This was the truth, beyond the facts. You weren’t overcome by the admission. This was a matter to settle. No tears came to your eyes. No lump swelled in your throat. Whatever guilt you felt for your lack of guilt kept itself hidden away.
His eyes flashed with surprise, then understanding. You realized he had long sensed a secret in you and thought you now revealed it. Leit took your hands.
Do you wish to speak of them? asked he.
You had anticipated no such response. You had practiced for
shock, dismay, and sympathy. Even anger. Instead he broke you open with the unexpected. A brief summary was what you had prepared to share, but that wasn’t what you said.
He listened as you told of the unintended result of your ardor. The pregnancy prompted the wedding, although Wyl | yes, you spoke his name | was intended for another. Their birth was long and painful, but the children were healthy and strong. Short of forbidding, Wyl denied your intent to return to mapping the kingdom. So you cared for the infants with the help of a nursemaid. They were sweet children, no more fussy than expected. The girl had an eagerness about her. The boy, a watchfulness. You took them into the forest often. They liked to explore and share what they found with one another. They preferred to sleep face-to-face. When separated, they became distressed.
You paused. The thought that formed didn’t escape your mouth. They had each other. All those dark months in your womb, the girl and the boy weren’t alone. You felt comfort. You felt sorrow. You acknowledged what a barren place your body had been. Only after Wei could you understand.
Leit clutched your hands.
What are their names? asked he.
Then tears came. You didn’t know why. His thumbs stroked the water away from your cheeks.
The invocation of their names in your native tongue made you quiver. Then you told him.
Does their father love them? asked he.
I think he does. Yes, you said.
They are fortunate, said he.
You thought of Wyl with the newborn twins, their hands in his. Then of how he had grabbed them when you returned from warning the settlement. They are mine, said he. Was his love pure or possession? you wondered. You had neither for them. You’d left them without a struggle, protest, or plea.
Your ambivalence is clearer now, said Leit.
You nodded. I’ve told no one else except the midwife. Please keep this between us. It’s too complicated to share. You are my witness, Leit. Help me carry it, you said.
YOU WEREN’T ALONE IN YOUR RETICENCE. LEIT, TOO, QUESTIONED whether to sire a child.
He was the one to speak to you of the forces the parents bring to bear. These were patterns that determined hair, eyes, skin, shape, and voice. Still more mysterious were tendencies, aptitudes, and afflictions. There were behaviors learned, rote from one generation to the next. Yet he thought other matters, unseen, transferred as well.
My scar is external proof of a greater disfigurement within, said Leit. I felt my body fibers warp. What I witnessed isn’t only on my flesh and in my memory.
You thought he exaggerated.
Notice how few warriors have children who resemble them. Some among us feel our patterns have been twisted and fear the damage this could do, said he.
Edik told me a child can endure much if it feels beloved, you said.
That depends on the child’s nature and the conditions into which he’s born, doesn’t it? asked he.
Under and aside from his fear, Leit wanted a child of his flesh. He acknowledged the primal urge. He wished to know the swell of a woman’s body was due to his part. To love a child didn’t require biological paternity. He loved the children he tended in the nurseries. But he admitted that he wanted to experience the blood mystery of fatherhood, his connection to a child as both root and branch.
And you? What was your reason to bear, again?
Tell the truth.
You questioned whether you could be a loving mother. You wondered whether circumstances had impinged upon your feelings for the twins. This was a terrible risk to take. Your decision was selfish at its source. If you were flawed, incapable, the child would suffer. There was little consolation that the babe would be in a community based on love.
It was also a repeated pattern of your own. What you gave to Wyl, you could give to Leit. The difference? Wyl wanted an heir. Leit wanted a child.
You both chose to have Wei. In spite of it all.
THERE, IT WAS DONE.
No concoctions taken before, or after you moved away from him. A beginning in the womb, alone in the dark.
You went to the midwife again. You told her you were pregnant. She asked what you wanted. Her question’s ambiguity shocked you. You complained of nausea and dizziness. She asked when you last bled. When you told her, she grasped a knife and gouged one of thirteen sticks that hung on the wall. She told you to expect a winter birth.
What have you shared with the little one? asked she.
Shared? you asked.
What have you told the babe of your stories and wishes?
You thought of Leit. He placed his hands on your belly every night and talked through your skin. You thought his actions silly but didn’t discourage him.
I’ve told it nothing, you said.
Why not?
Why indeed? What grows is a dumb thing.
She turned to a wall of shelves with ceramic jars painted various colors. On each were small symbols that had meaning to her. She peered among them and then said:
A seed has its own map of being.
Its simple shape holds within a design greater than its size would suggest.
But will it become what it could be? Will it find its way to sandy soil when it requires loam? Will it find itself in the dark when it needs sun? If it sprouts, will something haplessly crush it? If it begins to grow, will it live where the roots can grow wide and deep, the stem strong and straight, the leaves broad and open? In what ground will it begin its life? Where it is planted makes a difference.
No matter what, it will continue to live, to try to live, no matter how inhospitable its environment, no matter how deformed it may become, how sick it is.
And here is a greater mystery. It may be deformed and propagate. The new plants may bear no obvious evidence, but somewhere in its memory, it carries the wound, one that takes long to heal.
The new seed is set. You are the soil now.
No warning. You burst into tears. The old woman sat across from you in silence. You wept a confused grief, utterly sourceless, it seemed. A grief you didn’t know was there and could not name.
Your babe feels your sadness. She feels what you feel. You cannot hide the truth from her. Place yourself within the child. What would you wish to feel and know? Begin there, Aoife.
YOU WERE BETTER PREPARED FOR WEI’S BIRTH. THAT YOU HAD GIVEN birth before was not the reason. Your friends and the midwife who cared for you embraced the dark secrecy of new life. Of course, without the man, the being could not begin. However, without the woman, it could never take form. It would never be. The Guardians honored this mystery as a sacred act of giving.
They acknowledged but didn’t dwell on the dangers to the mothers’ bodies and babies. They trusted an innate intelligence that began the moment two forces conjoined to bring forth a new being. Your body, said they, understands what your mind cannot.
The midwife chose herbs to give you strength. She visited you and Leit to teach you how to breathe. You laughed at the absurdity. You remembered the endless brutal bellow of your lungs before.
Holding of breath is common to block pain. Think for a moment. Do you remember an instance when you were hurt or frightened and stopped your breath? asked the midwife.
You looked at Leit when he suddenly took your hand. He held you in his eyes. You felt afraid, then steeled yourself against it. His other hand went to your back. You had no clear images, but you clearly had the memories.
I’ll teach you to move through pain. Leit will le
arn with you to help, said the midwife.
No such care was given to you before the twins. You remembered nothing but stories of horror, of endless screaming, of membranes ripped, of blood, so much blood. Oh, but when you see the babe, the pain will be worth it, said the women. You wondered if that was a lie or a consolation.
Pregnant with Wei, you felt loved as you had never been before. Your friends embraced you with tenderness you felt in your physical body. Their love for the unborn child flowed through their hands when they touched your belly. You know Wei sensed this. She seemed to reach through your flesh to return the affection. The babe’s joy spilled into you. Leit, although not stingy before, kissed and caressed you more often. He rubbed your aches away and weathered your moods with sweet patience. For several cycles of the moon, you knew bliss.
You never knew this was possible.
Leit’s turn to go back on the trails came, but he didn’t leave. No warrior left the side of the woman who carried his child. Every morning and night, Leit spoke to the babe. | still he did not sing | Wei kicked at the sound of his voice, then became still as she settled to listen. He told her the myths, and fanciful tales, and stories of his life before the war. He repeated the names of ancestors and relatives, with titles or descriptions of what they had done. His mother had served as a smith. His father was had been a fletcher. There were his grandparents, maternal and paternal, and their parents, and their parents. He named cousins, aunts, and uncles. He named the people of seven generations, each one connected to Wei through Leit.
Before you, child, your mother was Aoife, a mapmaker, who braved the curve of the world to find her home. What might she call herself now? asked Leit.
Content, you said.
You were. As well, you were happy. You couldn’t remember many periods in your life before in which that had been the condition for long. Moments when you were a child and free to roam the forest. The apprenticeship with the old mapmaker, despite your undertone of desperation. The return home with Wyl, until.
Then inertia set into your body. Wide and round, you moved with difficulty. A rock budged with oxen will. The child would be born soon enough, but not soon enough. You felt the happiness slip to give way to deep sadness.
You weren’t a monster, you knew at last. You loved the babe as surely as you loved her father. You anticipated the joy you would feel to see her face, to hold her warm new body.
Yet your pregnant stillness forced you to sit with old wounds. You bore the twins in fear, and you would bear Wei in grief. You wept as you remembered your mother’s suffocated shame for the twins, who came too soon. You wept as you thought of your duty to the infants, who were needful and wanting when you needed and wanted something else.
You looked at your spouse’s scar, sealed but somehow always open. You wondered what you had done. You were of two worlds. The one you left and the one you joined. You made a deliberate choice to bring her between them, although the latter would be her home.
Tell the truth, old woman. Name the grief now.
You had abandoned the girl and the boy before they were even born.
You were not ambivalent. You did not want them. No matter that the decision to give birth to and care for them suggests otherwise. Their presence in your body was an unwelcomed curiosity. You dreamed of them. They were one, sometimes two, sometimes three, birdlike serpents that bit your insides and sucked you dry. Parasites, you thought one morning, then banished the thought. You knew you shouldn’t think such things. But you did.
You felt punished for your pleasure. A woman’s fault yielded evidence that no man could ever bear. She took full blame, although half of it was hers.
Your mother had said, Be grateful they are so young. They will not remember you.
You were not spared the memory of them.
HERE YOU SHALL LINGER. HERE IS WHERE YOUR LIFE TURNED ON ITSELF.
You awoke at night. The moon was full. Leit slept while you breathed through several waves. You roused him when you knew the duration between lessened. He put on his heavy cloak to alert a neighbor. That person left a warm bed to awaken the midwife and ring the nearby bell. The rhythm chimed to tell the others a woman’s labor had begun. Your labor.
Leit fed the fire. He prepared the floor with a cushioned pallet, large pillows, and soft linens. He covered your feet with wool socks and helped you into layers of simple shifts.
You wanted to pace. You paced. The midwife arrived to see about you, then went to the adjacent room. You were prepared for this. She was near if she was needed. Otherwise, Leit was to see you and his child through the birth. This was their way. Nature’s wisdom was within you both. You were encouraged by your friends to believe this was so.
The singing began outside. The welcome song repeated several times. Different gentle melodies followed. You could ask them to be silent or to resume any moment you wished. Their presence was meant to comfort. You had joined the welcomes for other babies. Then you felt the warm swell swirl among the singers. As the mother, you felt a loving heat penetrate your body to the waiting babe. You were surprised at the tangibility.
Makha paced. She loped at your side. You wanted her present. This was decided some time before when you discussed your wishes for the day of Wei’s birth. You didn’t tell Leit the reason, however. You didn’t want to refer to the wound. Makha was welcomed because she had saved him. The wolf ‘s healing instinct and her bond to your spouse ensured her wise attendance.
The waves intensified. You draped yourself over a mound of pillows. Leit rubbed and pressed your back until that no longer soothed. You knelt on hands and knees by the fire and slowly rocked. He was close enough to touch. He breathed with you, rhythmic as the sea. In a cease of the pain, you became aware of what was outside of you. Beautiful singing outside the door. Your spouse’s quiet presence. The freedom to move and use your voice as you pleased. | such noise, woman! lie there and be brave! |
An unexpected pulse of desire streamed from your thighs to your mouth. You kissed him long until the next pang doubled you over. A horrible throb rippled through your abdomen as if something had escaped, violent with fear. You crept to a cold corner and pressed yourself up. You wept with hopeless grief. Leit’s hand pressed on your shoulder. The midwife’s hand was suddenly on the other. You demanded to be left alone. The pain of labor was minor compared to what now seized you. You wailed and keened. The midwife spoke into your ear.
Let it through, Aoife, said she. I know you’re afraid, but you will not rip apart. Let it through. Let it out.
Because you trusted her, because your child wanted to be born, you screamed although you didn’t understand why. You let the nameless rage have its way with you. Its power threatened to rupture the wet web of your flesh. Then Leit slipped himself between you and the wall. He held your exhausted body. He took that old pain in his arms.
Listen, said he. I love you. I love you. I love you. This he repeated until you calmed enough to say the words back to him. The midwife gave you a bittersweet drink. Within moments, the furious grief that had possessed you was a memory. You returned to your body in all its fullness. The midwife secreted herself away.
You asked Leit to remove your shifts. You knelt on the pallet with your hands on your thighs. You looked at him. He sat with his legs out. He balanced back on his arms, his scar exposed. You reached out to him. He came to you with a kiss. His body was relaxed. You felt the trust he had in himself that he could see to your labor and the birth of his child.
Sit here and support me, you said.
He sat with his legs wide. You leaned the whole of your weight into his shoulders and chest. You felt him tense to hold you upright. His hands moved across your body in soft, long strokes. His touch and your breathing together were soft currents against the cresting pain.
In a moment when the tension eased, you asked, How did you know to do this?
I didn’t, said he. The men told me to try whatever felt right and to try another means if I was mistaken.
You moved away after several waves. You knelt on the pallet, aware of the ground below you and the child within. The sounds in your throat were not human. Makha sat up on her haunches and stared. When your body commanded you to push, you trusted the urge. Leit stood behind you with his elbows under your arms. You moaned. You bellowed. You howled. You reached down and touched a moist, unfamiliar curve.
Then you felt tremendous relief. You gasped. Leit guided you back to the cushioned floor. He reached between your legs, lifted the newborn, and placed the infant close to your chest.
We have a girl, said he.
The child moved but did not cry. You felt panic.
She’s silent. What’s wrong? you asked.
Leit took your hand and placed it on the babe’s abdomen.
Feel, said he. She breathes. There’s no cause for her to scream. She’ll cry when she’s ready.
The infant opened her eyes. She peered with an intense gaze that seemed to pierce you through. Your body flushed with warmth. She was beautiful, with fine dark hair and rosy skin.
Welcome, my daughter, you said.
He covered you both with blankets. He slowly stroked his hands along the baby’s calm body. He left her connected to the cord. | the girl and the boy, out, cut, cleaned, packaged | When the membrane left your body, he wrapped it in a thick cloth close to your hip. He spread fresh linens under you. Makha curved her muzzle above your head and looked at you and the babe. The wolf ‘s nostrils twitched.
Leit knelt near you. His fingertip traced the infant’s cheek.
Beloved Wei, said he.
He kissed his daughter, then opened the front door. Cheers and bells rang for several moments. They knew Wei had arrived.
The midwife twirled a knot of dried herbs, which smoked. The smell was sweet and vibrant. She swept the smoke through the chamber, then tossed the rest in the fire. She tended to Wei as the child remained on your chest. Strong, with a good heart, said she. She tended your body and asked what you wanted for comfort. Broth and bread and a bath. Leit helped you into a shallow tub. He held you and draped you in a heavy quilt. Your breasts ached against his dark chest. The midwife cleaned Wei with cloths in front of the fire. You watched Leit cut the cord. Wei gasped and began to cry for the first time.
The Mapmaker's War Page 15