A Clash of Spheres

by P. F. Chisholm

  More brandy went into her and then some more. Sometimes you could stop a miscarriage with brandy, Janet had heard, and at least it helped with the pain. Bridget was there as well. “Will ye go ben and tidy away any tools and such?” Janet said, thinking of the valuable sickles and spades getting ruined by the rain. “I’ll stay with Ellen.”

  Janet sat and waited as patiently as she could, trying not to think of all the things that went wrong with having a babby. She liked Ellen and didn’t want her to die. Although in ten years of marriage she had been barren, there had not even been a missed mense, yet she had seen plenty of her women go through birthing. Once, the baby had stuck in a girl’s narrow hips and although Mrs Hogg had killed the baby, which was already blue and spent, and taken it out in bloody pieces, the girl had been too exhausted to live after three days of struggle. What was her name, that poor blond slip of a thing? She couldn’t remember, it was back when she was new to being the mistress. The curse of Eve the pastors called it, and it was a curse, but if it all went well and the woman was successfully churched, it didn’t seem to matter about the pain or the mess, the baby paid for everything. Providing it didn’t die, of course.

  Ellen shrieked more quietly and turned restlessly. Ah, the mess. There were plenty of women who went down to the stables to have their weans so they wouldn’t have the trouble of washing the sheets after. Also it was considered lucky, since hadn’t Jesus Christ Himself been born in a stable? With the ox and the ass kneeling to Him?

  Janet fetched the coarse hemp sheets from the back of the linen press that were already a little stained with other people’s blood since you often couldn’t get it all out once it had set. She sat Ellen up to take the other sheets off and took her kirtle off as well. It didn’t seem to have taken much harm, her under-petticoats were slimy and horrible but it hadn’t soaked through. She and Bridget undressed Ellen down to her smock and Bridget took the kirtle and the sheets off to soak the sheets in water and try and see if she could sponge the stains off the kirtle.

  Then she uncovered the birthing chair and brought it out from its corner, wiped the dust off it. Ellen saw it and started to cry again.

  “The baby’s coming too early.”

  “Ay, it is,” Janet said.

  “Do ye think it might live?”

  “Do ye know when ye quickened?”

  “It was May…No, July, late July when he quickened but I’d been feeling awfy sick before that, couldnae eat nor drink.”

  “He’s just in his seventh month.” Janet found she was shaking her head.

  “D’ye think Mrs Hogg could put it back in and sew me up, do ye think? Oh God.”

  Janet waited. “I think once the waters have broken the babe’s got to come out, will he or nill he.”

  Ellen cried harder and Janet shouted for someone, found Willie’s Simon at the door and ordered him to fetch the brazier to keep Ellen warm and some ale for her to mull. It was going to be a long day. At least the wean hadna decided to come in the middle of the night, that was something.

  Mrs Hogg arrived riding pillion with Ekie on Angel and clattered up the stairs in her hobnailed boots. Janet leaned out of the staircase window and told Ekie to walk Angel and rub him down and give him a bran mash and Ekie said “yes, missus” politely, despite the fact that he clearly knew all that. Mrs Hogg was a plump, comfortable-looking person until you got on the wrong side of her, and then watch out. Janet found herself wondering if the midwife knew any good spells or potions to help with her barrenness, but she would ask later.

  The midwife had her big leather bag and took her sleeves off and rolled the sleeves of her shift up to her shoulders, tied them there with a tape, and put on a wide hemp apron. Then she smeared her hands with tallow and put her hands up Ellen’s smock and felt about for what seemed a long time. She stood up and came to Janet saying, “Can I get a pottle of ale, missus? My throat’s fair dry fra the ride.”

  Janet poured her a cup of ale over in the corner.

  “It’s breech and very early,” she said. “When’s it due?”

  “Candlemas.”

  “Ah.” Mrs Hogg’s chin went down on her chest. “Ay, a May baby. Well, she’ll need to go a-maying again.”

  There was another loud shriek from the bed and Mrs Hogg went over to her, took her hand. “Now then,” she said, “save yer shrieking, hen, it’ll get worse before it gets better.”

  A new thunder of feet on the stairs and there were the nearest two of Ellen’s gossips at last, her sister Mary and Katherine from the dairy, in a bustle of kirtles and aprons. They sat down next to Ellen on the bed and hugged her and then held her hands while she twisted and tried not to shout.

  Katherine had a good voice and she started singing a spinning worksong, all about spindles and pockets and in very poor taste, if you listened the right way.

  Janet trotted down the stairs to see that things were going along. She and Dodd had decided to hold a pig-killing for the last survivor of the boar piglets, since he was showing signs of temper and he was racketing about in his pen, trying to dig his way out. Pigs always seemed to know what was in the wind but she wouldn’t be sorry to see this one die. He was a nasty piece of work, too much of the wild boar in him.

  She made her rounds, looked in on the horses—Penny, Shilling, Angel and Samuel the donkey. She considered where she could put a goat pen if she decided to keep goats which were a new-fangled idea for the Borders though she liked the sound of an animal that could eat anything, she checked the stores of grain and hay and straw and found as she always did this year that there wasn’t enough.

  Her mind started circling and worrying on the problem. She thought she would have to sell or kill one of the horses and Dodd wouldn’t like that. Really she should have sent old Shilling to the knackers last year, but she was fond of the old gentleman and couldn’t bring herself to do it. But she had to do something.

  The cattle were all in the well-guarded infield, eating the stubble, the sheep were in the nearest outfield, away on the hill crossed by the Giant’s Wall, which was horribly muddy from the rain. The soil was so waterlogged she wasn’t expecting much from the winter cabbages. All the men were tired and cranky from having to keep a guard, and starting to come in for their dinner.

  She delegated serving the men and the boys to Bridget, who was already stirring the large cauldron of pottage and slicing the bread to go with it. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast but wasn’t hungry.

  Back in her little infirmary, Mrs Hogg had just finished another rummage under Ellen’s smock and was drinking the last of the ale. Ellen was hiccupping badly and her gossips were getting drunk. There wasn’t really room for her but Mary budged up on the bed to let her sit down. Then Willie’s Simon appeared at the door, his face like a cow in calf himself.

  “Is she gaunae be all right?” he asked Mrs Hogg desperately. “Is she?”

  “It’s in the hands of Our Lady,” said Mrs Hogg.

  “What can I do?”

  “Naething, this is women’s work.”

  “Can I rub her back for her? She likes it…”

  “Her gossips can do that, out ye go, get yer pottage.”

  “I dinnae want it, I’m a good stockman, I’ve helped cows and sheep give light to their weans, I can…”

  “Men fight, women birth, so get oot,” said Mrs Hogg, who had a brisk way with husbands. Ellen stopped panting and reached her hands out to her husband. “It’s best ye go,” she said kindly. “The babby’s too soon and the wrong way up, so mebbe he’ll die, but we can try again once I’m churched, hinny.”

  Willie’s Simon looked confused. “Too soon?”

  “Ay, he’s not…he’s not properly cooked yet, see ye…”

  “But..”

  “It’s all right,” said Ellen softly, “we’ll make another baby, eh?”

  Willie’s Simon’s face cleared a littl
e. “Oh, but…”

  “And this one might live…Ooorgh…ooorrgh…Ah shit, I need tae shit…”

  Janet shoved the young man bodily out the door and slammed it, while Mary and Kat jumped off the bed. The last thing she needed was somebody fainting.

  “Ayaaergh!” howled Ellen and Mrs Hobb felt her quickly and then nodded. So they moved her between them to the birthing chair where she sat with her legs apart and her smock up and Mrs Hogg knelt like a priest at an altar in front of her with her hands slick with tallow.

  Mary and Kat helped keep Ellen steady from either side while Janet put her back against Ellen’s back and her feet on the wall and supported her while she bore down.

  “Ay,” said Mrs Hogg coolly, as something that looked oddly like a plum appeared between Ellen’s legs. “Go with it, hinny, wait for the wave to come and then go with it. Aright, get yer breath. Can ye say an Avvy?”

  “Dinna ken…” panted Ellen, tears and sweat pouring down her face. Janet wiped it with her apron.

  “Well say it wi’ me, Avvy Maria, grass a plenty, dominoes take em, benedictus two in mules and arybus…”

  Ellen screamed and her face turned purple, the plum between her legs got bigger, then smaller, then much bigger and turned into a very small baby’s bottom. Mrs Hogg took hold of it and pulled, pulled out one little foot and then another and they dangled, looking strange. Mrs Hogg was tutting.

  “Aright, hinny, yer doing fine, let’s have another Avvy Maria…”

  Janet turned and braced her feet against the wall again while Mary and Kat held Ellen’s shoulders.

  “Et benny dictus fruit venter twee…” sang out Mrs Hogg. “Come on hinny, ye’re a good strong lass, give it all ye’ve got, let’s get the head out.” Ellen went a darker purple, her neck corded as she bore down, and slowly Mrs Hobb pulled and there were shoulders and pulled and pulled and finally, there was a tiny baby with a big head, dark blue, very tiny and skinny with something funny on its back.

  Mrs Hogg held it to one side, christened it with water from the bucket beside her, muttering the words as fast as she could as the little chest fluttered. Yes, there was something red and ugly on his back, in his back, was that bone..?

  Janet craned her neck to see and as the water touched his forehead he struggled and fought but couldn’t get his breath, as if the air was made of steel for him, and he gave a little sigh and went limp. Mrs Hogg was already bundling him up in a cloth, hiding the strange wound on his back and she glared at Janet to stay silent.

  “He’s not…he’s not supposed to be blue…”

  “No, hinny, he’s not. He couldna breathe. He lived till I christened him, but he’s just too little and he’s deid.”

  Ellen clutched the baby and howled like a dog while her gossips wrapped their arms around her and cried. Mrs Hogg left the cord and just patted Ellen’s back. Janet said quietly through the noise, “What was that on his back?”

  “I’ll tell ye later, it’ll do her nae good to know.”

  Janet went and opened the horn-paned window wide and then they waited for the afterbirth, which came plopping out a little while later. Mrs Hogg caught it in a bowl and cut the cord and there was no blood. She took the bowl to the light of the sunset and moved the liverlike thing about, checking it closely.

  “Ay,” she said in a pleased voice, “that’s all there. Ye’ll be well enough in time.”

  Ellen’s face was covered in snot and tears as she held the tiny bundle to her chest and sobbed deep wrenching sobs that came from her belly.

  “Ay,” said Mrs Hogg, not a tear on her face, “ye cry, hinny, cry away the sadness.” She mopped Ellen’s legs and quim and belly with cloths from the bucket. “Now let’s get ye back on the bed.”

  Janet, Mary, and Kat carried Ellen bodily to the bed, where they pulled her dirty smock off over her head, one arm then the other arm, so she could still hold the baby and she shivered suddenly. One of Janet’s own smocks went on over her head and a pair of breeches to hold the cloths. Everything went immediately into a bucket of cold water to soak for the night. And all the time she cried and cried for the tiny unbreathing baby, that was paling now.

  Mrs Hogg put a knitted shawl from Kat around Ellen’s heaving shoulders and then sat beside her and waited for the worst of the storm to pass. Eventually she asked gently, “Will ye let me lay the little one out for ye?”

  “Why did he die? Why didn’t he stay inside me? Why did he come too soon?”

  Mrs Hogg shook her head. “Naebody knows why anybody lives or dies, ainly God and His Mother. But I’ll tell thee, child, he was baptised whilst his little heart was still beating and he’ll go straight to God, so he will, straight to heaven he’ll fly and he’ll be an angel there.”

  Ellen’s tears were thick and slow now. “But why did God want him?”

  “Ah dinnae ken, hinny, but perhaps He wis short of they smaller angels ye see in books, ye ken, the fat babies wi’ the little wings. And maybe the baby was helping ye, so he came too soon while he was little so ye wouldna have too bad a time of it. So he wouldna hurt ye too bad.”

  There was a disbelieving giggle in Ellen’s throat between the tears. “It can be worse?”

  “Oh ay, it can be worse and longer. A breech is allus bad but ye only took a couple of hours. Next time it’ll be much easier, I promise ye.”

  Ellen was no longer clutching the little bundle, she was holding it as if her baby had gone to sleep. “What did you christen him?”

  “I christened him John, I allus do. John or Mary. That’s why there’s so many Johns and Marys hereabouts because sometimes the water of baptism wakes them up and they live.”

  Ellen nodded.

  “Will I lay out your wee Jock for ye now?”

  Ellen looked down at the baby’s grey face with the open grey eyes. “Ay,” she said, “he’s deid, isn’t he?” She gave the baby into Mrs Hogg’s arms and she took him away.

  Janet went and got an old sheet to do as a shroud and helped hold the floppy little thing while Mrs Hogg washed him down quickly and swaddled him tight and then laid him on the windowsill. The wound in his back was shocking, laid open down to the backbone.

  “How does that thing happen? With the back?” whispered Janet.

  Mrs Hogg shrugged. “Naebody knows. I think the Devil gets his lance and stabs the baby in the back and sometimes the heid, too, cos the Devil’s a coward of course. Isnae a thing anyone can do about it, although the midwife I ’prenticed with, old Mother Maxwell, she said that if the mother likes beer that makes the babby strong enough to turn the spear aside. And if she sleeps with a horseshoe in the bed, that keeps the Devil and the faeries away anyway.”

  Janet nodded. She would pass the medical advice on to Ellen later. “Have you eaten, Mrs Hogg? Can I get you anything?”

  “Ay, I’m tired, I could take a sup to eat.”

  They passed Willie’s Simon squatting against the wall in the passage, crying into his hands. Mrs Hogg bent down to him and touched his shoulder. “Ye can go to her now, if ye’ve a mind to,” she said.

  “Is the babby…?”

  “Ay, son, the babby’s dead, it was too little to breathe. Ye go and comfort your woman, she’s a brave strong lass.”

  Willie’s Simon shut his eyes and breathed out hard, then stood up. “Will we have more…?”

  Mrs Hogg laughed. “Well that’s up tae ye and the lassie, eh? But yes, ye will and they willna come too soon.”

  Willie’s Simon braced his shoulders and went into the infirmary and Kat and Mary came out, complaining that they were hungry. They all went down the spiral stairs to the warm hall where Janet had pestered and pestered until they had a modern range in the corner for charcoal as well as the great fireplace for lumps of cow, that always had a stockpot hanging over the fire and bubbling away.

  Janet sent the girls for bowls and decant
ed platefuls, though it was very late for dinner, and served Mrs Hogg herself with the best maslin bread. Mrs Hogg ate with a will and so did Janet and she sent a lurking boy up to the infirmary with bowlfuls for Willie’s Simon and Ellen.

  The girls went off to tell what happened to the other girls and Janet fixed Mrs Hogg with a gimlet eye. “What was that ye were saying about May babies and maying?” Mrs Hogg had a peculiar expression on her face, a mixture of regret and determination.

  After a while she spoke softly, “It’s the mumps.”

  “Mumps?”

  “Ay. If he’s nobbut a child when he gets it, he just looks funny for a while and has a sore throat. But if a young man gets it badly his…”

  “Balls swell up.”

  “Ay they do. Now they sometimes turn black and then he usually dies but more often they’ll swell up and hurt and then go down again and he thinks he’s none the worse. And he isna, except his woman will never get with child.”

  “What?”

  “It was Mother Maxwell noticed that too and she told me.” Mrs Hogg was avoiding looking at Janet. “All I can think is that the stuff that’s in his balls gets soured somehow so the little mannikins he plants in his woman are dead or hurt or something.”

  A lot of young men had got the mumps in 1582 before the execution of the Scottish Queen, for it had been a while since there had been mumps on the Border. Including one Henry Dodd who had been in the castle guard at Carlisle for good and sufficient reasons connected with the Elliots.

  Janet remembered it, how she had gone to visit him at the castle barracks and found him in his little bunkbed, his feet hanging off the end and he had been in terrible pain and terribly frightened and finally told her why in a whisper and she had fetched cold water and cloths and a raw steak and made him more comfortable.

  She had loved him already, already chosen him to be hers and putting wet cloths on his poor hot swollen balls had been like the most natural thing in the world: it was only later that she had been astonished at herself. And that was why he was so terrified of illness, of course.