Nature's Tribe

by Jacky Gray

  As she neared the hall’s entrance, Alfun opened the doors. “There you are. Cora had begun to worry about you. She thinks you’ve been overdoing it.”

  “I do believe she is right. I was on my way to tell you I have a dreadful headache. Would you mind terribly escorting Lyrelie home when you leave, please?”

  “Not at all. But I cannot have you walking home by yourself.” He stared impassively in response to her protest, muttering about how Cora would rage at him if he did not take care of her.

  She allowed him to accompany her, grateful for his calm energy, and his instinctive knowledge that she did not want the draining energies of conversation.

  When Lyrelie finally crept into the house several hours later, Senna still lay awake. How she ever imagined sleep would come while her daughter was not safely tucked in her bed, was one of life’s mysteries.

  11 – Day 4: The First Birthing

  After a night beset with disturbing dreams, a sense of foreboding accompanied Senna’s waking, and stayed throughout the morn. Her mind’s desire to sink into melancholy was rudely interrupted by a hammering on her door which could only mean one thing. Grabbing her birthing bag, she flew to the door, to be met by the ashen face of Marena’s oldest lad. As he choked out the single word, “Mama,” she unhooked her cloak from the peg, kissed Lyrelie and followed at his pace, arriving breathless and red-faced.

  “Derran, what did you tell poor Senna? I told you to tell her there was no rush, this one seems in no hurry to make his entrance.”

  The lad blushed red, holding out supplicating hands as he stammered, “You were screaming. I thought you were going to die.”

  Marena’s blush matched that of her son, as she cast her gaze down to the floor. “Shouting, maybe. But screaming, no.”

  “Don’t worry, Derran. You did a good thing. Maybe you could stoke up the fire; we’ll need lots of hot water.”

  Senna put cool fingers on her patient’s brow, and at the back of her neck, seeking to calm and relax the young woman. “Give him some measure; he will never have heard you do more than speak a little sharply. It’s not easy for a boy to see his mother in pain.”

  She quickly removed her cloak and sluiced away the dust of the short day, wiping her hands on the linen the lad held out for her.

  Tending to the necessary examinations and palpitations required to assess the babe’s position, she nodded toward the boy. “It seems he knows more than his mama. This one is not long for the birthing.”

  “That cannot be. This is the third time I’ve done this, and with the other two, the twinges came more quickly. Ohh!” She broke off, clutching at the side of the table, as a strong birthing pain assailed her.

  Watching the woman trying hard not to give into the agony, Senna rubbed Marena’s back. She invoked earth energy to help ease the terrible gripping sensation she knew the woman felt in every part of her midriff.

  As a tiny gasp escaped, it became obvious Marena was fighting the pain, and her natural instinct to vocalise it, for fear of upsetting her children, who both looked on with horror on their faces.

  Senna took charge, instructing Derran to find his little sister’s cloak, and for both of them to go next door on an important mission.

  His expression showed his dilemma; torn between wanting to stay to support his mother, and desperately wanting to be as far away as possible. In amongst the fear on his face, was smidgen of hope.

  “Derran, this might be the most important thing you’ll ever do in your life. Your mama will need to have the strength to push this babe out, and she will not do so unless she gets some of Paulina’s famous cheese bread.”

  “But what if she doesn’t have any?” The boy’s eyes widened at the thought.

  “It is simple. You must help to make a fresh batch. Imagine how much stronger it will be if you have poured all of your love for your little brother or sister into the kneading of it.”

  The little man was unconvinced, but Marena played along, giving a performance worthy of the finest mummer. “Please, Derran. I need cheese bread. You must make it. This is the only thing which will help.” She winced, and gave a little whimper.

  It was enough to spur the lad into action, and he shouted to his sister to hurry and put her boots on, as he grabbed her winter cloak.

  The door had barely closed behind them, when another pain took hold, and this time, Senna placed her hands on the huge belly, catching Marena’s eyes as she urged her to breathe in and expel the air in short little huffs.

  “I want nothing more than to howl like a dog.” She spat the words out between each huff.

  “And from the next one, you should howl if you need to; there will be no one here to become upset. Trying to contain your natural reactions, for the sake of your family, was making it much harder.” With a gentle rub where the babe’s head protruded, Senna retrieved a sachet of herbs from her bag and set about creating the magical brew she and Lyran had designed to aid the birthing process.

  “If only Dennon were here, he could have taken the youngsters next door or even for a long walk. He has no love of witnessing the birthing and says he cannot bear to see me in such pain. Particularly when he knows he was the cause of that suffering.”

  “Stuff and nonsense. Men like to make it all about them. I strongly believe if it was left to men to carry and birth babes, the human race would have dried up many centuries ago.”

  Marena chuckled, wriggling her shoulders. At the same time, she swung her hips from side to side to release some of the tension in her muscles.

  “That’s it. You could try rotating your hips as well. In a figure eight movement, but very gently. This will help the babe’s head to settle into the correct position.”

  Senna considered that women had the birthing process firmly under control. But she knew of places in the bigger towns, where male physicians experimented with different medications. They used schemes designed to eliminate the natural variations of each birth, in their attempt to regiment the process.

  In her experience of delivering many dozens of healthy babes, each birthing was slightly different, due to factors such as family, the woman’s age and health. But most especially, the mental state of the mother, which transferred itself directly to the little one, affecting the ease of the birthing.

  One of her most effective methods was to keep the mother’s mind occupied with anything apart from the beautiful act of creation going on in her body. Unfortunately, she chose the wrong question to ask. “Where is Dennon?”

  Marena’s face crumpled.

  Senna felt a movement inside as the little one twisted away from its hitherto perfect position. “Wait, I felt a movement. Put your hand just here. I think your babe is telling you he’s ready to come out.”

  “Really? He has such a strong kick. I’m sure he and Derran will soon be climbing trees together.” Marena’s loving expression and the instant relaxation in her body, communicated to the babe, even before its mother’s hands covered her belly protectively.

  Senna felt the change, as it resumed the previous position. Duly warned, she kept up a constant stream of innocuous conversation, asking questions about her children’s activities during the Yule season.

  Like any mother, Marena was content to sing the praises of her talented children, and this kept her mind occupied while her body focused on the task.

  The rest of the birthing went perfectly to plan, as mother and midwife worked the age-old magic to bring the tiny soul into its new home.

  Senna knew, even before the head appeared, that this was not the second son Marena expected. Instead, the full head of wispy black hair belonged to a darling little girl, whose skin resembled that of a farmer, tanned by the sun. As she wiped away the layer of protective white wax, Senna’s heart lifted at the puckered brow as the babe reached toward her.

  “No, little one,” she crooned, “Your mama is having a little rest before she cuddles you.”

  Marena sipped the revitalising brew, radiating fondness.
“We were thinking of Dornan, unless you think that’s too close. It’s taken from his father and his brother. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a very good name. For a boy.” Senna paused to let the implications of her words set in.

  Eagerly munching a honey oatbread, Marena took a moment or two to register. She squealed. “A girl? Oh, my. We were so certain it would be a boy, we never chose any girl’s names.”

  Senna’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “There’s plenty of time for that, once Dennon returns. You will have great fun finding new combinations of your name and his.”

  A cloud drew the smile from the woman’s face, as she muttered, “If he returns.”

  Senna glanced up from her task of swaddling the babe. “What do you mean, if?”

  Marena shrugged. “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m simply being foolish. ’Twas naught but a silly dream.”

  Handing over the sleepy babe, Senna tried to keep her voice light, despite her concerns. It was well known in the village that Marena’s family had the gift of sight. “Silly or not, you could share it with me.”

  12 – Day 4: Waes Hael

  Nothing about Marena’s dream felt foolish. Senna listened as she related the tale of an ambush of a small family of dogs by a large pack of howling wolves, resulting in the death or injury of every dog.

  “I wouldn’t normally take notice of such fantasies, but the next dream was very similar as a flock of vicious crows attacked a nest of pigeons. I awoke with a start, and my first thought was of Dennon’s latest enterprise.”

  Trying not to alarm the woman, Senna casually questioned when he had left, and the story unfolded about a messenger bringing the urgent commission shortly after sunrise on the previous day. Marena told how Dennon had met Jarl and Aleksi, setting off within the hour, carrying a large sack of provisions sent by the council. They’d been ordered to join a small scouting party to assess a reported gathering of hostile tribes at the northern border, over a day’s ride away.

  The cheery smile in Marena’s voice was at odds with the story she told, somehow making it even more worrying. The smile, of course, was directed at the new-born, suckling in her mother’s arms, oblivious to the words being spoken around her.

  Finally, she tore her attention away to meet Senna’s gaze. “I’m sure there’s no need to worry. After all, you’re not the slightest bit worried about Jarl, are you?”

  Senna reeled as the air left her lungs, and the lifeblood drained from her veins. The awful sense of dread she’d felt since last night, expanded to take over every particle of her being and she shivered as though a spirit had walked over her grave.

  But she had no time for such foolishness as, a full fifteen minutes after the babe’s first cry, Paulina arrived with Marena’s children and a batch of warm, cheesy oatbread.

  All the women in the village knew about the conspiracy of keeping younger siblings occupied and Senna had distributed the recipe for the life-giving bread which would help to stimulate the milk production for the lactating mother. One by one, other neighbours appeared with small gifts to ease Marena’s task of feeding and taking care of her family. Giving her patient one last hug, Senna slipped away quietly, knowing the woman would be in good hands when her husband was away.

  All the way home, she tried not to think about Jarl’s dangerous assignment; but her mind insisted on speculating about Domenyk’s involvement. Before reaching her house, she dropped in on Alfun, to find out what he knew about the situation. Cora made a seasonal infusion, adding a tot of homemade apricot brandy to fortify her.

  Alfun folded his arms with a little shake of his head. “This is news to me. I wondered about Dennon’s sudden absence, but did not realise Jarl had been seconded, nor Aleksi.” He rubbed his beard.

  “I don’t like the feel of this at all; those three are the strongest warriors in the village. It cannot be a coincidence that the council is meeting with a bishop next week. I’ve heard some disturbing rumours about the way these priests worm their way into villages. They prey on the weak and the elderly, making all manner of promises about the kingdom of heaven.”

  The women exchanged glances teeming with trepidation.

  “My brother and his wife abandoned their town because of the unreasonable taxes these priests demand.” Cora glanced around as though someone might be listening, and lowered her voice. “He told about the way they toady up to the magisters, and anyone else in positions of power, appealing to their greed and thirst for power.”

  A loud hammering made them all jump. Surely Lareeta could not be birthing already. She had a few more days to go, maybe even a week. Registering Cora’s panic-stricken face, Senna realised that it made no sense for Lareeta’s husband to be knocking on Alfun’s door.

  With a hurried instruction to them to say nothing, he opened his door. A loud animal sound, somewhere between a bleat and a bray, made them jump.

  Alfun stood back to admit three strange creatures clad in masks and animal skins, surrounding a fourth, wearing a goat’s head.

  “Whoa, what’s this?” Alfun folded his arms. “You are too late for Mummering and too soon for Waes Hael.”

  One of the masked creatures spoke. “This is the Yule goat. If you give him a treat, he will sing you a carol, if you send him away empty-handed, he will play a trick on your house.”

  With a barely suppressed grin, Alfun pretended to shake with fear. “Cora. Quick. Do we have any of those oaten cakes left? The good ones with honey and nuts. Nothing is too good for the Yule goat.”

  As they listened to carols, Senna’s heart, which had been pumping furiously, finally quietened. A loud yawn had her apologising for poor manners, but Cora shook her head.

  “Nonsense. It’s been a testing few days for all of us, but to birth a babe on top of that is enough to make anyone yawn.”

  Alfun wagged a finger. “You should go home and rest.”

  Cora’s expression was less cheery. “And don’t concern yourself about the Wassailing, they will get on fine without you.”

  Go home she did, but rest she did not. Within moments of lying in her bed, the sound of singing drifted in through the window. Senna was a little upset at missing out on the Wassailing, but at least she’d played her part in contributing the three skins of wassail.

  While Marena was gracing the world with her precious little girl, the villagers had chosen the Wassail King and Queen at a short ceremony. She heard them outside, singing the processional tune as the merrymakers surrounded her neighbour’s tree.

  Lying in her bed, Senna heard the jingling bells of the Morris men and the cheers and shouts of encouragement as the Wassail Queen presented a gift to the tree spirits. The Wassail King led the traditional blessing song, and the assembled crowd joined in the final hurrahs. Then they clapped and banged drums and pots and pans and generally made a terrible racket to ensure a good crop in the next year. The village crier rang his bell to signal the work was done, and the party headed off to the next tree.

  When the noise finally died down, she dozed off, to be tormented by nightmarish creatures in animal skins with heads of horses, wolves and goats chasing her and Lyrelie as they ran from their burning home.

  Jarl couldn’t save them as he was chained to the village stocks with priests and magisters taking turns to whip him and pelt him with rotten fruit and stones. Each time she awoke, she slipped straight back into a different variation of her dream, merging with elements of Marena’s nightmare.

  13 – Day 5: Topsy-Turvy

  Senna’s head thumped as though the smith had set up his forge there and had an order to shoe every horse in the village. It would certainly explain why she sweltered as though wrapped in layers of deep-winter furs despite her only covering being a linen sheet. She shivered uncontrollably, and a prolonged shudder wracked her body.

  The evidence was clear. She had a fever, at least as severe as Jarl’s had been. The mere thought of standing made her want to reject the contents of her stomach. Her first thought was to w
onder exactly where he was, and whether he had recovered sufficiently to face whatever challenges the northern tribes might bring.

  Her second thought was to speculate whether it was some kind of contagion she’d somehow caught from him. Her intuition suggested not. More likely she’d eaten something which disagreed with her.

  This was the nature of the season; too many days spent eating too many rich foods. Being simple folk, their bodies were not used to this kind of excess.

  She counted off the days in her head; today, the fifth night, was traditionally a rest day, with no big feast to attend. This decision had come about gradually. When she was young, the eve of Saturnalia was a huge celebration dedicated to Saturn, an ancient tradition dating back to Roman times. For many villages it had been the height of the season, where everything was shaken up. Lords and masters would dress as peasants and serve their people, who donned airs and graces to match their borrowed finery for the day.

  The new religion, with its main celebration being on December twenty-fifth for the new-born babe in a stable, had taken precedence all over the country, dividing towns, villages, and even families.

  In Avebury, where the vast majority of people still followed the old ways, the council had gradually moved many of the aspects of the fifth night’s festivities to the twelfth night at the feast of fools. All that remained was Topsy-Turvy Day, when most people made an effort to dress differently. Clothes were worn inside out, or back to front; parents swapped clothes with their children, husbands with wives.

  Children loved this day, and could often be seen walking on their hands. They relished the ability to be in charge, ordering their parents around. However, some parents got their own back by refusing to take responsibility for doing any of the housework, or providing meals.

  A knock on her bedchamber door preceded Lyrelie’s entrance, wearing her father’s jacket and breeches, both of which were inside out and back to front. She twirled around with a flourish, showing off the badly buttoned jacket and hose over the top of the breeches.