Song of the Sparrow

by Lisa Ann Sandell

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

  scheme, and who am I to

  presume that I can —

  that I can lead?

  So many lives,

  so very many lives

  are in my hands.

  What if the Merlin’s prophecy

  is false?

  I cannot help but be fearful.

  Arthur’s confession startles

  my own worries from my head.

  Oh, Arthur, you must not

  doubt yourself. You are meant to

  lead us, to fight for Britain and to

  take her back from the invaders

  who would enslave us.

  You must never question that.

  All you believe in is right and pure.

  The men follow you because they know

  in their hearts this is true,

  I tell him, and you must believe it too.

  What would I do without your good counsel,

  Elaine? He looks at me then

  looks down at the ground.

  A-hem!

  We both look up as a cough

  startles us both from our thoughts.

  Gwynivere approaches, a cold sneer

  curling her lips.

  Hello, Gwynivere. Arthur rises,

  and gives a short bow of his head.

  Good day, sir, she addresses him,

  ignoring me. My father bade me

  to aid in gathering herbs and plants.

  She looks at him demurely. Of course,

  I told him, I do all that I can to aid

  in the cause. In your cause.

  Arthur glances down at me,

  an uneasy blush spreading over his

  cheeks. Yes, well, Elaine, I am sure,

  will show you which plants

  bear the necessary fruits, so to speak.

  You will guide Gwynivere, will you not, Elaine?

  But of course, Arthur, I respond,

  my head buzzing with rage. The gall,

  the staggering, dishonest gall!

  Arthur is still looking at me,

  probably wondering why my face

  has twisted itself into a grimace of

  fury.

  Come, Gwynivere. Let us hunt for

  red clover. It is good for poultices

  to stop inflammation.

  Thank you, Elaine. Arthur looks

  relieved and abashed at once.

  Good! I think.

  But it is not his fault, I remind

  myself. He is as much a victim

  of circumstances as I am.

  More so, perhaps, as he does

  his duty and is paid in this way

  for it.

  Good day, ladies, he says, then

  swiftly lopes away.

  What does this wretched weed look like?

  Gwynivere’s tone is icy.

  The flower varies from violet to crimson,

  and the leaves are ragged and hairy.

  They grow this tall, I explain,

  motioning to the middle of my calf.

  Follow me, I sigh, leaving my mending,

  and leading her down

  to the river, where, gingerly, I step

  across the slippery stones that

  lead to the other shore.

  They grow here, on the moor.

  But she is not listening to me,

  her forehead creased with

  consternation. Gwynivere lifts her

  skirts and balances shakily

  on the rocks.

  If you walk quickly, you will stand

  a better chance of not falling in, I warn.

  Hmph, she grunts. We cannot

  all be wild things like you.

  Remembering the brown toad

  I slipped in her embroidery bag,

  I remind myself I have treated her

  badly enough, in spite of her cruel words.

  Still, I cannot help but grit my teeth.

  I am stalking through the meadow grasses,

  trying to calm my nerves, tearing

  the clover from the ground when I see it.

  I glance back to make sure Gwynivere

  has not drowned, and I see her standing

  on the near bank, stiff as a stone statue.

  The grass does not bite! I call, and I hold

  up a stem of clover, waving the

  plum-colored blossom in the air.

  And this is what you are to pick.

  Try not to bring me any ragwort.

  We move without speaking, though once

  in a while, I hear her stumble and yelp,

  or mutter in frustration.

  Her heavy pink gown,

  with all its layers,

  must be sweltering

  in the springtime sunshine.

  I begin to pity her; clearly she has never

  spent time wandering in the fields.

  You must be warm, I call to her. You may

  take off your gown. I promise I will not

  look. I can feel a satisfied smirk

  playing on my lips.

  She only harrumphs in response.

  But I spot her watching me with envy

  in her eyes, as I remove my dress,

  and lay it flat over a rock, so that I may

  wander about in just my shift,

  lighter and much cooler.

  Really, it is quite comfortable, Gwynivere!

  I tease.

  Fine! she screams, startling a flock of

  meadowlarks. She attacks the laces of

  her dress viciously, and jerks the gown

  over her head, only to get stuck

  and flail about, trapped inside the

  multitude of folds and bunches of material.

  She stumbles around in a short circle,

  and I giggle, then run toward her, ready to help.

  Gwynivere, I say, putting out a hand to stop her.

  Gwynivere — but she continues to twist and

  wrench from my grasp.

  Gwynivere! Stop! Let me help you.

  I can tell she is reluctant to let me

  aid her, but she halts and I grab

  two handfuls of the abundant fabric

  and pull the gown over her

  head.

  Gwynivere seizes the gown from

  my hands, snapping it back,

  as though I were trying to steal it from her.

  I look at her, waiting for thanks, but

  none comes.

  She spins on her heel and bends to the ground,

  snatching a knot of grass and a single

  clover head.

  Very well, I say, and turn away,

  returning to my own gathering.

  Now, however, the silence between

  us feels less charged, somehow. Easier.

  Perhaps I have found a chink

  in her armor?

  I am through here, she shouts at me.

  This is a servant’s work. You may finish it.

  And she throws her gown over her

  arm and storms away, back to the river.

  How wrong I was, I murmur, reeling

  a bit, though I am unsure why.

  Why do I still feel surprised by

  her intolerable rudeness? I wonder.

  At least I will not be lingering

  here for much longer, I whisper to the meadow.

  Soon enough, I will bid you a silent farewell too.

  And I don my dress and follow Gwynivere

  back across t
he river,

  back to the camp.

  As I near our tent,

  the sounds of clanging swords

  and grunting men find my ears.

  The soldiers are still at work,

  which gives me time to begin

  packing away all that I will need

  for my journey.

  The other night,

  I overheard Tirry and my father

  discussing the march in hushed tones.

  It is to last five days and five nights,

  stretching over rough country,

  forest, hills, and swamp.

  We will move to the east, across a mighty river,

  and then to the south, until we reach

  the fort of Cerdic Strong-in-the-Arm,

  that beastly Saxon who leads the invaders,

  Tirry described.

  I bring my mother’s chest and take from

  it the silvered glass.

  My eyes, as murky and muddy as ever,

  look older to me, somehow.

  I cannot say what it is that has changed,

  exactly, but these eyes I do not

  recognize.

  Again I ask myself,

  Am I beautiful?

  Do I look like a woman now?

  Lancelot’s words echo in my head,

  You? You are naught but a child, Elaine.

  You would not understand.

  I shudder at the memory

  of his sneering disdain.

  Naught.

  I must be ugly.

  I tuck the glass back

  into the chest, beneath the

  linens and pretty

  white things.

  Then I pull out the leaves and flowers

  and seeds I secreted away earlier,

  the bits of cheese and dried fruit,

  nuts and crusts of bread,

  and I spread everything from my cache

  onto the table.

  There is not much.

  Not nearly enough.

  Not for five days and five nights,

  and certainly not for more than that.

  I will have to do better.

  And how will I carry all of it?

  As I finger the ruffled sheets

  and napkins, an idea takes shape.

  I lift one soft, white linen sheet

  from the chest,

  shaking it open.

  Yes, that will do.

  I recover my needle from a man’s

  stained and ratty tunic, and a

  length of woolen thread, and begin to sew

  the edges of the sheet together,

  closing it up like a sack.

  Carefully I wrap the plants

  in leather pouches.

  I have already prepared

  poultices and tinctures for the

  men to carry with them,

  but I will feel more

  confident knowing that

  I bear more medicines

  that I can prepare myself

  when I am with them.

  From the pantry, I collect some smoked meat,

  more cheese, and a loaf

  of bread. A flagon of cider.

  This will have to do.

  I tuck all of the provisions

  into the sack and cover it all with

  my cloak.

  A shiver runs through me.

  As I plan to march

  toward battle and the unknown,

  just as the men do, I wonder,

  do I seek glory too?

  It will be an adventure, and I have always

  wanted, dreamed of having an adventure.

  Again, a shiver,

  one of delight,

  excitement,

  travels up my spine.

  As I tuck the cotton sack back

  into the trunk, I see a dark

  shape moving against the flap of the tent.

  Did I really see it?

  Was someone spying on me?

  Did somebody see me?

  I duck my head outside, but no one is there.

  I must have imagined it.

  Still, the sense that someone was lurking,

  watching, gnaws at me.

  No, I must have imagined it.

  I survey the room to be sure I

  do not leave behind any evidence of my designs,

  then lay myself to sleep.

  The men make ready to set out at dawn,

  when the glow of the newborn sun

  is sickly and pale.

  My father kneels by the edge of my pallet;

  his lips, warm and rough, gently

  touch my forehead.

  Daughter, he whispers.

  I sit up quickly, startled.

  I slept without hearing his

  and my brothers’ movements.

  Surprised that I could sleep

  knowing that I would be on my way,

  alone

  too.

  Father, I reply. It is time?

  Yes, I am afraid so, dearest one.

  My heart begins to beat fast,

  too fast.

  I cannot believe that all of these days

  of planning have left me,

  on the day itself, so unprepared.

  And frightened.

  Do not be afraid, my love, he says.

  The fear must be seared across my face.

  We will return to you soon.

  My father’s callused fingers

  tickle my cheek,

  and I throw my arms around his neck.

  Father, I —

  I break down into sobs,

  I do not want you to go.

  I do not want any of you to go.

  This is madness … my voice breaks,

  and I cannot speak anymore.

  Shh, Elaine, hush, and do not cry.

  We will be back before the next moon.

  It is not so much time.

  And Tirry and Lavain will take care of me,

  you will see, no harm will find us.

  His voice is softer than I remember

  ever hearing it before.

  I cry silently into the crook of his neck,

  memorizing his smoky scent.

  He reaches behind him and

  unlocks my hands, laying them down

  at my sides.

  It is time, he echoes.

  Say good-bye to your brothers,

  and wish them well. For we are off.

  I rise and embrace Tirry, who stands

  two paces behind our father,

  his face set in grim lines.

  His blue eyes bore deep into mine,

  and he grasps me by my shoulders,

  holding me away from him.

  All will be well, he intones.

  I promise. Think on us with love

  and good wishes. We shall see

  each other soon. I feel it.

  I nod and fight to hold back

  fresh tears that threaten to

  pour from my eyes. I feel

  I could flood our little tent if

  I allow myself to continue weeping.

  Tirry, I whisper, thinking of the blood on

  his cloak, please be careful.

  We embrace once more, and then he

  and my father leave the tent, and Lavain

  and I are left alone. He

  stands resolutely next to the

  opening, his eyes

  trained on the dirt floor.

  Lavain. I hate

  how my voice trembles

  when I speak his name.

  Lavain, I repeat. Brother —

  I hate how I do not know what

  to say to him.

  He looks up at me, his eyes

  steely and unreadable.

  Please, I continue, be watchful.

  And be — be well.

  Lavain nods and takes a step

  toward me. Sister, he says,

  his voice a lo
w growl, we will

  return to you. And he is gone.

  There is no touch, no pat of reassurance.

  No gesture, no word of love

  or affection, yet, somehow,

  I know he meant as much.

  I run outside the tent and my three

  men turn back to me and raise

  their hands in silent farewell,

  as I feel the sky, in its leaden greyness,

  fall down upon me.

  I sink to my knees,

  crying and praying.

  Please, O Lord, please, Goddess of the Moon,

  keep them safe, I beg.

  I wait until they vanish into the pearly mist

  that seems a cousin to the dawn.

  Then I run back into the tent and

  pull my white linen sack from

  my mother’s chest,

  my sparrow flapping her wings, as what

  I am about to do

  sinks in.

  I replace the linens,

  carefully folding them.

  The danger of what I am

  about to attempt seizes me,

  and I wonder, will I ever see

  this chest again?

  I reach down to the bottom of the

  coffer and pull out a small lace

  cloth — my mother’s handkerchief.

  I stuff that into the sack too,

  and again, as I reach into the box

  to straighten the materials that are

  left, my fingers brush something hard and

  cold. Tristan’s necklace.

  I withdraw the strands of beads that

  I had stored in the trunk for safekeeping,

  and fasten them around my neck.

  His strange but lovely gift feels

  like an amulet for protection.

  That is all. I close the chest

  and walk out of the tent,

  looking back just once.

  Will I come back?

  Will I survive?

  I know not. Nor do I know

  of another choice.

  And so I begin walking,

  following the track of

  foot- and hoofprints, following

  the distant sound of horses

  whinnying and feet and hooves

  pounding the earth.

  The sun is high overhead,

  and I am walking north and east.

  I am still following the tracks in the mud,

  praying that I do not lose them.

  The leaves of so many trees

  make lacy patterns against the slate-colored

  sky, and I worry that it will soon rain.

  I have no shelter, no skins with which

  to cover myself. I did not plan as well

  as I thought.

  Birds call to one another

  in the morning sky, and I sing

  to myself to keep

  my thoughts from wandering to Lancelot.

  It is useless.

  The last words we exchanged on the moor,

  his icy glare.

  You? he sneered.

  How small and ugly I feel

  at just the memory of it,

  the way his lips curled,

  and his voice rose and trembled.