Song of the Sparrow

by Lisa Sandell

  About forty years after the Roman withdrawal, around A.D. 450, a British chieftain called Vortigern invited a band of Saxon mercenaries into Britain, to aid him in fighting off the Picts. Rather than help defend the land, however, these mercenaries simply paved the way for fleets of Saxon soldiers to enter and devastate the British isle. Ambrosius Aurelius, a British military commander, whom Gildas, Nennius, and Geoffrey of Monmouth refer to as a “King of the Britons,” avenged the destruction of Britain by assassinating Vortigern and taking over the leadership of the British forces around A.D. 490. But the Saxons, Picts, and Scots continued to pummel the island, eventually murdering Aurelius, as well.

  But this is where certainty leaves off, and it falls to the writers and movie directors and composers to imagine what might have been. There are elements that recur in Arthurian legends that are familiar to many readers — Camelot, the Merlin, Gwynivere, Lancelot, just for starters — and one might wonder, as I did, whether they truly existed. No one knows if Arthur’s castle at Camelot or the famed Round Table ever really stood or where, but the archaeologists have all kinds of theories, stretching from Colchester to Cadbury, both towns in England. Whatever the case, though, Camelot and the Round Table have remained throughout the centuries as symbols of peace, justice, and equality.

  Interestingly, the Merlin has his roots in ancient Welsh lore. A mysterious character called Myrddin, who prophesizes, can be found in many early texts, as well as ancient Welsh poetry, which was passed down orally. Geoffrey of Monmouth also wrote of the Merlin extensively, as though he indeed were a historical figure. Yet, there is no evidence to suggest that he truly existed.

  Nor do we know if Gwynivere lived. It is rumored that in 1191 a grave was found at the Cathedral of Glastonbury, which, according to legend, is in the same spot as the mythical Avalon would have been. The grave was said to contain the skeleton of a very tall man and a petite woman, covered by a cross of lead with an inscription that read “Here lies buried the renowned King Arthur in the Isle of Avalon.” However, the cross has been lost to time, as was the grave. But we can speculate: Was that Gwynivere buried with her husband?

  Furthermore, there is no evidence that a knight of the Round Table named Lancelot actually existed, either. In fact, the story of Lancelot’s illicit love for Queen Gwynivere has its roots in the earlier tale of doomed love, Tristan and Isolde.

  And finally, Elaine. She has been present in poems and stories for ages, in various incarnations and in slightly differing circumstances from text to text. In Le Morte D’Arthur, she is the daughter of an old knight who gives shelter to Lancelot. Elaine falls in love with Lancelot and begs him to love her back. But he cannot, and so she dies of a broken heart. In the nineteenth century, the British poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson, wrote a long poem about her, titled, “The Lady of Shalott,” in which she lives in a tower, under the narrow and lonely strictures of a mysterious curse. The lady cannot look out her window or leave her tower, and so she watches the goings-on outside indirectly through a mirror’s reflection. One day, Lancelot passes by, and she glimpses him in the mirror. She falls in love with him immediately; then, unable to stop herself, turns to look at him directly through the window. Suddenly the curse falls upon her, and the window and mirror shatter. The lady knows the end has come, and she runs outside, leaps into a boat, after painting her name on the bow, and dies, sailing downriver to Camelot.

  Though Elaine of Ascolat, or the Lady of Shalott as she is more popularly known, is a pervasive figure in literature, there is nothing to suggest such a girl truly lived.

  Yet, none of this actually matters. These stories, the myth of King Arthur and his companions, live on and persist throughout time because they deal with such incredibly important and universal, such fundamentally human themes as love, friendship, loyalty, justice, faith, peace, and hope. And they resonate with the eternal chimes of truth, regardless of history or fact.

  I was thrilled to have the opportunity to make a contribution to this canon, to write about my favorite characters, and only recently aware of the latest scholarship, I was excited to try to endow the legend with a historical edge. But I also wanted to try to change something: As I read more and more stories about Arthur and his companions, and as I began studying Arthurian lore in college, I started to notice that the girls and women in these stories were not always treated very kindly. At best, it seemed to me, they were damsels in distress who needed a man to rescue them, and at worse, they were chaperones of doom and destruction. This did not seem fair to me.

  And so, I aimed to humanize the characters, to really scrutinize them with a twenty-first-century magnifying glass and imagine how they might actually have related to one another. As I imagined Elaine, who truly has suffered at the hands of male writers, I wanted to give her strength and power and relevance. And indeed, it is without a sword that she manages to save her friends and loved ones.

  I have always loved the romance and chivalry that fill the Arthurian stories, but the ideals of freedom and equality and justice are what truly make this mythology so important — and continually resonant. The stories of Arthur and his knights have given centuries of readers hope — hope for peace, and I can only wish that readers of this book take away the same hope.

  Lisa Ann Sandell

  NEW YORK CITY, 2006

  Ashe, Geoffrey. The Discovery of King Arthur. New York: Henry Holt and Company, LLC, 1985.

  Churchill, Winston Spencer. The Birth of Britain: A History of the English-Speaking Peoples, Volume I. New York: Barnes & Noble Books, 2005. (Original publisher: London: Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc., 1956.)

  De Troyes, Chrétien. Arthurian Romances. Translated by William W. Kibler. London: Penguin Books, 1991. (Written in the second half of the twelfth century.)

  Gildas. De Excidio Britanniae. Medieval Sourcebook: Gildas: from Concerning the Ruin of Britain (De Excidio Britanniae). http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/source/gildas.html

  Hibbert, Christopher. The Way of King Arthur. New York: ibooks, 1969 and 2004.

  Malory, Sir Thomas. Le Morte D’Arthur, The Winchester Manuscript.

  Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998. (Written in 1470.)

  Monmouth, Geoffrey of. The History of the Kings of Britain. Translated by Lewis Thorpe. London: Penguin Books, 1966. (Written between 1129 and 1151.)

  Nennius. Historia Brittonum. Medieval Sourcebook: Nennius: Historia Brittonum, 8th Century. http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/basis/nennius-full.html

  Making a book is always so much a collaborative effort, and there are many people who dedicated their time and their talents to getting Song of the Sparrow onto the printer’s presses. I want to thank my friends and family for being patient while I burrowed away to write, for nourishing me creatively, and, above all, for loving and supporting me.

  I must thank my dear friend and editor, Aimee Friedman. Aimee, I do not even know how to begin to thank you properly. You have been a champion, a support, a beacon. Our sparrow could never have grown wings without your guidance and direction, your immense wealth of insight and intuition. You are an incredible editor, a graceful editor, and it has been a tremendous privilege to write for you.

  Unending gratitude goes to Charlotte Sheedy, for your invaluable wisdom, boundless care, support, and love; to Meredith Kaffel, for being such a willing and astute reader, for your passionate direction and calm; to my friend, the terrifically talented Elizabeth B. Parisi, for creating a spectacularly beautiful book — I am honored to see my words nestled within your stunning design; and to all of the brilliant people at Scholastic who have given this book life and who have given generously to me over the years their friendship, encouragement, and creative spark: Richard Amari, Dave Barrett, Ellie Berger, Karyn Browne, Susan Jeffers Casel, Margaret Coffee, Jody Corbett, Rachel Coun, Sheila Marie Everett, Nancy Feldman, Susan Flynn, Jacquelyn Fortier, Leslie Garych, Ken Geist, Jacky Harper, Jazan Higgins, Roz Hilden, Lisa Holton, Marijka Kostiw, David Levithan, Mary Marotta, Ed Masessa, John Mason, Charisse
Meloto, Suzanne Murphy, Stephanie Nooney, Andrea Pinkney, Arlene Robillard, David Saylor, Francesco Sedita, Alan Smagler, Jill Smith, Courtney Snyder, Tracy van Straaten, Adrienne Vrettos, Elizabeth Whiting, and so many others I have missed — thank you.

  And deepest thanks to my parents, for the encouragement and support you show me — I love you so much; to Sharon, my traveling-partner-in-crime and confidante; to Bessie Sandell, for your humor and love; to my Sarahs, Trabucchi and Gelt, for your friendship and love and for being such passionate, insightful readers; to Molly D. Leibovitz, for putting up with all those hours spent at the computer rather than the park; and, finally, to Liel, my first reader and editor, my inspiration, and my very best friend.

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at Lisa Ann Sandell’s A Map of the Known World!

  Somewhere, things must be beautiful and vivid. Somewhere else, life has to be beautiful and vivid and rich. Not like this muted palette — a pale blue bedroom, washed out sunny sky, dull green yellow brown of the fields. Here, I know every twist of every road, every blade of grass, every face in this town, and I am suffocating.

  So, I stay in. I don’t have to leave the house to trace the picture of this town. I know it all by heart. I can map all of these houses that look so similar, practically identical to my own, with their dusty aluminum siding, sagging porches, and buckled sidewalks; the curves and lines of town and county roads curling between homes and farmsteads; the straight-as-an-arrow line of the highway heading straight out of town; Union Street with its bank and bakery and video store, weathered wood slats and dark windows. I can also see the slippery bank of the creek, the water lower than usual; the wide gray rocks populated by turtles and singing frogs; the gnarled old weeping willow tree, her branches yellow and soft, skimming the surface of the stream.

  All of these things that I have seen countless times in my life will be there. All of it known and certain.

  I sit in my bedroom, on the pale blue-and-white braided carpet, and sigh. If a sigh had a shape, a taste, a color, it would be a salty yellow triangle. And sitting here, in the triangle patch of weak sunlight falling through the window onto my rug, is summery enough for me. I could leave the house, go to the tennis camp at the middle school around the block, but I don’t. Because I know that if I go, tennis racket in my hand, the ordinary thwack of racket on ball, the screakk of sneakers scratching across courts would quickly grind to a halt. Silence. And a dozen pairs of eyes would focus on me, follow every swing and every serve, every missed volley. Stares would hold me captive, paralyzing me. Pitying me. No thanks, I do not want that.

  I could put on my swimsuit, bike to the town swimming pool, and carefully spread out my towel on the poolside grass. I might ready myself to dive off the board into the cool, blue ten feet of chlorine-and-pee filled water, submerging myself, becoming a blurred streak, watching dozens of legs kicking above me. The thought of all those goggled eyes watching me with their hard, plastic stares makes my head swim, my legs feel leaden, and my fingers too tired to open the door. And I’m sitting here in the air-conditioning.

  I could step out, but I don’t.

  I do have a window onto escape, though. Onto that somewhere else, where colors and smells and winds are fresh and delicate, vibrant and new.

  A free map of the world arrived in an envelope of junk mail at the start of summer, and I rescued it from the trash and pinned it up on the wall over my desk. I look at that map every day, as if my life depends on it. It very well might.

  I like places with lots of vowels in their names, like Ulaanbaatar. The Isle of Man sounds like an important place, a place for adults. And the “stan” countries are fascinating — Kyrgyzstan, with all its consonants, is smaller than South Dakota, but contains the largest walnut forest in the world. A walnut forest must be a very romantic kind of forest.

  Basically, what all of this map studying amounts to is a belief … no, a certainty that the world — well, the world outside of Lincoln Grove — is an exotic and alluring place. And it beckons to me. So, for the eighty-one days of summer vacation, during which I’ve stayed at home, stayed indoors, I pore over this map and push little green bubble-topped pins into the country and city names that catch my eye, catch my fancy. I know there is no chance my father, who once would have had a small coronary at the sight of all these pins stuck in the wall — “Do you know how much it will cost to fix that wall!” he would have barked — will ever even open the door to my bedroom, let alone set foot in it now. I’m safe.

  For each bubble-marked spot, I imagine a whole vista, letting the sounds of the names and the topographies suggest a scene. I like to go online and look at the Web sites for different countries or cities. It’s amazing how even the most remote countries have their own Web sites. But thanks to the World Wide Web, I learned that Bhutan means Land of the Thunder Dragon, and the Himalayas intersect with the northern portion of the country, and from this I can imagine a picture of a cold snowy land of fierce mountains and dusty rock, ancient temples with curving horns perched on the steepest ledges. Perhaps a sleeping dragon lies in the most remote of craggy caves.

  Now enter my pad and pencils. I draw pretty well, I think. As I take careful crosshatch strokes, brushing the lead over the brown paper, following the silhouette of borders and natural boundaries, cityscapes and mountainscapes and roiling seas, within and without the lines of each map, slowly emerge. A cobblestone alleyway slick with rain, lined by sidewalk cafés and shops, a flower seller, the flutter of a red scarf on a beautiful lady, and a bustling newsstand caught up in the unfurling snail’s shell shape of the city — this is Paris. I can practically smell the bread baking, the rich scent of coffee. I want to be there so badly.

  Day after day, while the heat and all that is known festers outside, threatening to choke me, I make my escape into the unknown as I draw my maps of the world.

  But time is fleeting. Time is fleeing. School begins in just four days.

  When dusk comes, my parents come with it. First my dad arrives, the tires of his Volkswagen squealing in the garage. He enters the house, depositing his rumpled jacket and tie on the nearest living room chair, and without a call of greeting, proceeds immediately to the refrigerator. I can hear the freezer door swing open, and the clink, clink, clink of three ice cubes dropping into a glass, the squirt of gas from the tonic water bottle, as my father mixes his first gin and tonic. Silently, he retreats into the den, from which I can hear the low hum of television babble.

  Then my mother gets home, and the door flies open, slamming loudly into the wall behind it. She calls out to me, “I’m home! Cora? Where are you?” her voice cracking with concern, as if she’s scared I won’t be here to answer her. Every single time. She flings her jacket and worn leather purse on the same chair as my dad. And as I join her in the kitchen, she inquires about what I’ve done today.

  Once, dinnertime in our home was warm, important, ordinary. My mom used to take pleasure in cooking and trying new dishes. Duck confit, chicken tikka masala — I think she had the soul of an explorer, too, once. She would light candles, her hazel eyes catching the firelight and reflecting a radiance and gladness that suffused the room. I would help my father choose a record — yes, my dad’s the last man on earth to listen to records — to play softly in the background.

  He would run his thumb across the spines of every album in his massive collection, pulling them out and holding them up for me to judge. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s Déjà Vu merited a nose wrinkle, head shake, and a come on eye roll. Next, Earth Wind & Fire’s Greatest Hits. “Dad!” I would squeal with a giggle. “That’s so lame! No way!”

  He’d give an exaggeratedly aggrieved sigh, “Ah, youth. What has it all come to? Okay, Rabbit, how about this one?” Then, the Beatles’ White Album. I’d nod vigorously. “Blackbird” was one of our favorite songs to sing together.

  Music chosen, dishes steaming on ivy-leaf trivets, our whole family would sit around the big oak dining table and take turns recounting the events
of our day. I took those dinners for granted.

  Now, though, I just look on as my mom prepares a frozen meal, microwaved for five and a half minutes on high, and, peering at her taut face, I try to think quickly of an answer to the question of what I’ve done today that won’t make her cry. I’ve taken to lying. Sometimes I tell her that I played tennis or I went swimming — never mind the fact that I never have a bathing suit hanging to dry over my bathtub or sweaty smelly shorts and T-shirts in the laundry. She doesn’t notice those missing details.

  We sit down at the kitchen counter to eat our microwaved peas and chicken, while my father takes his on a tray into the den, the only sound the clinking of ice cubes.

  When my dad comes back into the kitchen to fix himself a second drink, I scrutinize my parents’ faces, taking in their matching gray pallor, pinched foreheads, and deadened eyes, his hair gray and thinning, hers limp and greasy. They both look as though they have been broken into a thousand pieces and never properly mended. My mother’s face is sewn too tight, while my father’s face has become fuzzy in outline, like a cloud, with all of these little particles loosely holding on, floating, floating. But when he pours himself a tall glass of gin, those pieces come back together, just momentarily, again.

  I wonder how my parents look at work, if they shed their brokenness outside the house. My own skin, the walls of this house, the clink of ice cubes, are all a prison. I must look broken, too.

  Everything fell apart because of Nate. I try and try not to think about him, but as the start of school looms near, he keeps trespassing into my head. He always trespassed.

  It happened six months and twenty-three days ago. Eight things went wrong on that eighth of February. Eight things that started out small. First, I slept straight through my alarm, so I was running late. Then, when I couldn’t open the orange juice carton and punched a misshapen hole through the container, juice dribbled down the side, spilling all over the counter and floor and the front of my jeans. Next, I missed the bus as a direct result of the orange juice incident. The series of eight continued as I forgot my Spanish homework and flubbed a math quiz; my favorite pen broke and leaked all over the bottom of my backpack; I got into a screaming match with my older brother, Nate; and then he died. Yup. There it is. Number eight. It’s a big one. My big brother got killed when he stormed out of the house that night, the night of February 8, drove his black Honda Civic in the dark without the headlights on, skidded around an icy curve in the county road, and wrapped this Honda Civic around a tree.