but, we were quite surprised. the forest was beautiful. the people welcomed us with open arms. the structure within the wood was casual. and the feel of family was everywhere.
children played. young couples strolled along the water and rested under shade of trees. minstrils pentertained. drums beat strong and loud in the evening around the campfires.
fay danced amidst the shadows and in the dawn of morning.
more gypsies than i had seen together in one place. cautious at first, then as time passed, the waagons opened up. the seers took to telling futures, reading palms, throwing bones and the like. small gardens. artisanry abounded.
even nobles walked the same circles as roma and peasants. strange indeed.
a magic persisted throughout the faire.
me and mine will return.