My mother showed me, first, how to
spin the wool, how to twist the
fibers and marry them together.
A single, continuous thread,
like her love for my brothers,
for my father,
for me,
she said,
stroking my cheek,
forgiving my complaining.
Then the weaving.
Painstakingly pulling the wool
that she had
only just spun, in and
out of itself,
back and forth,
over and over,
as patterns, stars and moons,
crosses of scarlet
and indigo emerged.
This was the safe world of women
that I knew.
No war.
No tents and no swords
or battle-axes,
no blood, no bows
and arrows,
no hordes of stinking men.
Our home was on an island,
a beautiful island in the middle of
a river, a river whose name I cannot remember.
All I can recall are the reeds along the banks
and the funny green turtles that
came to nest on the shores of our island,
our island called Shalott.
Baby turtles,
hatching from leathery eggs.
My brothers delighted in capturing them,
building them cages of sticks,
carpeted with leaves and moss.
They would keep those turtles
as pets, as beloved as our hound, as
present in the house as motes of dust.
I remember so little of the house,
just the room in the tower,
where my mother’s oaken loom
stood, where we would sit for hours,
weaving and spinning and sewing,
where golden sunlight poured in
through a single window,
painting a yellow
square on the floor.
The men of the house never entered
into that tower. It was the territory of women.
Tapestries my mother had woven
hung on the walls,
tapestries and a
singular gilded mirror.
Heavy rugs she had woven covered the floors.
But those rugs could not
suppress the damp smell of granite stones,
nor my mother’s perfume of violets.
It was warm and safe there
in that tiny tower room.
Lord, I miss her.
I wish I could go back.
Back to the time when my brothers
would lead me past the weeping willow trees,
Lavain holding fast to my hand,
when Lavain was thoughtful
and sweet,
and they would lead me
through the rushes, down
to the banks of the river,
where they would catch those
small green turtles,
picking them up gently,
with such care,
where they would watch,
as warily as a pair of hawks, as I
tottered over slippery stepping-stones,
to be sure
I did not fall.
I wish I could go back to that time,
when my mother would smile
the gentle smile that told me,
all is right and well.
Back to that time when I was
young
and loved
and safe.
When we were all safe.
That things change,
that people change
and die,
that we grow older,
that life brings the unexpected,
the unwanted,
oh,
some days it fills me with
a measure of lightness, for
I will be a woman soon.
But other days,
the very thought
of growing older,
of not being that small girl
who danced over river rocks,
whose brothers held her hands,
whose mother lived,
the very thought of it
crushes me,
till it is stopped,
by the world
outside
my memories.
I know another woman.
She has long brown hair
that hangs about her waist.
Like me, she does not bind it up.
No, Morgan does not care for
formalities like that.
She does as she likes
and no man or woman
can say anything about it
to her.
The older sister of Arthur
is respected in her own right,
and she hears no complaints.
Morgan is the only other
female
around the camp,
but her presence is not
a constant one.
I know not where she goes.
I count days and even moons
between her visits,
the intervals seeming interminable,
as I wait for the company
of another female.
When I see her, my heart
feels free,
free to unload its
burdens,
if only
for a while.
Morgan is the only one
who knows of my fears,
the constant worries
that one day my father
or my brothers
or the three
will fail to return from battle.
And I will be all alone
in this sea of men
and war.
And she tells me,
Child, think not of those things,
those dark possibilities.
Your father and brothers are
here with you today.
Lavain will tug at your braids,
Tirry will sing you songs,
and your father will see
his wife’s beauty in you.
Savor their love today.
And it will never leave you.
Morgan teaches me
her healing arts,
and I watch, rapt, as she
removes the dried herbs
so carefully from their satchels,
as she crushes and mixes and stirs.
How I love to watch
as she selects some flower
or leaf for grinding, as she explains
how a particular paste
or balm can help the skin
bind itself together, renew itself,
stave off the inflamed invasion of infection.
It is truly amazing to witness,
and then to perform.
These powders and elixirs we brew,
they ease my worries, for I know
one less man may die or take sick
because of them.
She has given me a pouch,
a leather satchel to keep
around my neck, filled
with leaves of milfoil and
the saffron-colored petals
of calendula,
purple heads of red clover,
healing herbs
to keep close, if ever
I should need them.
She has taught me how to make
poultices and ointments,
how to chew or boil the leaves
and flowers, to plaster them
to a bruise or open cut.
To tend to the wounded.
My pouch gives me comfort.
And it also brings me a
sense of power. I
can help those I love.
Morgan’s hands are white
and delicate,
down to the quick.
Morgan hasn’t the patience
for fingernails.
As I bury the mirror back
in the chest, beneath
piles of snow-white linen,
she comes to my tent, a scent of lavender
trailing behind her.
Her presence is an easy one.
Her movements are light and
smooth as a deer’s.
When I am alone
I sometimes try to mimic
her fluid grace
as I set the table,
prepare the meal,
sweep the floor
of the tent.
I have noticed how Accolon,
one of Arthur’s lieutenants,
watches her,
his eyes tracing
her motions.
If I were able to move so effortlessly,
would Lancelot watch me
in the same way?
Oh, why does my mind
ever wander
back to him?
Surely he sees me
as no more than a child.
He was
is
my friend.
Morgan is my friend too.
And after we embrace,
quickly I close the chest and
move to brew some tea.
Gently, she stops me.
Nay, Elaine. I cannot stay long.
My brother has need of me.
You see, it was my counsel and the Merlin’s
that convinced him
to assume dux bellorum,
to take Aurelius’s position,
to lead the Britons.
And I fear it does not go easily
for him now.
The Merlin is here?
My brothers did not mention him.
I have never seen him.
Some say the Merlin is a wild man, for
he lives in the Celyddon Woode,
where all manner of wild things live.
Others say he is a wise man who tells
many prophecies that come true.
Morgan says that he is a man,
both wise
and wild,
who may know the future,
and gives good counsel.
They must have spoken before
the Round Table,
for I did not see either the Merlin or Morgan
last night by the fire.
You advised Arthur? I ask
my friend, incredulously.
And he listened?
I cannot help it. I know
my brothers and father
love me. They care
for me and protect me,
but would they ever accept my counsel?
My heart sings with admiration and love
for this tiny slip of a woman
who possesses the power to move men
and the forces of a nation.
She holds to the Old Ways,
the way of the Moon Goddess,
and I sense that there
is something magical, majestic about her.
Morgan nods and looks at me
with patience and a glint of
laughter in her eyes.
And Britain will follow him,
Arthur, I mean? I ask.
Elaine, I do not know.
Her mouth twists into a
bitter grin.
But, I think most
of the soldiers will
follow Arthur. There
are rumblings, however,
and I fear more chieftains
will leave, not trusting one
as young as Arthur.
I interrupt,
What could they possibly expect
to accomplish on their own?
For it is certain that only
as a united front, could
we ever hope to defeat the
Saxons.
Yes, I know, she says,
and I swear the laughter has
returned to her eyes.
My dear, I must take my leave.
Tonight all the camp will dine together,
under the stars,
and the Merlin will proclaim
Arthur dux bellorum for all to hear.
I shall see you then.
She kisses my cheek and
goes, the tent flaps barely
rustling as she passes.
This is it, the events to be
are set in motion.
As dusk approaches
and the greying light
begins to fade,
the tent flaps flap apart again.
I am sewing a tear in Tirry’s cloak.
Tonight, this small task
is enough to make me feel
perfectly hopeless, there
are so many stains and holes.
Irritated with frustration, I hate
how my fingers cramp, how they
would — how I would much prefer to be
digging for roots, hunting for leaves.
As I look up, Lavain stops short.
His eyes are bloodshot, and
his flaxen hair is sticking up
in all directions, as though
he has been tugging at every strand,
trying to pull them out.
Sister. He comes near and sits
beside me on the hard wooden bench.
My hand continues to move the needle
in and out of the heavy wool.
Yes, my brother, I answer him.
These are bad days, he murmurs.
He sits silently, watching me sew.
And after a long pause, he speaks
again,
I remember Mother would sit by
the fire, listening to Tirry and
me tell her about our adventures,
her hands moving just as yours do,
guiding the needle and wool without
a thought, without
even a glance,
her eyes ever on us,
as we went on
about turtles and
snakes and minnows.
He sighs.
I wish we could
go back.
That she would come back.
He gives a harsh chuckle.
So long ago now.
But you remind me of her,
you know.
Sometimes I forget
that you are not she.
Sometimes I forget that
I should not blame you
for leaving me.
It was her.
It was her.
His eyes close.
I am sorry, Elaine.
I am sorry.
I put the cloak aside,
and realize I have been
holding my breath.
Lavain was my dearest friend, my
closest brother
once.
But when she
died,
he
went away
too.
Became brusque,
brash, the Lavain that
I have now.
I put my hand over his
and he leans down,
down,
resting his head on my shoulder.
It is big and heavy,
and suddenly I feel small again.
We sit that way until
the sounds of my father
and Tirry approaching can be heard.
Lavain gives my hand a final squeeze
then rises.
As the others enter the tent,
he turns and reports,
Saxon troops pour into
Britain from
the southeast.
They move too near the
center of this land.
Arthur plans to attack them at
the mountain called Badon.
I lo
ok to Tirry and Father,
to see if Lavain speaks the truth.
My father nods, and looks
down, Tirry, too,
looks away.
They are ashamed,
for never have they
struck first,
on the offensive.
Come, daughter, let us
to dinner. The Round Table
is for everyone
this night.
My father takes my arm,
leans on it,
with the faintest pressure,
like an old man.
I nod my head and we
step out into the night.
My brothers walk
quickly ahead,
Lavain’s strides thunderous and
harsh. Tirry’s only
slightly softer.
The circle of men
is at least three deep.
An amber halo
encircles the camp,
as the flames from the
central bonfire and
surrounding smaller fires
leap and dance, shining
on the nearby tents.
My stomach begins to
feel strange, as though a
small bird has found its way
inside me,
and flies around,
frightened.
The smell of fetid yeast,
ale, and earth
fills my nostrils, and
the sparrow in my stomach
surges upward.
I swallow her back down.
Stay calm, I warn myself,
and quiet, so no one
will think to send
you back to the tent.
I spot three golden-haired
bears of men beside Arthur,
near the top of the circle.
Gawain and his younger brothers,
Gareth and Gaheris,
stand at Arthur’s right side,
tall and blond, each
with a neck as thick as a
small tree trunk.
And Morgan,
her silhouette unmistakable,
in spite of loose robes,
with her long curly brown hair
flowing to her waist.
She is at Arthur’s
left hand.
And there is Lancelot,
his red tunic glowing
in the firelight,
beside her.
The sparrow quivers.
Perhaps tonight I shall talk
with him, of things that need telling….
Wait.
There he is.
Against the light of the
flames,
he stands,
as though he, too,
were composed of
smoke and air.
A wraith.
But no —
Closer now, Father and I step;
he is solid and covered with flesh.
As we are.
A man.
Grey hair,
matted and wild,
falls to his shoulders.
The eyes of a predator,
an eagle,
surveying a field of mice,
or men.
I can find no kindness
in his eyes.
Two blue stripes
in the fashion of the Picts,
are painted over each cheek.
And he wears a robe
of grey twilight.
He certainly does
Song of the Sparrow Page 4