Song of the Sparrow Read online

  What could be wrong?

  Please, tell me. What is it?

  Tirry?

  I look to my elder brother.

  He returns my gaze,

  Aurelius is dead.

  Poisoned by a Saxon spy.

  Ambrosius Aurelius,

  dux bellorum,

  leader of all Britons,

  the general whom Arthur follows,

  whom all of us follow — murdered?

  As the meaning of those words

  slowly becomes clear,

  I hear the roar

  of voices and the thudding

  of boots.

  Not a minute to rest from battle.

  Everyone is running.

  Running toward the center of camp,

  to hear the news

  of the death of

  Britain’s hope,

  our gentle leader

  our fiercest warrior.

  What will happen to us?

  I ask.

  The Saxons, those beasts,

  they will pay for this.

  We will avenge this murder,

  and the ground and the rivers

  will run red with Saxon blood,

  Lavain growls.

  There is a wild look in his eye,

  as if he were not now

  wholly human, as if

  the animal nature that lurks

  in every soul,

  has taken possession.

  His anger fills the room,

  smothers the air.

  I cannot breathe.

  What hope do we have left,

  when the head is cut

  from the body and

  all the men, like Lavain,

  become possessed by rage,

  fear, and hatred?

  When order and

  faith

  splinter?

  Father? What will happen?

  He shakes his head and

  his shoulders shake.

  Tirry rests a hand on Father’s arm

  then turns to look at me.

  Hot heads, and he glances at Lavain,

  will serve none of us well.

  A new leader must be chosen.

  As if an angel has heard us,

  Arthur is coming! Arthur!

  a man calls from outside the tent.

  My friend’s name is spoken

  across the camp,

  spreading like cool salve on a burn.

  Arthur — he could lead us, couldn’t he, Father?

  I ask him, plead with him, beg him.

  Please

  say it is possible,

  say we may be

  saved.

  My father and brothers

  run from our tent and join the stomping

  of boots on packed earth,

  following the other

  men to the center of the camp.

  The warriors gather, but I am not welcome.

  Or so Lavain tells me, hurling the

  words like rocks over his shoulder.

  Stay here. The meeting is no place for a girl.

  Leaving me here, alone,

  to wait and wonder.

  What will become of us?

  My heartbeat throbs in my ears,

  like drums of war.

  A quick boiling heat fills the

  hole left by Lavain’s callous warning.

  As I watch their backs retreat,

  I know I will do what I

  always do.

  They will not leave me here, alone.

  When have I ever let them

  do as much?

  And so I march out

  of the tent, smug and proud,

  but keeping back a distance,

  weaving between mud-streaked,

  grass-stained tents, hovering

  behind a stand of birch trees,

  until I see the ring of men.

  The white birch bark is silver in

  the moonlight,

  and the sweet perfume of leaves

  mixes with the scent of living earth,

  the menace of rot lurking below.

  The Round Table is

  Arthur’s meeting hall. Beneath a

  ceiling of cloud and stars,

  this circle of thick, wooden benches

  worn from hundreds of moons of travel and

  hundreds of hands worrying their

  rough, knotty surface, is placed

  evenly around a great fire pit.

  The Round Table is

  Arthur’s and his men’s statement

  of glory, their symbol

  of brotherhood, equality.

  But tonight, the brothers

  grieve together.

  The men circle around a bonfire,

  its roaring fingers tearing into

  the night.

  The thrumming of sobs and

  rage and violence

  fills the air.

  A mournful murmur is all

  that reaches me.

  I dare not move any closer,

  and against the firelight,

  the figures are darkened silhouettes.

  And then I see him.

  Arthur is in the center of the circle,

  pacing around the fire,

  hands clasped behind his back.

  Then one fist cuts through the air.

  My fingers find the trunk

  of the tree I hide behind,

  grasping its warmth,

  its steadiness.

  On this night when the earth

  rocks beneath my feet,

  the birch tree is solid.

  But its

  papery bark

  peels away,

  leaving a sticky sap

  that coats my fingernails

  like blood.

  Arthur stands straighter than most men,

  his eyes hooded and sharp.

  Tirry once told me he would

  follow Arthur blindfolded

  and unarmed

  into a battle.

  I told him he’d better not try it.

  But that is the power Arthur has over the men.

  I wonder,

  if women were allowed to fight,

  would we feel the same

  allegiance?

  The same instincts?

  Arthur is my friend, but I

  cannot imagine.

  Tristan asked me once if I

  wished I could fight alongside

  him, my family, the others.

  I told him very bravely,

  very boldly, I would fight

  to protect this land,

  my brothers, my father,

  my friends.

  Tristan laughed at this.

  We hardly need protecting,

  he said. We fight to protect

  you.

  I can protect

  myself, I snapped back.

  I know I would

  fight for this country.

  It is all we have,

  all we are.

  Now, as Arthur paces back and forth,

  the murmur rises,

  a gentle roar.

  I rub my fingers together,

  the lifeblood of the birch

  sticky and hot.

  There are strident voices,

  and Arthur moves toward

  points of the circle,

  his hands moving

  up

  and

  down,

  as if he were

  soothing.

  Lancelot, his black hair

  gleaming in the firelight,

  hurries to Arthur’s side,

  appears to speak, then others,

  Gawain, Tristan, my brothers, stand

  beside the pair.

  But, several men stand up

  and stalk away,

  away from the circle,

  from Arthur’s Round Table.

  What is happening? I whisper

  to myself. />
  Where are they going?

  Do they leave in anger?

  I hurry back to our tent,

  eager for news from my brothers.

  I pace the small room, the walls,

  the thick folds of my

  roughly woven dress

  imprisoning me,

  keeping me from the

  affairs of men.

  I live in this camp. For

  more than half my life

  I have lived here,

  and I fight these wars

  with my healing.

  Why should they keep me

  from the Round Table?

  Again I feel my temper

  begin to flare,

  as happens these nights

  when I am left behind.

  But before this familiar frustration

  can continue, Tirry and my father return.

  What happened? I ask.

  Arthur takes up his uncle’s mantle.

  He shall lead us, Tirry answers.

  My father is shaking his head.

  He is worn and tired.

  Tirry, too, looks battered,

  more so, even, than after the day’s battle.

  There is unrest among the men, he says.

  There will be trouble.

  There will be trouble.

  Who will make the trouble?

  Who will find it?

  I do not sleep until I hear Lavain’s heavy

  footfalls outside the tent.

  He enters and throws himself

  down on his pallet, on the other

  side of the sheet that hangs

  between us, to give me a measure of privacy,

  grunting quietly to himself.

  I worry that danger will find him

  before the new moon comes.

  Brash Lavain.

  And Tirry’s words echo in my head,

  There will be trouble.

  I remember that night,

  nine years ago,

  only in flashes,

  images in my mind.

  Golden leaves coated

  silvery white in the

  first frost of autumn.

  Golden leaves on

  branches gently scraping

  against the thick-leaded

  windows.

  Father and Tirry away on

  some errand, and

  I asleep in my mother’s bed,

  warm from the fire that

  was petering out,

  warm from the fur covers

  I burrowed under.

  A banging on the door,

  Lavain’s childish voice,

  high-pitched with fear.

  He burst into the room,

  his eyes wide with terror.

  Mama! he screeched.

  They are outside — they are

  everywhere. Picts!

  He trembled like one of those

  golden leaves in the wind.

  My mother moved fast.

  She grabbed my arm,

  her grasp so tight I gasped

  with pain and surprise.

  Then she took Lavain by the arm,

  too, his mouth a perfect O.

  He struggled,

  I want to stay with you!

  Then we were inside a hamper

  woven of reeds,

  Lavain on top of me,

  and white sheets

  thrown over him.

  I pressed my face to the side

  of the hamper,

  tiny points of light

  giving me a window into

  the room, and my mother

  standing still as stone,

  a dagger clutched in her hand.

  She looked like a

  warrior goddess from the ancient legends.

  I grasped Lavain’s ankle or

  wrist, and he was still shaking.

  I watched the door, the old oak

  door that had existed for hundreds of years

  in this house, scarred by the touch

  of my ancestors,

  I watched that old oak door explode into

  a thousand pieces,

  a great sword, brown

  with dried blood,

  come through it, then an arm,

  an arm painted with blue

  stripes,

  terrible blue stripes

  followed,

  and then a body painted

  all over. Then two more.

  Stripes and crescent

  moons of blue covered their

  faces and chests and

  forearms.

  A blue of storms and death.

  A blue to drown in.

  The musty stink of the

  dirty linens was too close,

  stealing my breath,

  and I felt my throat close.

  An arm of blue moons

  grabbed my mother,

  forced the dagger from her hand.

  It sang tunelessly as it clattered

  to the stone floor.

  Where are your sons? A growl,

  a strange accent, a voice from

  hell that stays with me

  still.

  I have no sons, she answered.

  Barren.

  barren

  barren

  I heard her say it.

  The man who spoke first

  grunted and a second

  stepped forward, swords

  pointed at her heart,

  and I heard her gasp.

  gasp

  gasp

  He placed his hand over her womb

  then grunted to the others.

  She does not lie.

  does not lie

  does not lie

  Useless dog, the first seethed.

  Then a flash and a red

  rose opened up on her chest,

  staining her white robe,

  blooming before my

  eyes.

  Lavain went as stiff as a piece of wood.

  I pulled my face from the tiny reed windows

  and closed my eyes.

  Squeezed them shut,

  against the sounds of the Picts

  rummaging through

  my mother’s chests and

  drawers, picking up

  her treasures and trinkets

  and dropping them again.

  Against the sounds of screaming

  downstairs,

  the voices I knew to be our servants.

  Against the sound of my mother

  falling to the floor.

  Until we smelled smoke.

  Then I was outside, the

  gold leaves a mirror

  of the fingers of flame

  caressing the window frames,

  doorways of the house,

  the silver frost, an echo of smoke.

  Ash fell like snowflakes,

  coating our hair

  eyelashes

  arms

  clothes.

  The ashes of my home

  of my mother.

  We wore them for days,

  as Father and Tirry carried us on

  their horses, mounted before them

  like sacks of grain.

  Lavain did not speak.

  He was silent as though those

  blue devils had cut out his tongue.

  I do not know for how long we rode.

  I do not remember sleeping on hard turf,

  or feeling cold.

  Though I must have.

  It was nighttime when we reached the camp.

  When my mind began making sense

  of what it saw and heard again.

  In the torchlight I could see Lavain’s face

  was smeared with dirt,

  streaked with ash.

  His eyes were still wide with shock,

  so white

  so white

  against his dirty ash face.

  He looked like a scared, wild animal.
/>   I must have looked the same.

  Frightened animals.

  Arthur, younger then,

  stepped forward,

  caught my father in his

  arms in an embrace.

  Then Tirry.

  He pressed little Lavain’s shoulder,

  then put his hands on my hair,

  petting, stroking.

  And I felt safe,

  a tiny bit,

  for the first time again.

  Poor children, he murmured.

  You are welcome here,

  in this camp,

  into this brotherhood.

  Lavain, someday, no doubt,

  you will be a fierce fighter.

  Aye, I can see it in your eyes.

  But for now, you must take care

  of your little sister.

  Lavain turned away sullenly,

  but I alone saw him blink

  back tears.

  Arthur looked to me,

  What a brave girl you are,

  indeed, I’ve never met a girl

  so courageous.

  There are not any others

  here to keep you company,

  but you have a whole army

  of brothers now.

  He gave a sad smile and

  stepped back.

  Then raven-haired Lancelot came to us,

  kneeling to look in my eyes.

  And I felt I was standing in

  the sunlight, as though

  his bright gaze alone could warm

  my frozen insides.

  He had blankets for Lavain and me.

  And once more I felt protected.

  Finally, a young boy who could not

  have been more than a few years

  older than Lavain

  presented me with a doll

  unevenly sewn of corn husks and rags.

  He turned to Lavain and placed

  a wooden sword in his hand.

  He said his name was Tristan.

  His golden cat eyes shone in the dark,

  his mouth downturned, his brow

  creased as though —

  as though he knew.

  And it was not more than a

  year later that Lancelot came for

  Lavain, who still didn’t speak,

  still choked by rage, horror,

  guilt.

  Lancelot, who was the best

  and bravest of Arthur’s men, came

  himself, for Lavain, to take him to training.

  It was time for him to become

  a soldier too.

  I began to cry, when I saw

  Lancelot’s form in the entryway

  to our tent.

  My brother,

  though silent, was my only

  companion,

  the only one who stayed with me

  when the others left for war.

  Lancelot came to kneel before me.

  Why do you cry, Elaine? he asked,

  brushing away a tear

  with his thumb.

  It was coarse, but the gesture

  halted the other tears,

  smoothed them away.

  Because you fear you lose a playmate?

  I nodded.

  Well, I promise you, Lancelot told me,

  if ever you feel lonely, you may

  look for me, and I shall keep you company.

  I stayed silent, unable to imagine

  begging the famed Lancelot to

  play with me.

  But, true to his word,