No surprise there.
Before I leave Berhta’s Forge, I find Tieve’s house and, feeling like a wandering tinker, knock politely. Immediately her mother’s there, shouting at me to go away and slamming the door shut. I’m not sure she even sees me properly – but I spot Tieve’s small face in a window, tense and pale, eyes huge. I know better than to knock again, but at least I know the child’s safe indoors, and I can understand she couldn’t get away to bring me news of the orphans’ disappearance. From Anselm’s comments, the mother is unlikely to let her out on her own, and I suspect Tieve won’t want to go out either. Not ideal, but I’ll take what I can get.
The reception at Widow Wilky’s is marginally warmer but she doesn’t let me inside her large three-storey house – in no way luxurious, but solid, warm and clean, enough rooms for her collection of other people’s offspring. Doesn’t want to admit any of her charges are missing either, until I advise that Thaddeus Peppergill has already told me. Her voice is faint as she says, guiltily, that she’d not been worried when the first three went missing – tearaways all, two girls and a boy, though she has hopes of redemption – had assumed they’d either return from an adventure or not. It was the other two that set off an alarm: good lads, kind and gentle and polite, clever. Of them she expected greater things, maybe even travelling to one of the university towns in years to come. But no, she couldn’t say what had happened, or even when, really – over the week of the disappearance, the lads were there all day, were tucked into bed and gone by sunrise. She’d noticed nothing strange any ofthose days. I urge her, without much hope, to let me know if she thinks of anything else.
***
The ride home is untroubled, but the second I step into the cottage I know something’s wrong. The pungent smell of blood and sap, a puddle in the middle of the kitchen floor. Water broken. A groan tumbles down from the attic room. I wonder how long since it started, can’t believe she heaved herself up all those stairs instead of lying on the sofa (although part of me is relieved she did). So fast! I thought we had days yet. None of mine have ever been so quick. I rush up the steps, calling the girl’s name as if she’s my own child, my own flesh and blood, my own future.
Rhea’s half-on, half-off the bed; the coverlet has been discarded, balled up on the floor. The window’s open, the little hearth fire’s out, and the air is cold but I don’t have time to worry about that. Rhea gives me a wounded look as if she’d never expected it to hurt like this. I’d assumed her mother had told her this at least, but it seems not. Again, I thought we’d have another month, that this would be a deep-winter birth, and I’ve been reminding myself to dig a grave now while the earth is still soft enough to allow such a thing. Make a resting place for it in the rose garden, beside my own little losses.
‘How long?’ I ask. Rhea’s kneeling as if praying, top half against the mattress, a bright sheen of sweat glistening on her face. She looks uncomprehendingly at me. I begin to unlace the back of her gown – no point being entirely uncomfortable during the most uncomfortable experience of one’s life. ‘Rhea, how long since your water broke?’
‘Not long, not long,’ she moans. ‘Mehrab, it hurts so much, will I die? Why didn’t you tell me it would hurt?’
‘Oh, love. Did you think it would be any other way? And no, you’ll not die.’ Not if I have anything to do with it. ‘It hurts, Rhea, I know. It hurts, but I’ve medicine to take the edge off the pain.’ I remove my satchel, begin to rifle through the contents. ‘Now, lie down for a bit while you can. You’ll want to walk but I’ve found it’s best to rest when you can. Crouching is good but for the moment, lie down, so I can see how far along you are.’
‘Oh, you’re not going to look at—’
‘Trust me, I don’t want to be down this end either but—gods!’ Which, given the circumstances, is not the most helpful thing I could say, and as I shout, she begins to yell in pain.
Another contraction; the crown of a small dark head, which was already between her legs, is joined by narrow shoulders, a torso. Sofast! I say ‘Push!’ and she does, and she makes a noise that I’ve made myself more than once, a scream of evacuation, an incantation to rid yourself of this heavy tearing burdensome agony.
The little thing – skin the slightest blush of green, hair black and studded with wet blue blossoms, cupid’s bow lips, delicate features. A quick inventory shows ten fingers, ten toes, a little girl, nothing out of the ordinary, except the eyes – green, green, green – are open which none of my babies’ have been and that little mouth splits to issue a protest at eviction from its warm wet home into the world beyond.
***
A little while later, after I’ve wiped Rhea’s brow and cleaned her up as best I can, placed the moss pads and bandages aroundher bruised core, given her a tisane to make her sleep, to help dry up the bleeding, and after I’ve settled the little miracle on her chest so it could feed until sated and sleepy. After I’ve kindled the fire again and closed the window to keep out the cold. After I’ve told Rhea how well she’s done, what a good brave strong girl she is. After Rhea herself has dropped into slumber, only then do I take the child and wrap her in a soft woollen blanket and carry her to the old rocking chair by the dormer window. I sit, rocking back and forth, telling a story oh-so-quietly, so quietly that neither baby nor her mother can really hear, because it isn’t really the right one to tell. I’m telling it because it was the only one my mother evergaveto me, meant forme, and my tears drip onto the tiny, perfect face and onto those closed little lips.
24
It begins with the tree.
Branches reach towards the sky; the tree is quite straight. Its roots, conversely, go deep into the soil and spread out, consolidating their hold on the earth, making their foundation unassailable.
It is the tree that watches over all. It was here before the people and the house, frosted brown and white like a cake; it will remain after they are dust and ashes. It watches and winds its way through their lives in much the same way as its roots wind their way into the soil; it is indelible.
The tree holds many stories, they lie in its trunk like age rings. Its memory is a long thing. Some years it sleeps, some years it wakes and watches and listens. Some years it remembers the lives it has given and tasted and taken…
There was a woman, once, young and dark and very lovely. Her husband had thought a young bride ideal for the getting of heirs. A more robust girl would have been better, he knew, but her green eyes and black hair caught him. There was nothing else for it but to make her his wife and pray there would be children.
He loved her dearly; she was frail but this did not stop his efforts to plant his seed. The man spent as much time riding his wife as he did his horse and to far less effect – at least on the horse he travelled, conducting business and growing his fortune. His wife, however, seemed to be a barren field, a bad investment.
The juniper tree stood in the back garden. The wife loved its spreading branches and the whispers it made when breezes sang through its limbs and leaves. Of the many gifts her husband made her, her favourite was the simplest. A swing was hung from the strongest branch and on summer evenings the wife would sit and sway, dangling her delicate feet as she hung suspended above the ground, dress catching the air and fluttering behind her. The tree spoke to her and it was words of love she heard, before her husband collected her and took her once again to bed.
One spring, when her husband was away travelling, she told the juniper tree of her fears and doubts, of the rigours of her marital bed and of a husband who loved her sometimes too much and sometimes not enough. She leaned against the trunk of the tree, its rough bark smooth under her soft skin, its lower branches seeming to stretch and enfold her. She sank to the base of the tree, curled between the roots and slept for some time. In her sleep she dreamt of love without pain, of gentle caresses, of a lover who took time enough to ensure she was wanting and ready.
When she woke, there were small tears in her skirt and she was wet as she had never been with her husband. Confused, she retreated into the house, throwing uncertain glances at the tree.
She did not mention anything to her husband. When he was next inside her, she thought of spreading branches and the touch of bark, and clung to him, rising up to meet him as she never had before. He was surprised but pleased.
The wife began to glow and grow, and it became obvious that her husband had at last sown fertile seed. They were happy – he would have his longed-for heir and she a respite from his attentions.
The wife grew still.
Her husband was travelling, increasing his fortune so that he would leave a comfortable legacy for his coming child.
One night when they lay beside each other the wife said:
