He looked across the village green to a small huddle of folks, dressed in T-shirts and shorts, mostly. They surrounded a boy, tall and skinny, his long brown hair flopping over his face. The boy, holding a long bow, reminded him of a lamppost gone wrong. Seemingly without effort, the boy drew the bow and loosed an arrow, standing motionless as it thudded into the centre of the distant target, joining two others there. A ripple of applause went around the small crowd watching.
Yes, he’d do. He’d do very nicely!
He’d noticed the old man standing at the periphery of the crowd. It was hard not to. Although the sky was filled with cumulonimbus clouds, towering up to distant anvil-shaped plateaus, the air was full of the warmth of summer. He, himself, wore a red T-shirt, green shorts and sandals. The old man, on the other hand, wore a black trench coat and top hat. Maybe it was some kind of costume. Yes, of course, that was it!
He handed the bow and arrow to the next competitor, wishing him luck, as the old man approached.
“You shot them arrows real good!” The old man spoke with an American accent.
He noticed the old man’s thin lips and green eyes, the pupils just black slits. Like a snake, he thought. “Thanks.” –
“What’s your name, son?”
“It’s Sam, er, Sam Torresi.”
“How d’you learn to shoot so well?”
“My grandad owns an archery shop, he teaches me ….” He hesitated, unsure whether to confide in a stranger. He pushed his unruly mop of hair back from his sweaty forehead. “I’m at theatre school in town now though … so I’m out of practice.”
“Theatre school. Hmm. Well I figure I can help you out there, son.”
“How?” The boy looked wary, but interested. Good!
“Well, so happens I can make you an offer that’ll get you what you want.”
“I’d like to be famous. In the movies!”
“Exactly! And I can get you just that!” His thin lips formed a smile, showing yellowed, smoker’s teeth. –
He regarded the old man’s face. The cheeks were hollow, the skin tawny, but curiously unlined, as if he’d had an endless series of facelifts. “Yeah, as if! Look are you selling something?”
“I guess I’m sellin’ … dreams.” The old man reached into his coat and pulled out a photograph and a wrinkled, folded-up letter. “You ever hear of Elvis Presley?”
He reached out to take the documents. Momentarily he touched the old man’s hand. It was like ice. He read the inscription below the smiling handsome face. ‘To Tom, thanks for making my dreams come true, affectionately Elvis.’ The letter had the same handwriting and talked about shows and recording dates.
“How do I know this is real? And who are you?” –
“They call me The Colonel. I knew Elvis’s momma and poppa, Gladys and Vern. I managed him for over twenty years!”
The boy regarded him with curiosity. “But then you’d be real old, I mean real old!”
He laughed. “When you have money you can have … things that ordinary folk don’t know about.”
The boy blinked, silent now. Almost hooked!
“Look, let’s cut to the chase. I’ll make you famous. In return, I’ll give you a deal. You shoot one of your arrows, only one mind. If it hits the bullseye then there’s no charge.” –
He knew he couldn’t miss, but played along. “What if it doesn’t?”
The old man removed his top hat and held it against his chest, revealing long wispy grey hair. Suddenly he looked very old. “You meet me here, in this exact spot, in eighty years’ time, eight o’clock on Christmas Eve. Then you pay the price I ask.”
He imagined the green transformed, white with a blanket of snow. Heated tents adorned the field and coloured lights hung from poles. In the centre was a huge Christmas tree, covered in sparkling white lights and glittering baubles. Crowds of warmly dressed folk laughed and smiled, drinking hot beverages and mulled wine. And the old man stood there, in his black trench coat and top hat. As black as death. He shuddered. “OK.”
The old man followed him to the now-empty target range, and watched him retrieve the bow and an arrow from a tent. No one paid attention to them.
“Remember, Christmas Eve, eighty years from now. Right here. Eight o’clock in the evening. Only if you miss, mind!”
He nodded and stood straight, at the shooting mark, the arrow in place. The old man smiled. He hesitated, then grinned back. What the old man said didn’t make sense, but he nevertheless couldn’t help but believe him.
He drew the bow and, feeling a strange mixture of nervousness and confidence, sighted the arrow just as his grandfather had taught him. He took a deep breath. Just then, a huge black bird swooped down in front of him, flapping its wings and disappearing off over the field, making him flinch as he released the arrow. With a sinking feeling in his guts he saw he’d missed the bullseye. “That wasn’t fair. I’m taking it again!” He looked around but the old man was nowhere to be seen.
He returned the bow and arrow to the tent. Huh, never mind, the whole thing was nonsense!
On coming out, a man was waiting. He looked vaguely familiar. His face was flat, not handsome. “Hi, I’ve been hearing good things about you!” The man proffered a card.
He felt surprise, but, yes, he was probably top of the class in most acting disciplines. His singing and dancing were coming along too. “Yeah, sure.” He took a proffered card from the man’s hand and examined it. “Quentin Tarantino, hey, I’ve heard of you!”
“We’re auditioning for a live action version of Young Robin Hood. It’ll be a warts an’ all account!” Tarantino smiled and winked. “You’ve every chance of being chosen.”
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