Song of the Sparrow

by Lisa Sandell

  light and laughter turn dark,

  filled up with sorrow.

  I feel my own eyes grow wide with surprise.

  We have never spoken so seriously,

  nor at such length.

  And I admit, he continues, I was not

  entirely innocent, either.

  But you must have been a child!

  I exclaim.

  Yes, and so was she.

  She was too young to be wedded

  to an old man, and her mother,

  knowing this, cursed us both.

  But why? I ask. Why you?

  None of this makes sense.

  She gave Isolde a potion,

  a draught to drink

  to make her love my uncle.

  But, mistakenly, I drank of it, too, and was

  thus cursed. We deceived my uncle,

  and when he learned of it,

  he banished me from his kingdom.

  Tristan looks up at me, his

  eyes piercing the farthest

  reaches of my soul.

  And so you see, love holds no

  promise for me. I shall never love

  again. He looks away.

  And thus, this life of

  war is the one for me.

  Tristan, I say shakily, it was

  not your fault. Do not say such things.

  I want to pull him

  from this black mood, from these

  blacker thoughts.

  He chuckles grimly.

  Now you know my dark secret.

  It was long ago, and while I

  cannot forgive myself, distance

  has been kind. And every day

  I feel grateful

  that the betrayal was not requited.

  He looks thoughtful,

  far away, but then he comes back

  to me.

  Well, I am not sure how

  it is that I came to tell you all this,

  but let us talk of happier things.

  Yes, I say, let us wish for days

  of peace, when we may make our

  home in a copse of birch trees,

  like this one, without fear,

  without cursed love.

  He stares at me curiously.

  Then says, The hour grows late.

  I must get you back to your father.

  In the moonlight, I could swear

  that Tristan is blushing.

  But we bid good night to the

  silvery trees and bid good night

  to each other outside my father’s tent.

  The camp feels different this morning.

  It is as if the sunlight has

  swept clean the

  muck of fear and uncertainty.

  The air smells fresh and

  is filled with …

  hope?

  Even the horses

  seem to feel it.

  As I pass the stables,

  I can hear the stamping of

  hooves, restless snorting, and

  excited whinnying.

  I am down by the

  River Usk, washing out

  laundry, pounding

  sheet against stone, rubbing

  sand into the folds, rinsing

  and scrubbing and

  wringing.

  On most days, I would hate this

  dull, backaching chore,

  but on this brilliant morning,

  the scent of soap and lard

  lingers in the spring air,

  mixing with the perfume

  of daisies and all that is

  living in this world.

  And it does not bother me

  one whit.

  The rich melody of

  the blackbird’s flutelike call

  beckons to me,

  and then I hear

  the rumble of footsteps

  and voices.

  There she is!

  a booming

  voice calls out.

  A golden-haired head

  is now visible over

  the crest of the hill. Then,

  another, and a single, darker head.

  Gawain, his

  youngest brother, Gareth, and

  Tristan

  are coming my way.

  Elaine, what are you doing?

  Tristan’s voice is cheerful and,

  as he moves ahead of

  his companions and nears, his

  yellow-green cat eyes

  glow with mirth.

  What does it look like

  I am doing? I retort,

  smiling back at him.

  How can you do laundry

  at a time like this?

  He grins and Gawain and

  Gareth lope down the bank

  and come to examine

  my basket of linens.

  The day is a beautiful one,

  a day of new beginnings.

  It is not a laundry day, Tristan scolds.

  We are off to fight by the

  rise of the new moon,

  Gareth adds eagerly,

  clapping his brother

  heartily on the shoulder.

  He is like a small boy

  boasting of a new toy.

  And Lancelot shall return

  by tomorrow, noon,

  Gawain intones.

  Tristan stretches like a cat.

  The men joke

  that he is by far

  the most handsome of them.

  But I prefer Lancelot’s

  dark looks.

  What?

  I never used to have these

  thoughts.

  What has come over me?

  But the mention of Lancelot’s name

  quickens my heartbeat, though I

  try not to let my feelings show.

  Tristan studies me closely, and when

  our eyes meet, I drop mine abashedly.

  He grins.

  Nothing escapes his notice.

  I twist my hair into

  a knot at my neck,

  realizing how improper

  I must look,

  mud on my knees, my

  skirts tied around my thighs.

  Quickly, I unloose my dress,

  and glance up to see a red blush

  creeping over three

  unshaven faces

  at once.

  Come, Elaine. Tristan

  is the first to break

  this awkward silence.

  Come and eat with us.

  All this washing must be making

  you hungry, and you should

  not delay your noontime meal,

  for there is to be

  another feast tonight by

  the Round Table.

  I try to recall what

  was life like

  before these boys,

  these men.

  And I wonder, what

  would life have been like

  if I had never known them,

  if Mother had lived.

  Surely I would miss them.

  I wring the moisture from the last sheet

  and fold it quickly, laying it

  on top of the rest of the laundry.

  I will hang everything to dry after lunch.

  As we walk back to the center of camp,

  Gawain keeps pace with me, matching his

  longer stride to my

  shorter, quicker one.

  You are looking forward to

  the fighting? I ask the

  great giant of a man,

  looking up into his friendly

  face that is ruddy with sun.

  Tiny lines crisscross

  at the edges of his eyes.

  The fighting ages him, too.

  I do not think it fair

  to say I look forward

  to it, Gawain replies.

  Gareth is young and

  still eager to prove his worth

  in battle.
But, as you must know,

  our father, Loth, is one of those chieftains

  who left two nights ago. I

  cannot help but feel as

  though I must fight harder,

  must prove myself all over again

  to make up for my father’s absence.

  It is unforgivable, his leaving.

  And I am ashamed.

  Gawain looks down.

  But Arthur surely knows that

  a father’s acts say nothing

  about his son’s, I say. Your mettle

  and worth have been proven

  time and again, Gawain. There

  is not a man in this camp who

  believes you are in any

  way responsible for Loth’s

  leaving.

  What about woman? he

  asks with a rueful grin.

  Nor woman, I tell him,

  patting his huge hand.

  Elaine, you are a true

  friend, he says.

  I can detect a trace

  of gratitude in his voice,

  as though a fear has been

  allayed.

  And we walk on, through

  the camp, together, in silence.

  By the rise of the new moon.

  Gareth’s words echo over

  and over in my mind.

  The moon begins to wane.

  This means the men will leave

  within a fortnight.

  How many times have I

  watched my father,

  Tirry, and Lavain march off

  to fight? More than I

  can count.

  But this feels different,

  final, somehow.

  A seed of dread

  has begun to flower in

  my belly, and tears spring and

  sting my eyes.

  How will I ever let them go?

  The nearness of their departure

  has brought me back to

  sewing, odious chore it is.

  But I must finish mending

  Tirry’s cloak before he leaves.

  Before he leaves.

  Suddenly a sharp pain

  shoots through my

  finger.

  Droplets of blood leak

  onto the heavy wool

  of the cloak.

  I’ve pricked myself,

  something I haven’t done

  in years.

  I watch the blood spread,

  swallowed by

  strands of thread,

  sinking, darkening, staining.

  An omen?

  I feel my throat closing, thick

  with tears, and I cannot breathe.

  I drop Tirry’s cloak to the ground,

  throwing it from my lap

  as if it itself is a curse.

  Then I run from the tent,

  tears blinding me.

  My feet lead me to the

  birch trees.

  I stumble to the

  ground.

  The earth is soft and cool,

  carpeted with leaves here.

  I lie down, my cheek against spongy moss.

  Teardrops slip off my cheeks,

  making small wet pools on the ground,

  on my hands. They slide into my mouth,

  the salty taste

  stinging my tongue.

  The tears come faster,

  burning my eyes.

  I cannot stop crying,

  afraid that I have courted

  disaster, horrible images

  of brothers, father, friends

  in pain, running through my mind.

  This battle, Arthur’s plan —

  I am so frightened of it.

  Then I hear the whisper of

  footfalls approaching.

  I look up to see Morgan,

  wrapped in a robe of indigo,

  standing above me.

  Elaine! Worry seeps from her voice.

  What is wrong? What is it?

  B — b — bad omens. But I am crying

  too hard to explain.

  My dear, hush, Morgan

  kneels beside me and

  strokes my hair.

  Panic and fear fight

  to consume me.

  Warm arms so thin

  they feel like a tiny robin’s

  wings encircle me.

  I lean into Morgan’s embrace,

  allowing her to continue petting my head.

  Morgan, I whisper,

  I am sorry.

  Hush, child. Be still.

  No apologies.

  Her breath is soft on

  my cheek,

  mixing with hot tears.

  I spread open my hands and a faint

  dot of dried blood marks

  my finger.

  What is it, Elaine? What

  has upset you so?

  I am so frightened, I tell her.

  Frightened, dearest?

  Morgan continues to stroke

  my hair as though I were a small child,

  as my mother did when I tripped

  and scraped my knee or

  knotted my wool as we were weaving.

  What are you frightened of? Morgan asks.

  Losing them, my father. My brothers, I reply.

  This march on the Saxons, I continue,

  it does not feel right. And now,

  now I have gone and given

  Tirry bad luck.

  How did you do that? Morgan murmurs.

  I — I pricked my finger as I was

  mending his cloak. And I

  left a spot of blood.

  The blood — it is an omen.

  I am afraid to let them go.

  The tears return, filling

  my eyes, spilling down

  my cheeks.

  I wipe them away as quickly

  as they fall.

  Shhh, Elaine, come with me, Morgan says.

  Let’s get you washed and calmed.

  And we can talk

  of these things.

  She helps me to my feet

  and leads me back to her tent.

  It is on the other side

  of the camp,

  nearer to Arthur’s.

  Once I am seated in the cool interior,

  she puts a cup of wine

  in my hands.

  I take a sip, its

  sour heat warming my throat,

  clearing away the bitter taste of fear.

  She brushes a damp cloth

  scented with lavender

  over my forehead,

  down my cheeks and again,

  I think of my mother’s calm hands

  easing my childhood terrors.

  Let us talk, Morgan says.

  I nod and draw a deep breath.

  This march on the Saxons,

  I understand it, but

  it scares me, I explain.

  Our men have always defended this

  land, its villages and people,

  as the Saxons or Picts have

  attacked.

  But they have never met our

  enemies in a battle of our own

  making.

  Morgan looks thoughtful, then says,

  Yes, it is true. Her brow wrinkles as

  she considers her words.

  But I cannot help but feel

  this battle, too, is of the Saxons’ making.

  A tall shadow suddenly fills

  the tent entrance.

  Brother. Morgan looks up

  as Arthur haltingly enters.

  My sister. Arthur gives

  a small bow. And Elaine.

  He looks surprised as he notices

  me. Am I interrupting?

  He looks unsure.

  His eyes flick from

  Morgan’s face

  to mine.

  Oh, Arthur, enter. Morgan sounds

  almost

  impatient with h
er younger brother.

  Certainly I interrupt.

  Arthur smiles uneasily.

  May I help?

  Morgan glances at me,

  a question in her eyes.

  It is my choice,

  to include Arthur or not.

  I have known him so

  many years now, and he has

  long been a friend.

  But today he is different.

  Today he is dux bellorum.

  I shift in my seat,

  suddenly nervous.

  Arthur, I begin.

  I am about to tell the leader

  of all Britons that I

  disagree with his strategy.

  What am I thinking?

  What right do I have?

  Yes, Elaine? Please, what is it?

  I can see something troubles you,

  he says.

  I must admit, I begin, my voice

  trembling, I am frightened.

  For the first time, I think, Arthur laughs

  gently, our brave Elaine admits

  fear? I do not believe it.

  He grows serious. Please, Elaine,

  tell me what troubles you.

  I take a deep, shaky breath.

  I am frightened by the plan

  to attack the Saxons.

  Initiating a battle seems,

  somehow —

  I search for the right words.

  wrong.

  Murderous.

  Most of all, I — I fear

  it will only invite ill fate.

  Arthur sits slowly on the bench

  nearest me. His

  eyebrows are knit together,

  and he appears to actually

  be weighing my words.

  We have shared jokes and

  casual words so often.

  But talk of battle plans?

  Never.

  Elaine, I would be lying

  if I said I had not considered

  these same arguments carefully.

  We have always fought

  defensively, waiting till our villages

  were attacked. The thought of our

  meeting the Saxons offensively

  sickens me. That we have to

  meet them at all saddens me.

  But they continue to pour into

  our land, unhindered and in

  great numbers.

  We must meet them and

  stop them,

  drive them from our shores

  for good.

  Now.

  I fear that if we wait

  any longer, we will not be able to

  stop them. They will outnumber us,

  and they will have reached too far into

  the heart of this land. I fear they will

  stamp out the Britons, enslaving us

  and bending us to their will. They

  are so many, and we are so few.

  So very few.

  He looks as though a very

  heavy load rests

  on his shoulders.

  Indeed, I imagine,

  that load is real.

  Arthur — I begin.

  No, do not apologize

  for declaring your fears,

  he says.

  I would there was another way.

  But I cannot see one.

  He pauses.

  Elaine, I remember the first time

  I met you.

  You were so young,

  so scared. It nearly broke

  my heart to see you so.