Song of the Sparrow

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Song of the Sparrow Page 11

by Lisa Ann Sandell


  Then I remember his promise

  of pearls and that sweet night

  by the fire, that night that

  was filled with so much

  promise.

  As my thoughts drift from one

  place to the next, the sun, too,

  drifts from one point to the next.

  I am starting to feel tired, and

  I must keep my mind focused

  on moving my feet forward and forward,

  watching the trail, keeping the mountains

  ever behind me and to the south.

  At times I get the oddest sensation

  that someone is following me,

  watching me from the line of trees

  to the west.

  Nay, it cannot be.

  The sickly sun now hides

  behind grey wisps of clouds,

  and sweat begins to bead

  above my upper lip, along my brow.

  My boots are sturdy but I can

  feel a blister forming on the big toe

  of my right foot, and the sack

  grows heavier and heavier.

  I am lonely. Lonely and an

  emptiness gnaws at me.

  There are no more birdcalls; I can hear

  nothing but the wind in the grasses

  and in the trees. And the faint sound of my feet

  tamping down the earth,

  a mockery of the heavy, pounding marching

  of the men.

  Thunder rumbles in the distance

  like an angry beast preparing to charge.

  Drops of rain, fat and juicy,

  fall from the sky,

  splashing over my nose

  and eyelashes.

  The rain comes slowly at first,

  but soon it is pouring from the sky.

  I must stop.

  A small stand of oak trees lies

  some paces away, and I run for the

  cover of their great branches.

  As I huddle beneath one of the oaks,

  the thick smell of wet leaves

  and earth reminds me of my

  mother’s tower room, so far away now,

  on the isle of Shalott.

  A wound in one of the tree trunks

  exposes golden white flesh that

  reminds me of that oaken loom,

  gleaming in sunlight and crowned by shadows.

  That loom bore the scars of time and love

  and use, my mother’s wisdom,

  her gentleness and care.

  Thunder and lightning crash

  above my head, and for an instant I wonder

  if the tree that shelters me will be

  brought down by the raging forces

  of the storm.

  The sky is nearly black, but an eerie

  glow signals that night has not yet fallen.

  With each blast of thunder, my heart thuds

  a little faster. With each bolt of lightning

  forking across the sky, I curse my

  decision to make this journey on my own.

  No one will even know if I die here.

  I am so alone.

  I have always been alone.

  No,

  that is not true.

  The faces of Lancelot, Lavain,

  Tirry, Father, Arthur, Tristan, and Morgan —

  those who have been with me — float

  inside my eyelids.

  They have been with me, since —

  since she died.

  The rain is letting up now,

  and the sky turns a greenish grey.

  My clothes, my hair, my sack, everything

  is soaked. Everything feels

  so much heavier than it did before the storm.

  My breath catches, as I look all around

  for the trail.

  I cannot find it.

  I turn this way and that,

  panic filling my limbs,

  making them tight and shaky.

  Has the rain washed away the path?

  No, it is there.

  I simply did not walk far enough.

  The mud is churned up and slippery;

  giant puddles filled with brown water make

  for treacherous stepping.

  Birds call to each other:

  Come, find your supper and come to bed.

  I march and march, the trees and

  grass and sky all green and grey.

  And the green grows

  greyer as dusk approaches.

  An owl shrieks and the whisper of

  wings overhead sends my heart racing.

  As darkness closes in, the loneliness

  feels like it might overwhelm me.

  The sky is black now, and the spray of stars

  can barely be seen through the thick clouds.

  I want my father, the warmth of his embrace,

  the pressure of his hand on my arm.

  Even Lavain’s teasing would be

  welcome now — anything to stave

  off the loneliness.

  I can feel the trail, where the earth has been

  torn apart and battered by so many feet

  before mine. But fear is crawling up my throat;

  I may choke.

  The silhouette of a hulking tree trunk looms

  up ahead, on the side of the path.

  I shall sleep beneath its sheltering branches tonight.

  I spread my cloak over the wet ground,

  squirming and wishing for my

  dry bed.

  I do not want to build a fire

  and attract the attention of Arthur

  and his men,

  or anybody else for that matter,

  though I likely could not find

  a scrap of dry kindling, anyway.

  The night is so dark.

  I can hardly see my hand before my face,

  and I feel eyes on me,

  nevertheless.

  Evil eyes,

  hungry eyes.

  I do not know how I will ever

  find sleep.

  Twigs snap, leaves rustle,

  and stirrings come from

  the tall grasses. I do not want

  to meet what is out there.

  I wish it were not a new moon,

  but there is no relief from the

  darkness.

  Morning fades

  into afternoon

  into dusk.

  The sun rises

  and sets, then a sliver

  of a crescent moon

  takes her place in the sky.

  And I just walk and walk,

  following a path left by those

  who walked this land before me.

  The late spring grass is green as a

  frog’s back, and trees line up

  like an army of old friends,

  urging me on.

  Now I have taken to greeting the larks

  and jays as they hunt for worms,

  wishing the elm and linden trees well

  as they wave to me in the breeze.

  They and the tiny brown field mice who

  sometimes dart across my path

  are my only company.

  Still the sense that someone

  watches me stays with me.

  Of course my mind wanders

  often.

  It wanders back to Lancelot,

  and I remember how his green

  eyes bored into mine the day

  we met by the river.

  How much hope I had that day,

  how my heart lifted, took wing

  when he told me

  I was beautiful.

  Then I remember how quick he was

  to trample it, to crush it

  that day in the meadow.

  Will my heart ever stop aching

  at the memories of how

  much I loved him,

  how coldly he looked on me,

 
; how scornful his voice,

  his words were?

  Words

  words.

  One word.

  Gwynivere.

  Why has she

  come and ruined

  everything?

  Morgan’s voice fills my head,

  One never knows what

  fate holds in store.

  Up ahead a river, a river

  separating the west country from

  the swampy summer lands, a river

  thick as a sea monster’s tail.

  And I must cross it.

  No horse to carry me over,

  no one to catch me

  if I should drown.

  I take off my dress and shoes

  and stuff them into

  my linen pack, then I raise

  the sack over my head

  and begin to wade into

  the water. The current

  is fast and the stones

  beneath my feet are slippery.

  With my arms above my head,

  my balance is shaky, and

  my ankles wobble as I make my

  way toward the center of the river.

  The murky green water

  reaches my knees,

  my hips, my chest, and then —

  my feet slide, my toes scrambling

  to catch hold of a rock, any perch,

  but the water is rushing, rushing

  past me, over me, begging to sweep me

  away, down its merciless path.

  Begging and pulling and

  squeezing and sweeping, and

  that icy cold, merciless water

  catches me up in its current.

  I cannot swim free. The water is savage,

  white with foam as it tumbles

  over rocks, tossing me, as though

  I were no more than

  a leaf, against a great, grey stone

  that rises out of the water like a jagged tooth.

  My arm is crushed between my

  body and the rock; it burns

  with pain. Tears spring to my eyes,

  and water fills my throat.

  Choking, blinded, I struggle to catch

  hold of the stone, something.

  My fingers are warm and sticky,

  and I put them to my lips,

  the iron taste of blood lingering

  on my tongue.

  I try to catch my breath,

  but the water is relentless,

  I do not know how much longer

  I can hold on.

  I look around.

  If I could just get downriver

  without being mashed against

  the rocks, there is a point,

  a lone point, where the land

  juts out, and the river narrows,

  and I would be able to cross

  to the eastern shore.

  But there is just one chance,

  to swerve to the east,

  toward the tooth of land.

  If I miss it, surely, I will

  be swept away

  or crushed to death.

  Slowly, reluctantly, I let go of

  the grey rock I cling to,

  allowing the furious current

  to take hold of me once more.

  I can barely keep my head up;

  the sack has long since fallen below the

  surface.

  The current buoys me up and

  spins me around lazily, like a polliwog.

  But, surely enough, as I work my

  way downstream, scraping against

  rocks and fallen tree branches,

  I am able to steer myself

  to the far bank.

  Gasping and spitting, I finally

  feel my feet brush the bottom

  of the river floor.

  The satchel clutched to my chest,

  I fight to wade out of the river

  that nearly snatched away my life.

  Four more days of

  walking, alone in my head,

  with memories of Lancelot and

  Lavain and Tristan and Tirry

  tumbling together like grains

  of sand in the sea. I am nearing

  the place, the place where a great

  battle will be fought. I can feel it.

  I can hear it. The drums of war

  begin to throb, faintly,

  so faintly. But with each step,

  each silent footfall, the drums

  grow louder, beats of a stick

  on skin, and my heartbeat pulses

  a frightened echo. For they are

  Saxon drums.

  As I have drifted south,

  I no longer know how far I am

  from the mountain called Badon,

  nor how many days of marching lay

  ahead of me.

  The loneliness sits heavily on my chest.

  I think about how I nearly died doing what

  men helping men, with a hand,

  a strong shoulder, an outstretched arm

  could have accomplished with ease.

  But as evening draws near, I

  can see smoke. Have I already caught

  up with Arthur’s army? Perhaps,

  losing my way in the river

  was fortunate after all?

  I know not, but I stay quiet

  and do not build my own fire.

  I find shelter on a mossy bed beneath

  an ash tree. Humming a tune

  I have heard hummed a hundred

  times in the camp, the melody Tristan

  last played on his harp at the

  Round Table, I feel home again,

  closer to those I love and those

  who love me.

  And the wicked eyes of nighttime

  do not frighten me as much.

  The moon is clear and almost a quarter full,

  and she is like an old friend.

  My mother used to pray to God,

  but Morgan told me there is a Goddess,

  and the moon is her bauble. I know not

  what to believe — what I believe —

  but the moon is kind and a

  kindred spirit.

  The rustlings and the chirruping

  of small, nighttime creatures

  build to a crescendo until I fall asleep.

  Just one day more, and by

  the rise of the moon, I think I should

  arrive at Arthur’s camp.

  The drums are louder now,

  pounding and pulsing fearsomely.

  An angry beast has awoken,

  of that there can be no doubt.

  The Saxons have come in too

  far, too near the heart of this land.

  But I know our army will drive them out,

  back to the eastern seas.

  Still, those drums make my blood

  freeze, and even my lips

  feel cold with fear.

  A chill creeps up and

  down my spine; I could

  swear there were eyes on me.

  I wonder if there is some

  terrible beast lurking in the

  forest. Wolves have been

  known to haunt this country.

  But I cannot shake the sense that

  something tracks me, following me

  with its eyes, just some steps away.

  Lurking and readying to pounce.

  There is a rustle in the trees.

  My blood is not all that is frozen.

  My feet will not carry me a step farther,

  and though I am begging them to move,

  please,

  please just another step,

  please just lift and run,

  please don’t —

  ah —

  a hand on my shoulder,

  not a paw or teeth or claws.

  A hand.

  It spins me and I nearly fall down,

  as I me
et the hard blue eyes

  of a man I have never seen before.

  His strange dress, furs, and skins

  hanging from a belt about his waist,

  long yellow hair hanging in

  filthy ropes about his face —

  a Saxon.

  He throws his ugly head

  back and lets out a grunting

  call, Wif!

  Two more men step out

  of the trees like ghosts.

  How long have they been tracking me?

  Have I led them to Arthur?

  The first man with the yellow hair

  and mean eyes grabs my neck,

  with his free hand, pulling my head back

  a long knife flashing in his

  hand.

  A burning pain slides down my arm.

  He has cut my arm,

  and warm blood trickles down my

  hand, falling in droplets onto the ground.

  I can feel my throat closing again,

  dread rising, panic, my heart

  beating faster than the cursed drums.

  The men are talking to one

  another, their tones guttural and harsh.

  Their eyes glitter like snakes’,

  oily and cruel.

  I cannot breathe,

  I do not think I can —

  stand.

  My knees tremble and

  I am sinking.

  The Saxon grabs my hair,

  I scream

  like an animal.

  Caught like an animal.

  A deer

  to be slaughtered.

  Blood pouring down my arm.

  I will be lucky if that is

  all they do to me.

  My mind is running

  too fast

  too fast.

  The Saxon drags me

  by my hair,

  and a keening moan

  drags from my lips.

  There is more rustling

  and a scream.

  Suddenly something flies from the trees,

  in a rage,

  like a wildcat,

  fists flying,

  scratching the Saxon who

  holds me.

  A clump of red hair

  falls to the ground,

  a red stain like blood

  on the grey dust.

  A puddle of blood,

  no, my hair,

  it is my hair.

  And my blood.

  Ropes of yellow hair fly and

  whip my face, and I am lying

  on the ground,

  beside my pool of blood.

  No, that is my hair.

  I blink and see a familiar

  figure above me.

  Gwynivere?

  Does she — does she

  truly stand before me?

  Is she real?

  Gwynivere? I breathe.

  She spins around and stares

  at me.

  She should not have turned,

  for the three Saxons pounce on her.

  Now they are the lions.

  How did she get here?

  Get up, she hisses while

  struggling to break free of the

  grasp of three dirty lion men,

  who will certainly kill us both.

 

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