Song of the Sparrow

by Lisa Sandell

  and I feel I might burst.

  You could have me, I whisper.

  The words just slip out.

  I gasp and feel the blood drain

  from my cheeks. I cannot believe

  how I have spoken.

  You? he asks, and his eyes are cold,

  cruel. You are naught but a child, Elaine.

  You would not understand.

  My heart, what was left of it,

  shatters. A thousand little pieces,

  shattered and scattered over this

  wild moor, seeded in the grasses.

  I gasp, and turn away.

  My body feels wooden and dead.

  Lancelot does not turn to watch me.

  He just stares out

  into the distance.

  Then I turn and run.

  I run back to the river,

  as if a wolf chases me for my life.

  I imagine great, slavering fangs

  nipping at my heels, and almost

  wish it would devour me, but

  I strip off my dress, loosening the

  ties that bind it, and throw it to the ground,

  and I dive into the river, letting the cold

  water cover me. I push myself

  down to the bottom, until I feel the slimy

  rocks and silt dancing beneath my toes.

  I puff out my cheeks and keep my breath

  close, until I can hold it no more.

  Then I glide upward to the surface and

  take in a great mouthful of air.

  As I turn to look around at the willow tree,

  I notice a figure on the camp-side shore.

  Gwynivere.

  She is watching me closely, her cornflower eyes

  squinting against the sunlight.

  What were you and Lancelot

  talking about? she asks, her voice

  filled with poison.

  What do you care? I answer,

  surprised by the loathing

  in my own tone,

  surely, it is none of your

  concern.

  You really are a beast,

  Elaine, taking off your gown

  and swimming like

  some wild thing.

  I flip onto my back and begin to

  kick, propelling myself close

  to where she stands and kicking

  harder, splashing water

  onto her feet.

  Oh! You are horrid! she screams.

  Yes, I reply, I know. A wild beast.

  And I kick some more,

  sending water droplets onto her dress.

  Gwynivere moves backward a pace,

  then sticks out her tongue at me

  and runs back to camp.

  Some lady you are! I call after her.

  I swim to the opposite shore, and

  shake the excess water from my arms

  and legs. I pull on my dress,

  which clings damply to my body,

  then find my way back to the stepping-stones.

  And I laugh to myself,

  all the way to our tent,

  until I remember that I did not bring

  back any milfoil.

  The pile grows daily.

  Every man in the camp

  has brought me at least one piece

  of clothing to mend.

  I have no choice now,

  but to ask for help.

  To ask Gwynivere for help.

  I try to string the right

  words together, then

  rehearse what I will say.

  Gwynivere, I have too much

  mending, and I fear —

  No, I do not want to admit fear

  to her.

  I have much mending to do,

  and need your help —

  No, I do not want to admit to

  needing her.

  I approach her tent and

  cough, hoping that will attract

  her attention.

  Who is there? Lance —

  Her eyes, at first bright with

  a smile, turn fiery.

  Oh, it is you. What do you want?

  Gwynivere, I do not know why

  you hate me, but there is

  too much mending to do for one person.

  Will you help me?

  She looks at me coolly, as if

  weighing her options.

  No, I do not think I will.

  I care not for sewing, and find it

  beneath me. Unless it is sewing a standard

  for Arthur to bear into battle, do not

  speak to me again of sewing.

  She turns and lets the tent flap

  fall closed in my face.

  Fury heats my blood,

  and I want to scream.

  No one, not even Lavain,

  has ever spoken to me the way she does.

  No one.

  Oh, how she fools all the men

  with her pretty looks, her

  fair skin and soft hands and

  luminous eyes.

  A gown woven by faeries

  could not disguise her cruel nature.

  But I do not know how to respond,

  and as these thoughts,

  and —

  and my jealousy

  yes, jealousy

  wheel through

  my mind, my tongue sticks

  in my mouth, as though a little

  jaybird has flow in and caught

  it like a worm.

  I hate her. My tongue is unloosed suddenly.

  I am shocked by this evil, black

  feeling that fills my gut.

  I have never felt such,

  such hate before.

  Whom do you hate? Tristan is beside me.

  Tristan, you are like a ghost! I hate how

  you sneak up on me, I snap.

  Instantly his friendly expression

  droops.

  I am sorry, I sigh. I just —

  Whom do you hate? he asks again,

  the smile returning to his eyes.

  No one, I grumble.

  No one with long yellow hair and

  gowns far too fancy

  for an army encampment?

  he teases.

  I can only stare at him agog.

  How did you know? I breathe.

  Well, I have never seen such an

  expression on your face, in all the years

  that I have known you.

  I see where you stand,

  and so, I figured, it must be

  the newest addition to our happy camp.

  I sigh. Yes, well,

  you guessed correctly. I

  do not understand it, Tristan. She is

  so remarkably cruel to me.

  I am seething again.

  Yes? Well, then I hate her too, Tristan says.

  What do I do? I cannot be her friend;

  she has no interest in friends, I shout.

  Unless that friend is Lancelot.

  Or Arthur, I suppose. I cannot

  catch my breath. But this I also

  do not understand: She flirts openly with

  Lancelot, yet everyone knows she is betrothed

  to Arthur. How can she behave so brazenly?

  My face is red, I can feel it.

  Tristan is suddenly serious again.

  I cannot tell how things will end, but

  this friendship — Gwynivere and Lancelot’s —

  it does not bode well. I like it not, he says.

  Though Arthur seems not to notice …

  or not to care, I add.

  Yes, I have noticed his not noticing, as well,

  Tristan says, thoughtfully. I cannot imagine

  how he could possibly be blind to it. Perhaps —

  perhaps there is another reason. Perhaps

  he does not care whether

  Lancelot and Gwynivere flirt under

  his own no
se. Tristan strokes his chin.

  Well, anyway, what do we do about this

  would-be princess? Tristan asks, grinning wolfishly.

  What do we do? I ask, confused. What can we do?

  Oh, there are lots of things, he answers

  mischievously. Do we know what she

  is afraid of? We can give Lady Gwynivere

  a gift, a small token of our

  appreciation, if you will.

  Perhaps she likes frogs, or worms,

  or mice, or —

  Tristan looks around at the

  ground happily, as though searching

  for some creepy-crawly inspiration.

  How about a small, brown toad? I interrupt,

  thinking of how I felt the day I met her.

  In her bed? Tristan finishes.

  We look at each other, then turn around

  and head back to the river.

  When we have a small toad in our possession,

  trembling in Tristan’s closed fist,

  we sneak back to camp, ready to keep

  our prisoner in an improvised jail cell

  of sticks and leaves.

  But as we pass the Round Table, we

  come upon Arthur, Lodengrance, and

  Gwynivere in conference.

  Her tent is empty, Tristan whispers.

  Now is our moment. Come!

  We tiptoe over to her tent, and as

  Tristan holds back the flap, I

  enter, looking for a place to

  deposit the toad.

  How about on her pillow? Tristan asks.

  No! It will escape. We need a better

  place, I hiss, shaking my head.

  Ah, here! I find her small

  embroidery bag. This is perfect.

  Will she look in it tonight? he asks.

  I am sure of it, I answer.

  We slide our small, slimy soldier

  into the silken purse and draw the

  strings tight.

  Now he cannot hop away, Tristan

  murmurs, then he grabs my hand,

  and we race out of the tent into the

  evening air.

  We are laughing so hard now, that tears

  are streaming down my cheeks, and my side

  aches with cramps.

  I have not felt so light and

  carefree in days.

  Then a piercing scream shatters the

  gathering dusk.

  And Tristan and I begin to laugh again,

  harder, even, than before.

  Shhh, he gasps, taking my hand

  once more and pulling me toward

  the shiver of birches.

  We collapse to the ground together,

  still chuckling.

  Tristan’s eyes are closed and

  he still clutches my hand in his own.

  Tristan, I whisper, easing my hand from his grasp.

  Elaine? He opens his eyes slowly,

  and they are startlingly light, almost yellow.

  Did you know your eyes change colors?

  I ask him, bringing my hand to his temple,

  then staying myself.

  What am I doing?

  Did you know yours do too?

  They change from grey to green to brown,

  the colors of the forest,

  the colors of the sky,

  Tristan replies softly.

  I have never seen a green sky, I giggle.

  No? he asks, suddenly serious.

  Before a summer storm,

  the sky turns green, green like your eyes.

  He reaches a hand into his pocket. Elaine,

  he whispers, I — I wanted to give you something,

  before we left. I was not sure —

  Tristan’s voice grows rough.

  Here, these are for you.

  He grabs my hand again and turns

  it so my palm faces up.

  Then he lays something slick and heavy

  on it.

  I look down and gasp.

  Tristan, it is beautiful.

  A necklace, two strands

  of delicately carved wooden

  beads, gleams like ivory in the moonlight.

  It is perfect, I tell him. Thank you.

  You are welcome, Tristan mumbles quietly.

  He holds my gaze, then turns away abruptly.

  It grows late. Your father will wonder

  where you are. Come, I shall escort you

  to your tent.

  He pulls me to my feet, and we walk

  in silence as the night folds

  into a deep shade of violet around us.

  Good night, he whispers at the mouth

  of my tent.

  Tristan — ? I begin, but

  he is gone.

  I lay down to

  sleep, the beads resting

  beside me on my pillow,

  I stroke them. They are smooth

  and cool.

  I call up the sound

  of Gwynivere’s scream;

  it reverberates in my head.

  I behaved like a child.

  Worse, a cruel child.

  My mother would be so

  ashamed; I am so ashamed.

  I feel my face

  burning

  in the dark.

  I want to scream.

  I want to scream, because

  it is not me.

  This is not Elaine of Ascolat.

  She does not play mean, childish

  pranks.

  I reach for my shawl, my fingers

  shaking.

  I will walk in the night.

  Stars fill the black, black sky,

  dusty and brilliant.

  The air is cool and soft,

  like a mother’s hands,

  soothing.

  When I look up at the heavens,

  it is hard to believe that everything

  down here on this earth is changing,

  so fast, so terribly.

  Everyone I know and love is about to

  march into war, about to start a war.

  Finish it.

  How can they just turn their backs

  on me and march away,

  not knowing if they will ever

  come back

  to me?

  I plan to follow, yes

  but they do not know it.

  How can they do it?

  How can my brothers and my father

  leave me all alone?

  My vision is blurred as

  tears fill my eyes,

  and I clutch Tristan’s necklace

  in my hands, rubbing the

  beads between my fingers.

  Of course, they are men,

  and they do what is practical,

  without a thought for what

  or whom they leave behind.

  The birch trees loom ahead

  like a brotherhood

  of silver silent ghosts.

  Last year’s leaves smell fresh

  and I drift among the trees,

  myself a silver silent ghost in

  the moonlight.

  Everything in this world changes

  given the passage of enough time.

  And what will be if Arthur succeeds?

  I dare not even think on it.

  The peace that we all hope for,

  that they fight for,

  gathers on the horizon

  like a brewing storm.

  This peace would leave us

  scattered and apart.

  Will we Ascolats return to our

  island? We have no home

  left on Shalott.

  I do not even know where Lancelot

  comes from.

  Where will he go?

  And Arthur and Gwynivere?

  Still, the peace that we all pray for,

  it is our only hope.

  I scan the moon

  for a glimpse of the godd
ess face,

  for a sign of what is to come,

  but all I can see is

  Lancelot’s face, Arthur’s face,

  Tirry’s and Lavain’s and my father’s,

  Tristan’s face.

  And they look frightened.

  When everything changes,

  what will be at the end of everything?

  O Lord.

  O Mistress of the Moon.

  I know not whom to ask

  for guidance.

  At the end of all of this,

  will I find myself alone?

  Sunlight filters through the

  hide of the tent, wresting me from

  a dreamless slumber.

  Once again I am alone, and

  once my chores are finished,

  I carry an armload of clothes

  outside, down to the river,

  where I find a seat on a bed

  of clover, below the great

  elm tree.

  There, I take up my mending.

  It is better to do by the light

  of the sun than squinting in the

  gloomy shade of the tent.

  As I stitch a gaping hole in

  Gawain’s breeches, the river

  babbles and burbles past.

  All is quiet and still. There is

  no wind to move the tree’s branches,

  nor to rustle the grasses and reeds

  that line the river’s banks.

  Then a twig snaps, and I

  look up from my task to see

  Arthur striding toward me.

  His features are haggard,

  lines I never noticed before,

  standing out around his eyes.

  Hello, I call to him, letting

  the needle and pants fall into my lap.

  I thought I might find you here.

  You seem to favor the company of

  trees to men, these days. Arthur

  runs a quick hand through his curly

  brown locks, and looks at me,

  his eyes squinting,

  as though he gauges

  my mood.

  Trees are solid, dependable;

  they can be trusted, I reply.

  Unlike men, Arthur finishes, sitting

  beside me.

  Most men, I add.

  I do not know, Elaine.

  Even those of us with the best

  of intentions can be unreliable,

  weak. His eyes grow dark.

  Arthur, I say gently, let us not

  talk of such things. The sun

  shines and the sparrow sings.

  Uncertain days lie ahead,

  but for now, let us enjoy what

  is certain and wonderful.

  And he is silent,

  staring out over the river,

  lost in his own thoughts.

  There is no time for regrets

  or sorrow, I tell him,

  in these days of war.

  Yes, you are right, I suppose,

  he agrees,

  but I cannot help but wonder

  if —

  if all my arranging

  and concocting and

  planning is leading me,

  us —

  all of us —

  astray.

  The very existence of Britain,

  all of Britain rests on this