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Song of the Sparrow

Page 4

by Lisa Ann Sandell

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,
r />   but the nails are bitten

  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

 

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