Song of the Sparrow

by Lisa Sandell

  wide and he gives his head a little

  shake, as though he cannot believe

  what he sees.

  Then he drops the cup he was

  holding and begins to shout.

  He starts to speed after me,

  raising his ax and brandishing

  it in the air. I cannot look back

  at him, I must run and run.

  I swerve and weave through the

  tents, leading what is now a pack

  of Saxon warriors on my heels, south of

  the mountain, and they are hollering and

  waving their instruments of war at my back.

  I am fast, but they are more powerful, with

  longer legs. I can feel their hot breath on

  my back, the stench of their unwashed

  bodies urging my legs on.

  I am unaware of breath, of pain.

  I feel only the wind at my feet and the heat

  of their bodies on my neck.

  Run! the wind calls.

  Run! I beg of Gwynivere in my mind.

  I am darting and weaving like a fox,

  but suddenly something whistles past

  my ear in a cool rush of air.

  I see the white feathers in the moonlight.

  An arrow.

  Out of the corner of my eye

  I spy a figure moving toward

  the mountain.

  Gwynivere.

  Her golden hair streams out

  behind her, like one of Arthur’s

  battle standards.

  She goes and no one follows.

  I turn and race behind a tent.

  Another arrow hurtles past me.

  I catch sight of the moon,

  half revealed in all her splendor.

  Please, please help me, I pray silently.

  I look around, but Gwynivere is nowhere

  in sight. I change direction and begin to head

  for Mount Badon.

  In the distance, I can see the sparkle of the moon

  glinting off the watery surface of the river.

  I can make it, I tell myself.

  The Saxons are closing in, and arrows are

  now flying as fast as the beat of a

  hummingbird’s wings.

  My legs and my lungs are burning,

  but I keep moving.

  There is no choice.

  I have no choice.

  As I round the base of the great hill,

  I can see the river curving,

  carving through the land just up ahead.

  There are dark figures like teeth

  or men

  looming before me.

  My heart sinks with dread.

  The Saxons, they must have

  guessed our purpose and headed

  off Gwynivere, and now they wait for me.

  But my legs do not stop moving.

  Let them try to take me!

  A wild laugh parts my lips,

  my mouth is dry and my eyes water.

  As I near the river, the dark shapes grow

  larger. They are too tall to be people.

  Closer now, closer!

  My heart beats an angry tattoo.

  My own drum of war.

  They are not Saxon soldiers after all!

  Boats!

  I fly toward them, and the intricate

  carvings on the stern of the nearest boat

  become clear in the moonlight.

  What a beautiful vessel,

  a beautiful vessel to carry me home!

  Another giggle laced with fear and

  an edge of lunacy.

  I run to the craft and begin to push,

  willing it to slide into the water.

  I turn and drive my back against

  the boat’s massive weight.

  Suddenly there is a hissing sound, and

  my mind is stunned as a burning pain

  explodes in my body.

  I look down and there, lodged in the soft flesh

  between my shoulder and my chest, the wooden

  shaft of an arrow, silvery feathers tracing

  the end.

  Like an animal made wild with fear,

  I thrust myself against the boat once more,

  and it shakes loose and rolls

  into the water.

  I stagger down the bank

  of the river, dizzily brushing aside the

  reeds waving in the wake of the boat’s

  sluggish track.

  Somehow, I catch hold of the craft

  and roll myself over its side,

  careful not to land on the

  arrow buried deep in my chest.

  Careful not to look down and

  see the blood, the blood that is

  warm and sticky on my hands, my face,

  that now coats the bottom of the boat.

  The Saxons have lined up on the shore,

  frozen, as if stunned, and watch me

  float away.

  The last thing I remember,

  before the grey mists

  at the edges of my eyes veil

  my vision wholly, is thinking

  they must believe me dead.

  The boat sways and rocks gently,

  drifting lazily along

  with the river’s current.

  The moor …

  the moor is green and pregnant

  with clover and wildflowers,

  and I feel the feathery grasses

  brushing the palms of my hands,

  vivid pink and purple flowers and

  the sky is a strange shade of green,

  without a hint of a storm.

  Suddenly my hand is filled with

  beads, cool, ivory-colored beads,

  with intricate scrolls and knots

  etched into them. They fill my hands

  and they fill a basket that hangs from

  my arm, and somehow I know

  I am richer because of them.

  Then a wolf with green-golden eyes

  and tawny fur comes to stand beside me.

  I am not afraid, for the wolf is my friend.

  He nudges my hand with a cold nose

  then bounds away, and I chase him

  through a shiver of silvery birch trees.

  As the wolf and I wind between the

  slender trunks, the wolf vanishes,

  and as I feel I am losing my breath,

  my strength sapping away

  Tristan steps from behind a tree

  and offers his hand. I take it

  and suddenly I feel wings beating

  at my back, and Tristan and I turn into

  a pair of sparrows.

  Sometime, when the moon is high overhead,

  I wake from a fog-filled sleep and

  run my fingers over the arrow.

  I have not the strength nor will

  to pull it out, but I know I must.

  Slowly I wrap my fingers around

  the base of the shaft, feeling too

  weak even to keep my fingers from

  trembling. Then I pull; the

  last drops of strength drain from me,

  as a pool of dark blood wells

  over my chest.

  I fumble with the pouch at my neck,

  and manage to ease a pinch of calendula petals

  free, and place them in my mouth.

  I chew weakly, then place the sticky

  clump into the hole left by the arrow.

  My eyes grow heavy again.

  Has Gwynivere reached Arthur?

  I wonder hazily. Has she warned the men?

  Will I die here, in this Saxon boat?

  And darkness envelops me again.

  I still feel the rocking

  of the boat and the river.

  A faint light buzzes behind my eyelids.

  But I cannot open them.

  There is a pressure on my chest,

&
nbsp; a terrible weight.

  Fear is thick in my mouth,

  on my tongue, sour and acidic.

  I am alone and dying.

  The point of light

  grown smaller,

  ever smaller now,

  ever more distant now.

  Does she wake?

  Her eyes flutter!

  Delirium before death.

  Elaine?

  My mother calls to me.

  Truly, I die.

  Elaine! Wake up!

  Elaine!

  Why would my mother shout at me?

  I have not seen her in so many years.

  And she shouts at me?

  Is she not happy to receive me in heaven?

  Elaine!

  Mother?

  The film of dirt encrusted

  on my eyes tears at my lashes

  as I force myself to open them.

  The soothing motion of the boat stops,

  the peace I felt as I slipped away,

  into the darkness, fades.

  I am not on a boat.

  Nor am I dead.

  As the world and my life

  swim slowly into view,

  faces loom against

  an overpowering brightness.

  I am in a sun-filled tent, and

  my father’s face, wrinkled,

  drawn, and pinched with worry,

  grows clear. He kneels

  beside my head, and as I look at him

  and ask, disbelievingly, I live?

  a smile widens, smoothing the creases

  at his brow and mouth.

  Beside him, Lavain sits, his eyes

  rimmed in red, as though

  he has been weeping.

  And Tirry paces behind them, wringing

  his hands, his knuckles white,

  his face white too.

  Tristan sits beside Lavain,

  his golden eyes so filled

  with fear, his face haggard

  and fraught with shadows.

  Elaine, he breathes, thank God.

  Tirry stops pacing and stares at me intensely.

  He closes his eyes, his lips

  moving in what I guess are words

  of silent thanks.

  I reach for my father’s hand.

  It is rough and warm.

  Yes, he murmurs, you live.

  And we live because of you.

  What — what happened? I ask,

  feeling a drowsiness closing in.

  I fight it off and struggle to sit up,

  but Lavain gently pushes me

  down against the pallet on which

  they have laid me.

  Do not try to sit up, Lavain says,

  his voice so gentle and soft.

  I think of small green turtles

  on their beds of moss;

  he was gentle then too.

  There was a battle.

  Arthur’s voice startles me,

  and I turn to see him standing

  beside Gwynivere at the foot of my bed,

  his arm just brushing her shoulder.

  Gwynivere reached us and told us

  of the Saxons’ plan to attack us

  while we slept; she told us of your —

  your deeds.

  And we readied for battle, praying

  you would return to us, knowing we

  fought not just for Britain, but for you,

  for your bravery. We fought to honor you.

  And we pushed back the Saxons, he says

  solemnly, his eyebrows knitted together.

  We slaughtered them, Lavain breaks in.

  And they ran, ran for their boats and they

  will not be back for a very long time.

  I look to Arthur, then Tirry and Father,

  and they nod solemnly.

  You were victorious? I ask wondrously.

  We were victorious, Arthur affirms.

  And now the dawn of peace

  tolls throughout all this land.

  I cannot believe it.

  Gwynivere did it, our plan worked.

  Then I notice Lancelot, lurking

  behind Arthur. He catches

  me looking at him and looks away.

  My father rises to his feet, grasping

  Lavain’s shoulder for support.

  Come, my sons, let us leave her

  in peace. She needs to rest.

  Tristan comes to stand where

  my father was, and looks into my eyes.

  I will be back, he whispers gruffly,

  and he squeezes my hand then turns

  to follow my brothers.

  Arthur kneels beside me, then.

  His voice is thick. You will never know

  how grateful to you I am. How much

  I admire you.

  How proud I am to call you friend.

  He straightens. Your father

  is right, you must rest.

  And I do not wish to earn

  his ire, nor that of your

  diligent nurse, he says,

  smiling at Gwynivere.

  He presses his lips to my forehead

  and goes, the tent flaps rustling behind him.

  Gwynivere looks at me anxiously,

  and moves to follow Arthur.

  But I must speak with her.

  Gwyn! I call weakly.

  Oh, Elaine! she cries and rushes to my side,

  throwing her arms around my neck.

  How do you feel? she asks.

  Awful, I reply, smiling.

  As though an arrow has pierced my chest.

  It has, she giggles.

  We did it, Gwyn, I whisper in the wilderness

  of her thick, flaxen hair.

  We did, she agrees, her face

  shining with tears. Elaine, she begins again,

  you will be so proud of me.

  When Tirry found the hole in your chest,

  I knew to put milfoil on the wound, because

  there was so much blood —

  her face drops, as though a cloud falls over it

  — so much blood. But the milfoil

  stanched the flow, and then I

  used the red clover to draw away

  inflammation.

  She smiles again, her eyes full of question.

  Thank you, I whisper, reaching for her hand.

  Thank you for saving me.

  It is astonishing how everything is so

  different from just one half moon ago.

  I have come to care for Gwynivere,

  greatly, and she for me.

  She squeezes my hand,

  as though to say she is filled with the

  same wonder.

  Gwynivere sits with me awhile longer,

  until I tell her I am tired.

  When you wake, I will bring you

  some broth to sip, she says,

  reluctant to leave.

  My eyelids grow heavy once again,

  and a dreamless slumber descends.

  Time moves in strange ways during

  these days and nights of my healing.

  It slithers like a snake, slippery and sly;

  then night falls like a blanket,

  muffling and smothering the pain.

  The pain moves in strange ways, too,

  like the current of the River Usk,

  scratchy and warm as silt,

  and when I allow myself to remember the

  arrow standing out from my chest,

  the heavy throbbing overwhelms me,

  then it drifts away again, like the

  tide beneath a full moon.

  My father and brothers come to sit with me,

  they hold my hand and sing me

  songs of battle and glory.

  And they whisper that the glory is mine.

  They whisper of the glory of

  the Lady of Shalott.

  My glory.

  I think of that great
oaken loom,

  gleaming gold in a patch of sunlight,

  and the stories my mother would weave

  into her tapestries. When I recover,

  I will build myself a new loom and weave

  my own story, the story of my family

  and my friends, this land

  and the glory that we shared.

  As long as I must lay flat on my back,

  Gwynivere comes each day and

  feeds me broth, bringing the spoon

  slowly to my lips, allowing me to

  sip the warm soup, until my strength

  returns and I can sit up.

  It is odd to be the patient.

  I do not enjoy it, but I use the time

  to teach Gwynivere what I know of healing.

  She is an eager student, and

  she sings me songs, too,

  sweet songs of love, and

  I notice a change in her. Her face

  has softened, and there is a peace

  in her eyes.

  Gwynivere, you look different, I remark

  one day. Tell me what has happened to you.

  Is it Lancelot? I ask.

  No, it is not Lancelot, she replies. It is

  Arthur. And a smile breaks over her

  face like a sunrise. Then her forehead

  creases. Before you returned to us,

  before the boat that bore you floated

  down the river, into the camp,

  when I told Arthur all that we had heard,

  and when I told him what you had done,

  I saw such a look of fear on his face.

  He was so scared, Elaine. Scared for you,

  scared for all of us. It was as if all of his beautiful

  humanity was revealed in that singular expression

  of fear and love. And at that moment,

  I think, I began to love him.

  Her face is radiant.

  I did not choose him, in the beginning,

  but that night, she pauses to draw a breath,

  that night I made a choice, and it was

  the right one. When Arthur returned from

  battle, he and I spoke

  as we watched over you.

  He told me that I did not have to marry him

  if I did not want to. He told me —

  he told me it was for me to decide.

  In that moment, I knew. I knew that he

  and I were meant for each other.

  Her smile widens, and in this moment,

  she truly looks like an

  enchanted faerie queen.

  When next I wake, a crawling

  itch prickles my back, and I

  wriggle around on

  my pallet, trying to reach it.

  A searing pain blazes a path

  from my chest to the crown

  of my head and I am thrust

  back down on the bed

  by the white hot fury of it.

  A small cry escapes from

  my lips, and suddenly the tent

  flaps are flung open, and

  Tristan flies to my side.

  What is it, Elaine? he asks,

  his face a mask of worry.

  Hello, I try to say, but my throat

  is parched and the word gets stuck.