The River's Dim Expanse

by Lorraine Schein

Art by Arnold T. Blumberg

She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 
To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other care hath she, 
The Lady of Shalott. 

The Curse  

She didn’t remember being cursed. All Elaine remembered was waking in this tower on the island and feeling compelled to weave forever.  

She didn’t remember the handsome knight who, entranced by her singing, had gazed at her and asked for her favor. 

She didn’t remember his mother, that lady with eyes like distant lakes, who hissed the curse, “My son cannot love thee, for the future to unfold as it must. You must be kept from him.” 

Elaine had woken in this Tower, her hands already on the loom. She tried to move them off, but couldn’t—they would sting and burn, until she resumed spinning. 

As the long days and nights passed into months, Elaine grew thin with fever, afflicted with loneliness.   

We could ask: In what ways is a curse like a virus?  

The Tower 

Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 
Overlook a space of flowers, 
And the silent isle imbowers 
The Lady of Shalott. 

Elaine wondered whether the Tower was covered in glass like her mirror. 

If only she could stop this endless weaving, escape the Tower, get off this damn island, get to Camelot. But this island Tower was all she knew, and it kept her safe—from what she did not know. 

We could ask: In what ways is her isolation in the Tower like that caused by a pandemic? Was she the only one in isolation? 

Is weaving a metaphor for doom-scrolling the web?  

The Mirror 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear.                                       

Images broke and coalesced on the Mirror’s surface as on a lake, pooled into its depths. 

The world she saw reflected there did not look blighted. When Elaine looked into the Mirror, she saw people outside, walking around for their everyday routines and tasks: shepherds, lovers, knights, a priest…  

Some of them wore masks—was it Carnival time already? The sky was an odd orange, swirled with smoke. And then the black procession of a funeral crawled through the busy square.  

Elaine shivered and pulled away.  

Did they even know she was confined here? If they knew, why didn’t they help her?   

We could ask: How is the mirror like the screen of a computer? How are the images she sees in it like a surveillance camera monitor or a muted Zoom call? 

The Boat 

Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat, 
And round about the prow she wrote 
The Lady of Shalott.  

She thrilled as the reflection of the handsome familiar face flashed into the mirror and, forgetting to cast the next stitch, dropped her spindle. The mirror made a sound like ice cracking and lay jagged atop the unraveled tapestry.  

Elaine ran down the Tower’s steep spiral stairs, almost tripping. The boat had been expecting her and sidled up to the river’s edge. It seemed important to write her name on it with a sharp rock, before climbing in.  

Did the boat have a glass bottom? It reflected her face, then became transparent. Elaine could see the riverbed below: flashing minnows, smooth gray stones, weeds, and silt.  

I am dying, Elaine thought. But it feels good to be free of fear, to breathe fresh air, now that the curse will come to pass. 

 She started to sing a half-forgotten tune. A fine mist of rain dimmed the river, making it look boundless, mysterious as the sea.  

And then a woman’s face blurred up. 

The River 

And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott. 

A hand came out of the water alongside her boat. It held a green cup, filled with a frothy, pale liquid. 

Startled, she sat up and peered over the edge, as the face emerged from below. “Don’t be afraid,” the woman said.  “I am the Lady of…” 

“…Of the Lake!” Elaine finished. “I have heard of you.” 

“No, dear Elaine. I am the Lady of the River, her cousin. And there are others like me, my fellow Ladies—of the Stream, of the Ocean, the Cataract…”  

Elaine took the offered cup, which spilled a bit, and where it hit the water, sparked golden. The potion tasted like honey, wild mint, and spring rain. She thought: If this was her last dream, she didn’t mind dying. 

The Lady continued, “Forget Lancelot. His heart is fated to belong to another. The Lady of the Lake, Lancelot’s mother, enchanted you.” 

Elaine did not know what to say, the reason for her curse finally revealed. Dazed, she thought, So it was her! She remembered the knight’s sweet words with regret. 

The Lady of the River wrapped her fingers in Elaine’s long tresses, pulled her down, and kissed her. “Come live with me. The curse will be no more.”  

The boat rocked hollow as the two women disappeared into the river’s depths. It continued on its own to Camelot, passing Lancelot on his steed. Down the river it floated, as the sun set in bright silken threads behind Camelot’s high towers in the distance.  

The people on the shore wondered at the empty boat, wending its way without a passenger.  

We could ask: What is the antidote that will save us from our isolation, allow us to live in the world again, free of blight, without fear? 

What will help us reach Camelot? 

© 2025 Lorraine Schein