by Sarah Earlene Shere, ©2025
(May 2, 2025) — “Green is not your color,” Georgiana laughed at her twin brother, who was getting lost in the folds of the cloak he was attempting to try on.
Finally free of the garment, George rolled it up in his arms and set it on the bench beneath the hooks on the wall; pulling down the wrap was easy enough, but his limited stature kept the lad from attempting to return the item from where he found it. Whichever guest at his uncle’s inn to whom it belonged would just have to pick it up off of the bench. George scowled thoughtfully. “Well, someday you won’t laugh; no one will. Someday I’ll dress all in green, like Robin Hood, and, like him, I’ll travel the countryside, robbing the rich and giving to the poor.”
Again, Georgiana laughed. “Well, you’ll have to start right here. We, dear brother, are the poor.”
“The poor. The rich. It doesn’t make any difference. They’re all the same, all robbers and tyrants, each in their own way.” The children, suddenly hushed, fixed their eyes on the man who spoke from the shadows, just past the fireplace. The deep slurring voice droned on, “Know why Robin Hood always wore green? Because he was a coward; it kept him hidden in the forest. He was no brave warrior. He was no brilliant scholar or political genius. He was a weak little coward who didn’t know any better way to fight than to use trickery and weaponry.”
George stepped forward and to the defense of his hero. “But that’s just what made Robin Hood so great; he was a man, like anyone! He wasn’t perfect, but that means we can learn from him. He was weak, which makes us believe we can do great things too! He did the best with what he had, and he did what he believed was right. No one can ask any more of themselves or anyone else.”
There was no immediate reply from the shadows past the fireplace, but a man slowly rose from there. Silently, with bowed head, he made his way across the room toward the door next to the hooks on the wall. His profile was lit up by the firelight, revealing a patched eye and scars upon his cheek. His wrapped hands picked up the rolled-up cloak and unfurled it around his shoulders. He paused before reaching for a worn green hat with a broken feather. Turning, the children saw a tear in the man’s good eye as he smiled and placed the hat upon George’s head. “Here’s to the next Robin Hood,” then in a choked voice, “Godspeed, me lad, and thank you!”