My friend.
And you, too, my sister!
I call softly.
I press my hand to the wall of the
tent, then turn.
I must attract the Saxons’
attention and lead them away
from the mountain. Then I must
switch courses and run back to the
mountain.
I take a deep breath.
My sparrow is flitting and
dancing in my chest. She swoops and
does loops and circles in my belly.
Give me your wings, I pray.
Another breath.
My hands and legs feel shaky.
One more breath, then I run.
I run, circling the tent, and fly
past the guard. His eyes open
wide and he gives his head a little
shake, as though he cannot believe
what he sees.
Then he drops the cup he was
holding and begins to shout.
He starts to speed after me,
raising his ax and brandishing
it in the air. I cannot look back
at him, I must run and run.
I swerve and weave through the
tents, leading what is now a pack
of Saxon warriors on my heels, south of
the mountain, and they are hollering and
waving their instruments of war at my back.
I am fast, but they are more powerful, with
longer legs. I can feel their hot breath on
my back, the stench of their unwashed
bodies urging my legs on.
I am unaware of breath, of pain.
I feel only the wind at my feet and the heat
of their bodies on my neck.
Run! the wind calls.
Run! I beg of Gwynivere in my mind.
I am darting and weaving like a fox,
but suddenly something whistles past
my ear in a cool rush of air.
I see the white feathers in the moonlight.
An arrow.
Out of the corner of my eye
I spy a figure moving toward
the mountain.
Gwynivere.
Her golden hair streams out
behind her, like one of Arthur’s
battle standards.
She goes and no one follows.
I turn and race behind a tent.
Another arrow hurtles past me.
I catch sight of the moon,
half revealed in all her splendor.
Please, please help me, I pray silently.
I look around, but Gwynivere is nowhere
in sight. I change direction and begin to head
for Mount Badon.
In the distance, I can see the sparkle of the moon
glinting off the watery surface of the river.
I can make it, I tell myself.
The Saxons are closing in, and arrows are
now flying as fast as the beat of a
hummingbird’s wings.
My legs and my lungs are burning,
but I keep moving.
There is no choice.
I have no choice.
As I round the base of the great hill,
I can see the river curving,
carving through the land just up ahead.
There are dark figures like teeth
or men
looming before me.
My heart sinks with dread.
The Saxons, they must have
guessed our purpose and headed
off Gwynivere, and now they wait for me.
But my legs do not stop moving.
Let them try to take me!
A wild laugh parts my lips,
my mouth is dry and my eyes water.
As I near the river, the dark shapes grow
larger. They are too tall to be people.
Closer now, closer!
My heart beats an angry tattoo.
My own drum of war.
They are not Saxon soldiers after all!
Boats!
I fly toward them, and the intricate
carvings on the stern of the nearest boat
become clear in the moonlight.
What a beautiful vessel,
a beautiful vessel to carry me home!
Another giggle laced with fear and
an edge of lunacy.
I run to the craft and begin to push,
willing it to slide into the water.
I turn and drive my back against
the boat’s massive weight.
Suddenly there is a hissing sound, and
my mind is stunned as a burning pain
explodes in my body.
I look down and there, lodged in the soft flesh
between my shoulder and my chest, the wooden
shaft of an arrow, silvery feathers tracing
the end.
Like an animal made wild with fear,
I thrust myself against the boat once more,
and it shakes loose and rolls
into the water.
I stagger down the bank
of the river, dizzily brushing aside the
reeds waving in the wake of the boat’s
sluggish track.
Somehow, I catch hold of the craft
and roll myself over its side,
careful not to land on the
arrow buried deep in my chest.
Careful not to look down and
see the blood, the blood that is
warm and sticky on my hands, my face,
that now coats the bottom of the boat.
The Saxons have lined up on the shore,
frozen, as if stunned, and watch me
float away.
The last thing I remember,
before the grey mists
at the edges of my eyes veil
my vision wholly, is thinking
they must believe me dead.
The boat sways and rocks gently,
drifting lazily along
with the river’s current.
The moor …
the moor is green and pregnant
with clover and wildflowers,
and I feel the feathery grasses
brushing the palms of my hands,
vivid pink and purple flowers and
the sky is a strange shade of green,
without a hint of a storm.
Suddenly my hand is filled with
beads, cool, ivory-colored beads,
with intricate scrolls and knots
etched into them. They fill my hands
and they fill a basket that hangs from
my arm, and somehow I know
I am richer because of them.
Then a wolf with green-golden eyes
and tawny fur comes to stand beside me.
I am not afraid, for the wolf is my friend.
He nudges my hand with a cold nose
then bounds away, and I chase him
through a shiver of silvery birch trees.
As the wolf and I wind between the
slender trunks, the wolf vanishes,
and as I feel I am losing my breath,
my strength sapping away
Tristan steps from behind a tree
and offers his hand. I take it
and suddenly I feel wings beating
at my back, and Tristan and I turn into
a pair of sparrows.
Sometime, when the moon is high overhead,
I wake from a fog-filled sleep and
run my fingers over the arrow.
I have not the strength nor will
to pull it out, but I know I must.
Slowly I wrap my fingers around
the base of the shaft, feeling too
weak even to keep my fingers from
trembling. Then I pull; the
last drops of strength
drain from me,
as a pool of dark blood wells
over my chest.
I fumble with the pouch at my neck,
and manage to ease a pinch of calendula petals
free, and place them in my mouth.
I chew weakly, then place the sticky
clump into the hole left by the arrow.
My eyes grow heavy again.
Has Gwynivere reached Arthur?
I wonder hazily. Has she warned the men?
Will I die here, in this Saxon boat?
And darkness envelops me again.
I still feel the rocking
of the boat and the river.
A faint light buzzes behind my eyelids.
But I cannot open them.
There is a pressure on my chest,
a terrible weight.
Fear is thick in my mouth,
on my tongue, sour and acidic.
I am alone and dying.
The point of light
grown smaller,
ever smaller now,
ever more distant now.
Does she wake?
Her eyes flutter!
Delirium before death.
Elaine?
My mother calls to me.
Truly, I die.
Elaine! Wake up!
Elaine!
Why would my mother shout at me?
I have not seen her in so many years.
And she shouts at me?
Is she not happy to receive me in heaven?
Elaine!
Mother?
The film of dirt encrusted
on my eyes tears at my lashes
as I force myself to open them.
The soothing motion of the boat stops,
the peace I felt as I slipped away,
into the darkness, fades.
I am not on a boat.
Nor am I dead.
As the world and my life
swim slowly into view,
faces loom against
an overpowering brightness.
I am in a sun-filled tent, and
my father’s face, wrinkled,
drawn, and pinched with worry,
grows clear. He kneels
beside my head, and as I look at him
and ask, disbelievingly, I live?
a smile widens, smoothing the creases
at his brow and mouth.
Beside him, Lavain sits, his eyes
rimmed in red, as though
he has been weeping.
And Tirry paces behind them, wringing
his hands, his knuckles white,
his face white too.
Tristan sits beside Lavain,
his golden eyes so filled
with fear, his face haggard
and fraught with shadows.
Elaine, he breathes, thank God.
Tirry stops pacing and stares at me intensely.
He closes his eyes, his lips
moving in what I guess are words
of silent thanks.
I reach for my father’s hand.
It is rough and warm.
Yes, he murmurs, you live.
And we live because of you.
What — what happened? I ask,
feeling a drowsiness closing in.
I fight it off and struggle to sit up,
but Lavain gently pushes me
down against the pallet on which
they have laid me.
Do not try to sit up, Lavain says,
his voice so gentle and soft.
I think of small green turtles
on their beds of moss;
he was gentle then too.
There was a battle.
Arthur’s voice startles me,
and I turn to see him standing
beside Gwynivere at the foot of my bed,
his arm just brushing her shoulder.
Gwynivere reached us and told us
of the Saxons’ plan to attack us
while we slept; she told us of your —
your deeds.
And we readied for battle, praying
you would return to us, knowing we
fought not just for Britain, but for you,
for your bravery. We fought to honor you.
And we pushed back the Saxons, he says
solemnly, his eyebrows knitted together.
We slaughtered them, Lavain breaks in.
And they ran, ran for their boats and they
will not be back for a very long time.
I look to Arthur, then Tirry and Father,
and they nod solemnly.
You were victorious? I ask wondrously.
We were victorious, Arthur affirms.
And now the dawn of peace
tolls throughout all this land.
I cannot believe it.
Gwynivere did it, our plan worked.
Then I notice Lancelot, lurking
behind Arthur. He catches
me looking at him and looks away.
My father rises to his feet, grasping
Lavain’s shoulder for support.
Come, my sons, let us leave her
in peace. She needs to rest.
Tristan comes to stand where
my father was, and looks into my eyes.
I will be back, he whispers gruffly,
and he squeezes my hand then turns
to follow my brothers.
Arthur kneels beside me, then.
His voice is thick. You will never know
how grateful to you I am. How much
I admire you.
How proud I am to call you friend.
He straightens. Your father
is right, you must rest.
And I do not wish to earn
his ire, nor that of your
diligent nurse, he says,
smiling at Gwynivere.
He presses his lips to my forehead
and goes, the tent flaps rustling behind him.
Gwynivere looks at me anxiously,
and moves to follow Arthur.
But I must speak with her.
Gwyn! I call weakly.
Oh, Elaine! she cries and rushes to my side,
throwing her arms around my neck.
How do you feel? she asks.
Awful, I reply, smiling.
As though an arrow has pierced my chest.
It has, she giggles.
We did it, Gwyn, I whisper in the wilderness
of her thick, flaxen hair.
We did, she agrees, her face
shining with tears. Elaine, she begins again,
you will be so proud of me.
When Tirry found the hole in your chest,
I knew to put milfoil on the wound, because
there was so much blood —
her face drops, as though a cloud falls over it
— so much blood. But the milfoil
stanched the flow, and then I
used the red clover to draw away
inflammation.
She smiles again, her eyes full of question.
Thank you, I whisper, reaching for her hand.
Thank you for saving me.
It is astonishing how everything is so
different from just one half moon ago.
I have come to care for Gwynivere,
greatly, and she for me.
She squeezes my hand,
as though to say she is filled with the
same wonder.
Gwynivere sits with me awhile longer,
until I tell her I am tired.
When you wake, I will bring you
some broth to sip, she says,
reluctant to leave.
My eyelids grow heavy once again,
and a dreamless slumber descends.
Time moves in strange ways during
these days and nights of my healing.
It slithers like a snake, slippery and sl
y;
then night falls like a blanket,
muffling and smothering the pain.
The pain moves in strange ways, too,
like the current of the River Usk,
scratchy and warm as silt,
and when I allow myself to remember the
arrow standing out from my chest,
the heavy throbbing overwhelms me,
then it drifts away again, like the
tide beneath a full moon.
My father and brothers come to sit with me,
they hold my hand and sing me
songs of battle and glory.
And they whisper that the glory is mine.
They whisper of the glory of
the Lady of Shalott.
My glory.
I think of that great oaken loom,
gleaming gold in a patch of sunlight,
and the stories my mother would weave
into her tapestries. When I recover,
I will build myself a new loom and weave
my own story, the story of my family
and my friends, this land
and the glory that we shared.
As long as I must lay flat on my back,
Gwynivere comes each day and
feeds me broth, bringing the spoon
slowly to my lips, allowing me to
sip the warm soup, until my strength
returns and I can sit up.
It is odd to be the patient.
I do not enjoy it, but I use the time
to teach Gwynivere what I know of healing.
She is an eager student, and
she sings me songs, too,
sweet songs of love, and
I notice a change in her. Her face
has softened, and there is a peace
in her eyes.
Gwynivere, you look different, I remark
one day. Tell me what has happened to you.
Is it Lancelot? I ask.
No, it is not Lancelot, she replies. It is
Arthur. And a smile breaks over her
face like a sunrise. Then her forehead
creases. Before you returned to us,
before the boat that bore you floated
down the river, into the camp,
when I told Arthur all that we had heard,
and when I told him what you had done,
I saw such a look of fear on his face.
He was so scared, Elaine. Scared for you,
scared for all of us. It was as if all of his beautiful
humanity was revealed in that singular expression
of fear and love. And at that moment,
I think, I began to love him.
Her face is radiant.
I did not choose him, in the beginning,
but that night, she pauses to draw a breath,
that night I made a choice, and it was
the right one. When Arthur returned from
battle, he and I spoke
as we watched over you.
He told me that I did not have to marry him
if I did not want to. He told me —
he told me it was for me to decide.
In that moment, I knew. I knew that he