The Boy with the Bow and Arrows

I walk down the dirt trail, the summer sun burning warm on my arms, tanning my skin dark. My tanned skin, simple clothes, and worn shoes mark me as a member of the commoners rather than the gentry. I hold my bow and arrows in a large sack full of straw, so that no-one will see them. And I pretend to be one of the servants bringing food for the horses.

Around me the tournament roars on. The ladies in their fine dresses are sitting in their seats in the stands along with men in jewelled coats. Servants walk among the crowds holding out trays of food. Plump, well-fed children run after dogs. The young men in their chainmail or without chainmail line the grassy circle inside the arena. They practice their sword fighting and archery and jousting. The sun glints silver on their chainmail and the colours of their clothes bleed out from underneath.

In the backdrop of all of this is the green branches of Sherwood Forest. The greenwood that always provided me with cover when I needed it.

I am tired. I'm always tired. Years of labouring in the fields has made me bone-weary. Even when I was a little child I had to spend hours under the hot burning sun or the freezing winds with my back bent, toiling in the fields. And the weariness settled far beyond my arms and legs and back. It settled deep down into my very soul.

And I am also overwhelmed with grief. With loss that drowns me in poison water and claws at my chest and throat. It makes it hard to breathe. Hard to stand. But I am filled with purpose. I must go on.

I make my way to the stables, as the tournaments are about to start. The stables are populated only by horses and scurrying stable hands, and no-one pays me any mind as I take a seat on a hay stack in the corner.

"Excuse me," I ask a stable hand rushing in. She's a girl a few years older than me, with her dark brown hair tied back in a single braid and an anxious expression on her face. I don't want to keep her too long. No doubt she's rushing to complete some task, fearful that she won't be fast enough.

"Yes?"

"Can you tell me when the archery tournament will start?"

"Okay, young lad." Her tone is curious but sweet. Her eyes sparkle secretly. She pours cold, clean water on the most stinging parts of my pain. I hope I will see her again.

"Thank you so much. I hope you get to see what I do." I smile at her, and she creases her brow and tilts her head in curiosity. I won't tell her any more though. I do however help her take two of the horses from their stalls.

I have some time now to think. To pray. I pray to the holy mother Mary, who protects all deserving ones and brings salvation to the world. I pray to my own mother who is in heaven with her.

A few months ago my mother fell ill and none of the village healers could help her. My father went into the lord's favourite lake to look for the plants my mother would need for her medicine. But in his worried haste he was careless. And he was caught trespassing on the lord's property. He was imprisoned for life. Our neighbours ventured out deep into the forest to find another lake to pick herbs from, as the lord's lake was now crawling with guards. But they took too long. My mother sickened and died.

I remember the day when they told me my father was in jail. How I screamed into the sky and beat my fists against the wall. I remember how I felt so hopeless, so powerless to save him. And I remember sitting beside my mother in our tiny wooden hut in the sweltering summer heat as neighbours came in and out with food and herbs, watching her get sicker and sicker and sicker. I was so helpless. I could only watch her fade.

I remember having to break the news to my brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews. How their faces darkened at my words. How I couldn't console their tears.