After living 92 years, the cold of winter doesn’t leave my bones until mid day in the height of summer . But, I am grateful to be able to feel the cold. It means I still have time.
I take pen in hand to fulfill a promise I made to my Lessal. She made me promise that before I come to meet her, to tell my story, to tell the truth about the legends, the truth about the man.
Soon, the gate will open in the court yard, River, my trusted companion, will bark a welcome. Small feet will be heard running up the path through the door and into my arms burying my face in kisses and hugs. The shouts of “Grandpapa, tell me a story” will be heard. One look into that Lessal eyes, and all my defenses will be shattered. I will be forced to put the pen down and obey delaying the promises fulfillment.
Many know the legend; how the man became hunted, the impossible shot that won not only the contest but the heart of a maid. They know how I met him and of our friendship. They know the names of some of the key players, but not all. They know how he opposed the tyrant, gave aid to those in need and the King returning to power. Many have heard but they don’t know. They stop at happily ever after.
Some know the stories that these legends are based on. Some know people who knew these stories first hand. But, they don’t know the truth. I am the last that can say, I knew the man. I alone know the sorrow that filled him, the constant battle within concerning his status of “hero”. The many traps that were set to snare him, his escape from each, except one. The concern he had for his men. The return of the tyrant and the promises that were forgotten by the King. I know the joy of family that consoled us in that time of darkness. I know the truth of his death. I alone know the traitors names and how, through selfishness a family was tortured and butchered. Images that even now haunt my sleep, only to be stopped by those brought froth from the touch of my ever present staff. The same staff I had as a boy, the same I fought side by side with him. The same staff that caved in the head of the traitor, oh the joy I felt as her brains splattered on my face and arms. Blood splashing around my feet as the smell of his guts spilling out filled the air. Even now, so many years later, I still feel satisfaction and a small sense of justice.
My Lessal made me promise to tell my story, so that the truth would always be there for our children. I have done that. They and their children, even their children’s children know the stories, but little Robert is not old enough to learn them, and I fear that before he can, I will be gone, the truth leaving with me. Little Lessal knows them all, but being 7 she my forget, so I feel the need to write while I can.
I hear the gate opening and Rivers bark. Soon sunshine will fill this room and I will be forced to set this pen down.
I have been known by several names, but only a few hold any meaning for me. I was born in a small village called Lyttle, and given the name of Jon by my father. My little Lessal calls me Grandpapa, My beloved Lessal called me, husband. Others, giant or fiend, but the one that fills me with pride, still bringing tears to my eyes, is simply this; Friend, of Robin of Locksley.
I am Little John and this is my story.
