*****
A scream reverberated across the snow-covered plains, carried by the wind and disturbing an otherwise peaceful night. A white rabbit jumped at the sound, then skittered back into its hole.
When the shriek reached a herd of mammoths, the bull looked above the huddled mass and huffed, as if to somehow ward it off. Then the last echo died in the cloudless night and only the wind remained, tossing up funnels of snow and whispering across the flat expanse.
Investigating the source of the sound, an owl flew over an encampment of yurts clustered around a smoldering fire pit. Within the camp, the muffled sounds of human muttering seeped through the leather walls.
One dwelling glowed with an inner light, and from within this dwelling, another scream escaped into the night. One of the horses picketed outside the camp snorted and pawed at the ground, and the owl retreated into the darkness, a shrinking silhouette against the starry sky.
Across these plains, Orin raced through the night. Snow kicked up under his horse’s hooves before they sank back down, deep below the powdery surface. Mist escaped the beast’s flared nostrils, and he felt the animal’s chest heave beneath him, its lather collecting under his hide breeches. He kicked harder; there was no time to waste.
In the distance, he saw his encampment rise out of the snow. The screams that carried across the wind meant that his wife, Natalia, still lived, but the pain reflected in those screams made his heart sink. I must hurry, he thought, kicking the horse still harder, urging it to an even greater speed in his desperation.
An olive-skinned woman clung to his back, her white robes flapping behind her, blending in with the snow. She was a priestess and a healer from a nearby Havallan outpost. Orin had retrieved her to save the lives of his wife and unborn child.
Natalia had fallen from her horse the previous day, and although she had no open wounds, she had bled heavily, and had then gone into labor. She was a couple of moons too early for labor, and the abnormal bleeding had left her weak and swooning whenever she had stood up or tried to walk.
Orin, chief of the Panthera tribe, had ordered his people to set up camp that evening on the open plains. Normally, the tribe would have found a more sheltered area in which to erect their yurts, and his premature order had caused more than a little displeasure among his tribesmen; however, considering the circumstances, they had reluctantly complied.
The tribe’s shaman, Sigmia, had examined Natalia while Orin had waited impatiently outside. After a short time, Sigmia had come out and informed him that both his wife and child would probably die. Desperate, he had fled to the Havallans to ask them to use their healing magic to help.
After hearing his plea, Samara, the Havallan priestess behind him, had offered her assistance. While rapidly gathering her tools, she had explained to him that her doctrine demanded she always help those in need; then she had followed him to his horse.
When the pair arrived at the camp, others in the tribe peeked out of their yurts and whispered disapprovingly to each other. Gritting his teeth, Orin glared at those who made eye contact. His wife was dying, and they had no business challenging their chief’s judgment.
He pulled the horse to a complete stop as close to his home as possible. He leaped off his mount and helped the priestess down, carrying her on his back the final few steps to his yurt.
*****
Natalia squeezed Orin’s hand, her nails digging into his skin. Despite the blood trickling down his arm and the pain, he resisted the urge to pull away. She lay on a leather mat, with bowls of paste and other oddities surrounding her. Her chest heaved, and every so often, the severe pain of labor arched her spine into the air. Fear ate at him as he watched his wife in this condition.
With every contraction, Orin squeezed her hand with concern. “Natalia, are you alright?” She stared past him, grimacing. Her lack of coherency frightened him. Worry carved deep lines on his forehead, while his long, black beard hid his frown.
The priestess, Samara Havelle, examined Natalia; she felt her forehead, then checked her eyes and birthing points.
Sigmia leaned over to Orin and said, under her breath, “You shouldn’t have brought this outsider here.” Her face was wrinkled with age, and her deep frown only added to those wrinkles.
Orin glared at her. “You said you couldn’t do anything for her.”
Sighing, the shaman said, “I couldn’t. But the spirits should decide Natalia’s fate. What this outsider will do is not the way of our people. The spirits will be unhappy.”
Before Orin could voice his retort, the priestess said, “Is the life of this woman less important than the spirits’ happiness?” Her accent was heavy, but Sigmia understood.
“You don’t know the ways of our people, outsider. The power you steal belongs to the spirits, and it should be their decision whether it’s used,” Sigmia said.
“You don’t know the ways of magic, wise shaman. Please allow me to do what the gods have given me the right to do,” Samara said, gently wiping sweat from Natalia’s brow.
“Your gods are not ours,” Sigmia said. Looking down at the suffering Natalia, Sigmia’s resolve broke, and she sighed. “Do what you must. However, tomorrow the tribe must continue on, Orin.” The shaman left the yurt, awkward silence following her out.
Samara interrupted Orin’s brooding by saying, “I must use magic to save the woman. I may not be able to save the child though.”
Orin grasped her shoulder and turned her to face him. “Please try. I beg you.” Seeing the desperation in his deep blue eyes, the priestess could do nothing but nod.
He watched her hands move busily under the towel draped over Natalia’s thighs. Samara had somehow healed her wounds, for she was not as pale as before. Yet labor still hammered her, despite the dawn’s light peeking through the entrance of the yurt. She breathed heavily, blowing out on each exhale.
Glancing at Orin, she gave him a smile that barely emerged from her grimace. He returned her smile, but worry still showed on his forehead. The administrations the priestess had given Natalia had done something, but he still feared for his wife and child.
Natalia released another long scream as a contraction surfaced. Her eyes glazed over, and she arched her back in pain. Her hair clung to her cheeks and neck, dripping with sweat. Orin peered down at her, his brow furrowed in consternation, but she shook her head, as if to say, “Don’t worry.”
With a frown, the priestess knelt between her legs, focusing on the birthing. Her closed eyes moved rapidly beneath their lids. Muttering in her Havallan tongue, the priestess reached over the towel and placed her hand on Natalia’s stomach. Orin had no idea what her words meant or what strange ritual she was performing, but if she saved the baby, he would accept anything.
She reached into her bag and pulled out another towel, which she bundled underneath Natalia. “Are you ready?” she asked.
Bobbing her head up and down, Natalia groaned an affirmation on an exhale.
Grasping one of the pregnant woman’s feet, Samara looked at Orin and indicated with her eyebrows for him to take the other foot. He knelt across from the priestess, complying with her unspoken order. Samara said, “Alright, jameel. Push!”
Natalia’s face turned scarlet, and every muscle in her body tensed. Screaming as she pushed, she gripped handfuls of the hide beneath her. Despite his strength, Orin had to lean heavily into her leg to prevent it from straightening.
Shaking her head, the priestess said, “Relax. I want you to push harder next time.” Natalia gave her a hard gaze, as if to say, “I’m pushing as hard as I can.” The priestess chuckled and said, “You can do it.” She looked under the towel. “Ready? Push!” Again Natalia pushed, to no effect.
After numerous ineffectual pushes, the priestess solemnly told Natalia, who lay breathing heavily on the sweat-drenched mat, “If you don’t push the child out, it will die. You must push harder.”
Through gritted teeth, Natalia said, “I’m trying.” She pushed again, her
neck stretching out, displaying every muscle.
A smile grew on the priestess’s face. “That’s it, jameel. Push!” Natalia’s birthing canal stretched, and a small, wrinkly mound peeked through. “Harder!” the priestess shouted.
Eyes wide, Orin squeezed his wife’s foot. Natalia paused, took two deep breaths, and pushed harder. The mound protruded farther, and a slightly hairy head appeared. Soon after that, a whole wrinkly baby squeezed out.
Samara, working quickly, used the towel to pick up the slight bundle, then folded the umbilical cord over a knife, cutting it. She tied off the cord and finished up the birthing process.
The baby wasn’t breathing, so, holding the infant in one hand, she gently slapped its rear. The baby didn’t respond. No crying, no gasping for air; the child lay still.
“No,” Natalia said through a hiccup, her eyes wet with tears.
Passing his gaze between Natalia and the priestess, Orin asked, “What’s wrong?” Panic rose in his voice as he shouted his question again. “What’s wrong?”
Wiping the baby off, the priestess considered ways to revive the child. She reached into her bag and pulled out what appeared to be seeds. Transferring them to the hand underneath the child, she uttered a few words, and the seeds crumbled into dust. She traced symbols in the air above the infant with her other hand.
After this failed, the priestess turned to Orin. “Too late.” She looked to the ground and said, “I’m sorry, but I have failed.” She passed the bundle to its mother’s outstretched arms.
“My baby. Oh, my baby,” Natalia wailed, rocking the girl back and forth.
Orin hugged her. “I tried, my love. I did what I could.” He lowered his head to her shoulder, crying softly.
As sad as he felt, he was still glad that the priestess had saved his wife’s life. He hugged her tighter. They had been trying for a child for some time, with no success. This wasn’t right. The spirits shouldn’t be so cruel.
He stood and grabbed his cloak. “Orin, where are you going?” Natalia asked.
“I don’t know. I need to think.” He flung his cloak around his shoulders.
“Please, Orin. Stay,” Natalia said. Turning, he stared into her pleading eyes. He should stay, but he wanted to hit something. He hated the injustice of it all.
As the priestess watched the exchange between the chief and Natalia, her heart sank. The only possible solution required a phoenix feather, an extremely rare spell component—one which she just happened to have, she realized.
When she had packed for this journey, she had absent-mindedly placed the feather into her bag. Perhaps Najima, Goddess of the sun and healing, had guided her hand.
She rummaged through her bag, deciding to use the feather despite the displeasure it may bring to the other temple elders. The component was so rare that most temples could only dream of having one. Regardless, she must do whatever she could to help these people.
When she stood, she had what appeared to be a bright feather wreathed in flames in one hand; in her other, she held an incense burner. Orin watched her walk over to Natalia, who asked, “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to try one more time,” the priestess said, placing the feather on the baby. Sprinkling a circle of salt around Natalia, she said, “This feather is of the Huma, a rare bird that symbolizes resurrection among my people. I believe your people call it a phoenix.”
After completing the circle, Samara sat in front of Natalia. “It is said that a Huma only appears in Sunat Kabisa, my home, once every four hundred years. I only have one feather. They’re very valuable to my people.”
Closing her eyes, she began to sing. Orin hung his cloak back on the curved wall and sat outside the circle. The song was beautiful and ghostly.
Suddenly, a gust picked up outside, howling through the camp. The priestess, who knelt in front of Natalia, fell back, catching herself with her hands and ending her song.
The candles in the yurt went out, and the power that she had been gathering dissipated instantly as a purple light enveloped her. Orin and Natalia stared at her uncertainly.
Samara could feel the light stealing her magic, even her lifeforce. As she fought against the anomaly, she could feel it weakening. After the struggle, the light left her and slowly seeped into the child.
She felt weak and drained, but she also sensed a presence in the room, ancient and powerful. “Abizou?” she whispered.
When the wind died down, a weak cry came out of the baby’s mouth. Orin leaped up. “You did it!” He opened the flap to let in some dim light, then relit the candles.
With eyes as wide as Orin’s, Samara swept her gaze from him to the now-breathing baby and back again. “I did no—” she began, then hesitated when she saw the grin spreading across his face. “I think the gods have blessed you, but not as I expected,” she finished.
“And the spirits of our ancestors, as well,” he replied distantly, distracted by his wife’s beautiful glow. He would swear for the rest of his life that in addition to a warm smile on her lips and an unusual brightness to her eyes, an otherworldly glow surrounded her face as well.
Turning back around, he seized the priestess and lifted her into the air. “Thank you!” he shouted. Returning her once more to solid ground, he leaned over his wife, hugging her and his newborn child.
Samara, smiling, looked down on them. “You two are beautiful. May I see the baby? I want to make sure she’s healthy.”
Natalia stared down at her little girl, whose cry had started to grow louder, and reluctantly passed her over.
Still smiling, Samara said, “Alright, get a blanket, quick. We need to keep the baby warm.”
Orin searched for a blanket. Failing to find one, he grabbed his cloak and passed it to her instead. The priestess wrapped it around the child. She could still feel the familiar presence inside the young girl, and it frightened her.
“What are you going to name her?” she asked, deciding not to alarm the girl’s parents with her suspicions.
Orin and Natalia exchanged glances, and Natalia nodded to him. Orin knew that meant he could choose the name, as was tradition among the tribe.
Clearing his throat, he said, “I think I would like to name her in honor of the woman who saved her life.” He reached down and picked up the long, red feather. “I want to name her Samara.” Natalia nodded at him, approving of the name.
“I am honored, sir. Now I must attend to the child’s health.”
Orin kissed his wife, then stood up. While the priestess examined the baby, he said, “I’ll tell Sigmia the good news. She’ll be happy to hear that the child is a girl.” He walked to the yurt’s entrance.
“Please hurry back, my love,” Natalia said, before he stepped outside.
The cold air sent goosebumps over his uncovered body, and he wrapped his arms around his torso to keep himself warm. The shaman was nowhere in sight, but he could see her tracks clearly in the snow, trailing away from the normal traffic of the night. Following them, he found the old shaman near the horses, gazing out across the cold landscape.
As he neared, she said, “I heard the baby crying. I’m pleased for you.”
Stepping up next to her, Orin said, “It’s a girl. I’ve named her Samara.”
Raising an eyebrow, Sigmia said, “A Havallan name?” Dropping her head, she sighed. “Orin, I understand what you did and why you did it. No one will fault you for it.” She raised her eyes to meet his. “However, it was impulsive, reckless, and contrary to our traditions. I’m afraid I’m going to ask you to stand down as chief.”
He glowered at her a long while before responding. “I don’t understand. I was just trying to save the life of my wife and child.”
“I told you that I understand what you were doing.” Sigmia stared out across the plains again. “It’s one thing to bring outsiders into our camp, but to bring a shaman of the False Ways can anger the spirits. You could bring bad luck to our tribe.”
Glaring at Sigmia, Orin sai
d, “You were unable to save her.”
Sigmia sighed, “Yes, I was unable to save her. I’m very pleased the outsider was able to.”
Turning to Orin, she said, “We shall hold a council . . . see what the tribe wants.” Orin appeared ready to argue, but Sigmia cut him off. Putting her hand on his forearm, she said, “Get back to your wife and child. This should be a happy moment.”
Gritting his teeth, Orin said, “You’re . . .” Finishing with a growl, he turned to walk back to the yurt.
Before he had gone very far, Sigmia called out, “Orin!” He glanced back at her. “Do what you must to take care of her. I believe the spirits have blessed your child.”
Silently nodding, he turned away, continuing his walk back to the yurt. As soon as his form disappeared behind a dwelling, Sigmia dropped to the ground, exhausted. Her magic, too, had been drained when little Samara was revived.
When Orin stepped back inside, he told Natalia, “Sigmia wants me to step down as chief.”
“Good!” said Natalia.
“Good?” Orin asked. “What do you mean?”
His wife looked at Samara and nodded. The priestess said, “Your daughter is weak. I need you to come back to the Havallan outpost with me and stay at least two weeks—maybe longer.”
“The tribe must keep moving. The mammoths will not wait,” Orin said, standing straighter.
The priestess put her hands on her hips. “Your daughter is premature and will not survive unless she is cared for.”
“Samara, you must understand,” Natalia said. “The tribe will move on with or without us. If we stay, we won’t be able to catch up to them, and they won’t be back here until next winter.” The child fed from her breast as she talked, the huge cloak wrapped around them both.
The priestess smiled. “Well . . . you three will just have to stay with me until then.”
Chapter 1: The Awakening
Little Samara wiped her smiling mouth, spreading juice and mud across the smooth, pale-brown skin of her cheek with her purple-stained hands. She popped another blackberry between her lips, and purple juice spilled onto her chin.
The Unfettered Child Page 2