Song of the Sparrow

He pauses.

  Elaine, I remember the first time

  I met you.

  You were so young,

  so scared. It nearly broke

  my heart to see you so.

  I look up at him, tears in my eyes.

  Morgan sits beside me and squeezes my hand.

  Those were bad days, I whisper.

  Yes, Arthur intones.

  But these are better days, for

  my heart is filled with much gladness

  to see how strong you are.

  And I am grateful, Arthur continues,

  for your skills in the healing arts.

  You have saved more than

  one life. And I am grateful for

  your friendship. We are

  all grateful for it.

  Arthur looks straight at me.

  He stops again and clears his throat.

  I wonder, may I speak openly with you?

  Of course, Arthur, I reply,

  my curiosity growing.

  Do you know, he begins uncertainly,

  how I came to be dux bellorum? he asks.

  I am not sure I understand.

  You are the nephew of Aurelius — I begin.

  The Merlin, the Merlin and my sister

  came to me — before Aurelius was killed,

  and they foretold his death.

  My eyes widen, and I look at

  Morgan. She nods, her

  lips pursed tightly. Arthur laughs

  grimly. I did not believe them.

  They spoke the truth, and

  I did not warn Aurelius! he moans dolefully.

  I had the knowledge, and

  I did not use it to save him.

  Again, I look to Morgan, who

  just shakes her head and looks away.

  She rises and begins to pace

  around the tent, her steps stormy.

  Arthur, I know not of these things,

  the magic of the Merlin, I tell him,

  but you did no wrong.

  His eyes are wild, and he continues,

  his voice ragged. That is not all.

  The Merlin told me it was all part of a

  prophecy. I would take Aurelius’s place

  as dux bellorum, and I would lead

  the Britons to victory. He gives another

  harsh laugh. I — who am I? How

  can I ever lead all these men?

  What if I lead them to their deaths?

  And all of this weighs on me, ever

  plaguing my sleep, my dreams.

  But I have no choice. His face

  is pale and his lips set

  in a thin, bloodless line.

  No choice, he repeats. I would

  that things were different.

  My mind whirls as I try to think

  what to say to him.

  There are no words to comfort him,

  so great are his worries.

  What a burden, what a weight,

  I think. How unfair.

  Arthur, I start, unsure of

  how to continue. I believe in you.

  The men believe in you. There

  is no one else whom the men

  will unite behind. They love you.

  And though these burdens

  sit heavy on your shoulders in the

  face of such dark deeds to come,

  I have faith that all will be well.

  That you will be well. And as

  I speak the words, I realize that I

  truly believe them. And from

  the look of relief that lightens his brow,

  I can see that Arthur does too.

  Morgan is staring at us both and

  comes to stand beside Arthur,

  resting her hand on his shoulder.

  Elaine speaks wisely, she murmurs.

  Yes, Arthur replies. She says much the

  same as you do, Sister.

  Thank you, Elaine, he says,

  turning to me. I am sorry

  to have passed my worries

  onto your shoulders, but to have a

  friend, an ear — for that I thank you.

  Arthur rises and bows, then

  turns to Morgan, lifting her

  hand and pressing

  a gentle kiss to it.

  Then he turns to leave,

  throwing a last, small smile to us.

  Slowly, I step out into the

  cool evening air.

  My feet,

  my legs feel as light as

  a cat’s.

  I pad slowly back to the great

  elm tree where Lancelot

  and I meet, the elm tree

  made grey by the moon’s light.

  I sink to my knees, and lean

  back against the

  unyielding trunk, grateful

  for its solidity, its weight, and

  its rough, scratchy bark.

  I am glad that

  it is for me to see

  the side of Arthur,

  of the men I love,

  that they dare not

  show each other.

  I must do something.

  As I wander distractedly back to

  our tent, thinking about how

  the warring steals choices from all of us,

  I hear footsteps

  behind me. Quickly,

  I turn, forgetting momentarily

  that Lancelot has left.

  Tristan. I hope he does not

  recognize the disappointment

  in my voice.

  Yes, it is I, he laughs.

  It is late for you to be

  out, no? he asks,

  his eyebrows raised in question.

  Yes, I suppose it is, I answer.

  Late, that is.

  Muddled.

  What is it, Elaine? You sound strange.

  It is — it is nothing, I tell him,

  shaking my head to clear it.

  Nothing? he murmurs.

  I was just — just thinking about

  the herbs I must collect before

  you leave.

  I see, he says, not sounding like

  he could see at all.

  You are not plotting anything,

  are you? he asks, his eyes glowing

  in the gathering dark.

  I know of your inclination to follow

  where you should not.

  I stop, surprised, no longer

  distracted in the least.

  What? I ask.

  You heard me, he says,

  his hand touching my

  elbow.

  I know of your secret visits

  to the Round Table,

  to battlefields.

  You must not try to follow us,

  Elaine.

  I — I had not thought to try.

  But as I speak the words,

  a tiny voice begins to

  whisper in my mind.

  Promise me, he commands, urgently.

  I promise, Tristan.

  But I know now that I lie.

  Very well, he says.

  Though I hardly trust you.

  He is grinning again,

  his leonine eyes dancing.

  Tristan delivers me to the mouth

  of my tent, and I bid him a

  good night.

  And as I lay down on my pallet,

  a plan starts to take shape.

  There is much work to be done.

  Thank you, Tristan, I whisper.

  Morning dawns grey

  and ominous, the sky

  pregnant with indigo clouds.

  As I rise from my bed,

  I sense that I am alone

  in the tent, my family

  already gone to the mock

  battlefield. In these

  moments of silence

  I do my chores, sort through

  my herbs and take stock of

  what is needed.

  Hand
ling the colorful powders

  and scented flowers calms me,

  allows quiet into my head.

  I must think on my plan.

  A list begins to form in my mind,

  and suddenly I wonder, how will

  I ever manage to gather all that

  I might need and prepare

  a kit for the journey

  without anyone seeing, guessing?

  For I shall follow.

  There are no hiding places in this

  tent, no private spots

  in this camp.

  As I scan the room, looking

  for a nook to secret away

  a sack, my eyes fall

  upon my mother’s chest.

  Yes, there should be room inside

  of it, to squirrel away medicinal

  plants, some clothes and food.

  And no one will think to look in there.

  The domain of woman.

  I hear a scratching outside the tent,

  and then Tristan’s voice floats

  in to me, Your knight returns,

  Elaine. Will you come to greet him?

  Chastise him or cheer?

  My heart does a little

  flutter and I long to run outside,

  but for Tristan’s sake, well,

  for my own sake, that I might be

  spared further teasing, I slow my feet.

  I am sweeping, Tristan. And I do

  not know the man whom you call

  ‘my knight.’

  Is it my father?

  I had no word

  that he has left.

  I smile a secret smile, then

  step outside to meet my friend.

  Shall we? Tristan asks, grinning as

  he escorts me to the far edge of the camp

  that overlooks the great moor to the west.

  See there, he points, and I can just

  make out tiny smudges riding

  on the horizon, far off in the distance.

  There is Lancelot with a small party.

  It looks as though he succeeded

  in the task Arthur set for him.

  The hazy figures soon resolve into

  solid shapes and indeed I can

  make out several horsemen

  and a carriage.

  Does Lodengrance ride in the coach?

  I ask. Can he not ride with the other men?

  I know not, Tristan replies, thoughtfully

  stroking his chin.

  Soon I can discern Lancelot riding

  at the fore on his beloved white stallion.

  A heavyset man rides beside him.

  Lodengrance.

  So, who, I wonder, rides in the carriage?

  A rustling behind me draws my

  attention, and I see Arthur approach.

  He nods and comes to stand beside me.

  I look at him, but am met only

  with his profile, as he

  studies the nearing company.

  His presence is unquiet,

  and now Tristan, too, shifts

  restlessly beside me.

  My feet long to run away,

  but my heart stays them.

  My heart, like a baby bird,

  longing to see Lancelot, jumps and

  dips in anticipation of our reunion.

  Finally the riders are here.

  Lancelot dismounts

  his steed without even a glance

  my way.

  He moves directly to the carriage,

  with a look on his face such as

  I have never seen there before,

  so intent and serious it is.

  But there is something else

  in his green eyes,

  something I do not recognize.

  The carriage door is thrust

  open, and I feel my companions

  draw a collective breath,

  as we wait to see who

  alights.

  Then,

  the most beautiful creature

  I have ever seen emerges.

  She has a crown of hair the color

  of flaxseed, skin ivory and delicate,

  and full coral lips.

  Her gown looks as though

  it is woven of silver gossamer,

  spun by enchanted spiders

  for a faerie princess.

  A girl!

  A friend?

  A companion to teach me all that

  I do not know of women and beauty

  and fine manners?

  A friend to share my secrets and wishes?

  Who will tell me her own?

  A friend?

  Lancelot takes her hand and

  assists her to the ground.

  And he looks stricken,

  as though some force

  grips his heart or his stomach,

  or both.

  The girl’s seashell lips lift

  into a gentle smile as she

  places one dainty hand on

  Lancelot’s arm, allowing

  him to escort her to

  where we stand.

  Lancelot has not taken his

  eyes from her face.

  Indeed, he looks enthralled.

  Arthur looks down fleetingly

  and draws a breath,

  as though steeling himself,

  then steps forward to meet them.

  My friends, he says, his hands

  extended before him in greeting.

  To my surprise, Lancelot,

  who has been Arthur’s dearest companion

  for as long as I have known the pair,

  does not turn to his captain.

  Rather, he continues to stare in

  an almost unnatural manner

  at the young woman who stands by his side.

  Lodengrance, who is as ruddy-faced and

  rotund as I remembered him, approaches

  Arthur first, throwing his arms open and

  embracing him.

  Ah, my dear friend. It gives me great

  pleasure to be back in your company.

  Soon I shall call you ‘Son,’ eh?

  Lancelot flinches.

  What is happening here?

  The way Lancelot gapes

  at this strange girl is

  unnerving, and a dull ache

  opens up in my chest.

  It feels as though there is a

  yawning hole where my heart

  did beat hopefully

  just some minutes ago.

  I do not understand what unfolds.

  And the girl, she stands there,

  so placid, gazing on Lancelot,

  then turning to Arthur,

  who now returns Lodengrance’s

  embrace, and says,

  You are most welcome here.

  Indeed, I thank you for coming

  and bringing some measure

  of cavalry to our aid.

  We have great need, in these

  days, of friends. I am

  happy to see you, old friend.

  I cannot stand here, I cannot

  watch this tableau,

  which I do not understand

  nor do I want to understand it,

  unfold any longer.

  But I cannot look away.

  Nor can I stop the torrent

  of questions.

  Finally the greeting party

  breaks apart.

  Tristan returns to his

  weapons practice,

  and Arthur leads Lodengrance

  and the girl away.

  Lancelot stands rooted

  to the spot, as though frozen.

  I hurry back into my tent to

  find some mending, something

  to keep me busy, so the

  doubts filling my gut do

  not carry me away.

  Then I cannot stand it

  any longer, and the walls

  of the tent se
em too close,

  too stifling. I must get

  outside.

  As I run to the willow

  tree at the river’s edge,

  gulping great breaths

  of sweet fresh air,

  I stop short. There

  is the girl, and she is

  with Lancelot. His arms

  are around her, and she

  lifts a hand to his

  cheek. He is murmuring softly

  to her. I cannot trespass;

  I cannot believe what I see.

  The ground feels as though

  it bends and shifts beneath me.

  Indeed, the world feels as though

  it rocks in its place in the heavens.

  Will we all fall down?

  The pair stand partially hidden

  by the willow’s low-sweeping branches,

  and my stomach

  turns and churns.

  Lancelot, with the faerie girl.

  This is all so wrong!

  I know not what to do.

  I cannot bear to face anyone

  now.

  I circle around the perimeter and

  finally find the great elm by the stables.

  I sink to the ground. My breath

  comes unevenly

  and my head spins.

  What has taken hold of Lancelot?

  What spell has this yellow-haired

  sorceress cast on him?

  I look at my hands,

  freckled with sun,

  callused from so many chores.

  The nails are ragged and

  torn; dirt lodges

  beneath them in grey crescents.

  Her hands, her hands are so

  white, with long tapering fingers

  with smooth, rounded nails.

  The essence of woman.

  All the memories of my

  mother’s face, all the ideals

  of what a woman should be,

  they are all wrapped up

  in her.

  And I am so dull and dirty.

  Like a small brown toad.

  He does not see me.

  How could he see me

  when she is before him?

  Glowing and gilded in gold.

  Then Tristan is before me,

  his face a stiff mask.

  Elaine? His voice is hesitant.

  I cannot respond, I cannot

  summon my voice.

  O, and tears threaten.

  I look at the moss and

  the grey pebbles and

  withered leaves around

  my feet.

  He is beside me.

  His hand covers mine.

  Elaine, Tristan repeats.

  Are you — are you well?

  I am not sure how to answer him.

  I am not sure if I am able to answer him.

  I rub my fingers over the thick,

  springy moss.

  His hand tightens over mine.

  What — what happened? I

  manage, croaking

  like a bullfrog.

  Tristan leans his head back

  against the trunk and sighs,

  moving his hand into his lap.

  I am not certain if I understand

  it, he murmurs.

  I believe Lancelot lured

  old Lodengrance back here