“Okay.” I glance down at the jar that links us, the glass as invisible as the threads of fate that tie strangers and intimates alike. “Give me the jar, let go. And then you’re going to take me to your wife. The time’s already here.”
Outside, there’s a holler from the storm, and the very rafters of the store groan. And then the soft moan of agony repeats, a woman bringing new life into a hard world, walking the line of death all by herself.
The shop owner looks warily toward Merc—
I put the jar aside and step between them. “Don’t worry about him. It’ll just be me. He’ll stand guard, but he won’t come into her birthing room.”
When there’s still a hesitation, I lower my voice. “This is not the first time I’ve attended the bed.”
“How… many, for you.”
Hide.“Too many to count.”
The counting of moments resumes in my head, and abruptly, I’ve had it with the men. I push them both out of my way, and I follow my sister’s laboring voice behind the counter, through a door, and into a living space that is the opposite of the farrier’s. Here, everything is tidy, especially with the herb station. All its tools, as well as the plants, leaves, and roots that are in mid-preparation, stand at the ready in a neat order, no doubt for the healer who is in labor.
No dirty plates, rotting food, and scared children in the kitchen area.
There is a single door in the far corner that is cracked open.
Going over, I place my hand on the gray wood. “My name is Sorrel. May I come in?”
There’s a weak groan, and I close my eyes briefly. I truly do not have the energy for more loss, more pain, more—
I push open the door. “I’m here to help you.”
Forty-ThreeInto Battle I Go.
The beautiful woman on the bed is black of hair, dark of skin, and thin of limb. Her face is drawn in pain, and she has braced herself into a sitting position, her upper body curved around her big belly. A white shift is covering her, and she has sweated through it from her laboring. White blankets and sheets drape her shoulders and waist, and I’ll bet she has bloodied what’s under her already. Her weary eyes lift to meet mine, and the fear in them is something I sense, even though I do not look into them.
To make sure she can see me properly, I take the wet cloth from my face, and then I go to her. “Let me feel your belly—”
Her hand reaches out and grabs on to my own. “There’s something wrong—”
Though she has a deeper accent than her husband, I can understand her words.
“Let me check.”
With my free hand, I splay my palm over her distended stomach, and just as her husband appears in the doorway, I catch the ripple of the contraction that racks her. I go lower down, and am relieved to feel the baby’s head. At least it’s not a breech.
“How long like this?” I ask her as I kick off my shoes and move onto the bed on my knees. “Stalled, I mean—”
The woman’s head falls back and she flashes her white teeth as her body attempts to force out the bairn.
“Lena…”
Over in the doorway, the shopkeeper switches to what must be their native tongue, his words a river of syllables spoken in a pleading voice. And then he just stands there, lingering on the periphery as they always do, scared andhelpless. Though men are most often the protectors, in this sacred time, we women are the warriors, fighting for the territory we take, for the lives that we must defend against death’s jealous grab.
I twist around to him. “How long has she been like this, at this frequency.”
“Two hours,” he mumbles. “At least. Before the storm started.”
“And when did the pains start.”
“Yesterday morning.”
Not good. “Has her water broken?”
“Yesterday noon.”
