a lay perfectly still, head sunk into the pillow, hair matted like felt where Emmaline had been unable to reach it with the comb. Long gray strands fell down her neck and disappeared under the thin blanket. Emmaline drew a few strays away from her face, skimming over the unnaturally cool skin.

Until Ma's illness Emmaline had seldom seen her asleep. The bedroom door had always been shut, the shade drawn over the window on the far side of the room. The shade was up now, so that Emmaline could see in the last sunlight of the day. She sat in a little chair, crammed into the narrow space between the bed and the wall, searching Ma's eyes for signs of movement. Ma had not opened her eyes for several days.

A cup of water and a spoon lay on the table next to the bed, along with a clean towel. Ma's lips were dry and parched; she had not taken any water all afternoon. Emmaline dipped the spoon into the cup and put it to her mouth. But Ma's eyes, sunken in their sockets and hidden behind papery lids, seemed to blaze out in horror; if she were well she would not allow herself to be touched. Warily Emmaline withdrew the spoon, holding it unsteadily in mid-air. Ma's breath, slow and softly rasping, seemed to reverberate through the room.

Emmaline glanced out the window and down the road, worried that Pa would soon be home from Nelson's farm, and she must tell him she could no longer get Ma to drink. She pried the spoon between Ma's lips but it hit against her teeth and water dribbled out over her face and down into her neck. Her hair was damp now, and Pa was sure to notice the wet spot on the pillow. Still, he was not visible on the road and there was a little time to try again. She filled the spoon with water and carefully lowered it again to Ma's lips, but she could control the spoon no better and the water spilled again. With clumsy, nervous hands she patted it dry.

Ma slept on. The evening sun filled the room with a golden light. Emmaline dropped the spoon into the cup. Startled by the clatter, she put her hands over her ears to block the sound, listening instead to the sinister echo of her hands. If she could not get Ma to drink then Ma would surely die. She did not know what to do.

The folds of her dress had fallen closely over her rounded stomach and she loosened them, since she never knew who might be looking or what they might see. The baby was quiet; it had not kicked for two days and she hoped it was dead. She placed her hands on it, pressing as though she could squeeze the baby out. Her womb tightened and became hard as a sharp pain nearly took her breath away, the fourth since she had sat down with Ma at noon. It tightened more and more until finally it let her go and she sank with relief against the back of her chair. But her shoulders were bruised from Pa's rod the night before and she could not rest against it.

The sun went down behind the hills in the distance, creating a glowing sky at the horizon. In the thinning light she watched the evening shadow creep up the trees and buildings along the road. A few men were straggling home from the farms. Pa would be among them, although she couldn't make him out just yet. Beyond the men the road rounded a bend and descended to the bridge over the river. She studied the road at the place where it vanished into the trees. There she had parted with Ethan, had waited as he crossed the river to disappear into the forest and be gone. From there he would return for her and she would be waiting still. In the shadow of the setting sun the road faded into the shadow like a dream.

Ma lay before the window, cold and distant and far away. The tired, resistant lines of her expressionless face seemed to harden as she slipped farther and farther into death. A faint hint of fear rose in Emmaline and she quickly stood up lest it explode like a stable fire and overtake her. Pa would be wanting his supper ready. She picked up the cup of water and the spoon and took them with her to the kitchen.

A few embers remained in the stove, enough to build a small fire for Pa's tea. When it was going strong she took the kettle to the well and hung it from the spout while she pumped, working the handle hard until suddenly a pain struck her and she gripped the well-post till her knuckles were white and the pain faded away, leaving her exhausted and drained and wanting only to run and hide and fall asleep in Ethan's arms. But Pa would be hungry for his meal and she hurried back to the kitchen to fill his plate with cold potatoes and beans while the water came to a boil.

"How's yer Ma," he said as he came through the door, his boots thumping on the loose sill.

"I can't tell," she said guardedly, her back to him as she sliced his bread. He went to look on Ma, while she put his plate on the table and poured his tea.

"She don't look like she'll last the night," he said when he returned to sit at the table, bent over like an old man.

"Ain't you eating?" he said, eyeing her expectantly.

"I'm not hungry," she said.

"Well then sit down," he said, and struck the table sharply with his rod.

She sat across the corner from him, keeping the folds of her dress loose. A pain swept into her, so strong it set her teeth ringing. She touched her fingertips together and held herself still. Pa sliced his potatoes into pieces with his fork.

"We got to start thinking about the wake for yer Ma," he said.

"Yes," she said in a thin voice. The pain ground into her, ferreting out deeper places to conquer. She held her breath as he scooped forkfuls of beans against his bread, lest he would notice what was happening. But he devoured his beans and gulped his tea, hastening to be with Ma. Perhaps her dying was a godsend after all.

"There," he said, pushing his plate away and rising from the table. "Yer Ma's waitin'"

The pain subsided, but a hardness remained. She picked up his plate and carried it to the sink, steeling herself against it, her back toward him lest he know.

"I'll take care of the dishes first," she said.

He withdrew into the bedroom while she washed his plate and put it away. From the shelf on the wall she brought the candles down from the cupboard, and set them on the table to start the wicks burning with a coal from the stove. But she did not take them into the bedroom where Pa would be sitting next to the bed.

She found the carving knife and went outside, where the sky was darkening fast and the stars had begun to appear. The full moon had risen huge and red, skimming the trees as she hurried down the path to Churchill's stable. It was pitch dark inside but she knew the way by heart, for it was here that she had snuck out to lay with Ethan. She inched her way up the rough wooden ladder to the loft, and crept to the open window behind the mounded hay, where Ethan had made their little nest against the wall. A bucket of water and bundle of clean rags were stashed where she had left them; she laid the rags out under the window where she could see them in the moonlight. Finally, at last, she could rest, and she fell into the hay, letting it enfold her, allowing her mind to wander, allowing herself to remember Ethan and the way he felt as he lay beside her in the scented hay, bringing her a happiness she had never known. "Be patient," he had said the night before he left. "I will come back for you." The memory of his silky black hair still lingered between her fingers, his face seemed still to press against her breast.

 

he birth began in earnest. She drifted in and out of sleep while the searing pain between her hip bones came and left and came again and she bit her lip til the blood came, clutching the carving knife til her fingers went numb. From somewhere beyond the pain she heard Pa rushing down the path.

"Yer must be in here!" he yelled as he entered the stable and felt his way to the ladder. "Yer Ma's dying and yer run away!"

He whacked the beam with his rod and the loft shook, knocking dust and debris to the floor below. She held herself absolutely still, listening for the thud of his feet on the ladder, for his grunting and clawing through the hay.

Once more he whammed his rod against the beam.

"Wait til yer come back home, then yer'll see what I've got!" he yelled as he left the stable and ran up the path, still calling for her as he sped through the trees.

The pain relented and she drifted off again, dimly aware of the hard flat blade of the carving knife by her side, until another pain ripped into her, tearing her apart like meat being split from the bone. But she held on, waiting, gasping for breath, dropping away into sleep, only to be jolted awake as her whole body gathered to push her insides out. What a moment before had been pain without end became a massive effort that woke and exhilarated her as though she were but a leaf bobbing in a flood.

The boy came easily, slithering into her hands like a beached fish, his skin wet and sticky and soft. He lay between her thighs while she cut the cord with the carving knife, his eyes wide open in the moonlight.

He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

She could not slit his throat.

With a small white rag moistened with water from the wooden bucket she washed away the film that covered his body, smoothing down his amazingly thick dark hair and rubbing out the creases in his arms and legs. Below her the horses stirred in their stalls, whinnying softly, the sound she had loved when Ethan had lain with her. He will be back, and we will love again, she told herself as she dried the boy and ripped a strip of rag to tie off the cord. The boy was quiet while she folded a rag between his legs and wrapped him in another, but as she held him in her arms he began to whimper. She clamped her hand over his mouth and held him tightly against her mushy belly while he wriggled and squirmed, puckering his body into a building cry. Furtively she glanced out the window and down to the moonlit river, where anyone might be lurking under the trees. The risk was too great; she couldn't let him make a noise. She thrust her breast into his mouth and laughed as he suckled down.

He suckled hard and strong and would not let go, his tiny body taut and hard through the rag she'd wrapped around him. Her breast felt sweet and useful, she would give anything to be able to keep him. But Ethan would never come back for a woman with a child, she knew that in the marrow of her bones. She stroked the boy's delicate eyelids, his silky skin, his smooth little nose, cradling him in her arm. He fit perfectly and she began to rock him gently as he sucked, humming quietly, when the urge to push suddenly overwhelmed her and she delivered the bloody afterbirth onto the hay. The boy stopped sucking and stared at her.

She laid him on the hay and cleaned herself and tied the afterbirth and the bloody rags into a bundle. The dawn was beginning to crack over the horizon as she slipped down the path to the river. Birds chirped in their nests and gray light spread across the sky. The cold wet grass brushed against her bare legs and mashed under her feet. The swaying movement of her walk was calming for the boy and he rested against her, relaxed and heavy in sleep. She touched his forehead, softly brushing his tender skin, wondering what she should name him, wishing she'd had the courage to tell Ethan of her condition before he left. Perhaps he too would have wanted to name the baby. Perhaps he would have called him Ethan. The happiness she felt as she remembered him was all she would ever want. His face was with her, his spirit in every part of her. Her stride strengthened, her purpose clear as she crested the riverbank and descended to the water's edge. She would call the baby Zachary.

 

he pale morning sky reflected on the river as she crested the bank and descended to the water's edge. With an easy toss the bundle of rags dropped into the water, but it hit against the rocks and caught on the bank as it floated downstream, too far gone for her to capture, and yet anyone walking along the river might find it and wonder from where it came.

Zachary's wrap had come loose and his bare foot poked through a rift in the folds. She sat on the riverbank and perched him on her knees while she tucked him snugly again. He stirred, lifting an eyebrow with a big sigh, but he didn't wake. "I love you," she said aloud, wondering if he'd heard as she kissed his eyes, wanting only to love him and raise him to be a man. He slept on, glints of light from the churning river playing across his face. With her finger she lightly traced the line of his nose and across his forehead to his hair, so thick and black like Ethan's. If only Ethan were here, she thought, and it came to her that perhaps she shouldn't be touching his baby so much, that perhaps the way she loved was somehow terribly wrong. She crunched her fingers into her palm, not knowing what to do. Her fingertips seemed to burn holes into her skin and a terror within her exploded like a lightning strike.

Ethan would protect her, if only he were here. She furtively glanced at the baby sleeping on her lap. When Ethan came to fetch her there would be other babies to love. Perhaps one would be a girl. She ripped a strip of cloth from Zachary's wrap and tied him to a rock, then heaved the rock to the middle of the river.

The splash lingered in her ears as she rushed back up the path to be in her room before Pa rose. The wispy morning light flickered through her bedroom window, making the room seem barren and small. She collapsed onto the bed, her hands clutching vainly at the open air. The sun inched closer and closer to the horizon and the room became dreadfully bright. Wallpaper roses strutted before her, their once vivid red color washed out with a pounding glare and she turned away from them, only to find more, ominously poised in perfect unison across the nearby wall. She rolled onto her back: the flat, white ceiling seemed to bring her peace. Her eyes followed wallpaper lines from one end to the other and back again as the sun broke into the sky, shining through her window and onto the bed, warming her arms where Zachary had lain. She dropped her hands limply to her sides.

Pa stumbled into the kitchen and slammed across the floor to her room. He knocked on her door and entered without waiting her reply.

"Yer Ma's dead," he said, his face grotesque with pain. "Died in her sleep."

She sat up dizzily, the rag between her legs soggy with her blood.

"Yer should've been here," he said.

His eyes were moist and his shoulders sagged, his shiny, puffy cheeks shone red under the stubble. She stared woozily at his crazy smile, and fell onto the pillow. Her shoulders ached, pain rippled through her stomach, she had not the strength to resist. In blessed silence she drifted off into oblivion, aware only of the rasp in his breathing, aware only that as she could be aware no more, the blanket was drawn over her and the door closed behind him as he left her room.

[END]

© Elizabeth Moray 2002