by Matthew Cook
"Napaula, mi truko de ardenta!" he says, stepping inside. I do not recognize the language. He turns, looking at someone inside, then opens his arms, as if to embrace them.
"Llaurto li porta, Napaula. Di et roloto li vatanti sul Kirin."
I walk past the threshold and into the apartment. It is a simple, two room affair with scuffed floors and a low, soot-blackened ceiling. Water has gotten behind one of the walls. There the plaster has fallen away, exposing the jagged lathing. The ammonia-laden stench of rats lingers near the dark hole, mixed with the damp odor of mold.
In the glow of the single, half-burnt taper, I make out a few mismatched pieces of furniture, littering the floor: a much-mended chair; a threadbare, lop-sided divan, no doubt rescued from some rubbish tip. I see a huddled figure on the divan. Rath embraces the figure and I see wizened arms rise to pat his shoulders. Dark spots mar the papery skin.
"Kirin, I'd like to introduce you to Napaula. Napaula is very, very special.” He steps back and I see an old woman on the couch, wrapped in a gray woolen shawl. Her shrunken-apple face peers out at me from the folds of her hood, surrounded by a corona of wispy white hair. Her faded gray eyes shine bird-bright, nestled in deep canyons of wrinkled skin. She nods and smiles at me, showing me her toothless, black gums. I nod back, unsure how to address her.
"Tota, Napaula. T'pel muarda vetistas, eh?" Rath asks, offering her his hand.
"Lodos m'tet, vuldardare," she replies in kind, the words as shrill as the sound of a rusty hinge. She grasps him and, with his assistance, heaves herself to her feet. As she rises, the shawl falls away, exposing her body for the first time. I blink in shock, trying to make sense of the sight.
Napaula stretches her back, wincing as the motion unearths some old pain, and grins toothlessly as I try not to stare. Her body is thin to the point of gauntness, the bones in her arms clearly visible in the dim light. Her legs are two sticks; her knees twisted knobs of bone, distended with arthritis and age. She follows the line of my gaze with a knowing smile and reaches down to cradle her swollen belly. The gesture, so familiar to me from my time with my sister, is at once so intimate and so telling that it confirms the impossibility of what I am seeing.
Napaula, despite the many decades since the flowering of her womanhood, is pregnant.
"But ... how can this be?” I ask, my wariness, for the moment, pushed aside. Napaula's eyes meet mine. I see the beatific joy there, an expression belonging to a much younger woman. It is a look only a mother can possess.
"My baby, he sleep,” the old woman says in the Imperial tongue. Her accent is thick, its burring drawl wrapped around the words like a blanket, softening their edges.
"But when did this—?” I begin, but the old woman holds up a forestalling hand.
"First, we drink tea. You wait,” she commands, shuffling towards the small stove.
She makes the preparations, pouring water into the battered tin pot and placing fuel into the iron stove. Rath makes no move to help; instead he drops into the mended chair and watches her. Fondness shines in his dark eyes. I sit on the edge of the divan, close enough for him to hear my whispered words.
"She must be eighty. How can she be pregnant?"
"She'll tell you, after you have tea. She's very proud of her son, although I think sometimes she regrets that she's never seen him, even after all these decades."
"Decades?” the word escapes me, louder than I intended. Napaula looks up at the sound, then laughs a toothless laugh. She returns to her chore, pulling out mismatched cups.
"What are you playing at?” I demand. “It's impossible that a woman could get pregnant and remain so for decades. This is just another of your games."
Rath shrugs. “Maybe it's impossible, but there she stands. I have examined her and I can assure you her condition is not some sort of madness; there is indeed a life inside of her. Of a sort, anyway."
I open my mouth to ask him how he can know this, then I remember. Rath can summon sweetlings of his own. He must share my secret sight. I know from my own experience that it does not give the clarity the blood magic does, but it does grant the ability to see the ebb and flow of life itself, as well as allow the possessor to see, and command, the spirits of the recently departed.
Carefully, I let my inner eye slip open, then train my gaze on the old woman. The glow of her life radiates from inside her frail flesh, mellow as banked coals, dim yet steady. The marks of hard living are graven into the deepest places of her body, a tapestry of pain and sacrifice. Her heart pulses in her thin chest, as it has for the better part of a century. Its beating stirs her inner light.
Dark spots mar the glowing tapestry—places where sickness has taken hold. It is everywhere: in her liver, and stomach, and skin. Even in her bones. She should be in agony but she seems to not notice. I allow my gaze to slide down, to the tight dome beneath her sagging breasts, and my breath catches in my throat.
Whatever is inside her defies my vision. It shines with a terrible yet lovely un-light, like a dark star, eclipsing Napaula's life glow while simultaneously allowing it to move past, and even through, it. I bear down, forcing my secret sight deeper. For just a moment, I see the vague outlines of a tiny form, nestled in the center of the shadow, then some force reaches out and shoves me away.
I gasp, staggered by the enormous power which has repulsed me. The rebuke was casual, almost negligent. I sense that it could have done me grievous harm had it wanted to; had it been awake to itself.
"Gods,” I whisper, struggling to keep from swaying in my seat. “It's ... I don't know what it is."
"I can't see it, either,” Rath admits. “But there it is. Whatever lives in her body is something unique; something special."
"Worth almost killing me for?"
Rath nods, impervious to my ire. Perhaps he simply does not care.
Napaula shuffles back to us, a cup in her hand, and Rath finally rises to help her. He fetches the others and returns. The cup he hands me is delicate and lovely, a column of cloudy, scratched glass set into a tarnished silver holder. The tea within is dark and strong, steaming in the chilly air.
"Surely you don't expect me to drink anything you offer me?” I ask him, coldly.
"Sharing tea is a sacred ritual amongst Napaula's people,” he continues, sipping from his own cup. “If you want her cooperation, you'd best not insult her hospitality. Besides, now that you are aware of it, could something as mundane as poison slipped into tea ever harm you again? You have nothing to fear."
I take the cup. He is right. I take a small sip of the scalding liquid, rolling the sweet brew across my tongue. It is redolent with the aroma of herbs and an aftertaste like roasted nuts. I resist the urge to turn my secret sight inward to see if it is affecting me; I will know soon enough if it contains anything harmful. If it does, I will not hesitate to do what I must: I will kill Rath and use the vitality in his blood to purge it from my body, answers be damned.
We sit and drink for a few minutes. Napaula looks at us with approving smiles. She seems to be enjoying herself, the candlelight glittering merrily in her eyes. If not for the impossible swell of her belly, she could be any other good-natured old woman.
She and Rath exchange pleasantries, sometimes in her tongue, sometimes in halting Imperial. Rath hangs on her every word. There is a gleam of something ravenous underneath his adoring gaze when he looks at her, a hunger which stills my tongue. I must wait, and watch, and learn all I can.
"Now we talk,” she announces, after I have tentatively drained half of my cup. “Rath say you want know about baby."
"Yes,” I agree, uncertain how to begin. “Napaula, I know something of children. About what it means to not be able to bear them. I—"
"My baby sleep,” the old woman announces, patting her belly gently. “He sleep long time. Very long time. He good boy."
"Sleeps?” I echo, struggling to understand her. “Napaula, how old were you when you became pregnant?"
She frowns, and I worry sh
e does not understand what I am asking. Then she smiles once more, and I realize that she was trying to remember. “I marry when fourteen, when I become woman. Murten my husband. He very handsome. Strong.” She giggles like a much younger woman, covering her toothless mouth with her hand.
Her good humor falters a bit. “We try to make baby. No baby. Murten sad. I want to make happy. We try many things, but—” she makes a tching noise and shrugs, frowning.
"I talk to wise women in village. I do what she say, but still no baby. Two year we try. Murten very sad now. Angry. I hear talk in village. They say: Napaula barren. I cry. I beg gods to bless me, but they not listen.
"One day, Murten tell me he want new wife. She give him sons. I ... I afraid.” Napaula drops her eyes, recalling her shame, and I resist my own stinging tears.
It was much the same with me. I can recall all too clearly the sense of failure, the feeling my body had betrayed me. That was almost worse than Urik's disappointment, and later his rage and accusations.
I reach out and pat her withered hand. “I understand. My husband blamed me for our lack of a child as well."
Napaula nods, covering my hand with hers. It is surprisingly warm, soft as old chamois. Her pulse is steady and strong. She throws a look at Rath, equal parts amusement and scorn. “Man always blame woman. But sometimes seed cannot flower, even in good soil. I know now."
"So, what did you—?"
A look of shame creeps over her face. She hesitates. When she speaks again, her voice is soft, barely a whisper. “I not want to be alone. Shamed, no good for marry. I do something. I make promise to Murten, but I break. For him, I break."
I turn her words over in my head, trying to unravel them. It is the look of misery in her eyes that revels her meaning. “You took a lover,” I say, sure even as I speak the words that I am right.
"Only for baby! I never love him. Never! I love Murten! I do for him,” she says swiftly.
"Of course you did,” I assure her. If things had been different in my own marriage, I might well have done the same.
"I lay with other man three times, when wise woman say time is best. After, I never see him again. I pray to gods to forgive my sin.
"A month later, wise woman tell me I pregnant. I still share Murten's bed. Murten so happy when I tell him. I pray baby be his, but I know.” She smiles, a bittersweet expression, tears sparkling in her rheumy eyes. The smile falters.
"When baby is still more than two moons away, I feel pain. Very bad. I bleed. Murten, he is away, driving herds to market.
"My mother, she dead when I was little girl, so I go alone to wise woman. She is with other girl. Her time has come. Baby come. I wait. The baby hurt me. I cry, but stay quiet. I wait long time. Other girl, she scream in pain. I cannot breathe. I start to cry. The gods punish me. Murten not know what I do but they do."
In my mind's eye I can see her, a girl of sixteen or seventeen, scared and alone, listening to the cries of a woman in labor. I can feel her guilt and terror, her sense of helplessness in the face of what her body is doing. I squeeze her hand, trying to send her strength.
"Other girl scream and scream. I know my baby will die. I ... I run away. Into the streets. Between buildings. Nobody can see. Blood on legs. Blood everywhere.” She wipes her palms across her spindly thighs, staring down. I wonder of she is seeing it again, seeing the ebb of her child's life blood.
"I sit. I pray to gods: Do not kill my baby. Please. I sing to him. I ask him to stop hurting. To go to sleep. And then,” she pauses, groping for the right word. She finds it, a radiant smile breaking across her face like the sun emerging from behind storm clouds. “Something wonderful happen."
"What?” I ask, riveted.
Napaula's joy pushes aside the shame that was graven on her face just a moment before. “The baby listen. He stop hurting. Go to sleep. I spend night there, afraid of move. I soil myself; I cannot help it. I do not wake him. When morning come, I very cold, and I hurt, but baby still sleep.
"Every day, I sing and he stay asleep. Sometimes he talk to me in dreams. He say the gods forget him. So long as he sleep, the gods will not take him."
I look over at Rath. He stares back, cool and inscrutable. Silently I curse him; he must have had the chance to examine her, to learn the truth of Napaula's words.
"Napaula, I'd like a moment to speak to Rath alone."
She nods and caresses her belly, snatches of some distant Southern song already on her lips. I rise and Rath follows me out into the dark hall.
"What do you think? Isn't that the most amazing story you've ever heard?” he says the moment the door closes.
"I think the child must have died, but somehow stayed inside of her. I'm not sure how she managed to sicken, or what happened to the babe's body, but—"
"How can you say that?” Rath snaps. “You saw what is in her. Was that some illusion? Or do you think maybe she's possessed? I'm sure the priests will accept that answer, but I will not."
"I saw ... something,” I admit. “But I do not know what. Whatever it is, it's strong. And doesn't want to be seen."
"Well, it's not a case of possession, that much I do know,” Rath insists. “I found her in the market almost two years ago, selling pottery and other trinkets. She tried to hide her condition, but I sensed something odd about her, and my inner vision confirmed my suspicions.
"But she was cautious, and resisted telling me her story. It took me weeks, but finally she came to trust me and admitted she had been hiding from the priests of Shanira for years."
"Hiding? Why? Couldn't they help her?"
Rath shrugs. “She's had run-ins with those pompous fools in the past. She hurt herself several years ago: slipped on some stairs and broke her arm. The wound sickened, until she was worried she would lose her arm, so she went to a healer, only to learn the gangrene was too far gone to cure with mortal medicines. Desperate, half delirious with fever and agony, she went to Shanira's temple, seeking relief. When they examined her, they could not fail to notice her true condition.
"The priests treated the gangrene and restored the bone, and when they were done they tried to ‘cure’ her unnatural pregnancy. She was already well past the age when women can become pregnant, you see. When their healing powers failed to begin her labor, or to explain the nature of the child, they accused Napaula of consorting with demons. They threatened to cut it out, for the good of her immortal soul.
"Somehow, she managed to escape them, and swore she would never confide in a priest ever again."
I ponder his words, shifting from foot to foot in the dank hallway. My disgust for the priests and their foolish superstitions is sour in my mouth.
"I didn't believe her possessed, of course,” Rath continues, “but just to be sure, I hired a man to examine her. An ex-priest who had been driven from his order for drinking and other vices. Even though the power of his god was no longer with him, he confirmed that Napaula does not have any of the signs associated with possession: scarring; wounds that refuse to heal; speaking in tongues; aversion to sunlight, or to water blessed in one of the Temples of the Nine."
"You were very thorough; I congratulate you. But I still don't understand ... what do you want of me?"
Rath leans forward, and whispers, “I've been trying to convince Napaula to deliver the baby. You've seen the patterns of her life, yes?” I nod. “Then you saw the sickness that was everywhere within her."
He does not even bother to wait for my acknowledgement, but pushes on, clearly excited to be sharing his thoughts with one who can understand them. “I think the baby is indeed asleep, or as close to that state as something as ancient as it is can be. It's been slumbering inside of her for more than seven decades. After careful study, I've come to believe that whatever magic she somehow invoked is weakening. I think that the babe is poisoning her, and will eventually kill her. If she dies, then the babe will die as well."
"But how can you know—"
"I've been studying her for months,
Kirin. You'll just have to trust me."
His words drag a savage bark of laughter from my belly, which echoes from the squalid walls. “Again you ask for my trust. You tried to poison me, as I recall."
"Oh please, we really must get past that,” he snarls peevishly. “You have to try to see the bigger picture here."
"Which is?"
"An old woman's life, and that of her unborn babe. Surely your hatred of me will not overwhelm your compassion? If the child has even a slim chance at life, will you really deny it simply because I did what was required to confirm your powers?"
There is more than what he is telling me, I can sense it, but his words penetrate the armor of my skepticism all the same. I can feel the tenuous walls I have built around my maternal instincts crumbling, torn aside by Napaula's plight. I draw in a shuddering breath and drop my eyes to the stained, warped floorboards.
"I'm not saying I'll help you, but if I did, what would you have me do?"
"There is a process known to the midwives of the south. A surgical process, whereby the child is removed from the mother through a slit in the belly—"
I nod. “The process was known to my mistress as well.” Rath blinks at me, clearly startled by my words.
"I've never seen it done,” I continue, “but I read about it in her books. It is a risky procedure, one that, if done improperly can cause—” I stop. I see now what Rath wants.
"If done wrong, it causes massive bleeding,” Rath finishes for me. “Bleeding that, at Napaula's age, she would not have a prayer of surviving."
It is madness. She cannot survive the process. Cutting her will kill her. Impossible.
I push open Napaula's door and look in at her. She sits in her chair, still singing to her sleeping son, rocking slowly back and forth, crooning words that have traveled a thousand miles, and many decades, to reach this place.
What does impossible mean to someone like her? Or me?
"Very well. I will examine her, if she will allow it. But I warn you: I sense there is something else, something you've not told me. I will find out what it is, I promise you."