Writing Sample: "Correcting the Record" |
Genre: Modern Supernatural
Character: Archer Robert Moore (Robin Hood)
Summary: Rob tells his story (Character history written in 1st person)
Character: Archer Robert Moore (Robin Hood)
Summary: Rob tells his story (Character history written in 1st person)
You know the tale of Robin Hood, don’t you? Of course you do! Everyone does. Or they think they know the story, based upon the latest version the storytellers of the day have conjured. It’s fascinating how the truth is distorted in the telling. Although perhaps irony reigns there as well, for even my creation was borne of a variation on an old tale.
In any case, let me set the record straight.
I am, or rather, I was Robin Hood. Or “Robin of Locksley” or “Robin of the Sure Wood”, or simply “The Archer”, depending on who was referring to me. I loved a woman named Marian, although calling her a “maid” insults her wisdom and fortitude. She was no shy and sheltered girl, although she was as beautiful as the tales report and as fierce as any modern telling dares to imply. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
In any case, let me set the record straight.
I am, or rather, I was Robin Hood. Or “Robin of Locksley” or “Robin of the Sure Wood”, or simply “The Archer”, depending on who was referring to me. I loved a woman named Marian, although calling her a “maid” insults her wisdom and fortitude. She was no shy and sheltered girl, although she was as beautiful as the tales report and as fierce as any modern telling dares to imply. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Once Upon a Time...
I was born in 1426* in Lockesley, England: roughly the area now known as South Yorkshire. As several versions of the tale imply, I was the son of the local minor lord, a landowner and man of means. Yet I was not a noble. I was the somewhat inconvenient result of a convenient pairing with a servant in the lord’s household. My Christian name was Robin Greene; I took my mother’s surname. As a bastard son I brought no shame to the lord, but I would inherit nothing. Instead I was put to good use. An estate requires many people, you see, and my heritage implied I might be of value. Trained in letters, bookkeeping, weapons, and eventually tactics, I served as a yeoman. Since the term has fallen out of use, I’ll clarify: I was a valued servant and held a martial rank that brought me as high as my bastard blood could hope to aspire. The next step would have been knighthood, a title almost exclusively reserved for nobles. I was skilled with a blade and, at the risk of sounding immodest, truly gifted with the bow. I served my father-lord well.
I'd like to say that the most recent variations of my tale are true. You know the ones claiming I was a nobleman who had enough spirit and conscience to fight for the downtrodden commoner despite my blue blood? Unfortunately, the truth is much more pedestrian than that. I simply crossed the wrong man. It didn’t matter that I inflicted injuries upon him while defending a woman’s honor: he was a lord, and I instantly became an outlaw.
I took to the woods and found there a group of friends. You know the tale, although the stories consistently err in one area: “Little John” was a teasing moniker, to be certain, but not because of a man’s large size. He was a she: a girl named Johnna who I came to think of like a younger sister and who, despite her small size, could best nearly any man she faced in hand-to-hand combat.
My men and I lived in the wood, ate off the land, and came to rely upon the wealth of travelers for the finer things in life. We were thieves, have no doubt: but we were thieves with families and friends in need. We began by providing for and protecting those we knew, and suddenly my “tender heart” (as Johnna would later teasing refer to it) had us far more involved in crossing the law than we originally intended. Each defiance inspired greater cruelty inflicted upon the people. When the Sheriff of Nottingham did not collect his full taxes, well... you know that part, too.
He never lusted after Marian: well, not more than any other man. She was lovely beyond compare, as the stories say, but no delicate maiden to be courted. In fact, the first time we met she crossed swords with me and nearly bested me. Upon discovering she was a woman - and a beautiful one at that - I stayed my hand and a tentative friendship began. I was doomed to love her, of course. She possessed a fierce heart and a kind soul. Combined with her fair face and sharp tongue, I never stood a chance. Later, she would come to realize my Merry Men and I were doing the people’s work. She joined our efforts, assisting us reluctantly then with conviction. Eventually she came to believe in the verity of my professions of love and, against sense, she came to love me, too. I could not marry her, though: I had nothing to offer but the life of an outlaw.
Our story drove us toward our happy ending, as it was meant to. We defeated the Sheriff, then Prince John, and I was awarded the Lockesley lands as a reward for my good deeds. We went on to live happily ever after, wed with children to serve as our legacy as we grew old together.
Thus ends the legend as it was meant to unfold. Our story continued on, however, and therein lies the true trouble.
*OOC Note: Time Period Historically speaking, many of the recorded tales and references to Robin Hood imply that if he was an actual man, he likely lived in the 12th century. I felt, however, that would be too much time to cover in Robin and Marian's histories while keeping them apart and relatively sane, so I went with a later time period. The working theory that “Robehod” (the old English spelling) was an alias used by outlaws throughout the 12th-14th centuries. By the 15th century, the story had gained enough popularity and specificity to create Robin and his fellow immortal story companions. They lived out the tale, including a nasty “Prince John” who would not become King (as the historical one did), then their personal histories merged with the real world.
I'd like to say that the most recent variations of my tale are true. You know the ones claiming I was a nobleman who had enough spirit and conscience to fight for the downtrodden commoner despite my blue blood? Unfortunately, the truth is much more pedestrian than that. I simply crossed the wrong man. It didn’t matter that I inflicted injuries upon him while defending a woman’s honor: he was a lord, and I instantly became an outlaw.
I took to the woods and found there a group of friends. You know the tale, although the stories consistently err in one area: “Little John” was a teasing moniker, to be certain, but not because of a man’s large size. He was a she: a girl named Johnna who I came to think of like a younger sister and who, despite her small size, could best nearly any man she faced in hand-to-hand combat.
My men and I lived in the wood, ate off the land, and came to rely upon the wealth of travelers for the finer things in life. We were thieves, have no doubt: but we were thieves with families and friends in need. We began by providing for and protecting those we knew, and suddenly my “tender heart” (as Johnna would later teasing refer to it) had us far more involved in crossing the law than we originally intended. Each defiance inspired greater cruelty inflicted upon the people. When the Sheriff of Nottingham did not collect his full taxes, well... you know that part, too.
He never lusted after Marian: well, not more than any other man. She was lovely beyond compare, as the stories say, but no delicate maiden to be courted. In fact, the first time we met she crossed swords with me and nearly bested me. Upon discovering she was a woman - and a beautiful one at that - I stayed my hand and a tentative friendship began. I was doomed to love her, of course. She possessed a fierce heart and a kind soul. Combined with her fair face and sharp tongue, I never stood a chance. Later, she would come to realize my Merry Men and I were doing the people’s work. She joined our efforts, assisting us reluctantly then with conviction. Eventually she came to believe in the verity of my professions of love and, against sense, she came to love me, too. I could not marry her, though: I had nothing to offer but the life of an outlaw.
Our story drove us toward our happy ending, as it was meant to. We defeated the Sheriff, then Prince John, and I was awarded the Lockesley lands as a reward for my good deeds. We went on to live happily ever after, wed with children to serve as our legacy as we grew old together.
Thus ends the legend as it was meant to unfold. Our story continued on, however, and therein lies the true trouble.
*OOC Note: Time Period Historically speaking, many of the recorded tales and references to Robin Hood imply that if he was an actual man, he likely lived in the 12th century. I felt, however, that would be too much time to cover in Robin and Marian's histories while keeping them apart and relatively sane, so I went with a later time period. The working theory that “Robehod” (the old English spelling) was an alias used by outlaws throughout the 12th-14th centuries. By the 15th century, the story had gained enough popularity and specificity to create Robin and his fellow immortal story companions. They lived out the tale, including a nasty “Prince John” who would not become King (as the historical one did), then their personal histories merged with the real world.
Little Hood Lost
I shouldn’t complain. I got my happily ever after and then some. Marian and I had three children: James, Henry, and Margaux. While each was unique, I could see her and I reflected in them and it brought me joy. We stayed at the estates at Locksley when the children were young, but soon enough trouble emerged and we addressed it joyfully. Aside from my good friend Will, who became obsessed with revenge, my Merry Men remained close to us, each with their own path to walk and many joining us when we delved back into trouble. It was glorious.
Margaux married a weaponsmith and left us for her own family. James was as serious and committed as I was headstrong; we eventually gave a portion of Locksley to him and his family. Henry took after us both in his charismatic nature and in his penchant for trouble. He became a troubadour and thief, leaving us to wander the world and stir up his own trouble. Eventually, we were blessed with grandchildren. That’s when we could no longer ignore the signs.
Our children showed signs of age, but we did not. We still looked young, so much so that the initial jests about our love fueling our youthful appearance were starting to transform into whispers. They didn’t say the word “witchcraft” - not openly - but it was only a matter of time. We went out among the people less, stayed away more, and eventually left Lockesley to fade gracefully from people’s memory.
Let me tell you: immortality sounds great, and maybe it is. I’ve come to terms with it, but at the time, we only saw ourselves remaining young while our loved ones - our children - aged and died. We weren’t alone: my Merry Men suffered the same fate, although they had varying degrees of connection with the community. We did not know why we were blessed or cursed with long life, although our best theory is the one I believe today: the minstrels sang songs of our tales. They had sung variations of them before I was born, but now they were told in every town.
The songs included nothing about our families and children.
We did our best to remain together, but witnessing life -and death - move on without us while lurking in the shadows of our loved ones’ lives... It ate away at us all, sometimes in small, insidious ways. In the end, it was the death of our children that tipped the scales for Marian and I. I did what I could to support her and be strong for her, but in the end we could not survive it together. When Henry died, we took some time apart. It was meant to be a chance to catch our breath without the constant reminder of what we had lost. That “breath” has been held for centuries now.
As for me, I wanted to do something about our plight. I started a fool’s errand: I travelled extensively, trying to get minstrels to change the songs and stories. I wanted them to include adventures of our children and grandchildren. I thought perhaps it would save them, too. In retrospect, I’m glad I failed. I would not want to condemn them to my fate. At the time, however, I clung to that hope and then drowned my sorrows when it failed.
Margaux married a weaponsmith and left us for her own family. James was as serious and committed as I was headstrong; we eventually gave a portion of Locksley to him and his family. Henry took after us both in his charismatic nature and in his penchant for trouble. He became a troubadour and thief, leaving us to wander the world and stir up his own trouble. Eventually, we were blessed with grandchildren. That’s when we could no longer ignore the signs.
Our children showed signs of age, but we did not. We still looked young, so much so that the initial jests about our love fueling our youthful appearance were starting to transform into whispers. They didn’t say the word “witchcraft” - not openly - but it was only a matter of time. We went out among the people less, stayed away more, and eventually left Lockesley to fade gracefully from people’s memory.
Let me tell you: immortality sounds great, and maybe it is. I’ve come to terms with it, but at the time, we only saw ourselves remaining young while our loved ones - our children - aged and died. We weren’t alone: my Merry Men suffered the same fate, although they had varying degrees of connection with the community. We did not know why we were blessed or cursed with long life, although our best theory is the one I believe today: the minstrels sang songs of our tales. They had sung variations of them before I was born, but now they were told in every town.
The songs included nothing about our families and children.
We did our best to remain together, but witnessing life -and death - move on without us while lurking in the shadows of our loved ones’ lives... It ate away at us all, sometimes in small, insidious ways. In the end, it was the death of our children that tipped the scales for Marian and I. I did what I could to support her and be strong for her, but in the end we could not survive it together. When Henry died, we took some time apart. It was meant to be a chance to catch our breath without the constant reminder of what we had lost. That “breath” has been held for centuries now.
As for me, I wanted to do something about our plight. I started a fool’s errand: I travelled extensively, trying to get minstrels to change the songs and stories. I wanted them to include adventures of our children and grandchildren. I thought perhaps it would save them, too. In retrospect, I’m glad I failed. I would not want to condemn them to my fate. At the time, however, I clung to that hope and then drowned my sorrows when it failed.
The decades that followed are a blur now. I drank. A lot. I know that much. I took on mercenary work. In my spare time, when I wasn’t drinking (and often when I was), I started and finished fights. I wooed and won women, but none of them were Marian. She was in France at this time, I assume dealing with everything with far more grace than I. Every few years, one of my Men would find me. Will and I fought fiercely before we even recognized each other. Some would fight with me for a time, almost all would drink with me for a night, but they did not stay. We were all blown about by the wind then.
Then Johnna found me. It probably wasn’t the first time but it’s the one I remember. She took one look at me and told me the truth: that I was a drunken ass who needed to get his priorities straight. Then she proved her point by starting a fight and besting me with little effort. She had brought me my hooded cloak - the one that had given me my name. In the end, she tossed it in my face and left me on the tavern floor.
I found her a few years later, when I was finally ready to reclaim the past and my future.
Then Johnna found me. It probably wasn’t the first time but it’s the one I remember. She took one look at me and told me the truth: that I was a drunken ass who needed to get his priorities straight. Then she proved her point by starting a fight and besting me with little effort. She had brought me my hooded cloak - the one that had given me my name. In the end, she tossed it in my face and left me on the tavern floor.
I found her a few years later, when I was finally ready to reclaim the past and my future.
Adaptation and Application
For years, I had been ignoring the world’s problems to wallow in my own. After Johnna’s visit, I kept the hood with me. Now nearly a hundred years old, it would not withstand much wear, but it helped me to focus. Our story was still being told, with variations that irked me. (The latest adaptations are no better. The Men have finally stopped calling me “Costner” after the horrible adaptation of our story in the 1990s.) I finally admitted I could not control my own legacy and looked up to see the pain of those around me.
People had not stopped hurting each other over petty things. The rich and powerful still used their influence to their advantage with little heed for the impact on the poor and downtrodden. And nearly everywhere, there was a Sheriff or the like who delighted in cruelty for its own sake, often being used by a greater tyrant. I came to recognize this theme as part of my personal cross to bear, and finally started utilizing my skills.
They were rusty at first, but they came back with patience and practice. Until I could find and again recruit my Merry Men, I used the ones at hand - sometimes for a year, sometimes a decade, but always I would move to a different area before anyone noticed my failure to age. Time moved on and I adapted. I learned the latest weapons and techniques. I practiced new fighting styles. I grew. I fought, and I found purpose again.
I also tracked down Marian. She was in France still, seemingly content. She has stayed closer to our descendants than I ever did, for which I am glad. Not wishing to reintroduce the pain of our shared loss and frankly not feeling worthy of her, I did not visit. I did, however, anonymously send her bluebells - her favorite flower - on her birthday, a tradition I have maintained since then. She writes “historical fiction” now, a clever ruse that has served her well over the years. I read the first widely available book she published, but have avoided the rest. The tales are too infused with her voice for me to suffer the reading. Perhaps I should have attempted to reunite with her. I have kept track of her, and she has loved other men and even borne other children. I try not to begrudge her that happiness.
In any case, time passed. The Tudors provided drama and spectacle with ample bloodsport, as did the Church. Queen Elizabeth’s reign brought some peace, but wars broke out elsewhere and the world was obsessed with colonizing the Americas. We stayed out of the wars for the most part, although we did fight against Napoleon in small ways. My Men and I agreed that our focus should remain on the people, not the rulers of the day. We watched monarchs come and go, witnessed wars lasting days or decades, and witnessed the evolution of science into realms we would have once thought magical.
The particulars are fuzzy now; my mind can only hold so much detail, it seems, although my personal story stays fresh in my mind (especially when Hollywood butchers it over and over again). I moved around regularly, travelling Europe and part of Asia, then eventually to the Americas, learning what I could. Over time, most of my Merry Men rejoined me. I put down the bottle, then the glass, to focus on the details of the latest challenge. The Great War and the Second World War were the only time we enlisted, and then as a specialized team. We have adapted, trading in swords for guns where needed, although I still consider them inelegant in principle. As technology flourished, Much became a godsend, especially in the latter 20th century and early 21st. He has kept us up-to-date and provided substantial financing through enterprises I understand in principle but not in execution.
Now we work on multiple fronts with connections ranging from defense contractors to a simple floating card game on Thursday nights. And we do move around. I don’t like staying in one place for too long: it’s dangerous for us and heartbreaking for everyone involved. I have changed my name repeatedly over the years, but the name “Archer” stuck about 40 years ago. (It started out as a joke, but now I suspect I’ll be “Archie the third” at some point.)
We started an organization called the “Merry Men Agency” as a means to let the people know we’re here for them. We also try to find the ones in true need of assistance, but there is only so much we can do. The world seems to be growing darker and more sinister, or perhaps that’s just my age showing. We keep up the good fight and - as we always have - do what we can, measuring our successes one minor victory at a time. We’re moving on again, this time to a new city. When I saw a sound bite of Prince... I mean Senator John on the news, I felt the familiar call. The people there will need help sooner rather than later.
People had not stopped hurting each other over petty things. The rich and powerful still used their influence to their advantage with little heed for the impact on the poor and downtrodden. And nearly everywhere, there was a Sheriff or the like who delighted in cruelty for its own sake, often being used by a greater tyrant. I came to recognize this theme as part of my personal cross to bear, and finally started utilizing my skills.
They were rusty at first, but they came back with patience and practice. Until I could find and again recruit my Merry Men, I used the ones at hand - sometimes for a year, sometimes a decade, but always I would move to a different area before anyone noticed my failure to age. Time moved on and I adapted. I learned the latest weapons and techniques. I practiced new fighting styles. I grew. I fought, and I found purpose again.
I also tracked down Marian. She was in France still, seemingly content. She has stayed closer to our descendants than I ever did, for which I am glad. Not wishing to reintroduce the pain of our shared loss and frankly not feeling worthy of her, I did not visit. I did, however, anonymously send her bluebells - her favorite flower - on her birthday, a tradition I have maintained since then. She writes “historical fiction” now, a clever ruse that has served her well over the years. I read the first widely available book she published, but have avoided the rest. The tales are too infused with her voice for me to suffer the reading. Perhaps I should have attempted to reunite with her. I have kept track of her, and she has loved other men and even borne other children. I try not to begrudge her that happiness.
In any case, time passed. The Tudors provided drama and spectacle with ample bloodsport, as did the Church. Queen Elizabeth’s reign brought some peace, but wars broke out elsewhere and the world was obsessed with colonizing the Americas. We stayed out of the wars for the most part, although we did fight against Napoleon in small ways. My Men and I agreed that our focus should remain on the people, not the rulers of the day. We watched monarchs come and go, witnessed wars lasting days or decades, and witnessed the evolution of science into realms we would have once thought magical.
The particulars are fuzzy now; my mind can only hold so much detail, it seems, although my personal story stays fresh in my mind (especially when Hollywood butchers it over and over again). I moved around regularly, travelling Europe and part of Asia, then eventually to the Americas, learning what I could. Over time, most of my Merry Men rejoined me. I put down the bottle, then the glass, to focus on the details of the latest challenge. The Great War and the Second World War were the only time we enlisted, and then as a specialized team. We have adapted, trading in swords for guns where needed, although I still consider them inelegant in principle. As technology flourished, Much became a godsend, especially in the latter 20th century and early 21st. He has kept us up-to-date and provided substantial financing through enterprises I understand in principle but not in execution.
Now we work on multiple fronts with connections ranging from defense contractors to a simple floating card game on Thursday nights. And we do move around. I don’t like staying in one place for too long: it’s dangerous for us and heartbreaking for everyone involved. I have changed my name repeatedly over the years, but the name “Archer” stuck about 40 years ago. (It started out as a joke, but now I suspect I’ll be “Archie the third” at some point.)
We started an organization called the “Merry Men Agency” as a means to let the people know we’re here for them. We also try to find the ones in true need of assistance, but there is only so much we can do. The world seems to be growing darker and more sinister, or perhaps that’s just my age showing. We keep up the good fight and - as we always have - do what we can, measuring our successes one minor victory at a time. We’re moving on again, this time to a new city. When I saw a sound bite of Prince... I mean Senator John on the news, I felt the familiar call. The people there will need help sooner rather than later.