Friar Tuck's Tales For The Common Outlaw

By Joe Heilman

Friar Tuck's Tales for the Common Outlaw is a collection of little stories so mischievous that by merely considering their meanings you could quickly find yourself made public enemy number one!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9780615955582

Book preview

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictitious. Any resemblance to real, or actual persons and events, are either coincidental or used by permission.

Friar Tuck’s

Tales For The Common Outlaw

Copyright © 2013 by Joseph P. Heilman

All rights reserved

Ebook edition

Cover design & layout: Chelsea Heilman

Editing: Elizabeth Liskey, Robin Seiple

ISBN: 978-0-615-95558-2

To the storytelling bookends of my life:

Granny,

To whom, I grant purple permission to see the King!

My children, Lilly and Jed,

May you come to understand one day...

Contents

Fresh Hot Soup

God’s Falling Light

Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs

Raji & The Lawn

The Morgue Attendant

Captain Ultra: Beginnings & Endings

Captain Ultra: Snow

Captain Ultra: The Rooftop

Hogard

The Circus

The Last Sermon

Treadwalla

The Devil & The Man Who Did Not Dream

House Money

Bobby’s Rock

The Suitcase

Introduction

While rummaging through an old, and rather rare, collection of books kept in the attic by a friend and wealthy collector, I stumbled upon the following. There was no date I could attach to it, and my friend informed me that he had no idea he even possessed such a work, nor had he any interest in keeping it.

Being curious, I took it home and found, to my surprise, strange notes and messages written in an outdated code within the margins and in between the various stories. For your convenience I have deciphered it and written it out in a more legible form.

It seems the collection belonged to someone known to us only as Sparrow and was compiled by a Limner Jakes. However, the stories are attributed to one Friar Tuck. Whether this is the Friar Tuck of fable, or only an alias, I do not know. More curious is the fact that the stories are modern and some even futuristic. Yet the inscriptions and condition of the book itself are ancient, possibly dating back to the 15th century. Hopefully you can see, as I did, how magical this collection is, and why I have chosen to publish it for your consideration.

Best regards

J.H.

Sparrow,

Our mutual friend has informed me that you have shown interest in certain tales of a curious nature. Since we have never met, please excuse my use of an assumed name. One can never be too careful.

The stories that you now hold have existed for many years but only as whispers in sitting rooms or mumbles in the darker corners of pubs, as the safest place for keeping them has always been the human heart. That they have now come to you in written form is quite rare and, need I say dangerous, as any such previous books or collections have all but been banned, burned, or eliminated.

But before going any further, certain things need to be made clear about the man himself and his intentions.

Firstly, you must know that F.T. (dare I spell it out) and I were companions for a time. The tales I’ve included I overheard while lingering in places that, shall we say, most men of piety avoided.

Nor were such stories always completely understood. It seems that F.T. was given to a rather vivid and innovative mind.

His tales, as you will see, take place in random settings, some of which, I dare say, he only saw through a divine imagination as one looking into the future.

Also, never let it be said that he was an outsider to the established church. The truth is that he was once a devoted disciple himself, and a close friend to the business he ultimately tried to enlighten. Needless to say such visions were not greatly appreciated, nor welcomed, but hasn’t that always been the case?

Lastly, know this: His deepest desire was for the world to realize that we have all been included in a Great Embrace. That we have been entwined in something so magnificent, it at once steals your breath and yet relaxes the human spirit the way nothing else can - the reality of God’s unearned favor!

Now that you possess these tales keep them safe! See in them a deeper meaning, and if you dare, prayerfully ask, Could it be true?

Limner Jakes

Fresh Hot Soup

The sign read "fresh hot soup." It was a raw night. Not cold enough to snow, but cold enough to chill to the bone. A light drizzle fell and a harsh wind blew every now and again making the rain move sideways and sting.

He had been trudging for hours, wet foot weary and stomach empty. He had no home, no family, and no money. Cautiously, he pulled open the door that emptied into a spacious dining room. A warm orange glow filled the place. The floor was polished oak, and there was a fire burning in the corner behind glass windows. The lights hanging from the ceiling were turned down low, and the tables were neatly set with polished silver rolled in white linens.

With a small step inside the doorway, he stood there a moment taking in the scene with an uncertain look on his face. Customers occupied about half of the tables, couples mostly. A young lady dressed in black and standing behind a podium nearby startled him. He mumbled a few words and followed her to a small table set for two near the corner. Laying his pack down he sat facing the door. At first, his haggard eyes darted around the room, but then they simply looked down at the table.

Startled, yet again, his head popped up as an attractive woman stood beside his chair and offered him a menu. Meanwhile, a young man came along side of her and poured water into one of the crystal glasses placed there on the table. The man shook his head and declined the menu. He muttered a few words that she smiled at, and then, taking the menu, walked away.

Within minutes the server returned with a tray containing two bowls. One was covered by a napkin while the other had steam rising from it. She carefully lifted each off of the tray and placed them in front of the man. He stared down into the steaming bowl put before him. As soon as she turned her back he grabbed the spoon lying beside it to plunge in. But then he hesitated for one moment more to study his meal. It was a rich brown broth with mounds of beef and vegetables lying in it. The aroma filled his lungs. The steam rising up into his down-turned face soaked into his pores. The spices tickled his nose. Then, gently, he dipped the spoon into the bowl, took it to his mouth, and closed his eyes to savor the taste. Quickly awakened, he hurriedly uncovered the second bowl filled with fresh cut bread and grabbed a slice.

Hunger swelled. He tried to hold back so that no one would notice - so no one would see just how famished he really was. He desperately tried to slowly sip the soup and delicately dip the bread, but it was no use. Faster and faster he plunged the spoon into the bowl. Like an animal he devoured it all.

After thoroughly wiping the mostly empty bowl with his very last piece of bread he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. As he sat motionless he could feel the food working its way through him and he knew this would be the end. His stomach, after days of gnawing at him, had finally won out and cost him dearly this time. A mad dash toward the door, if he even got that far, and it would be over.

Still searching the table and bowls for crumbs, his mind wandered back to when he was a child in Sunday school. There he once heard a story about a hungry man who had traded his birthright for a bowl of soup. He couldn’t remember the man’s name or even how old he was when he heard the tale. But deep inside he knew that no matter how much time and space between he and that man, they were the same. Like so many down through the ages, passion had won the day and the consequences would soon follow.

His server returned and took up the bowls. She flashed a pleasant smile and inquired as to his enjoyment of the meal and if he’d be having any dessert. The man shook his head as politely as he could, and she walked away. He knew she would soon be returning with the bill. How long would he have to make his break? If he fled at once, she would turn and catch him. But if he waited too long she would be back and expect payment.

Within a few moments she disappeared behind the doors leading to the kitchen. Now was his chance. Quickly he grabbed his pack from beneath the table. He scanned the room. Everyone was absorbed in conversation. The wait staff was nowhere to be seen. No one was watching him. No one was looking. He briskly rose from his seat and headed for the door. He reminded himself to walk quickly and not to run, to fix his gaze confidently in front of him and not look over his shoulder.

His escape was only a few feet away as he braced for what he knew would be coming at any moment: the shriek of angry voices behind him, the cruel hands roughly grabbing at him, demanding of him. He shot out his hand, punched the door open, and the next moment he was once more baptized into the stark elements of stinging rain and bitter wind. For a few seconds the wasteland he had been wandering for days seemed like a refuge. But as he broke into a run, with the rain soaking him again and the puddles splashing up into his shoes, his oasis quickly returned to its actual form.

He knew that this was where he truly belonged and wondered how much longer he could continue until his luck would run out. He searched for a place to hide and maybe shelter there for the rest of the night...

Inside, the server emerged only to discover that her patron had vanished. A large man with a shirt and tie, who looked to be the owner of the establishment, followed her out of the kitchen. After first inquiring of the server, he then walked over to the young lady behind the podium and asked her a few questions as well. She shrugged and sheepishly looked toward the door. The man seemed displeased and walked over to the window where a sign hung. Peering out into the night he looked both ways and shook his head. He then pulled up the curtain that had been hanging directly above the sign to reveal the full message that was printed upon it:

Come! All you who have no money

Come, buy and eat!

Without money and without cost buy

Wine, milk, bread,

&

Fresh hot soup

God’s Falling Light

On a warm summer evening along the boardwalk heaven cleared its throat to speak...

Tourists packed the resort area on vacation from as far away as Vancouver and Wyoming. The smell of the late August ocean breeze and cotton candy wafted about as Friday evening began to get underway. In celebration of yet another glorious summer’s end, makeshift stages had been set up every few blocks between the hotels and restaurants. Upon them, the best local bands were invited to perform for the teeming crowds wandering by. Sometimes these bands would bring their own audience, although, the best of them always attracted attention. A well-played familiar tune could catch an unsuspecting ear and cause a passerby to pause for a moment and listen, and quite a few would make an entire evening of it. Often people of every creed and color would bring their picnic baskets and spread their checkered blankets on the grassy lawns next to the boardwalk to enjoy the blues or jazz. Young couples would cuddle close and dream of the future as the music washed over them. Blooming families would watch their little ones run around playfully as overpriced ice cream dripped down their chins. Older couples would bring their lawn chairs, hold hands, and reminisce as they smiled at the children. They might even dance a tune or two if Benny Goodman or Duke Ellington was on the menu for the evening. On this night, however, it was rock and roll.

The band had begun about seven o’clock as the sun was still high and only just beginning to think about setting. They hadn’t brought a crowd with them, but they were loud enough that