Song of the Sparrow
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.