"What do these children do without storybooks?" Naftali asked.
And Reb Zebulun replied: "They have to make do. Storybooks aren't bread. You can live without them."
"I couldn't live without them." Naftali said. Isaac Bashevis Singer

#2: Words

It was the week leading up to Easter. Robin was sixteen years old and happy with the world. Marian and him had something going on between them, though sometimes he questioned his own sanity on that fact. One day she'd laugh with him, talk to him, touch him on the shoulder or arm and then the next day she'd scream, yell, get moody about the smallest things.

"Women." Robin muttered from his perch on a wall overlooking the town. He was examining his arrows, sharpening a few, doing anything he could to delay going to church. Not that he minded it, not really, but during Easter week church was required, at least by his mother, every day, sometimes for two or three hours. And Robin just didn't have that kind of patience in him.

Suddenly there was a presence by his shoulder. Much flopped ungracefully next to him, looking for all the world like a child who had a prize hidden behind their back. "You got a letter, master." The glee in Much's voice was unmistakable and it made Robin's smile broaden. Much's joy was always infectious.

And, indeed, there was a letter in Much's hand. "See? Robin." Much pointed to the word, the first of a half dozen on the front of the parchment, indicating where the letter was to be delivered. "I saw it on the front table and knew it was yours." There was such pride in the words!

"Thanks, Much." Robin was halfway through opening the letter before he stopped short, staring strangely at his friend. "You saw my name on the letter."

"Yeah."

"And you knew it was mine." Robin wondered why this hadn't happened before. Surely… "Much, do you know how to read?"

The servant boy looked incredulous. "Of course not, master." Perhaps even a little scared. "Why would I know how to read?"

"You read my name."

"No." Much said patiently, still with a hint of a smile, though this one was slightly confused. He had no idea why his master seemed so puzzled by such a simple fact. "I saw your name. My uncle pointed it out to me, once, he said that if I ever saw lines that curved like that, it meant Robin. It meant it was for you." Much seemed to sense Robin's consternation. "I don't know if any servant knows how to read, master. I've never even tried."

"I could teach you." Robin said, a note of something in his voice. His father had taught him to read before he even had a tutor. He could understand English by five, Latin by eight, and most of French by thirteen. To not know even basic words seemed, to Robin, like a gross oversight.

But, at his offer, Much shook his head, "No. Why do I need to know how to read?"

"Because…" he was stuck. Robin had to learn how to read because, when he became Lord of Locksley, there would always be treaties and missives and scrolls to read, not to mention the histories that his father insisted he know. But a servant never seemed to have access to books. "Because it's a life skill. And because you should have the ability to read about…history. Philosophy. Some of it is even interesting."

Now Much looked intrigued, but still wary. "It would take too much time, master. I only know how to find your name. I don't even know…" here Much had to think. Words about words were seldom used. "Letters."

"Then that seems like as good place as any to begin. We'll start tomorrow."

Much learned quickly. So quickly, in fact, that Robin thought that he must have been exposed to the information before. By the end of the first day he could recite, slowly, haltingly, the alphabet, associate the letters with certain words (R for Robin, M for Much, L for Locksley…) and, with much care and concentration, write out his name.

The next day, Robin ran up to Much after church service. It was Good Friday, all work had been suspended for prayer. Most of Locksley knew that the children and teenagers spent most of the holy week playing, rather than praying, and Robin was suddenly glad that it was now that he was teaching Much to read.

"I brought some books, Much. They're dead easy to read." Much, who had fallen automatically into step with Robin, suddenly drew up short.

"I don't think we should continue with these lessons, master." Much kept his face aimed at the ground, making his small voice sound smaller. "There are other things we could be doing."

"I thought you liked reading, Much. You seemed interested enough yesterday." Of course, Robin would have stopped if Much was frustrated. He understood Much's valid point – that knowing something was useless if you never had the opportunity to use the knowledge. Rarely in his life would Much get anything in his hands to read. But he'd seemed willing, even eager, to learn just the day before.

Much glanced up at him, his face lifting quickly, eyes meeting Robin's for just a moment before casting his face back down. "I should go." He said, dully. "The Easter feast is going to take most of the day to prepare…"

"Much." Robin grabbed Much's sleeve, held it until the servant boy had to turn toward him. Robin put one finger on Much's cheek, unsurprised but hurt when he flinched away from the touch. "Who did this?"

Much's face was blue, black, yellow, every sickly color under the rainbow. His cheek was so swollen his left eye was glued shut, and his lip was huge in a way that was unnatural.

As soon as Robin had enough time to drink in the sight (the various cuts, the bruises that mingled, one into another) Much turned his head away, his voice still flat, dead. "I don't think we should continue those lessons, master."

Robin was not known for being closed minded, but even he, the future lord of Locksley, hadn't considered the possibility that the other servants, some Much's age or older, would be jealous, upset, outraged that the boy would learn something that was clearly out of his station.

"I'm sorry, Much." Robin said, because he suddenly felt very responsible and very, very naïve. He should have known, should have guessed, that others would have reacted badly to the lessons Robin was trying to give Much.

It was not in Much's character to remain angry. He had a slow temper and was always quick to forgive, especially his master, his Robin. "It's not your fault, master. I shouldn't have tried reading…'s stupid to think I could do it, anyway." But there was a sudden flash in his eyes, so fleeting that Robin might have missed it. Much was upset. He'd wanted to learn how to read, if only for himself, if only to know that he, a common servant, possessed such abilities.

The sad smile that passed over Robin's face was quickly consumed by a somber grin. "I would still like to know who did that to your face. Bullies can't be tolerated in Locksley."

"I'll point them out to you when you have your bow, master." Sixteen year olds, even kind, forgiving ones, could not resist the temptation to put others in their rightful place.

Robin laughed and threw a companionable arm around his Much, pulling him close for just a second. He truly was sorry for the hurt he caused, even if it was accidental. Wounds caused out of ignorance were still wounds, no matter the intentions behind Robin's initial actions.

"Want to go hunting?"

"I have to help in the kitchens, master. The feast really will take all weekend."

"Fishing? Climbing? Target practice. C'mon, Much, they won't miss you in the kitchens, you're dead clumsy."

Much pretended to look hurt by this fact, then sighed, a small smile making his bruised face look even uglier, if that was possible. "Master, you will be the death of me."

Neither knew how true those words were until it was too late.

Much. Robin. Even in the books Robin struck us as over-confident, ignorant, selfish. Is it too obvious we love the sidekicks more than the main characters?

Thanks for the kind reviews - we didn't expect anywhere near that many. And if we could bother everyone for just a few more...