Song of the Sparrow

by Lisa Sandell

  empty within. And that is why

  I was so horrid to you.

  My heart is beating fast, my

  head spinning with disbelief.

  Can she really be saying these

  things? Can she really be jealous

  of me?

  Gwynivere, I start, unsure of how

  to continue, how to make her see.

  Gwynivere, you are beautiful, and

  I am jealous of you for that. For the

  way the men — the way Lancelot —

  looks on you.

  She shifts her eyes away, her

  brow creasing, her cheeks coloring.

  I have loved him since I was a child,

  I tell her. But you are not empty.

  You could not say these words,

  you could not believe them, if you were.

  What do you know? Gwynivere grumbles.

  I know, Gwynivere. I was there when you

  leaped from the forest to rescue me.

  That did not do us any good, did it?

  she mutters scornfully.

  But you acted without any care for

  your own well-being. You acted to save me,

  I remind her.

  But I failed. And my life only tells the story

  of a woman without a will. Without a spine.

  I could not even choose my own husband;

  I was simply promised to a

  man I had never met, as though

  I were a — a horse.

  The decision was made for me,

  because I am empty. Her lips

  are a tight line of resolve.

  Gwynivere, may I ask you a question?

  She shrugs her shoulders listlessly.

  What do you want with Lancelot when

  Arthur is so good and kind …

  and, well, our leader — the one

  every man and woman looks to?

  Why do you? she hurls the question

  back at me.

  I do not know, I remark. But I think it is …

  I try to think back to when it began.

  Lancelot saved me when I was very young.

  I recall that day he came to take Lavain away

  to be a soldier, that day in the river,

  all the memories of his friendship

  floating into view behind my eyes.

  One day, I was swimming by

  myself in a river, when one of the men

  began throwing rocks at me.

  I was only twelve years old or so.

  But Lancelot appeared and

  scared Balin away, and then

  he fished me out of the river …

  and then he asked me to teach him

  how to swim. A silly smile has

  spread over my face, I realize,

  and a warm blush quickly takes its place.

  Huh. Well, I cannot have him anyway,

  Gwynivere remarks impassively.

  We are quiet, and suddenly I

  notice that I cannot hear the sounds

  of fighting any longer.

  Do you think the battle has ended? I ask.

  Gwynivere cocks her head and listens,

  her brow creased.

  No, I do not believe so. The Saxons have

  not returned to the camp.

  What could have happened to bring about

  such quiet? I ask, my heart beating with dread,

  as I see a thousand terrible images,

  my family, my friends, lying dead

  on a bloody battlefield.

  Hush, Elaine, Gwynivere soothes,

  do not let your mind wander to those

  dark places. All will be well, you will see.

  She begins to hum a tune,

  softly, with such gentleness in her voice,

  that instantly the fear and pain are driven from

  my mind, and I feel the sparrow has come

  back to her nest in my chest,

  where she rests peacefully.

  Thank you, Gwynivere.

  You are good.

  Remember that always.

  And I feel myself lulled to sleep

  once more.

  The tent flaps are flung open by

  a hairy hand, and a hairy

  body follows. Yellow Hair’s

  companion.

  Gwynivere jerks her head up.

  She had fallen asleep as well.

  The Saxon looks at us with a leer

  that sends shudders running

  down my spine. Streaks of

  dried, crusty blood cover his

  face and chest, his fingernails,

  too, I notice.

  He comes to us and kneels.

  Gwynivere and I both shrink back

  as he bends over us.

  But to our surprise, he does

  not raise a fist, he does not

  appear inclined to violence.

  Rather, he begins to untie

  our wrists. My heart leaps

  with surprise. Perhaps the men

  have come to rescue us!

  You stay here, the Saxon grunts.

  No sound.

  No run away.

  You prisoners. We take soldiers

  and coffers of gold

  for you.

  That is … if Arthur is willing to pay.

  His lips curl back in a hideous

  laugh that barks and coughs

  from his chest.

  He shoves a foul and sullied-looking

  pan at us.

  We watch you. No run away.

  No sound, he repeats.

  My stomach turns, the smell

  of the pan too foul. I

  understand it is a kindness

  being extended to us. A bedpan

  for our use.

  He turns, rises, and leaves,

  his looming shadow

  darkening the outside of the tent,

  where he stands guard over us.

  Gwynivere and I take turns

  moving to the far corner of the

  tent to make use of the Saxon’s

  disgusting gift.

  All my joints ache with stiffness.

  I look at the wound on my arm.

  A brown crust of scab has begun to

  grow over the gash.

  At least it heals well.

  I begin to pace around the tent,

  Gwynivere comes to join me.

  It feels good to be moving again,

  even if only within the confines of

  this cage.

  There has to be a way to escape, I

  murmur to myself.

  How? Gwynivere moans. They

  stand outside, guarding us

  like a chest of gold.

  She shakes her head, defeated.

  I will not allow us to be traded

  for men we know, men I —

  we love, I declare. It will not happen

  as long as I live. I would rather

  kill myself. I am unbending

  and resolute.

  What do we do? Gwynivere asks.

  I do not know, but I will

  think of something, I tell her.

  As dusk falls outside the tent,

  we hear the murmuring of voices,

  of the Saxons gathered a short

  distance from our prison.

  Their voices are hushed, but

  their rasping words slide through

  the night air to our ears.

  Can you make out what they are saying?

  I ask Gwynivere.

  She has been crouching near the entrance

  of the tent, brow wrinkled as she

  concentrates. But she shakes her head.

  No. Their accent is too thick. I know

  not the specifics of their discussion.

  I am pacing again, like a wolf

  trapped in a cage.

  There must be a way out,

  there has
to be.

  Suddenly I look at the ground.

  At the back of the tent, the skin

  hangs a bit loosely, where it

  grazes the dirt floor,

  not pegged properly with a stake.

  What if —

  Wait! Gwynivere’s voice

  is excited.

  What is it? I ask,

  hurrying to her side.

  Listen, she whispers to me.

  What do you hear?

  I hear … our language! I exclaim.

  They have a Briton!

  My thoughts are racing with my pulse.

  Have they captured someone from

  Arthur’s army? Do they have another

  prisoner?

  Listen, Gwynivere says again.

  Arthur’s army is camped by

  the River Avon, the strange voice

  reveals.

  A spy, I breathe.

  Yes. Gwynivere nods. Someone who

  knows everything about Arthur’s movements,

  his plans.

  We have to do something. I say, my panic

  returning. We have to stop him.

  How can we stop him? Gwynivere moans. We are

  trapped in this prison, remember? Her

  face is cloudy. Shhh, he talks still.

  The spy speaks. ’Round the hill Badon,

  to the south lies the River Avon,

  by which you arrived here, I believe.

  A Saxon grunts in agreement.

  Follow that river, the spy continues,

  and you will find Arthur.

  He will never expect you to

  come in the night. His men will be

  unprepared, they will fall,

  easy prey to your battle-axes and swords.

  Go, tonight, the spy spits, his

  voice muffled by the rising clamor

  of the Saxons.

  That is it. We have to warn them, I declare.

  I rise and move to the back of the tent.

  Our guard is still pacing in front of the

  entrance, but there is no shadow at the

  back. They have left us an opening.

  Gwynivere, come here! I whisper,

  motioning her to where I stand.

  Look, down here, I instruct her,

  and we both kneel, and I show her

  where the bottom of the tent

  hangs over the ground, unpinned

  and loose.

  If we dig, I whisper, we can tunnel

  below the tent, escape,

  and warn Arthur.

  How can we dig that deep? Gwynivere’s

  voice is heavy with defeat,

  but a glimmer of hope flashes in her eyes.

  We have no choice now. We have to

  warn them. Please, I am begging you.

  Help me, I plead.

  She appears frozen, but suddenly

  she shakes her head as though

  throwing off a veil, and she is

  stirred to motion.

  All right. Let us dig to freedom.

  Our fingers scratch

  at the hard-packed earth.

  Soon our nails are torn and ragged,

  dirt lodged deep in their beds,

  but we dig tirelessly, and soon

  there is a sizable trough. I can now

  slide my arm underneath the bottom

  of the tent and dig on the outside.

  We stop frequently, as we hear the

  Saxons moving about, their voices

  coming and going in a rough rumbling.

  Our tent must be near the periphery of their

  camp, for no one moves outside the back

  of it, but footsteps pass often

  in front of the entrance.

  Suddenly we hear our guard

  talking with another man.

  Yellow Hair.

  I recognize his voice.

  Quick, throw your shawl

  over the hole! I hiss at Gwynivere.

  She unties her shawl and covers

  the impression we have made in the dirt,

  and we slide over to the center support beam,

  just as the flaps fly open, and Yellow Hair,

  his greasy hair and beard flecked with

  ash and bits of food and blood, enters.

  His deadened eyes sweep the room,

  sweep over us, falling on the shawl

  on the ground at the back.

  My heart stops, and I can hear

  Gwynivere take in a sharp breath.

  You are cold, no? he barks

  at both of us.

  I am so warm from the effort

  of our digging, I pray he does

  not notice the sheen of moisture on my face,

  which is mirrored on Gwynivere’s.

  You dropped your cloth. He jerks

  his chin toward the back of the tent.

  I am sitting on my hands

  so he does not notice the dirt,

  and my nails curl painfully into my fists.

  My breath has escaped, my heart

  has taken on a wild

  beat that must be as audible

  as a war drum, and I am certain

  he will discover our secret doings.

  Then what will happen?

  Hmmf, he grunts, obedient prisoners

  we have. An evil smile spreads

  across his vulture’s face, then he turns

  and leaves.

  I fall down backward, my chest heaving,

  my hands shaking.

  Gwynivere’s head is in her hands.

  Oh my God, she whispers. I thought

  he would take the shawl.

  I know. I feared the same!

  We smile at each other wildly,

  and fall into a fit of giggles.

  Shhh, I say, trying to draw a breath

  in between bouts of laughter.

  We move back to our tunnel,

  and begin tearing at the earth again.

  The night wears on, and still

  we dig, our fingers aching and

  trembling from the effort.

  Finally I think there is room

  enough for us to burrow under

  the tent to the other side, to freedom.

  A wild urgency drives me;

  I have to get to Arthur,

  to Tirry and Lavain and Father.

  To Tristan.

  I have to warn them.

  Before it is too late. I touch the beads

  hanging around my neck.

  Swiftly, my mind diverts

  into an unexpected thought —

  I think of Tristan, where I

  would have expected to think of

  Lancelot.

  Well, Tristan has been my true

  friend these last weeks.

  I should not be surprised.

  And just as quickly, my mind

  flies back to its purpose.

  We need a plan, I tell Gwynivere.

  What for? she asks. We just run,

  around the mountain, to the south.

  As the spy said.

  No! The harshness of my voice

  startles both of us. Only one of us

  can go. The other must create a

  diversion, so the Saxons do not

  realize our purpose. So the other can

  get away. Gwynivere’s

  eyes widen and a terrified look

  crosses her face. I think quickly.

  I will escape first, run through the

  camp and in the noise and chaos

  that is sure to follow me, you

  will run in secret. You must

  go past the mountain and find the river.

  Follow the stars, and you will

  find Arthur and warn him,

  I decide. I shall follow, once you

  have had time to get away.

  Elaine, they will never let you —

  Hush, I cut h
er off. Gwyn, there is no

  choice. You must go to Arthur.

  But — she begins.

  Do not argue with me, I tell her,

  putting my hand over hers.

  There is no other way.

  You must wait until you hear

  the noise when they discover me in their

  midst. Then count to ten and

  run, I command her.

  Gwynivere looks at me as though

  the sky is falling down upon our heads.

  I have never seen such a stricken look

  in anyone’s eyes.

  We grab each other and

  embrace.

  I will do it, she says, her chin

  set with resolve.

  Gwyn —

  Suddenly tears are streaming

  down my face, and my

  body is trembling.

  Please, tell my father and my

  brothers that I am so sorry.

  That I love them.

  You will tell them yourself,

  Gwynivere says, putting her

  hands on my shoulders and

  giving me a little shake.

  I recall my own voice telling

  Gwynivere that we have no choice.

  Right, I say. Then I beckon for

  her to raise the skirt of the tent

  as high as possible and I begin

  to wriggle on my stomach into

  the trench we carved out of the dirt.

  The cool night air crashes

  over my face, lifting off the

  sweat and drying my tears.

  As I rise to my feet, I look

  all around me.

  I was correct in guessing that

  our tent was on the periphery of the

  camp. All of the tents are arranged

  in a circle, the mountain looming at

  the far end of the camp. I wiggle

  my fingers under the tent,

  to let Gwynivere know I am all right.

  Remember, I whisper into the

  tent’s skin, wait until you hear

  the shouts, and count to ten. Mount Badon

  lies on the far side of the camp. I will

  lead the men away from there.

  Elaine, comes her hushed voice.

  Farewell!

  My heart stops for a moment,

  and I whisper,

  O Mistress of the Moon,

  O Goddess,

  keep her safe,

  keep my friend safe

  in her purpose.

  My friend.

  And you, too, my sister!

  I call softly.

  I press my hand to the wall of the

  tent, then turn.

  I must attract the Saxons’

  attention and lead them away

  from the mountain. Then I must

  switch courses and run back to the

  mountain.

  I take a deep breath.

  My sparrow is flitting and

  dancing in my chest. She swoops and

  does loops and circles in my belly.

  Give me your wings, I pray.

  Another breath.

  My hands and legs feel shaky.

  One more breath, then I run.

  I run, circling the tent, and fly

  past the guard. His eyes open