Fairytale Fantasy Week 2026: I just want a good Robin Hood book. . .is that too much to ask????

Fairytale Fantasy Week starts TODAY here at fantastes.com. We love Robin Hood. Don’t we? So why is it so hard to find decent fantasy written or filmed about/around the popular rogue? I know I say I’ll never write about Disney, but oodalolly, people, the 1973 Disney cartoon might be the best of the fairly recent takes on this enduring story.

First, a look backward. Where did Robin Hood come from, anyway? That’s question #1. Then: why were 19th century English authors so fond of the green-hooded fellow, and what did they write? Finally, maybe unanswerable: What is it about HOODS that so intrigues people? Last year’s theme was Little Red Riding Hood. This year’s is the green-hooded Robin. Here’s a general recommendation. If you want to know all there is to know about Robin Hood without getting all scholarly about it, you’d do well to head to the Robin Hood Wikipedia page. Best of all, the Wikipedia entry gives you an extensive bibliography in case you want to take a deeper dive.

Where did Robin Hood come from?

Countless scholars and others have speculated that Robin was based on a real person. The consensus? Maybe. Probably not. This site gives a good quick overview of all the speculations and connections of Robin to actual history.

Whether he really lived or was based on someone like him, some bold and gallant rogue who robbed from the rich and gave to the poor, he was and remains an iconic figure in the folklore of the British Isles. He figures especially as a beloved hero in many of the Childe ballads–folksongs based down through the generations and collected by 19th century anthropologist Francis Childe.

Why was 19th century England so enthralled with Robin Hood?

Anthropologists and folklorists like Childe. . . writers of popular and “literary” and children’s fiction. . . What was it about Robin Hood that fascinated them so completely? One answer: England’s emergence as a world power. Often, a society in this position examines its origins and its heroes and elevates them to consolidate its place in the world. For example: in the age of Augustus Caesar, the poet Virgil wrote his great epic The Aeneid as a way to say to the world, hey! Rome has its Homeric epic too! Rome has heroic origins–we’re not just some backwater Italian bunch of thugs who made good and bullied our way to world domination. For example: in England itself, the stories of King Arthur emphasized the honor and glory of English origins. For example: in France, the tales of Charlemagne did the same.

The heroic deeds of King Arthur and his knights had captured the English imagination in the medieval era and just kept gaining traction, so that in the Victorian era, the triumphant phase of the British empire (“the sun never sets on the British empire”), Arthur became a powerful symbol of national pride and might.

Robin, though, was a humbler sort of hero. Maybe a hero for the people. In Primitive Rebels: Studies in Archaic Forms of Social Movement in the 19th and 20th Centuries (Praeger 1959), British historian Eric Hobsbawm identifies Robin Hood as the typical example of the “social bandit,” seen by the poor as a figure of protest against oppression. They “protect the bandit, regard him as their champion, idealize him, and turn him into a myth” (p. 13). Here’s a good quick site that summarizes that particular Robin Hood theory.

The Robin Hood Childe ballads:

Childe made it his mission to go around the British Isles collecting folk ballads, storytelling in musical form, invented to entertain mostly illiterate people in an era where most people did not read or have easy access to written material. Robin Hood was such a prominent subject of these ballads that Childe devoted a large part of his study to them.

No one knows who invented these ballads first or, often, what their deep origins might have been, but the earliest references to Robin Hood show up around the 14th century, with indications that the legends surrounding Robin Hood may date from even earlier. The ballads Childe collected date from later on–15th and 16th centuries. This web site lists every Robin Hood ballad in the Childe texts–very useful!

Here’s an excerpt from one of the most popular, although this one was printed in S. C. Hall’s The Book of British Ballads (1842):

page from The Book of British Ballads by S. C. Hall
image in the public domain

Because of this 19th century upsurge of interest in folklore, in the British Isles and elsewhere (the Grimm brothers in Germany engaged in similar efforts, and there were others), literary writers began to mine popular folklore for the subjects of their books.

One of the most famous: Sir Walter Scott, a prolific writer of historical (and other) fiction, one of the most celebrated novelists of his day. He used the Scottish Jacobite Rebellion, the court of Queen Elizabeth, and the adventures of Rob Roy MacGregor (a kind of Robin Hood figure) as backdrops for some of his novels. While he never wrote a pure Robin-Hood-themed novel, the most famous of his historical novels, Ivanhoe, features the hooded rogue prominently and embellishes the idea that Robin was involved in the conflict between the Saxon natives of England with their Norman French overlords during the reign of Richard I. In Ivanhoe, Scott combines Robin’s well-known traditional story with his own fictional tale of a Saxon knight’s battle to regain his inheritance. Then Scott further brings in the (sort of) historical account of Richard I’s struggle to wrest his kingdom from the hands of his treasonous brother John. In combining his own imagined tale of a rebel knight with both folklore (Robin) and history (Richard the Lion-hearted), Scott cooked up a literary best-seller.

The novel (and all of Scott’s work) has fallen out of favor recently, not least because Ivanhoe (reflecting the culture from which it emerged) is hideously anti-Semitic, but Scott is universally lauded for his contribution to the development of the historical novel. That subgenre, I contend, should be considered speculative fiction just as much as science fiction. We can’t really retrieve the past–we just think we can. But it is as remote from us as Mars, and just as much subject to imaginative speculation based on (scientific? historical? fact). And the historical novel is also a ripe genre for hybridization with fantasy elements. Think, for example, of Madeline Miller’s Circe, or Susanna Clarke’s absolutely magnificent Jonathan Strange & Mister Norrell.

One more 19th century example: Howard Pyle. Pyle was both a writer and an illustrator specializing in editions of adventure stories for children–actually, by his lights, boys, but pfft, we girls have enjoyed them too. Pyle often chose beloved traditional adventure tales to illustrate and retell. He illustrated a popular collection of pirate stories, a volume of King Arthur stories, and also a compendium of Robin Hood stories, which he stitched together into a novel: The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood (1883). You can read these free on Project Gutenberg, but I found it difficult there to access Pyle’s marvelous illustrations. I had more luck at the Internet Archives web site. Here’s one of Pyle’s Robin Hood illustrations. This one depicts the story of how Robin Hood induced Friar Tuck to take him across a river on his back. Thigh-slapping hijinks ensue. And by the way, Robin Hood’s men are called “merry” in the medieval sense of “stout-hearted,” “stand-up.” But of course we modern readers think “merry” and we think “guffaw.” Therefore, in modern Robin Hood retellings, the merry men are always yucking it up. Sometimes they are in the ballads too, to be fair, and the medieval origins of “merry” do mention jollity along with mere agreeable or pleasant or stalwart traits.

Howard Pyle's illustration of Robin Hood and Friar Tuck
By Howard Pyle – Project Gutenberg, image in the public domain

The takeaway: Robin Hood is a figure who has been popular among English-speaking peoples since at least the late medieval period, and probably earlier. He enjoyed a big revival of interest with the 19th century rise of folklore studies. That interest continued into the 20th century, especially when the new medium of film (like all new media), hungry for content, voraciously devoured Robin Hood and spit him out onto celluloid. More about that in a later post. It remains to see whether the Brave New World of the 21st century will find Robin as fascinating as earlier centuries always have–at least in the English-speaking world–but isn’t the underdog rogue or outlaw figure always fascinating?

So onward into fairytale fantasy week, in which I will explore my own Robin Hood categories–not scientific, especially because they overlap quite a bit:

  • Some interesting Robin Hood retellings
  • Robin Hood favorite characters
  • Robin Hood revisionist history
  • Robin Hood on film and other media
  • Other rogues we love, perhaps influenced by Robin, the arch-rogue himself
  • My favorites

Oh, yes, that hood thing. What is it about the hood? A lot of these stories, including Robin Hood and Little Red Riding Hood, originated in the medieval period, where hoods were a prominent part of the peasant wardrobe. Here’s a nice overview.

A detail from an illustration posted on http://www.fashionfusionpost.com/unisex/medieval-peasant-clothing-a-complete-guide

But why do we still like the hood? Sometimes we like rogues who don’t wear hoods. I mean, Zorro, a Robin Hood-type figure, doesn’t have one. He does have that mask, though. . . Maybe it’s enough to say we love an underdog, we love a sassy rogue who flouts authority, especially an oppressive authority, and leave it at that.


A speculative fiction advent calendar of quotes: Dec. 11, 2025

The Stars My Destination, by Alfred Bester, was first published in 1956 as “Tiger! Tiger!” Part Gulliver’s Travels, part Count of Monte Cristo, Bester’s hugely entertaining space opera is one of the classics of the Golden Age of SF.

cover of "The Stars My Destination," science fiction book by Alfred Bester
cover of 1957 Signet Books edition, retrieved from Wikipedia under Fair Use policy

Six novels take a serious look at alien communication, part 6: Ursula LeGuin, The Dispossessed

Here’s the last in my series of posts reviewing six SF novels with alien communication as a main plot point:

Cover of first edition of Ursula LeGuin's novel The Dispossessed
Cover of first edition, downloaded from Wikipedia under fair use stipulations. For more about this novel, go HERE.

The Dispossessed, Ursula LeGuin, 1974

LeGuin’s amazing book in her Hainish cycle won the Nebula (1974), Hugo, Locus, and Jupiter (1975) Awards for best novel. It’s the story of a scientist from a utopian anarchist society who attempts to share new important knowledge with a neighboring militaristic society, and at great personal risk. One interesting side-issue in The Dispossessed is the brief explanation of one of LeGuin’s more enigmatic SF inventions: the faster-than-light communication device called the ansible.

It’s easy to take the ansible mention out of context, because The Dispossessed is not essentially about alien communication at all. But I am intrigued by how this device popping up repeatedly in LeGuin’s fiction–and seemingly reverse-engineered in The Dispossesed to create an origin story for it–really might be about a different communication problem entirely. This is why many readers think LeGuin’s work transcends genre, why you might need to take it out of the SF framework. I don’t mean take it out entirely. The SF genre and tropes give LeGuin the means to write about what really moves her–and us, the readers.

Throughout LeGuin’s Hainish cycle of novels, the ansible has allowed people to communicate instantaneously across stars and galaxies. The online Historical Dictionary of Science Fiction details where you can find these references in LeGuin’s fiction. Similar to the way Isaac Asimov’s invented word robot was taken up by other writers, a number of writers of SF have appropriated LeGuin’s ansible, as the dictionary entry shows. Unlike robot, ansible did not go on to become a household word. While robots are feasible, more and more so as the years roll on, faster-than-light communication is not.

Or is it? On the face of it, the ansible is a space opera-type solution similar to the one in Cinxin Liu’s The Three-Body Problem (see the preceding post). Neither is a physically possible or plausible technology, although perhaps Liu’s quantum entanglement explanation for his sophons might make it seem more so. (HERE is an argument counter to mine.)

In LeGuin’s fiction, the reader simply accepts the ansible as part of the world-building. Why do I accept such a device–or, well, “willingly suspend my disbelief” about it–in LeGuin’s novels but not in Liu’s? LeGuin’s brilliant writing and her insights into the way culture shapes communication overwhelm any skepticism I might have about an “ansible.” I don’t get sucked into the author’s vision in The Three-Body Problem as powerfully. AND YET: what we will swallow in the name of fiction varies depending on who is doing the reading, maybe more than who is doing the writing. So it may simply come down to a matter of taste that I sail right past the ansible but not the Trisolarans and their sophons.

In The Dispossessed, LeGuin suggests an origin for the ansible in the theories of her main character, a scientist. The word ansible itself doesn’t have any scientific basis. LeGuin supposedly said she had been trying to make up a term suggesting “answerable.” As The Dispossessed begins, her scientist character Shrevek is about to leave his isolated utopian anarchist home on the moon Anarres. He will travel to the moon’s planet, Urras, where he hopes to share his new theoretical understanding with a wider audience. Shrevek is motivated by the benevolent wish to do good to all humanity. As a young man, he wrote a paper on a topic known as Relative Frequency, which got him the attention of senior scientists on the moon world–but also got his work quietly suppressed. Now what LeGuin calls his General Temporal Theory is highly sought after on Urras. Beyond a fun shout-out to Einstein, LeGuin doesn’t go into detail about these theories.

Scientists on Urras flatteringly encourage Shrevek to defect to their planet, where he can be properly appreciated. Shrevek doesn’t fall for the flattery, but he does see an opportunity to disseminate his theory. Once he gets to Urras, however, he gradually realizes how deeply he is being used; that the warring powers on Urras hope to misappropriate his discovery to dominate their world and beyond. He doesn’t even write his theory down, keeping it all in his head. Otherwise, as one of the faction leaders warns him about a rival faction, “They’d have it.” And, presumably, use it for warlike ends. Trapped in this nest of rival conspirators, Shrevek has to decide how to keep his integrity intact, and his theory safe.

Among the applications of Shrevek’s theory is the faster-than-light ansible, which has made its appearance without much explanation in a number of LeGuin’s earlier Hainish novels.

I really love this book. I don’t think it answers any questions about alien communication, not really. The ansible remains a space opera device; Shrevek’s General Temporal Theory is never really described. It remains a MacGuffin, a fictional device without any inherent meaning of its own except to drive the plot. What are we to make of it, then? Why is it in the novel, and did LeGuin really mean for it to form the underpinning for her ansible communication device?

I think Shrevek’s theory should be understood more as a symbol than either an exploration of a real theory, on the one hand, or a convenient space opera trope, on the other. Here in LeGuin’s self-described “ambiguous utopia,” Shrevek’s discovery holds infinite promise for good yet is inevitably in danger of becoming corrupted, held hostage to the worst elements of human nature. Perhaps we can see Shrevek’s theory as a stand-in for the potential that inheres in our nature and keeps struggling to emerge, even while other forces attempt to buy it or destroy it.

Perhaps we readers are asked to see Shrevek’s divided planetary system as a stage to play out humanity’s age-old dilemma. The ending of the novel asks that question, I think, and the jury is out: how we will answer it and whether in our answer we will end up thriving or destroying ourselves. The communication issue is our own, the conversation we are continually holding inside ourselves and in the larger society, not some alien out-there consciousness. What is right? What is the good? And do we strive to serve the good, or our own base grasping after power and possessions? The Dispossessed is a novel of and for our times.

With that to mull over, here’s the next. . .

Speculative Fiction Advent Calendar of quotes. Quotation for Day Five, Dec. 5, 2025: