Not for the Faint of Heart

by Lex Croucher

Rosie had been right about the Merry Men. They really weren’t heroes in jaunty stockings stealing from the rich and giving to the poor anymore. They’d become something murkier, uglier—more complicated. Robin Hood wouldn’t have kidnapped somebody just to send a message about allegiances, she was sure of it.

Nobody should run through a checklist of moral beliefs and failings before they whipped out their bandages. Yes, it was possible for Clem to tell the difference between a fancy man and an ordinary citizen of the wood when they came knocking with very different ideas about remuneration in their pockets and/or purses, but who cared? Clem would never turn away someone in pain. Besides, they all looked the same without their skin on.

This, Clem supposed, was what happened when a group went from a fun, ballsy, anarchist autonomous collective to an organized militia, with an official leader instead of an honorary one. People got delusions of grandeur. They put their silly gold pins on and believed that they were better than everybody else.

I’m amazed you managed to pull together something as complex as ‘We should probably move’ without five days of rigorous debate.” “We debate so that we can decide, democratically, on the right course of—” “You debate because you’re all trying to prove you’ve got the loudest voice, even if you have no idea what you want to say.”

In Robin’s days, fights like these had been few and far between; the Merry Men had only taken up arms when absolutely necessary. Mostly they had come to the villages bearing supplies. Food when it was scarce, seed potatoes and milk cows, extra pairs of hands to pick up the slack ahead of winter. They had left every village they visited in higher spirits and better stead than they found it. Now they left beds half empty, and helped fill the graveyards instead.

Ula let out a long sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her. “You know, when I was a girl, the Merry Men brought hope. Our doors were always open to you. Now … we find ourselves wishing we’d closed the shutters and turned the locks, before it was too late. The harder you hit, the harder the Sheriff strikes back, and then we all suffer.” “But we’re still fighting for the people of the wood,” Mariel said, hearing how ineffectual and childish this sounded in the face of so much grief. There was still soot under her fingernails and in the creases of her palms, and she almost wanted to hold up her hands, to show Ula proof of her virtue. Pulling children from that fire had been uncomplicated and without motive. She had been right. She had been good. “You’re just fighting,” said Ula. “I don’t think even you know what for anymore.”

“They’re just legs,” Clem said. “No need to be offended. Actually, wait, scratch that—they’re not just legs, they’re very nice legs.” They were nice. Strong. Got her where she needed to be. Dependable legs.

“You can’t change how other people feel,” she said. Mariel was half turned away from her, her breathing unsteady, looking at nothing in particular. “So you can’t do any of this for them. You have to know that you might be the only person who ever truly sees everything you do, how hard you work, what you believe in—and just do it anyway.”

“I think you just have to do what you want,” Clem said carefully. “And trust yourself. Your instincts.” “I don’t know,” Mariel said. “I don’t know how to have purpose if it isn’t given to you.” “Ah,” said Clem. “Well. That’s easy. You just become obsessed with something to the point of madness, forget to eat or sleep, and one day you look up and realize you’ve made something of yourself.” “Sounds very healthy.” “Oh, very. No doubt it’s extending my lifespan years and years,” said Clem.

But your mother is … She’s very independent. Doesn’t like to need people. There’s not a chance in hell she’d have asked me back to fight her battles for her. Terrible at asking for help. I seem to remember you inherited a little of that.” Mariel winced. “I did. But I’m trying to do better.” “Good,” said Robin, patting her on the shoulder. “That’s all we can do. Fuck the fascists, and introspect.”