I run back to the river,

as if a wolf chases me for my life.

I imagine great, slavering fangs

nipping at my heels, and almost

wish it would devour me, but

I strip off my dress, loosening the

ties that bind it, and throw it to the ground,

and I dive into the river, letting the cold

water cover me. I push myself

down to the bottom, until I feel the slimy

rocks and silt dancing beneath my toes.

I puff out my cheeks and keep my breath

close, until I can hold it no more.

Then I glide upward to the surface and

take in a great mouthful of air.

As I turn to look around at the willow tree,

I notice a figure on the camp-side shore.

Gwynivere.

She is watching me closely, her cornflower eyes

squinting against the sunlight.

What were you and Lancelot

talking about? she asks, her voice

filled with poison.

What do you care? I answer,

surprised by the loathing

in my own tone,

surely, it is none of your

concern.

You really are a beast,

Elaine, taking off your gown

and swimming like

some wild thing.

I flip onto my back and begin to

kick, propelling myself close

to where she stands and kicking

harder, splashing water

onto her feet.

Oh! You are horrid! she screams.

Yes, I reply, I know. A wild beast.

And I kick some more,

sending water droplets onto her dress.

Gwynivere moves backward a pace,

then sticks out her tongue at me

and runs back to camp.

Some lady you are! I call after her.

I swim to the opposite shore, and

shake the excess water from my arms

and legs. I pull on my dress,

which clings damply to my body,

then find my way back to the stepping-stones.

And I laugh to myself,

all the way to our tent,

until I remember that I did not bring

back any milfoil.