The Archery Contest

In Nottingham, where Kristopher was born, archery contests drew both champions and spectators from far and wide. Kristopher’s father, Simon Little, was the Sheriff of Nottingham, whose duties included calling the contestants to order and announcing the victors.

No one doubted that Samuel of Locksley would win the prize cup, as he had for several years. Nevertheless, a giddy air of anticipation swept over the fairgrounds. This was the first contest since Samuel’s father, Lord Randol, had died the year before. Samuel was now fully the Lord of Locksley, and his many admiring followers looked forward to his performance.

On that warm spring day, flowers had begun to bloom. Young ladies wore bright lilacs and dandelions in their hair as they ran about in small groups, hoping to draw the attention of the boys. Most of the boys though were far too engaged in fierce swordplay to notice, even if their swords were actually only freshly fallen branches gathered from the edge of Sherwood.

Suddenly the Sheriff blew his shofar horn, and the antics came to an abrupt halt. Two dozen archers joined Lord Samuel at the far end of the fairgrounds. Among them were the Sheriff’s three nephews, James, John and Jacob Little, the sons of Jared the Carpenter and his wife Molly.

Jared and Molly stood nearby with their four daughters, all of them cheering for the boys. Hooligans by nature and apprentice carpenters by trade, the Little boys knew they had greater chances of flying than of beating their friend Samuel in the contest. Still they participated for love of the sport.

The townsfolk in the crowd whispered, laughed and made one last rush to the vendors of biscuits and raisin-cakes, while the archers spared no drama in stretching, testing the wind and fiddling with their bows and arrow feathers. Lord Samuel alone stood calmly and confidently at the center of the line of archers, patiently waiting for the games to begin.

Well, not alone. One other archer, a tiny old man with a bushy white beard stood quite still at the very end of the line. The man wore an old wide-brimmed hat pulled tightly over his head, obscuring his face in shadow. His cloak also was tattered and a bit overlarge, completely covering him from his neck to his feet.

Each contestant was afforded a single warm-up arrow that would not count in their scoring. Still the crowd watched the practice round with keen interest, looking for clues as to who might give Lord Samuel a proper challenge this year.

James congratulated his younger brother John after both of their arrows found places about halfway between the center and the outer edge of the target. The two older brothers consoled young Jacob when he missed the target entirely, giving one of the raisin-cake vendors a good scare. They urged him to put the mishap from his mind and coached him on ways to improve his posture for the actual contest.

The crowd roared its delight soon after, when Samuel walked lazily up to the line and sent an arrow thudding into the center circle. The entire target teetered on its stand with the force of impact. The other contestants followed with their own practice shots, ranging in quality from mediocre to even more dangerous than young Jacob’s.

Kristopher watched it all with mild amusement. While he appreciated the value of a skilled archer, he favored the surety of a wooden staff for personal defense. Given a choice, he preferred avoiding violence altogether. From as far back as he could recall, Kristopher had planned to enter the priesthood and live a life of devotion to God and His Church, promoting peaceful resolutions between his fellow men.

His father, Simon the Sheriff, had quite effectively modeled the power of patience, listening and applying other Godly principles in his work. Kristopher hoped to carry these lessons to an even greater level, helping men to draw closer to God rather than simply to act within the bounds of the local law.

Kristopher watched curiously as the last contestant, the bearded old stranger, slowly drew back his bowstring. There was something oddly familiar about the old man. His arrow lobbed in a funny arc through the air and barely snagged itself on the outermost ring of the target.

The crowd applauded politely, impressed that such an elderly creature was participating in a young man’s game and equally pleased that his arrow had not endangered any of the spectators. As the old man made his way slowly back to the end of the line, the Sheriff gave a quick double blast of the shofar horn, and a pair of boys from Nottingham ran forward to set up a fresh target.

Soon the contest was underway in earnest. For the first round of eliminations, each archer made three shots and the two best were counted for scoring. Kristopher made the calculations on a wax tablet and relayed the results to his father who bellowed them to the waiting crowd.

Only half of the archers scored high enough to continue into the second round, during which the group was halved once again. By this time, the sun was blazing hot overhead. Archers and spectators alike retreated underneath canopies for a lengthy intermission featuring pulled pork, honey mead, and the first strawberries of the season, all sponsored by the Locksley estate.

By mid-afternoon the contest resumed, and another round in which the best three of five were counted brought the remaining line of competitors down to three. They were Lord Samuel, naturally, as well as a visiting squire from Derby, and to everyone’s astonishment, the tiny bearded old man. The latter had seemed to hang on in the contest merely through a series of well-timed lucky shots, barely squeaking past other archers in the point calculations.

As shadows from Sherwood began approaching the fairground in the late afternoon sunshine, the contest was essentially viewed as a showdown between young Lord Samuel and the middle-aged squire from Derby. The Sheriff chose not to see the widespread exchanging of wagers in the crowd favoring Samuel at odds of greater than twenty to one.

The best four arrows of seven determined the next elimination, which to the shock of the entire town fell upon the man from Derby. Wearing an amused grin, Lord Samuel bowed respectfully to his elderly competitor. The old man offered a stiff bow with a flourish of his hand in return.

Traditionally, the final showdown contained an element of speed in addition to accuracy. Two targets were set up, one for each of the remaining contestants. Five arrows were to be sent into each target. These would receive the normal point count based on placement, but an additional three points were awarded to the archer who was first to release all five of his arrows.

Lord Samuel made a concerted effort to waive the speed requirement for his opponent out of respect for his age. However, the old man shook his head and waved his hand in an obstinate wordless refusal for any special treatment. Seeing that his opponent simply would not budge, Samuel finally gave a shrug and agreed to finish the contest as equals.

A high-pitched single honk from the Sheriff’s horn marked the start of this final event. Lord Samuel’s arms and fingers flew in a blur of activity. The sound of the shofar seemed still to echo in the air, and all five of Lord Locksley’s arrows were sunk deep into the packed hay behind the painted cloth target. Four of his arrows shared the limited space inside the center circle, and the fifth protruded its feathery shaft just one ring out.

All of this had happened so quickly, that the spectators had little time to absorb and much less to comprehend how the old man that had moved so slowly and stiffly throughout the day had matched the timing of Samuel’s shots down to the exact moment. A seeming eternity of eerie silence consumed the fairgrounds before the Sheriff called out the surreal sounding words that no points were to be awarded for the speed bonus, for with regard to that component of the game a perfect tie had been reached.

The crowd continued to gape in silence. The majority of mouths were hanging open awkwardly. These included Kristopher and Lord Samuel’s, as all eyes were fixed upon the most unexpected of sights. From the center circle of the old stranger’s target protruded all five of his feathered arrows.

Eventually a trickle of applause began from somewhere near the back of the crowd. The entire assembly hesitantly joined in, though the accolades never seemed to reach full volume.

The old man shuffled slowly toward the Sheriff. He arrived within a few paces of Simon, whose face had grown no less baffled. The old man proceeded to bow to the Sheriff. This act caused Simon, as if possessed by the will of another, to hold out the small golden award cup engraved with the words ‘Nottingham Spring Archery Contest Champion in the Year of the Lord 1279.”

The old man seized the cup, bowed slowly again to the Sheriff, turned, and similarly saluted first Lord Samuel and then the crowd. Another smattering of applause followed, and the old man began making his way toward one of the canopies, presumably for a drink.

No one else moved.

Finally, Lord Samuel broke through the stunned immobility that had fallen over the fairgrounds by striding forward and reminding Simon that his duty as Sheriff included declaring the completion of the contest. Nervously, Simon raised the shofar horn to his lips one last time and weakly pushed air through it producing an off-pitch bleating sound that fizzled in the air.

He licked his dry lips and called out, “The springtime archery cup for the county of Nottinghamshire in this year of Our Lord 1279 goes to the esteemed gentleman from…”

Only then did the thought occur to Simon the Sheriff or to anyone else on the fairgrounds, that the origin and identity of the victor was a complete mystery. With the Sheriff’s unfinished sentence hovering like a cloud, all eyes turned toward the canopy where the old archer had retreated.

The space underneath the overhang was completely unoccupied. The old man had disappeared.

The Jaguar's Heart

Hispaniola, 1573

Captain John Littleton and his swashbuckling crew were ready for action. Their sloop cruised through the inky black water as thick clouds hid them from the light of the moon and stars.

The Spanish in their mighty galleon, La Tortuga, were completely unaware of the pirates until Captain John yodeled forth his battle cry. By then, the entire galleon had been swarmed by silent men in black.

The swish of swinging swords, the ripping of flesh and the screams of the Spanish sailors rang out across the sea. Those to whom the dark pirates granted mercy were bound at the wrists and ankles, while the pirates searched the vessel for its treasure.

The usual doubloons, precious stones and pearls were divided evenly among the men, after of course, a portion had been set aside to aid the poor islanders oppressed by the Spanish colonials.

Captain John kept but one gem for himself. He stared into the gleaming facets of the giant red ruby, nearly the size of a man’s fist.

“Surely the legends of the Jaguar’s Heart are just foolishness,” he whispered at the gem. “Yes, I will sell this piece in London for a good price!”

Captain John never reached London. His ship was intercepted by a rival privateer who had just returned from bountiful raids in the Pacific and purchased the giant ruby for a hefty sum indeed.

Tragically, John Littleton was killed by vengeful Spanish musketeers just two weeks after this transaction. The Jaguar Heart’s purchaser, Francis Drake, went on to experience an entirely different destiny.