Guy would have turned and fled had it not been for the paralyzing fear that shot up his spine and fastened his feet to the snowy ground. He could see no part of the figure's skin-every bit of it was draped and shrouded in black. But it wasn't just the mysteriousness of this apparition that frightened Guy-it was the ominous air that it possessed, coupled with a terrifying sense of familiarity, as if Guy had been in its presence before and not known it. He drew a shaky breath and managed to find his voice.
"Are you the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?" He tried unsuccessfully to quell the shakiness in his voice.
The figure did not speak, but gave a single nod. Summoning up his courage, Guy continued.
"Forgive me if I am bold, spirit, but all of the other specters that have visited me this night have taken on the forms of people who have somehow played a role in my life. If I am correct in assuming that you too, beneath your concealing robes, have the face of someone I know, is it too much to ask that you reveal your identity to me?"
There was no response from the shrouded figure. Guy tried again.
"If you cannot show me, could you then at least tell me? I feel that I would take more from your lessons if I could better relate to you."
Had he been able to see the ghost's eyes, Guy thought from the feeling that suddenly inundated his senses that he would have seen a glare there. But there was still no verbal response.
"Do you doubt my ability to learn?" The ghost remained motionless. "Granted, I suppose my words and actions tonight provide little evidence to prove my point." Guy sighed, his shoulders sagging in defeat. "I know that you have come take me to different places and show me events, and that there is nothing I can do to escape it." He didn't even want to try; this ghost did not look like someone that Guy would want to make angry. "Lead on, Spirit."
Guy swallowed hard as the ghost approached him slowly, and then ducked instinctively in fear as it swept its billowing black cloak around both of their bodies.
For the first time since this whole awful ordeal had begun, Guy found himself in daylight. But even coupled with finally being out of that accursed forest, it did nothing to lighten his mood-the sense of foreboding that had come upon him was too dense to shake.
He looked around to find that he was back in Locksley Village, its streets oddly bustling. Normally, the peasants who resided in the little group of houses were either out working in the fields or shops, desperately attempting to make enough money to keep themselves alive, or holed up in their cottages, hiding from the tax collector as though they thought that maybe if they stayed out of sight, he would forget to knock on their door.
But today the poor of Locksley seemed almost jubilant. There were smiles on all faces, and people greeted one another in the street. Guy turned with curiosity toward his spirit-guide.
"What wondrous event has occurred this day that these people, who have so little to be thankful for, seem so thrilled about?"
The specter merely motioned to a group of peasants by the side of the road, who were standing in a group and chatting excitedly.
"Have you heard the good news?" asked one woman, her eyes shining.
"It's almost too good to be true!" exclaimed a man.
"It seems unfitting that we should feel such joy at a death, but how can we not?" questioned another man. "After all that Sir Guy of Gisborne has put us through, first with working for the Sheriff and collecting his tax money, and then becoming a Sheriff just like him, starving us out of house and home for his own gain...I have to say that I, too, am glad that he has met his end!"
"Things'll only be going up from here!" the woman who had spoken first exclaimed. "How can they not?"
Guy turned toward the ghost, his eyes wide with horror. "What do they mean, 'met his end'? Have I died? Tell me, Spirit, what year is this? Surely deep within the thirteenth century? Tell me that I live a long and prosperous life before this event occurs!"
The spirit whirled upon him, and Guy could feel disgust emanating from within its black shrouds, but the part that scared him the most was the ever-so-slight touch of sadness that he also detected. Despite the fear that clutched at him, Guy continued.
"Is that a no?" There was no response. "Is it so inhuman that I wish for a full life, for a substantial existence before I die? Tell me how I am being someone with low moral values simply by living!"
The ghost motioned with its cloaked arm toward the village of Locksley, with its decrepit huts and poorly-clothed, emaciated people. Guy looked upon them and suddenly understood.
"You mean to say that by only striving for my own advancement in life, I establish myself as a selfish person who cares only for his own well-being, and not that of others? Is that why everyone hates me, and is glad that I am dead?"
The spirit gave a slight nod, and Guy glared at the people who filled the little village's single street. "Well then, let them hate me! I have no choice, I have no one, nothing to sustain me but my ambition! Not after..." he broke off, swallowing the lump in his throat. "But I do not wish to dwell on this matter. That is in the past, and your domain is the future, Spirit. Please, lead on."
The ghost seemed to study him for a moment-in truth, Guy could not be sure what it was doing, for he could not see its eyes. Then, it swept its arm again. This time, Guy was prepared for the action and did not duck, but the closing of his eyes was an unbreakable, instinctual response. When he opened them, he found that he was yet again in Nottingham town.
This time, he was just outside the castle, within the confines of the portcullis. There were a great many people here, as well, but they all wore the uniform of the castle guards. Guy looked around, thinking he saw some familiar faces, but he had never been one to get to know any but the most high-ranking of his employees. He thought he caught a passing glimpse of his captain of the guard, but he couldn't be sure.
It seemed as though every guard that Nottingham Castle employed was standing gathered around the gallows, looking expectantly upward at a very large, vaguely familiar-looking man in a jaunty, feathered hat who stood beneath the nooses. The fat, mustachioed man was holding up a silver cloak link that Guy suddenly recognized as the one the Allan-ghost had been fingering when he had first shown up in Guy's bedroom earlier that night. It seemed like a decade ago now.
"What a beauty, 'eh? Just look at how it sparkles in the light!" The fat man held the link between his fingertips and twisted his ample torso around so that all in the crowd could see the specimen. "I'll start the biddin' off at, oh, let's say... five pounds."
Several hands went up. The man smiled greedily, the curled ends of his mustache bobbing as the corners of his mouth turned upward.
"Six pounds?" Some hands went down. "Seven?"
The bidding continued until one guard's hand remained up. The auctioneer relinquished the cloak link and jingled his new coins with a satisfied chuckle of "Lucky, Lucky George!".
Guy seethed with disgust. "My possessions are being auctioned off to the castle guards? What madness is this? Where is my sister? Surely she would defend my honor!"
In response, the spirit ushered him up the front steps and through the enormous doors of the castle. Once inside, the pair ascended several flights of stairs until they reached Guy's study. Although, Guy supposed with a sinking heart, it is no longer my study anymore. I'm dead.
He looked over to his desk to find Isabella sitting in his black leather chair, and he instantly felt anger leap within him at the cocky expression on her face. But suddenly he remembered the little girl in the red velvet dress, begging her older brother to help her hang the Christmas greenery, and his rage softened.
At Isabella's side stood the castle's treasury advisor, the town cryer, a page, and, to Guy's absolute disgust and mild fear, Sir Jasper.
"Now that your brother is dead, Prince John will have to assign a new Sheriff of Nottingham." The Prince's head messenger looked at Isabella meaningfully. "As the late Sheriff's sister and someone who knows the goings-on in the castle, is there anyone you would...recommend?"
Gracefully, Isabella rose to her feet and sauntered over to where Sir Jasper stood. "I could maybe...think of a few people, if given the time."
"One person in particular, I take it?" Sir Jasper grinned, and Guy shuddered. He had forgotten what a terrifying thing Sir Jasper's grin was. Jasper reached out and fingered a long, dark lock of Isabella's hair, and she smiled seductively.
"Yes. And..." She reached out and laid one smooth, pearl-colored hand on Jasper's chest. "I would be very much obliged if you could put in a good word for her with the Prince."
"Will do." Sir Jasper's pleasure was obvious. "But you must forgive me, Lady Isabella. It seems...odd to me that your brother has been dead for but a number of hours, and yet you seem to feel no grief."
Isabella's expression immediately darkened. "My brother has been cruel to me ever since we were children. He made my life a miserable hell, and I am glad to be rid of him."
Sir Jasper's eyebrows went up in an impressed manner. "I like a woman with spirit. I shall speak to Prince John in your favor. Until we meet again, My Lady. Or should I say, Sheriff." He dipped his head, then turned on his heel and marched out of the office.
Guy tried desperately to connect the conflicting images of the little girl in red velvet in his mind and the hardened, ambitious young woman he saw before him, and his head spun.
"Spirit, what have I done? Surely this change in my sister's personality cannot be all my doing?"
The specter regarded him silently, giving off a feeling of accusation.
"No! Surely her time with Squire Thornton is what has turned her into this...this..." He broke off. "But it was I who sent her there in the first place. It's like I've killed her, too, just like..."
Thinking of his most awful and regretted sin-he wondered how long it had been since he had done that horrible deed, now that he was in a time in the future of which he did not know the identity-he realized that if the townspeople, the castle guards, and even his own sister were happy at his passing, there would be one individual in particular who would be absolutely thrilled. And that was the last person he wanted to see right now.
But it was as if the spirit could see straight into his heart, for just then it gave another great sweep of its arm, and suddenly they were back in Sherwood Forest, their feet on a barely-visible path that meandered across the forest floor. And just to the side of Guy, amidst the trees, was that one person.
Robin Hood.
He was flanked by the imposing, hulking form of Little John, and the smaller, slighter one of Allan A'Dale. Judging by the way they would occasionally glance down the path, they seemed to be waiting for someone. The rest of their little band of outlaws, Guy supposed. And, seeing as the spirit did not seem to be making any further indications that he should take any sort of action, he supposed that that was what they were doing, too.
As he stood there, Guy stole a glance at the black-cloaked figure at his side. He couldn't shake the feeling that this spirit, too, had taken the form of someone he knew-after all, common sense said that if all the other ghosts had looked and acted like people from his life, so should this one. And, though he hated to admit it even to himself, the ghosts' resemblances had driven home their points farther and harder than he was comfortable with. But if the whole idea of this exercise in the supernatural was to drive home a point, what reason had the spirit to not reveal its true identity? Or was there something so horrible hidden beneath that cloak that Guy could not bear to look upon it?
He wondered, too, about the spirit's demeanor. Though it said nothing, Guy was finding that he could judge the tone of its thoughts by feeling the aura that emanated from where its face would have been, had it not been hidden by its cloak. It was a phenomenon much akin to feeling rather than seeing a glare when someone stands behind you. So far, much of what Guy had been detecting had been disgust and disapproval, but the sadness he had noted earlier when he had suggested that he might have experienced a premature death made it seem to Guy that the distaste was but a pretense. Was this spirit's true nature really one of kindness and compassion?
Guy's pondering was interrupted by footsteps trotting up the path. He turned to behold Tuck running toward them, Much close at his heels. Their friends, moving from the trees and onto the path, made as though to greet them, but were stopped by the grave yet oddly exhilarated expressions on their faces.
"What is it? What's happened?" Robin's searching green eyes were inquiring and concerned as he regarded the monk and the former servant.
"Master." Much was panting a bit from his run, but it was obvious that was not the true reason for the unsteadiness of his voice. "Master, Guy of Gisborne is dead."
A shock seemed to ripple through the members of the Gang who had been previously uninformed of this news. Little John and Robin looked as though they could scarcely believe their ears, but the expressions of jubilation that had been on the faces of the visitors did not cross their visages. Had Guy not purposely looked his way the instant the proclamation was given, the supposed dead man would have missed the momentary flicker of an odd sort of troubled relief that crossed Allan's face. But after a fraction of a second, his face took on a worried look.
"Are you sure?" Robin's eyes flicked back and forth between Much and Tuck, as though he was looking for a way to prove the news was true; Guy could tell he was thinking of every possible way that they could be wrong, and checking through all of the ways he could have misheard them, or they could have misinterpreted their source.
The monk nodded. "Yes, Robin. Much and I saw his body being rolled out of Nottingham on a cart."
"But...how?" Robin seemed to be in a state of analytical shock.
Tuck shrugged. "I heard the stretcher-bearers saying that the news had been delivered to Prince John that a sudden illness struck him-that he died of natural causes. The doctor that attended him was at his bedside when it happened, and has gone to London himself."
Allan's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed hard past a throat obviously dry with nervousness. "But doesn't this mean that Prince John will send another army to destroy Nottingham? Remember what happened the time we lost the Sheriff, Robin? We're all gonna die!"
Robin gestured with his hand for the worried thief to settle down. "We are not going to die, Allan. There's no one to blame if he died of natural causes, especially if the doctor is there to attest to it." Robin sighed, his shoulders sagging with the weight and suddenness of the news. "But he will send another Sheriff, most likely one that we don't know. We'll have to learn their ways, and how to handle them."
"But maybe the new Sheriff won't be as bad." Much's voice was tentatively hopeful.
"Not if he works for Prince John," snorted Little John, and Much's face fell.
"What do we do, Master?" He turned inquiring eyes on Robin, who shook his head.
"Right now there's really nothing we can do-he's dead. We couldn't reverse that even if we wanted to. You can head back to camp if you wish."
"And where are you going?" Much seemed worried at the stress these new and sudden circumstances were placing upon his former master.
"I just...need some time to think." Robin started to turn back to the woods, but Much's voice stopped him.
"You're...upset about this, aren't you? You're actually sad that he's dead!" His visage was the picture of incredulousness as he gazed at Robin, who suddenly seemed to snap at his words.
"Upset? Why would I be upset? Guy of Gisborne murdered the woman I loved-my wife! He's finally gotten what he deserves, and I'll bet he's burning in hell right now. Which is exactly where he should be!" He paused, chest heaving from a blind anger identical to that which momentarily shot through Guy's body as he was reminded of his eternal quarrel with Robin.
Much's voice quavered. "Master, what you're saying and the way you are saying it are two different things. Why has this news upset you so?"
"Because it wasn't supposed to be like this, Much." Robin's voice was dangerously quiet now. "Because he was supposed to die by my sword as I avenged Marian's death, not whimpering on a sickbed! I wanted to see the light go out of his eyes!" Robin yelled, looking frantically at his four stunned men, searching for some form of sympathy or understanding. But all he found was shock.
"But what about what you said at Christmas? About how you wished Gisborne would realize his sins and repent of them? What happened to that?" Much looked saddened at this change in his former master's demeanor. "I was so proud of you that night, Master Robin." This final sentence came out a whisper.
The fire in his heart finally extinguished by his friend's anguished tone, Robin's hopeless gaze met Much's and he murmured,
"It doesn't matter now. He never changed, never repented. It's all over now, just like that. There's nothing anyone can do anymore." And without another word, Robin Hood turned and vanished into the labyrinth of Sherwood Forest.
The remaining outlaws stood in silence, staring at the place where their leader had disappeared. Guy turned to the spirit at his side, whispering instinctively even though he knew the others could not hear him-he was, after all, a dead man.
"Spirit, I don't understand. Was my death so tragic that even my mortal enemy feels grief?" Once again, he received no response. Guy heard voices and turned back to the outlaws.
"We should do as Robin requested, and head back to camp," Tuck was saying, naturally assuming the role of leader in Robin's absence. "One of us should go hunting for tonight's dinner, though."
"I'll do it." Allan's voice was clipped as he heaved his longbow over his shoulder.
"I'll come, too." Much's offer was sudden, and Allan's expression was unreadable. But he gave a curt, wordless nod and started into the trees in the direction opposite that which Robin had traveled. Much followed him, and, at the spirit's motion, so did Guy.
Though Allan had signaled his acquiescence at Much's original request, as they wound their way through the underbrush it became obvious that the thief was not at all comfortable with the cook's presence. His shoulders seemed to grow tighter, more rigid as he walked, and from behind him, Guy could see his fists opening and closing in barely-contained irateness. Suddenly, he came to an abrupt halt, nearly causing Much to crash into him. Thinking the former poacher had spotted some game, Much was immediately silent and still, eyes scanning the trees for signs of mammalian life. But it became clear that this had not been the reason for the stopping when Allan spoke, his voice low and cold.
"Now would be a really good time for you to stop followin' me, Much."
Much seemed surprised. "You seemed perfectly all right with me coming on your little hunting expedition a few minutes ago."
Allan whirled on him, ice-blue eyes blazing. "You really don't read people well, do you, mate?"
The blonde outlaw looked momentarily taken aback, but suddenly his eyes narrowed with understanding.
"You're upset, too! Of course, why didn't I see it before? You used to work for him..."
"SHUT UP!" Guy had never seen Allan so angry before-during the time they had spent in one another's company, Guy had always been the one yelling orders, and Allan the one submissively obeying them. He had always seemed to Guy a man who was in control of his emotions, the opposite of Guy, though he was loathe to admit it, even to himself. But now Allan was obviously angry, very angry. But underneath the cloak of rage, Guy could detect an immense, nearly overwhelming hurt in Allan's eyes.
"You're still loyal to him, aren't you?" How foolish was this man, thought Guy, that he would continue to push this matter and accuse even though his situation teetered on the brink of dangerous? He watched Allan intently, expecting him to pull back his fist and connect with Much's face. But the cold fire had returned, and Guy had to strain to hear the dangerously low voice of his former lackey.
"Is that what you think, then? That after all of this time, after all the attempts I've made to prove myself to you? That I'm no different than I was when I worked in the castle?" The intention of the rhetorical questions was obviously to send Much on a guilt trip, but to Guy it seemed almost as though Allan were asking the questions of himself. "You have no idea, absolutely no idea, how hard I try every single day to forget what I've done, to put my past behind me, to convince myself that the people who say they've forgiven me really have!" By this time he was yelling again, and literally shaking with rage.
Much stared at him with a mixture of shock and fear, finally beginning to realize the effect of his words.
"Allan, I..."
But Allan cut him off, seemingly unable to stop himself now that he had begun to make his feelings known. "I try and try to forget, even with all the reminders. The offhanded prods, all the "You're goin' in first because you know the castle best, Allan"s, the suspicion that you all don't even realize you feel when one of our plans happens to go wrong. But I can see it in your eyes!" He paused, fighting for his breath. "Even through all of that, I still managed to almost forget it all, to be able to live with what I've done, to think that maybe I have a chance of making things right! Until today. Today I find out that Guy of Gisborne is dead, and it all comes barrelin' back on top of me. And what Robin said, about him not changin' or repentin'-all I can think about is, maybe he tried! What if he did try, and it just didn't work?"
Much shook his head. "Gisborne was an evil man, Allan. Think of what he's done to the people of Nottingham! And he killed Marian!"
"But I worked for him, Much! I saw him try-and I just thought that if he couldn't do it, then..." He broke off suddenly, his anger dissolved and replaced with despair and fear and hopelessness.
"But Robin's right," he said, his voice now little more than a whisper. "It doesn't matter anymore. Guy's dead, and he's gettin' what he deserves."
Much just stared at him, completely blown away by his whole outburst, for once in his life rendered speechless.
"Go back to camp, Much," said Allan deliberately. Without a word, Much turned and retraced his steps back toward the small forest path. Allan watched him, still trembling, his knuckles white around the shaft of his longbow. After a time, he, too, turned and slipped away, ironically seeming to become one with the forest that seemed to have such a difficult time accepting him.
Guy was seething. "After all of that, he doesn't even care about what happens to me. I'm getting what I deserve, hey Allan? We'll I'll give that sniveling little traitor what he deserves!" He poked an index finger angrily in the direction in which Allan had disappeared. "And Hood! He hasn't forgiven me; he hasn't even begun to! He's just acting like he cares because he's trying to prove to himself that he's really as noble as he claims to be. Well, I'll say this, Robin Hood-you aren't!" Guy knew Robin couldn't hear him, but he didn't care. He was absolutely fed up with this nonsense-the ghosts, the visions, the outlaws, everything.
"Spirit, take me home! I will endure no more of this!" Guy ordered, and immediately wished he hadn't.
Instantly, the sky turned dark around him, day changing to night in a mere breath. The scenery altered as well-the trees of Sherwood Forest had been replaced with the gravestones of the Kirklees Abbey cemetery. Life had become death.
Guy felt fear leap in his throat for an instant at the spookiness of his new surroundings, but the momentary panic did not quell his rage.
"Is this supposed to scare me into changing? Because it's not working!" he hissed. "There is nothing you can show me that will cause me to abandon all of my efforts. It's all well and good for the outlaws to help the poor and feel good about themselves. But they will never move ahead in life! And I, who have worked my entire life to get where I am today, refuse to give it up just because a bunch of paranormal beings think it's a good idea! Who are you, to think you can change me? SHOW ME YOUR FACE!" Rage nullifying his inhibitions more than a thousand drinks, Guy reached out, and with one fluid motion, pulled the spirit's black cloak away from its face. What he saw nearly brought him to his knees.
She was exactly as he remembered her, the image he had tried to erase from his mind for months and months- the pearl-colored skin, rich brown curls, and the pure white dress that had become her burial robe. The only thing that was different was the look in her eyes. Instead of the willfulness, defiance, or even joy that she displayed so much in life, those eyes now held an unfathomable sadness, and Guy knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was the lone cause of it. This was the reason she had not allowed him to see her face, the horror that he could not bear to look upon. For indeed he could not bear it. He stumbled backward in an instinctive attempt to escape it, and in doing so misplaced his foot on the edge of a freshly dug grave. He teetered for a moment, panic rising in his chest, before falling back-first into the pit, his eyes still locked inextricably on hers. As he fell, Guy screamed, every ounce of grief and fear in his soul culminating into one word-her name.
"MARIAN!"
She just watched him, silently, that incredible pain never leaving her eyes. And Guy could not bring himself to close his, even though he knew the impact was coming and that he should prepare himself for it. Suddenly her face vanished and he was falling through flames, as though he had left the earth's crust far behind him and was being transported into its center. As the world purged itself, removing this foul stain from its surface, saving its innocent and delicate from contamination, images began to flash across Guy's vision.
He saw a man returning to his friends after hours in the torture chamber, his eye purpled and swollen, a cloak hiding countless other cuts, burns, and whiplashes. The figure closed his eyes in a silent prayer for some form of sympathy and comfort, only to find that he had not even been missed.
He saw a girl of thirteen, her curly hair tangled and limp, the darkness of it contrasting starkly with the paleness of her bare skin. She was curled in a corner, arms wrapped around her unclothed body, shuddering with sobs. In her hand was was a silver pendant in the shape of a wolf's head, and as Guy watched, she brought it to her trembling lips and kissed it.
He saw the man who he had sworn to kill, the one who had been able to claim at the last moment the only thing Guy had ever truly desired in his life, aiming a black-and-white-striped arrow at the back of an unsuspecting figure who Guy knew to be himself. The outlaw opened his mouth to call out the name of his enemy and bid him face him as he delivered his killing shot. But as Guy looked on, the mouth closed, and the hands of the legendary archer, whose arrow had only missed its target once in his life, began to tremble. Then, slowly, he lowered the bow.
He saw the rolling dunes of the Holy Land, the place where his greatest sins had been committed, and where he had destroyed the one thing that had truly mattered to him. And there, amongst millions of grains of sand, stood two graves. One was freshly covered, and a shield of the Knights Templar lay upon it, the red of its cross mirroring that of the spilled blood which had brought both the piece of armor and its owner to their final resting place. The other grave was yet open, and as Guy fell toward it, her face was before him once more, eyes closed in the final rest of death. Guy reached for her, his fingers but a hair's breadth away from her skin, but a resistance for which he could only blame himself prevented him from feeling the contours of her pale face. Grief and regret inundating his soul, Guy made to scream her name once more, but this time it came out as a whimpering sob.
"Marian, I'm sorry..."
At his words her eyes opened, and Guy felt his heart leap, for gone from within those depths was the unbearable sadness, the pain. In its place was forgiveness mingled with joy, and for the briefest of moments, Guy of Gisborne was at peace.
And then she was gone, and Guy's world was black.