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
