This story is meant for entertainment purposes and does not represent the author's opinion on theological matters. No offense is intended.
Poison Seed
I saved Robin Hood.
Though entirely uncredited and completely unnoticed, the life of England's most notorious outlaw was pulled from the brink by an admittedly less than heroic feat. It was, in fact, by a lie.
At least, it might have been a lie. Not a colossal fabrication, mind you, since I fear Hellfire as much as the next man. And perhaps it contained a measure of truth, which, come to think of it, might actually be worse. In the end I suppose the significance matters little either way. My master lives. Because his servant planted a seed, hoping the roots would choke out the more fertile weeds of his despair.
I saved Robin Hood.
Because he talked to God and I didn't like what I wasn't supposed to hear. In the echoing shell of an ancient church, the Almighty was reminded that He'd taken everything Robin had; family, birthright, freedom, comfort, safety, trust and now…The latest loss went unnamed but even the daftest eavesdropper would comprehend. But these points were not voiced to accuse. Rather, based on this past history my master made a simple request. Once Gisbourne and the sheriff were satisfactorily dealt with, the Lord must finish what He started by taking the last of Robin's possessions; his life. There was weighted silence after this, its rancid tang suffocated me. And I understood.
The unspoken implications saw me removing my hat, clenching it in nervous fingers. He sought heavenly favor for his plan. But should God fail to act, the end would still be reached. The conception of the lie immediately followed. In the next few days, I felt the birth pangs sharply, as a mother enduring the emergence of a thorny baby. I swaddled and carried the fabrication tenderly until it could be passed on.
I saved Robin Hood.
But he is hardly intact. The remaining men watched in respectful silence as their leader crumbled, accepting the changes in him as though they were temporary. Perhaps they believed returning to our mission would rebuild him. Our duty to England and her people hadn't altered. Robin still gave the orders, organized raids and redistributed the wealth. But the motions were as mechanical as the sheriff's torture toys. The fresh scars left him no quicker to fury nor prone to sobs. Instead he suffers no range or extreme of emotion, the dead having no natural buoyancy one way or the other. How I long to hear his voice raised in anger or merriment. Passionate energy, giddy laughter and that ready grin were buried in foreign soil with a bleeding bride. 'Til death do them part came with frightening expediency.
The gang looked to me as the designated fixer. Robin's servant. Robin's friend. Robin's brother. None of these stations brought with them a solution any better than the one I crafted outside the abandoned worship house that morning, when the deal was proposed to God. So I handed Robin my unrequested evaluation of his options, sweating so profusely under my clothes and staring holes into the grassy hillside. Allowing him to think his secret plan to die remained entombed in that ruined church, I scaled his garden wall and dropped my poison seed into a crack in his barren soil. Time and consideration would see to the task of watering it. There'd be no choice but to think upon the idea and decide how the possibility fits into his plan. I have prayed fervently for that plan's eradication and for forgiveness for depositing such an evil lie into his heart. Had God given me another route, I would have gladly taken it. But He's been strangely silent on the matter. Perhaps I will yet see that Hellfire for interfering.
I saved Robin Hood.
Through manipulation of the grieving. I was striving for casual conversation but the words rushed from my lips like they were outrunning a noose. Perhaps I should well be hung for inventing this opinion for the occasion. Suicide, I told him, was a rejection of God's gift of life. Heaven, I explained, would refuse entry to one who angers the Lord by presuming to throw that gift back unwanted. And, of course, this included both direct self-murder and seeking an end at the convenient hand of another. All of this was intended to scare him, to give him pause the next time he puts himself purposely in harm's way. The roots of the seed will tell him that should he die intentionally, he will not join his beloved, for heaven will barricade its gates. No amount of cunning or skill of archery will gain him entrance.
The notion was an arrow and the precision of my aim was confirmed by the slow shift of his expression. Quite honestly, that any expression formed verified he'd heard. And he would think on it, thus the watering would be achieved. I had hoped that once the words were spilt, relief would come. To me at least. But though the lie has been passed on, it still burdens me. I am the mother who's offspring forever resides within, relentlessly kicking at the womb. Only now, we both feel its oppressive weight.
I saved Robin Hood.
Remarkable how my ploy to keep him alive also killed him further. I saved the legend, the hero of the people. His presence remains with us. But the man, my friend, is lost to us all, his corpse walking among us as hollow as an empty cupboard.
I saved Robin Hood and I've done him no favor.