Robin Hood 1192 (The Symbiont Time Travel Adventures Series Book 7) Read online

  “Go back to sleep, Kipp,” I said softly. “It’s still early.”

  He actually fell asleep within three minutes, but I was wide awake, staring at the dark ceiling above me. Outside, a soft rain had begun to fall; the sound of the water hitting the roof felt like a charm cast by a magician, lulling me into a hypnotic state. From what seemed to be a great distance away, thunder rumbled. Life for symbionts, just as with humans, was tenuous, uncertain and always in flux. Of course, we created much of our drama by inserting ourselves into past history and doing so with a soft footprint so as not to disturb the dust of antiquity. But it was what we did as a species. I suppose, like all other creatures, we were just carrying out what the Creator meant for us to do. So as not to awaken Kipp, I gently placed my hand on his chest, where I could feel his heart beat, slow, steady and strong. It was grounding, as was all contact with Kipp.

  Three

  It was Saturday, with no work responsibilities looming overhead, and Kipp and I had decided upon an early morning jog out into the countryside. I could linger in bed like anyone else, enjoying the smell of brewing coffee or steeping Earl Grey tea, compliments of Fitzhugh, but I admit I enjoyed sunrise. I’m not sure which I like best, sunrise or sunset. I guess I still possess enough of the adventurous spirit in me that sunrise, with its breathless, unspoken promise of the day, will always be exciting.

  As we left the house, the birds, which seemed active as they, too, stirred, were making sufficient racket to awaken the whole neighborhood. Neither Kipp nor I spoke as the last of the houses fell behind, and we entered the softly rolling hillsides of the country. Since it was spring, the green hills were dotted with various wildflowers, which seemed to have been tossed to earth by a careless hand, and it delighted the eye to find a patch of blue here, yellow there, and some pink splashes in between. Nature had a way of making the unexpected and mismatched come together to form a perfect whole. As I breathed deeply, I could taste the sweetness of the blooming flowers lingering on the back of my tongue like a drop of amber honey. The sun had angled over the horizon and was on the rise, a large, orange ball against a cloudless sky that suggested a warm day to come. There was a flash of color overhead as a bird darted past, its wings bright red against a tablet of blue. There was no wind, and the trees seemed heavy and still, the branches bent with thick foliage.

  We made our way without conscious planning to the graveyard where my young son rested. I’d once avoided going there, unable to stand the pain and finding that pretending nothing had ever happened suited me well. But Kipp, bossy as ever, had made me remember, and I was grateful. Going to visit with George was something I now appreciated. Stopping our jog, we walked slowly underneath the arching, iron entryway and made our way up the hillside. I’m not sure why, but it felt disrespectful to run, willy nilly, amongst the headstones, so I usually threaded my way carefully and with a sober attitude, gazing at the granite markers and their sentiments, occasionally nodding my head to acknowledge the love left behind. The artistry of old tombstones was lost in the modern day, I’d found. The thoughts of that loss of poetry mixed with grief and hope for an afterlife made me feel thoughtful, not quite sad, but just ruminative.

  On the backside of the hill, there was a row of graves, unmarked, from the American Civil War. Kipp stumbled down that grassy slope one day and discovered he had a sensitivity to the souls who remain with us as ghosts. That discovery had led us down some places that were not comfortable, and collectively we and our small inner circle had put a stop to ghostly investigations for the time being. I noticed he didn’t visit those graves anymore when we came to spend time with George. Although the day was bright, an unexpected shadow veiled the hillside in gray as a solitary cloud was chased across the sky, hiding the sun for a few moments until the sun emerged again, more brilliant and intense than before.

  I sat on the grass next to George’s marker, letting my hand touch the cold granite, which was damp from the early morning dew. My fanny would be equally damp when I stood to leave, but I didn’t care. It was good to sit on that lonely hillside, and I was never sure why a graveyard did seem so quiet, but they always were. Not to be morbid, but they could be a good place from which to view the world. Kipp, after nosing around a few minutes, returned to my side, and I draped my arm across his broad back; his fur was warm from both the exercise as well as the rays of the sun that had been captured amongst the dense hairs of his pelt. His breathing, along with mine, had slowed, and the sounds of his soft panting diminished, leaving us in silence.

  “Kipp, what did you get from Victor and Fitzhugh about Joseph Ritson?” I asked, having made a deliberate choice to be uninvolved. After all, if Kipp was interested in investigating Robin Hood, he needed to do the work. Elani had researched the last trip, so maybe it was time for Kipp to do so for the next one. I was comfortable being the caboose on that particular train.

  “Joseph Ritson was born in 1752 and died in 1803. He published what many felt to be the definitive, to that day, collection of all the stories and songs, poems and ballads that had been compiled in folklore dating from the late 1100’s. He was convinced that Robin Hood had his origins as an actual historical figure. Where his thoughts differed from some others, who thought Robin Hood was a yeoman, Ritson believed Robin Hood to be of aristocratic extraction who probably could have claimed the title of the Earl of Huntingdon. He was born in a village called Locksley in Nottinghamshire. Ritson felt he had sufficient information to claim Robin Hood died in 1247.”

  Kipp sighed and pushed close, wanting me to scratch his back where he had an itchy spot. There was an unexpected moving shadow, and I glanced up at the sky, my eyes following the path of a large bird circling overhead. It appeared to be a buzzard, looking for a meal. I hoped Kipp and I didn’t appear inviting.

  “Sir Walter Scott was influenced by Ritson, and the two met more than once over their lifetimes.” Kipp took a deep breath. “There would be a tight window for us to interview Ritson. He published his collection in 1795, but in 1796 he had a mental collapse of some sort and barricaded himself inside his chambers in Gray’s Inn in London and set the room on fire.” Kipp glanced at me, and the sunlight was caught in his eyes, which seemed back lit by some internal energy source. “He was confined to a mental institution after that.”

  I sat quietly, lost in speculation, wondering what could have happened to a successful man to drive him to the edge of reason. Kipp responded to my thoughts.

  “I couldn’t really figure out what happened to him,” Kipp said.

  “So, what would be your angle of attack?” I leaned back, propped on my elbows, enjoying the early sun on my face. Later it would be too hot and too intense, but now was just right. Before I could stop myself, the mama bear analogy flooded my mind.

  “Hey, you never did tell me about mama bear,” Kipp whined.

  “Another time, please. I’m concentrating.”

  “I thought that we could go back to late 1795 and concoct a way to finagle an interview with Ritson, using Peter as a reporter, perhaps, interested in his work. Hopefully, he will speak with Peter, and we can try and figure out how he obtained his information.” Kipp sighed. “Even if we don’t get what we’re looking for, it would be good practice for Peter and Elani.”

  I sighed, closing my eyes against the golden sunlight. The warmth felt good against the thin flesh of my eyelids, and I almost imagined I could see the sun, bright, defined and staring back at me. “Kipp, that would be a lot of work just to see if we need to take a time-shift. You’d have to convince the Twelve of its worth since we’d have to be wardrobed for the times.” I frowned. “I can almost see Karl’s face.”

  “Well, I’m not worried about Karl,” Kipp answered crisply. “It’s his job to supply the correct wardrobe as well as other essentials, and if he has a problem, he can speak to Philo.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t have to wear what he creates. And it can be comfortable or excruciating, depending upon his mood.” I laughed. “You just have to wear the despised money collar.”

  Kipp twisted his head as he thought of the confining collar. To say he despised it was not sufficient.

  “Here are some other issues,” I said. “And I’m really not being negative. I’m just giving you tips since you’ll have to work up this pitch for the Twelve’s approval.” To make sure he heard me, I ran my hand down his furry back. “Peter and I would have to take a course in Old English. I was born after that time and in a different country with a different language. The French I can manage, but not the Old English.” Kipp was watching me. “You’ll need to find us an online course or something.” My elbows were beginning to burn, so I sat up straight, brushing the dirt and grass clippings from my skin. “And we’d all have to extensively study the culture of the day, which will be vastly different from anything else we’ve experienced. Remember, dogs were not allowed in the king’s forests, and those that were present had toes cut from their front paws so they couldn’t chase deer.” I tweaked his ear. “I wouldn’t want you to come home with some trimmed toes.”

  Kipp shuddered. “What sort of barbarism was that?” He bared his teeth. “Anyone tries to trim my toes, better watch out.” Kipp’s nostrils flared as he considered the alternatives. “I’m not normally given to violence, you know, but I can’t make any promises.”

  I laughed. “Not to change the subject too suddenly, but how’s the supervisor gig going?”

  Kipp had, in the past year, been promoted to a supervisory position as well as teaching ethics. And that was all good and fine, but now he was in the place he had to supervise Elani, who adored him, and not from afar. He became quiet, and I figured I’d touched a nerve. Sometimes Kipp had to be pushed, just a little bit. Then he sighed.

  “I guess it is okay. I took it as a compliment when they promoted me, but it’s hard work being fair with the lupines. They whine and complain a lot … you know how kids can be. And I’m trying to find a good fit for Fyre, but that hasn’t worked out yet.”

  “How’s Elani doing?” I asked, trying to be subtle.

  “She is a good teacher with the lupines, but I think she needs to infuse a little more action into the day so that they don’t get bored. I tried to tell her that, and she got angry with me.”

  I bit back a smile. “I’ve never wanted to supervise anyone, Kipp, so I commend your willingness to do so. Symbionts, as well as people, don’t necessarily embrace criticism, even when they say they do.”

  “And?” he asked, knowing there was more.

  “Kipp, we both know Elani has an immense crush on you. So, your approval means a lot to her on a personal basis. And, no, you can’t help that,” I said in a rush. “But you have to be aware of it and be sensitive.”

  “Maybe I’ll just tell Philo to put me back where I was and get someone else to be in charge.” He grunted and shrugged his shoulder, twisting his neck to relieve the tension.

  “Well, you did just give me an idea. There needs to be a non-traveler who can back you up when you’re gone. And Juno won’t do it, because she subs in for Elani during time-shifts. How about considering Fyre?”

  Kipp turned to look at me. His amber eyes had a distinctly honey-toned cast in the sunlight and almost glowed. “Petra, I don’t give you credit enough for good ideas, but you just hatched one.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Changing the subject, I asked, “So what did you think about Bruce Lee?” We’d watched a couple of his movies the previous night, much to the entertainment of Kipp and Juno.

  “I still don’t know how he managed to jump in the air high enough to kick out a ceiling fixture,” Kipp replied, shaking his head. “But your point was well taken. He didn’t use size or brute force to win a fight.”

  “You’re welcome, wee grasshopper.”

  The sun was in the beginning phase of its daily arc, but I felt little motivation to move. Kipp and I watched, amused, as a gray squirrel cautiously moved close, looking for something he’d obviously hidden in the past. He’d dig furiously, then sit back on his haunches, bemused, before darting a foot to the right and trying again. Occasionally, he’d glance up at Kipp, not sure if Kipp was about to pounce. Finally, he bounded off, zig-zagging across the field until he found safety in a tree. Kipp’s hulking presence was too much.

  We made our way back home, a little more energized than usual. The front of my house, usually thought of as gently neglected, looked pretty good, and the whispered criticisms of my human neighbors had subsided. Fitzhugh had done a nice job of painting the door and the frame, and with help from Philo and Peter, the shrubs had been trimmed back, and the windows were at least visible now. As I gazed at it, I realized that the house was just a temporary possession. At some point, those of my kind were moved somewhere else. Our lack of obvious aging in a human world made us conspicuous. In ancient times, symbionts could easily be thought of as supernatural, and that just simply didn’t bode well. As it was in contemporary life, we still stayed hidden from humans. As much as I like humans and have had close friendships and at least one serious love interest, they could not know of our capabilities. We could never be made to travel back in time to serve humanity in order to change history for a political or financial reason. The mere concept was contrary to our set of values and purpose. And, yes, there had been corrupt symbionts as we are just as imperfect as humans. But I would like to think we do try to stick to a code of ethics.

  “Did you have a nice run?” Fitzhugh’s voice met me as I opened the door, allowing Kipp to brush past my legs. The overhead fan was slowly turning; the room felt pleasantly cool, and a breeze that carried with it the scent of grass and flowers worked its way from the front of the house to the back, where it exited through the kitchen windows.

  “Yes, very good.” I took a seat at the dinette and waited, since he was preparing morning tea. “Hi, Juno,” I greeted the elder symbiont. She wagged her tail as she found a nice spot on the floor. Odd, all the spots looked the same to me, but she seemed to have a decision tree at work as she circled and carefully eased herself down on the wooden plank flooring.

  “Kipp and I were talking about the Robin Hood time-shift and tossing around ideas about how to approach it.” I paused as Fitzhugh placed the teapot on the table to let the brew steep. I bit back a smile as he carefully set out the teacups, which were pretty, fragile things, and a pot of honey for me, since he knew I was a heathen and liked honey in my tea. From his point of view, one might add cream or sugar, or even a delicately sliced sliver of lemon in a pinch, but honey was for those of us who lacked in tradition.

  “Well, from our research in the library, it would make sense to start with Ritson and conduct an interview,” Fitzhugh said, after making a big production of fixing his tea to his perfecting standards.

  “What if we travel back and Ritson won’t speak with us? Or, we meet with him and it is a bunch of worthless information?” I poured my tea, adding a big spoonful of honey. The earthy bergamot scent from the Earl Grey became sweeter in my imagination and filled the air. “What then?”

  “Well, you’d be in a position that other symbionts have shared in that the trip you envisioned evaporates.” Fitzhugh shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing lost, nothing gained.” He smiled. “There is one gain,” he added. “Peter and Elani would get a little more experience under their belts.” He laughed. “And Peter would have to wear knee pants and hose, and I can’t think of anything more interesting than his reaction to that prospect.”

  I laughed. I’d lived through those times and recalled the fashions. The positive was that, for once, I would get off relatively light, as the women’s clothes were fairly comfortable. As I thought back, I recalled an empire waist and flowing skirts with no hoops or nasty corsets. Yes, I wouldn’t have to fuss and complain. And that might be a novel experience for everyone involved.

  “Fitzhugh, you don’t think this is a total waste of time, do you?” Kipp asked. He had chosen a spot near Juno and gazed up at us from the floor.

  I was glad we respected and valued our elders. There seemed to be a growing trend amongst some human cultures to find elders to be nonessential. Instead of relying upon information shared down through the generations, things were easily found on computers and tablets, and the days of sitting around the circle of expertise to learn an important skill were gone. It was a sad trend, and I’m thankful we steered clear of it. My concern for humanity was that tossing traditions as easily as discarding a piece of trash would one day come back to haunt people. There was more to be lost than they conceived. And I say that as a very long-lived being, one who has seen a lot over the centuries.

  “No, Kipp, I don’t, and if I did, I would say so. I actually think it would be a fascinating trip, not only to pursue the myth of Robin Hood but also for you to experience the culture of the day. For Peter and Elani, this could be a critical, life-altering time-shift that helps them grow in experience and confidence.” Fitzhugh sat back and his dark eyes met mine. A thin wisp of white hair had drifted over his forehead, and I leaned forward, taking the liberty to push it into place. He winked at me. “We ease our young ones into these difficult things nowadays. When you and I started,” he nodded a Juno, “we just were thrown into the lion’s cage. You, too, Petra.”

  My relationship with Fitzhugh was one of growth and accommodation for us both. Once, he’d been my most vocal critic, and I felt like a child under the supervision of a rigid taskmaster. Unfortunately, my tendency to oppose authority led to clashes that were unpleasantly memorable. But now we were comfortable with one another and sharing secrets that I didn’t even take to Philo’s doorstep. Fitzhugh enjoyed our intimacy, as did I. And it was not a romantic relationship, for the cynical who believe all close relationships must be so. Although I liked to think that he was once a pretty fine catch in the symbiont world—and still could be if he weren’t so entrenched in his way of doing things -- Fitzhugh had spoken of a human woman he’d once loved, but that was many centuries in the past, and he seemed pretty much done after that. I didn’t blame him. I felt the same post-William Harrow.