“This is a difficult enough birth, Mistress Prower.” It is Midwife Ley’s turn to frown. “Do not trouble her further.”
Goodwife Prower sniffs. “Confession will serve her better than any of your medicines, Midwife Ley. God will be merciful should she speak her sin now.”
She turns her attention back to the laboring woman. “The name, child, the name!”
Sarah moans again, sweat beading on her brow. Her upper arms rest on Goodwife Prower’s thighs, her hands white and bloodless with how tightly she grips the Goodwife’s fingers.
“Master...” Sarah whispers.
I look at Midwife Ley, whose frown has deepened. “What did she say?”
“Set your mind upon God.” Goodwife Prower raises her voice as if Sarah did not speak at all. “Be steadfast in faith, for your suffering is His miraculous will. Forget not that ‘Unto the woman He said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children.’”
Whimpering, Sarah turns her head from side to side. She has no strength left, or she would be thrashing. Goodwife Prower means to fortify Sarah’s body through faith, but I do not think Sarah hears the words. She is lost to a fever dream, or on the edge of a revelation more profound. I have heard it said that childbirth brings women closer to the Spirit than even the most devout man could hope to be. Because it is a Christlike suffering, because it demands passing so close to death.
I do not want to doubt God’s great works, nor question His mysteries, but I would that Sarah Cooke’s suffering might be less. In all the years of my apprenticeship to Midwife Ley, I have never witnessed a birthing so torturous as this one. I struggle to see anything miraculous about it. My own silent prayer is that after a full day’s and most of the night’s labor pains, this birth will soon be over.
* * *
Excerpt from the trial of Miriam Ley
August, 1650
Mr. Smyth: And you bear witness that the babe was stillborn? It did not draw breath? Neither did it utter a single cry?
Deliverance Pond: It had not drawn breath before I went to fetch Midwife Ley’s nanny goat. Nor did I hear it cry.
Mr. Smyth: Did you find it strange that Midwife Ley failed to ask for your help? That she asked you to leave rather than aid her in ministering to the child?
Deliverance Pond: Midwife Ley told me to fetch the nanny goat, in case the child should need it.
Mr. Smyth: Yet you testify that the child was dead.
Deliverance Pond: Midwife Ley believed the child might yet be saved.
Mr. Smyth: What of Sarah Cooke? Had she passed on?
Deliverance Pond: Sarah Cooke still lived when I went to fetch the goat.
Mr. Smyth: Did Midwife Ley tell you why a new mother would not be able to nurse her child? Why did she believe a nanny goat would be needed?
Deliverance Pond: She did not tell me, sir. Only that it was urgent and I must fetch the goat with haste.
Mr. Smyth: And when you returned, the child was revived?
Deliverance Pond: Yes.
Mr. Smyth: And Sarah Cooke?
Deliverance Pond: She died while I was absent, sir.
* * *
I did not witness the moment that Sarah Cooke passed from this world into the next. When her mortal being expired, neither Goodwife Prower nor I were present. But had death visited the birthing room at the climax of her struggle, I doubt any of us would have known. Our eyes were all fixed upon the babe Sarah had issued forth. The babe and what came with it.
After hours of straining, the final moments of her labor passed with impossible swiftness. Her body, so unwilling to open, suddenly thrust forth the tiny body. Head, shoulders, arms, hands, fingers, stomach, sex, legs, feet, toes. A girl. She came into the world in mere seconds. Silent, slippery, and gray.
Midwife Ley bent to clear fluids from the child’s nose and mouth. I waited for the baby’s first, vital cry and for the midwife’s next orders. When neither came, I looked to the babe and saw that she had not shed the purplish, gray cast of birth for the rosy shade of new life. I also watched as Sarah’s body continued to empty itself.
At first I thought what was wrapped around the infant’s ankle was the length of the umbilical cord and the additional flesh spilling out of Sarah was the afterbirth. But I was mistaken.
* * *
Mr. Hammond: What caused you to flee your own home?
Mrs. Prower: I required the counsel of Reverend Alcott.
Mr. Hammond: Did Sarah Cooke still live when you left Midwife Ley?
Mrs. Prower: She had fainted, and did not speak, but she did yet live.
Mr. Hammond: You are certain the child was dead?
Mrs. Prower: Yes. The babe neither drew breath nor cried out after leaving the womb.
Mr. Hammond: And for that reason you summoned Reverend Alcott? To pray for the child’s soul?
Mrs. Prower: Yes. And because of the second issue of Goodwife Cooke’s womb. Because of that other...
* * *
“We must summon Revered Alcott at once.” Goodwife Prower lifts Sarah’s head and shoulders, easing them off her lap and onto a folded quilt. “There is evil in this house.”
Sarah’s body has gone limp. I think I see her chest rise and fall with breath, but she does not otherwise stir.
“Do what you must,” Midwife Ley tells her. “But both mother and child are in peril and will suffer more in your absence.”
“The peril of the soul is greater than that of the body.” Goodwife Prower draws herself up imperiously. “I will return anon with Reverend Alcott.”
* * *
Mr. Smyth: Do you bear witness that this creature had form?
Mrs. Prower: It grasped the babe’s ankle with one of its clawed hands.
Mr. Smyth: The dead babe dragged the creature from the womb into this world?
Mrs. Prower: Yes.
Mr. Smyth: What else can you tell us of this creature?
Mrs. Prower: Wings, like a bat’s wings, wrapped around its body. It had two tails. On its body I saw both fur and scales. And eyes. Many, many eyes.
* * *
“Is it the Devil?” I ask Midwife Ley in a whisper.
I have never been a fearful girl, but my limbs are shaking like branches in a tempest.
Midwife Ley’s face is drawn in concentration. “That is not for me to say.”
The babe that came forth first is still mottled shades of gray and blue, but otherwise well-formed. Midwife Ley extricates the infant from the flesh of the other that is wrapped around its ankle and foot.
In my mistress’s books I have read of twins joined together, two bodies connected by flesh and organs, but nothing I have studied prepared me for this sight. Even the words to describe it are difficult to choose: Is it a mound of flesh, or globs? Does it have enough shape to be called a body? Are the stubs and nubs and outgrowths from the center truly limbs? Had I spotted an eye, perhaps two? Did I see fingers or toes?
I keep averting my eyes, as if looking too closely at it will pollute my soul. As if this unnameable thing, though obviously devoid of life, may still endanger any who linger too closely.
But another part of me—the thinking, reasoning part—craves to examine the unnatural thing, because that small voice inside me murmurs that it came from the mother. That it is of her, of the human body and thus must be, somehow, natural. Only study of it can explain how and why it came forth and what it truly is.
I am about to sneak a long look at it when Midwife Ley’s voice commands my attention instead.
“Deliverance, I must ask something of you. It must be done before the Reverend Alcott arrives.”
She cradles the infant girl against her chest and begins to clear mucus from the babe’s nose and mouth. I wonder why, for it seems too late to save this child who has sho
wn no signs of having the strength or will to draw breath. Perhaps Midwife Ley cannot give up after toiling so many hours. Her face is careworn as she ministers to the babe. Strands of silver and brown have escaped from her braided hair.
When at last Midwife Ley turns to me, I see fear in her gaze. “Go to the house. Hide the book. Hide it well.”
* * *
Mr. Smyth: Reverend Alcott, what did you witness at the Prower house?
Reverend Alcott: Upon my arrival, I witnessed Midwife Ley tending to a living babe. Sarah Cooke lay dead, the monster beside her.
Mr. Smyth: You found Midwife Ley alone with the babe, Sarah Cooke, and the monster?
Reverend Alcott: Yes. Her apprentice, Deliverance Pond, returned to the Prower house moments later, with the nanny goat.
* * *
Midwife Ley keeps the book in a small wooden box beneath her bed. All of Midwife Ley’s other books reside on a low shelf that sits between her bed and mine. My mistress has thirteen books to her name: a rare collection that I coveted even before she taught me how to make sense of the shapes scrawled upon their pages. When I first came to live with Midwife Ley, I would take a book from the shelf and sit on my straw-stuffed mattress with the book open in my lap. My fingers walked across the pages, tracing the lines, swoops, and squiggles. It mattered not that the writing held no meaning for me; whenever I opened a book, any book, I became mesmerized.
When I became Midwife Ley’s apprentice, she explained that in order to practice her craft I must learn to read and to write and that she would teach me. When she asked if I was amenable to that, I began to cry. She did not ask if I cried from fear and frustration or from joy and gratitude. She looked upon my tear-streaked face, and I understood that she already knew my mind, and possibly my heart.
I take the book from the box, holding it carefully, tenderly. I know its worth.
Hide it well.
There is a hole in the cover of my mattress that I have been meaning to mend. Now, I rip the cloth until it is wide enough to slide the book inside. I wiggle it deep into the straw. When I pull my hand free, I press the mattress, making sure the shape of the book is indiscernible. There is no time to sew the opening closed, but I pray there will be soon.
* * *
Mr. Hammond: How did you bring the child to life?
Miriam Ley: The child was not dead. It had not drawn breath because of an obstruction in its throat. I cleared a path so the babe could breathe.
Mr. Smyth: Yet while you ministered to the infant, Sarah Cooke expired. Was there not hope for the mother’s life?
Miriam Ley: I am grieved to admit that Sarah Cooke’s injuries were beyond my skill. She could not be saved. Thus, I gave my attention to the child, who could yet be saved.
Mr. Smyth: Do you know what caused Sarah Cooke’s death?
Miriam Ley: The birth was difficult and caused great bleeding within her womb. The bleeding could not be stopped.
Mr. Hammond: Was this bleeding caused by the monster? Did its claws rend Sarah Cooke’s womb?
Miriam Ley: I saw no monster, but I did witness a long, difficult birth. Such births can cause bleeding that leads to death.
Mr. Hammond: Goodwife Prower and Reverend Alcott have both given testimony to the birth of a monster following that of the infant. Both have described the monster as having claws.
Miriam Ley: The Reverend Alcott and Goodwife Prower chose their words as I choose mine. I saw no claws, nor did I witness the birth of a monster.
Mr. Hammond: If not a monster, then what was brought forth from Sarah Cooke’s womb?
Miriam Ley: A second infant, a twin, not fully formed.
Mr. Hammond: Do you reject Reverend Alcott’s understanding that God sent His judgment through this monster? That its presence is a sign of the Devil’s work in our village?
Miriam Ley: I am no minister, only a midwife. I can but speak of that which I know.
* * *
I hear the babe’s howling before I open the door to the Prower house. The first cries of an infant have become my favorite sound. Lusty, hungry screams that resound with life. With hope and possibility.
Midwife Ley has swaddled the child, who is no longer blue and gray, but flushed. The colors of death belong now to its mother. Sarah Cooke’s glassy eyes stare at the roof beams. The strange mass of flesh lies in a pool of her blood, unmoved.
Weariness lines Midwife Ley’s face, and there is crimson splashed on her cheeks now as well as her arms, but she offers me a little smile.
“We will need the nanny goat.”
* * *
Mr. Hammond: In your time apprenticing with Midwife Ley, have there been signs that she consorts with the Wicked One?
Deliverance Pond: I have seen no such signs.
Mr. Hammond: Has Midwife Ley been known to use poppets in her healing craft? Have you witnessed Midwife Ley making poppets or asking others to make poppets for her?
Deliverance Pond: No, sir.
Mr. Hammond: From whence does Midwife Ley’s knowledge of the body and spirit come?
Deliverance Pond: She apprenticed to her mother, who was also a midwife, as was her grandmother and her great-grandmother.
Mr. Hammond: Midwife Ley is skilled in both reading and writing, is she not?
Deliverance Pond: Yes. It was she who taught me to read and to write.
Mr. Hammond: Are there many books in her house?
Deliverance Pond: She does have books on medicine. Some that were her mother’s, others that she has collected.
Mr. Hammond: Among these volumes, have you ever seen an unusual book?
Deliverance Pond: I beg your pardon, sir?
Mr. Hammond: It is well-known that the Deceiver requires his helpers to sign their name in his black book. Have you seen a black book among Midwife Ley’s books? A book unlike the others?
Deliverance Pond: No, sir.
Mr. Hammond: Are you certain?
Deliverance Pond: Excepting her Bible, sir. Her Bible is bound in black.
* * *
I first learned of the book amid the weeks that fever ravaged our village. Burnished leaves hinted at autumn, but a close, weighty heat smothered the land as if it were yet high summer. Fifty of our number collapsed with burning skin and twitching limbs. Thirty-two of those souls were carried away.
The sickness spared me, but in the midst of our work, Midwife Ley fell ill. By God’s mercy, the height of the illness had passed, else I am certain I would have collapsed under the strain of treating my mistress as well as those in the town still suffering.
“Study it, consult it, but never let it be seen,” Midwife Ley told me, even as her body shook with fever. “It must never be seen.”
She pressed the book into my hands. The pages I needed, those that gave instructions on our village malady, she had marked with a thin strip of cloth.
Study it, consult it.
Now I wonder if Midwife Ley meant for my eyes to wander beyond those marked passages. My devotion to her drove me to interpret her admonition more broadly, for there is no person in the village I admire more than my mistress. In her hour of need, I wanted to prove my love, to demonstrate how much I had learned since she took me on as her apprentice. Before Midwife Ley intervened, I had little hope of bettering my station save through marriage. At the age of ten I was orphaned, my parents carried off by one of the many sicknesses that preyed on our village during the harsh winter months. My mother and father were still working off their indentures. The labor still owed their masters was the only inheritance left me.
It would be falsehood were I to deny that fear drove me also. Fear of losing this woman who had seen something in me, something that signaled I should be more than a servant. That I should be taught to read and to write, to identify sicknesses and tend wounds. That I would be sought after and deferred to at one
of life’s most miraculous and dangerous episodes: the welcoming of a new soul into this world.
The first time I picked up the book, its weight surprised me. It felt heavy despite its slenderness: a volume of no more than one hundred pages. The first page was filled with names. Each name was followed by two dates, the year of birth and the year of death. Unlike other family histories I had seen, the sort recorded in massive, gilded Bibles like that belonging to Judge Prower, this page held only the names of women. The last name written was:
Miriam Ley b. 1610
The book was well used, well loved. Some pages were loose, on the verge of slipping free of the binding from overuse. Most were filled, but there were some empty pages at the back of the book, waiting for notes, new recipes for unctions, poultices, tonics, and elixirs.
Or.
Dare I think it?
New spells.
Midwife Ley’s magicks could only be discovered by careful searching. They were disguised, hidden within otherwise benign formulas.
I only happened upon these arcane writings when I read the book cover to cover. Had I limited my selections to common ailments, those I was already familiar with or had at least heard of, I would have remained ignorant of the book’s secrets.
There have been many nights since the birth of Sarah Cooke’s monster that I have wished I had preserved my innocence.
My eyelids had begun to droop, weighted by exhaustion, when I came across Covington’s Folly—a strange condition that seemed to be no more than a tingling in one’s toenails. How easy it would have been to dismiss the entry as irrelevant, to stop reading. Instead I pushed away sleep and read on. Halfway through the entry, the sentences stopped making sense. Cut off mid-phrase, the next line on the page would be something entirely unrelated. I thought I must have dozed off and lost my place, but upon re-reading it was clear I had not.
If the smallest toe of the right foot is longer than the smallest toe of the left foot
When the moon waxes break an egg into the water of a stream or pond bathed in its light
An odor should not be present, but hair may sprout from the heel
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