Colin's Conundrum

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1Colin patted the neck of his ancient horse. “Poor Stormcloud,” he murmured to the beast. “You're done in. We'll have to stop soon.”

The horse snorted in response, shaking its silver mane.

“I know you've been a gray all your life, friend,” he told the animal as they crunched side by side through the undergrowth. “You worked hard during my father's time and quite a bit of mine. Now, with that sway-backed gait and your sore feet, you look very much like the old man you are. Let's just take it easy, shall we? I know life is waiting for me, but surely nothing will go horribly wrong in my absence. Bullock is perfectly capable, and my tenants all know what they need to do. They're going to be fine. Meanwhile, I can enjoy these ancient woods one last time before I settle in to work hard for the rest of my life.”

He frowned at the melancholy turn his thoughts never would stop taking.

“As for you, Stormcloud, this is your last journey as a beast of burden. My friend Christopher has promised to find a nice, quiet place for you to live out your remaining days, with better feed and more congenial company than me.”

The horse turned to look at him with what appeared for all the world to be a sour expression.

“Sorry, friend,” he said with a bitter chuckle. “I'm in a poor state today. Too much has gone wrong in my life, and I can't feign hope anymore. Bear with me. Your toil will soon be done.”

Feeling ridiculous, he fell silent, listening to the calls of birds and the buzzing of insects. A breeze stirred the leaves of the ancient trees and set them all whispering.

His worn boots crunched softly in the leaf litter. The saddle creaked on the horse's back, though his small pack constituted its only load. Everything I own is failing, and I can't replace anything, he thought. As though in response, a cool breeze sprang up, blowing a puff of tree-scented air into his face. He inhaled deeply. Fresh air is free. Friendship is free. Hard work is free. Life goes on, Colin. Never forget that.

Squinting up through the trees, he took in the angle of the sun. Keep heading east. Sun at your back. It's getting late. Maybe there will be a comfortable barn without angry dogs ahead. I hope so. It's sure I won't make London today.

A sense of difference slowly registered on Colin. A soft rustling of leaves paired with quiet piping that did not sound like larks. That's not birdsong. What is it? Colin moved forward along the trail. The horse's hooves crunched in the dry leaf fragments, wafting a scent of last winter's decay to clash with the fresh leaves, grass and flowers. Always something to bring a fellow back to reality, he thought. Spring may be a time of hope, but always winter waits just beyond the horizon, poised to sink claws and fangs into anyone who dares believe too much in those promises.

“Goodness, you're moody,” he told himself aloud. Up ahead, the soft piping stopped.

“Who goes there,” a voice called, drawing Colin's attention upward into the impenetrable canopy of a sturdy oak. Though he could see nothing, the sound reminded him of a youth, perhaps a young boy poised on the brink of adolescence. Even when I was so young, did I ever sound that carefree?

“Are you going to ask me to stand and deliver?” he quipped back, amusement tugging the corner of his mouth. “I haven't much to offer, save a worn-out old horse and an empty leather pocket.”

The leaves rustled and the branches shook. “I'm no highwayman,” the disembodied voice replied. “Since when do they climb trees?”

He laughed at the youth's tone of irrefutable logic. “I have a friend whose wife is from India. She says leopards hide in trees and drop down on the unsuspecting prey below. If beasts can do it, why not highwaymen?”

A trilling laugh drew an answering tingle from Colin's insides. But surely that's a… His thought cut off as a voluptuous golden figure dropped from a low branch onto the path before him. The horse snorted at the unexpected appearance of this seeming apparition of spring, but being old and tired, he did not react in any other way.

Colin, on the other hand, experienced an immediate and visceral reaction that began in his guts and radiated outward and downward until his every hair stood erect and his manhood showed signs of following suit.

Dear Lord, what a beauty. From her disheveled golden hair to the tips of her bare toes, she burst on his senses like sunlight through forest branches, calling to mind the legends of the fair folk and the nature spirits said to haunt the wild places of England. Though his rational mind shut down his musing in an instant, his tongue uttered a bit of nonsense that seemed to fit the moment. “ 'How now, Spirit. Whither wander you?' ”

The head tilted to one side, sending a shower of loose golden locks to pool and cascade over her shoulder. “ 'Either I mistake your shape and making quite,' ” she quoted back at him, “ 'or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite call'd Robin Goodfellow.' ”

Her return of quote for quote left him blinking. He drew in air and his lungs fought the mundaneness of such an action. “ 'Thou speakst aright. I am that very wanderer of the night.' ”

She beamed, showing white teeth that overlapped charmingly in the front. “Well, then, Puck,” she continued, dropping the Shakespeare in favor of common speech, “what brings you to these parts? Oberon and Titania have no plans to revel in woods so close to our sleepy little village.”

“Just a traveler passing through, sprite,” Colin admitted, “and not a very interesting one. But tell me, what town is it?”

Her grin turned to a wry twisting of lips. “I do hope you're not lost. The path you were following is used more by deer than men.” She turned and scanned the flattened undergrowth behind them, as though it would answer some question for her. “Well, if you continue this way, you'll end up reaching the pond.” She gestured vaguely to the south before turning back his direction. “The mill is there, to be sure, and you can reach civilization that way, but if you'd rather be more direct, walk with me. The charming village of Loughton lies straight ahead, just through the trees. There is an inn there.”

Slowly, Colin's senses were returning to him. “So you would consent to guide me then?” he asked, noting her archaically formal speech pattern and imitating it.

“I suppose I must,” she said with a dramatic show of suffering. “Poor Puck. If I don't show you the way to town, the fairies will certainly carry you off to their revels, given you seem to know all their names. They'll transform you into a changeling and make you consort to a fairy princess.”

You are the fairy princess, sweet, Colin thought, once more eyeing the vision of nature's loveliness brought to life. “Well, then, I would thank you for your assistance,” he said, “but are you certain it's wise for you to be in the woods alone? Unless you're truly a fairy, you might be in some danger out here. I'm harmless, but what if some other fellow wandered into the wood and found you?”

“Far more danger in town than here,” she muttered, her grin fading. Or at least, that's what Colin thought she said. Clearly, she didn't mean the comment for his interpretation. “Come along, Puck. I know I'm safe from you, mischievous spirit.” She gestured forward and began walking in the direction she'd indicated, leaving the trail and crunching through the undergrowth.

Interesting. Sticks and leaves must be digging into her bare feet, but she shows no sign of discomfort. “Do you have a name, lass, or shall I call you Titania?” he asked her, tugging on the reins to urge the horse along. Stormcloud released a grumpy snort and began to step delicately onto the low groundcover, as though it feared soiling its iron shoes.

The girl gave an unladylike snort at his quip. “I would prefer Titania,” she admitted, “but no one I know would allow me such a title. I'm actually called Daisy Granger.”

“It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Colin told her.

“Likewise. It's rare to meet anyone who knows Shakespeare so well. And are you really called Robin Goodfellow?”

The absurdity of the exchange tickled Colin's sense of humor, and he couldn't help emitting a bark of rusty-sounding laughter. “Sorry, Miss Granger, no. Colin Butler at your service.” He deliberately omitted his title—Damned little good it's done me to have it—and waited to see if she would react.

Miss Granger turned her head and shoulders to give him a quick and considering glance. “Mr. Butler, eh? Are you a butler? And here you were presenting yourself to be a fairy.”

He chuckled. “No, ma'am. A butler in name only.” More's the pity. Honest work and far fewer impossible decisions. He tugged the horse forward again, drawing along beside her in the spaces where the trees allowed such a movement, following closely behind when they did not. “It's a lovely day, isn't it?” he asked, then frowned at the banality of the comment.

“Indeed,” the girl agreed. “Spring is my favorite time of year.”

You look like spring brought to life. Damnation, my life is unfair. If I were a humbler man, I could court this lovely lass. If I had anything to spare, I could offer carte blanche, but I have nothing, save a few moments of conversation. Despair, always looming beneath his veneer of civilized stoicism, threatened to engulf him. Ruthlessly, he squashed it down. Don't brood. A moment of lively conversation is a prize in itself. Enjoy it without ruminating. “I've always appreciated spring,” he murmured. “A season of hope and rebirth. A season of the promise of green and growing things to sustain us through the long winter.”

She paused to consider him. “You sound more modern, suddenly. Like Wordsworth or one of his ilk. Do you enjoy poetry as well as Shakespearean plays?”

He shrugged. “I like to read. Because I'm essentially a farmer and live close to the land, Wordsworth makes sense to me. I've always found his writing appealing.”

“Without farmers, there would be no food,” Miss Granger commented as she resumed walking. “Food, far more than money, provides the nails that hold everything together. It makes sense to venerate the farm and what it provides, even in these days of industry.”

Colin couldn't help but grin. “You're a natural philosopher, sprite. When next I see my friend, who is a great lover of industry, I'll have to tell him what you said.”

Miss Granger giggled. “Will he be offended?”

“Far from it,” Colin replied, adding his grin to hers. “When he's not weaving fabric and repairing looms, he's devouring poetry. He loves it. I think he might singlehandedly be sponsoring half the serious poets in Britain. And when he finds something, he's not shy to share.” I'll not be around to listen to the poetry Christopher discovers anymore, Colin realized sadly. Maybe he'll send me some of his best finds from time to time. Might break up the monotony of endless work.

“Sounds like someone I would like to meet,” she agreed. “I prefer plays to poetry, but I appreciate either one. Are you a particular poetry aficionado?”

“More or less,” Colin agreed amicably, pushing away gloomy thoughts in favor of an enjoyable conversation. “My friend Christopher has become fanatically devoted to Robert Browning, and I have to admit, I find his work… thought-provoking, if somewhat ragged in style. Tennyson is my personal favorite of this particular crop. His elegant style and otherworldly topics fascinate me.”

“The otherworldly is my specialty,” she replied with a grin. “A Midsummer Night's Dream, The Tempest, even Macbeth make me happy.” Her grin widened.

Colin bit his lip to stop his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Lord, she's pretty. Like a summer's day. If only things were different.

The wooded thicket opened up into a grassy meadow. A brook meandered through one corner. From the brook, a loud quacking revealed the presence of many ducks. On the far side of the meadow, a small collection of charming thatched-roofed cottages appeared; the town he hadn't realized he'd been seeking. They lay along either side of a comfortably broad central path, from which other paths wound and meandered at angles that in no way resembled a grid. A couple of plump children in sturdy garments laughed and chased one another among the houses. A dog snoozed in a patch of sunlight. A fat duck led a line of golden ducklings out of town toward a glimmer on the horizon that seemed to be a pond.