Song of the Sparrow
Page 2
What could be wrong?
Please, tell me. What is it?
Tirry?
I look to my elder brother.
He returns my gaze,
Aurelius is dead.
Poisoned by a Saxon spy.
Ambrosius Aurelius,
dux bellorum,
leader of all Britons,
the general whom Arthur follows,
whom all of us follow — murdered?
As the meaning of those words
slowly becomes clear,
I hear the roar
of voices and the thudding
of boots.
Not a minute to rest from battle.
Everyone is running.
Running toward the center of camp,
to hear the news
of the death of
Britain’s hope,
our gentle leader
our fiercest warrior.
What will happen to us?
I ask.
The Saxons, those beasts,
they will pay for this.
We will avenge this murder,
and the ground and the rivers
will run red with Saxon blood,
Lavain growls.
There is a wild look in his eye,
as if he were not now
wholly human, as if
the animal nature that lurks
in every soul,
has taken possession.
His anger fills the room,
smothers the air.
I cannot breathe.
What hope do we have left,
when the head is cut
from the body and
all the men, like Lavain,
become possessed by rage,
fear, and hatred?
When order and
faith
splinter?
Father? What will happen?
He shakes his head and
his shoulders shake.
Tirry rests a hand on Father’s arm
then turns to look at me.
Hot heads, and he glances at Lavain,
will serve none of us well.
A new leader must be chosen.
As if an angel has heard us,
Arthur is coming! Arthur!
a man calls from outside the tent.
My friend’s name is spoken
across the camp,
spreading like cool salve on a burn.
Arthur — he could lead us, couldn’t he, Father?
I ask him, plead with him, beg him.
Please
say it is possible,
say we may be
saved.
My father and brothers
run from our tent and join the stomping
of boots on packed earth,
following the other
men to the center of the camp.
The warriors gather, but I am not welcome.
Or so Lavain tells me, hurling the
words like rocks over his shoulder.
Stay here. The meeting is no place for a girl.
Leaving me here, alone,
to wait and wonder.
What will become of us?
My heartbeat throbs in my ears,
like drums of war.
A quick boiling heat fills the
hole left by Lavain’s callous warning.
As I watch their backs retreat,
I know I will do what I
always do.
They will not leave me here, alone.
When have I ever let them
do as much?
And so I march out
of the tent, smug and proud,
but keeping back a distance,
weaving between mud-streaked,
grass-stained tents, hovering
behind a stand of birch trees,
until I see the ring of men.
The white birch bark is silver in
the moonlight,
and the sweet perfume of leaves
mixes with the scent of living earth,
the menace of rot lurking below.
The Round Table is
Arthur’s meeting hall. Beneath a
ceiling of cloud and stars,
this circle of thick, wooden benches
worn from hundreds of moons of travel and
hundreds of hands worrying their
rough, knotty surface, is placed
evenly around a great fire pit.
The Round Table is
Arthur’s and his men’s statement
of glory, their symbol
of brotherhood, equality.
But tonight, the brothers
grieve together.
The men circle around a bonfire,
its roaring fingers tearing into
the night.
The thrumming of sobs and
rage and violence
fills the air.
A mournful murmur is all
that reaches me.
I dare not move any closer,
and against the firelight,
the figures are darkened silhouettes.
And then I see him.
Arthur is in the center of the circle,
pacing around the fire,
hands clasped behind his back.
Then one fist cuts through the air.
My fingers find the trunk
of the tree I hide behind,
grasping its warmth,
its steadiness.
On this night when the earth
rocks beneath my feet,
the birch tree is solid.
But its
papery bark
peels away,
leaving a sticky sap
that coats my fingernails
like blood.
Arthur stands straighter than most men,
his eyes hooded and sharp.
Tirry once told me he would
follow Arthur blindfolded
and unarmed
into a battle.
I told him he’d better not try it.
But that is the power Arthur has over the men.
I wonder,
if women were allowed to fight,
would we feel the same
allegiance?
The same instincts?
Arthur is my friend, but I
cannot imagine.
Tristan asked me once if I
wished I could fight alongside
him, my family, the others.
I told him very bravely,
very boldly, I would fight
to protect this land,
my brothers, my father,
my friends.
Tristan laughed at this.
We hardly need protecting,
he said. We fight to protect
you.
I can protect
myself, I snapped back.
I know I would
fight for this country.
It is all we have,
all we are.
Now, as Arthur paces back and forth,
the murmur rises,
a gentle roar.
I rub my fingers together,
the lifeblood of the birch
sticky and hot.
There are strident voices,
and Arthur moves toward
points of the circle,
his hands moving
up
and
down,
as if he were
soothing.
Lancelot, his black hair
gleaming in the firelight,
hurries to Arthur’s side,
appears to speak, then others,
Gawain, Tristan, my brothers, stand
beside the pair.
But, several men stand up
and stalk away,
away from the circle,
from Arthur’s Round Table.
What is happening? I whisper
to myself.
Where are they going?
Do they leave in anger?
I hurry back to our tent,
eager for news from my brothers.
I pace the small room, the walls,
the thick folds of my
roughly woven dress
imprisoning me,
keeping me from the
affairs of men.
I live in this camp. For
more than half my life
I have lived here,
and I fight these wars
with my healing.
Why should they keep me
from the Round Table?
Again I feel my temper
begin to flare,
as happens these nights
when I am left behind.
But before this familiar frustration
can continue, Tirry and my father return.
What happened? I ask.
Arthur takes up his uncle’s mantle.
He shall lead us, Tirry answers.
My father is shaking his head.
He is worn and tired.
Tirry, too, looks battered,
more so, even, than after the day’s battle.
There is unrest among the men, he says.
There will be trouble.
There will be trouble.
Who will make the trouble?
Who will find it?
I do not sleep until I hear Lavain’s heavy
footfalls outside the tent.
He enters and throws himself
down on his pallet, on the other
side of the sheet that hangs
between us, to give me a measure of privacy,
grunting quietly to himself.
I worry that danger will find him
before the new moon comes.
Brash Lavain.
And Tirry’s words echo in my head,
There will be trouble.
I remember that night,
nine years ago,
only in flashes,
images in my mind.
Golden leaves coated
silvery white in the
first frost of autumn.
Golden leaves on
branches gently scraping
against the thick-leaded
windows.
Father and Tirry away on
some errand, and
I asleep in my mother’s bed,
warm from the fire that
was petering out,
warm from the fur covers
I burrowed under.
A banging on the door,
Lavain’s childish voice,
high-pitched with fear.
He burst into the room,
his eyes wide with terror.
Mama! he screeched.
They are outside — they are
everywhere. Picts!
He trembled like one of those
golden leaves in the wind.
My mother moved fast.
She grabbed my arm,
her grasp so tight I gasped
with pain and surprise.
Then she took Lavain by the arm,
too, his mouth a perfect O.
He struggled,
I want to stay with you!
Then we were inside a hamper
woven of reeds,
Lavain on top of me,
and white sheets
thrown over him.
I pressed my face to the side
of the hamper,
tiny points of light
giving me a window into
the room, and my mother
standing still as stone,
a dagger clutched in her hand.
She looked like a
warrior goddess from the ancient legends.
I grasped Lavain’s ankle or
wrist, and he was still shaking.
I watched the door, the old oak
door that had existed for hundreds of years
in this house, scarred by the touch
of my ancestors,
I watched that old oak door explode into
a thousand pieces,
a great sword, brown
with dried blood,
come through it, then an arm,
an arm painted with blue
stripes,
terrible blue stripes
followed,
and then a body painted
all over. Then two more.
Stripes and crescent
moons of blue covered their
faces and chests and
forearms.
A blue of storms and death.
A blue to drown in.
The musty stink of the
dirty linens was too close,
stealing my breath,
and I felt my throat close.
An arm of blue moons
grabbed my mother,
forced the dagger from her hand.
It sang tunelessly as it clattered
to the stone floor.
Where are your sons? A growl,
a strange accent, a voice from
hell that stays with me
still.
I have no sons, she answered.
Barren.
barren
barren
I heard her say it.
The man who spoke first
grunted and a second
stepped forward, swords
pointed at her heart,
and I heard her gasp.
gasp
gasp
He placed his hand over her womb
then grunted to the others.
She does not lie.
does not lie
does not lie
Useless dog, the first seethed.
Then a flash and a red
rose opened up on her chest,
staining her white robe,
blooming before my
eyes.
Lavain went as stiff as a piece of wood.
I pulled my face from the tiny reed windows
and closed my eyes.
Squeezed them shut,
against the sounds of the Picts
rummaging through
my mother’s chests and
drawers, picking up
her treasures and trinkets
and dropping them again.
Against the sounds of screaming
downstairs,
the voices I knew to be our servants.
Against the sound of my mother
falling to the floor.
Until we smelled smoke.
Then I was outside, the
gold leaves a mirror
of the fingers of flame
caressing the window frames,
doorways of the house,
the silver frost, an echo of smoke.
Ash fell like snowflakes,
coating our hair
eyelashes
arms
clothes.
The ashes of my home
of my mother.
We wore them for days,
as Father and Tirry carried us on
their horses, mounted before them
like sacks of grain.
Lavain did not speak.
He was silent as though those
blue devils had cut out his tongue.
I do not know for how long we rode.
I do not remember sleeping on hard turf,
or feeling cold.
Though I must have.
It was nighttime when we reached the camp.
When my mind began making sense
of what it saw and heard again.
In the torchlight I could see Lavain’s face
was smeared with dirt,
streaked with ash.
His eyes were still wide with shock,
so white
so white
against his dirty ash face.
He looked like a scared, wild animal.
Frightened animals.
Arthur, younger then,
stepped forward,
caught my father in his
arms in an embrace.
Then Tirry.
He pressed little Lavain’s shoulder,
then put his hands on my hair,
petting, stroking.
And I felt safe,
a tiny bit,
for the first time again.
Poor children, he murmured.
You are welcome here,
in this camp,
into this brotherhood.
Lavain, someday, no doubt,
you will be a fierce fighter.
Aye, I can see it in your eyes.
But for now, you must take care
of your little sister.
Lavain turned away sullenly,
but I alone saw him blink
back tears.
Arthur looked to me,
What a brave girl you are,
indeed, I’ve never met a girl
so courageous.
There are not any others
here to keep you company,
but you have a whole army
of brothers now.
He gave a sad smile and
stepped back.
Then raven-haired Lancelot came to us,
kneeling to look in my eyes.
And I felt I was standing in
the sunlight, as though
his bright gaze alone could warm
my frozen insides.
He had blankets for Lavain and me.
And once more I felt protected.
Finally, a young boy who could not
have been more than a few years
older than Lavain
presented me with a doll
unevenly sewn of corn husks and rags.
He turned to Lavain and placed
a wooden sword in his hand.
He said his name was Tristan.
His golden cat eyes shone in the dark,
his mouth downturned, his brow
creased as though —
as though he knew.
And it was not more than a
year later that Lancelot came for
Lavain, who still didn’t speak,
still choked by rage, horror,
guilt.
Lancelot, who was the best
and bravest of Arthur’s men, came
himself, for Lavain, to take him to training.
It was time for him to become
a soldier too.
I began to cry, when I saw
Lancelot’s form in the entryway
to our tent.
My brother,
though silent, was my only
companion,
the only one who stayed with me
when the others left for war.
Lancelot came to kneel before me.
Why do you cry, Elaine? he asked,
brushing away a tear
with his thumb.
It was coarse, but the gesture
halted the other tears,
smoothed them away.
Because you fear you lose a playmate?
I nodded.
Well, I promise you, Lancelot told me,
if ever you feel lonely, you may
look for me, and I shall keep you company.
I stayed silent, unable to imagine
begging the famed Lancelot to
play with me.
But, true to his word,