The sun is high overhead,

and I am walking north and east.

I am still following the tracks in the mud,

praying that I do not lose them.

The leaves of so many trees

make lacy patterns against the slate-colored

sky, and I worry that it will soon rain.

I have no shelter, no skins with which

to cover myself. I did not plan as well

as I thought.

Birds call to one another

in the morning sky, and I sing

to myself to keep

my thoughts from wandering to Lancelot.

It is useless.

The last words we exchanged on the moor,

his icy glare.

You? he sneered.

How small and ugly I feel

at just the memory of it,

the way his lips curled,

and his voice rose and trembled.

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.