My jaw dropped open. Where was I? What was this crazy place where witches lived openly and villagers could tell them from nonwitches?
At my hesitation she said again, more firmly, Suivez-moi, and gestured toward a dark blue pickup truck that looked as though it had fallen down a rocky ravine, only to be hauled out and pressed into service again.
Oh, no, ah. .I began. I had no intention of getting into a truck with a strange woman, not in the backwoods of Canada, not when my da wasnt around.
Oui, oui, she said with quiet insistence. Vous suivez-moi. Maintenant.
Uh, pourquoi? I asked awkwardly, and her jaw set.
Nous besoin de vous, she said shortly. We need you. Maintenant. Now.
Oh, blimey, I muttered to myself. Daccord, daccord, I said, turning inside. I banked the fire in the hearth, grabbed my coat, and, wondering what the hell I was getting myself into, followed the woman out into the rapidly falling darkness.
The inside of the truck felt as rough as the outside looked. Nor did this driver believe in seat belts. I clutched the door handle, feeling my kidneys being pummeled by every stone and hole in the road, and there were too many to count. After what felt like a whole evening but was really only about twenty minutes, we slowed and the trucks headlights illuminated a cabin much like my fathers, and in the same state of decrepitude.
As soon as I unfolded myself painfully from the truck, I picked up on waves of searing pain and distress. My eyes widened, and I looked at the woman. What the hell was this about? Did she need a witch or a doctor? My driver came and took my arm in a deceptively strong grip and almost hauled me up the steps. I braced myself and started summoning strength, spells of power and protection, ward-evil spells.
Inside the cabin my ears were immediately assaulted by a long, howling wail of pain, as if an animal were trapped somehow. There were three other First Nation people in the lounge, and I saw another, older woman bent over the stove in the kitchen, which looked marginally better equipped than Das. Four sets of black eyes fastened on me as I stood there, dumbfounded, and then I cringed as the unearthly wail came again.
The woman tugged off my coat and pulled me toward a bedroom. Inside the bedroom I was confronted by something I never could have predicted: a woman in childbirth, writhing on a bed, while an elderly woman tended to her. In a flash I realized I had been brought here as a healer, to help this woman give birth.
Oh, no, I began lamely, as the woman screamed again. It made all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I was uncomfortably reminded of the time when Morgan had shape-shifted into a wolf.
Vous elle aidez, said my driver in a no-nonsense tone.
Oh, no, I said, trying to find my voice. She should be in hospital. Did anyone here understand someEnglish? I was rapidly running out of French. I glanced at the bed again and saw with dismay that, in fact, it wasnt a woman in childbirthit was a teenager who couldnt have been more than sixteen or seventeen. Morgans age. And she was having a hard time of it.
Non. Vous elle aidez, my companion said, a shade more loudly and with more tension.
A hospital? I said hopefully, and couldnt help shuddering when the girl screamed again. She didnt seem to know I was there. Her shoulder-length black hair was soaked with sweat, and she clutched her huge belly and curled up as if to get away from the pain. Tears had wet her face, so there was no dry skin left. The older woman was trying to soothe her, calm her, but the girl was hysterical and kept batting her away. The tension in the room was climbing rapidly, and I could feel coils of pressure surrounding the whole cabin. Oh, Goddess.
The older woman looked at me. The opital is five heures far. Far. She gestured with her hand to mean extremely far away. Is big money, big money.
Bloody hell. The girl wailed again, and I felt like I was in a nightmare. A huge swooping attack from Amyranth right now, with Ciaran trying to rip my soul away, would almost have been more welcome. The older woman, who I guessed was a midwife, came toward me. The girl sobbed brokenly on the bed, and I felt her energy draining away.
I get bébé out, the older woman said, using descriptive hand motions that made my face heat. You calmez er. Oui? Calmez. Again she gestured, with soothing, stroking motions, then pointed toward the girl.
There was nothing for it: I had to step into the fray. The girls eyes were wild, rolling like those of a frightened horse; she was fighting everyone who was trying to help her. My nerves were shot, but I reached deep inside my mind and quickly blocked things out, sinking into a midlevel meditative state. After a few seconds I began to send waves of calmness, comfort, reassurance to the girl. I didnt even try to interact with her present self but sent these thoughts deep within her, into her mind, where she would simply receive them without examining or questioning them.
The girls wild, terrified eyes slowly turned and focused on me. Then another contraction racked her, and she coiled and screamed again. I had never done anything like this before and had to make up a plan as I went along. I kept sending waves of calm, comfort, reassurance toward her while I desperately searched my spell repertoire for anything that might help. Right, come on, Niall, pull it out of your hat. I stepped closer to the bed and saw where it was soaked from her water breaking. Agh. I wanted to run from the room. Instead, I looked away and began to sketch sigils over the bed, muttering spells to take away pain, spells to calm fears, spells to make her relax, to let go, to release.
The girl made harsh panting sounds, hah, hah, hah, but kept her eyes on my face. As if in a dream, I slowly reached out and touched her wet hair, like black silken rope beneath my fingers. As soon as I touched her, I got a horrible wave of pain, as if someone had run a machete through my gut, and I gasped and swallowed hard. The girl wailed again, but already her cry was less intense, less frightened. She tried to slap my hand away, but I dodged her and stayed connected, pushing some of my own strength and energy into her, transferring some of my power. Within half a minute she had quit struggling, quit writhing as much. Her next contraction broke our connection, but I came back, touching her temple, closing my eyes to focus. The poor teenage girl couldnt begin to understand, but the deep-seated, primal woman within her could respond. Concentrating, I tuned that woman into the cycles of nature, of renewal, of birth. I sent knowledge that the contractions werent the pain of injury or damage, but instead signs of her bodys awesome power, the strength that was able to bring a child into the world. I felt the consciousness of the child within her, felt that it was strong and healthy, a girl. I smiled and looked up. My driver and the midwife were nearby. The midwife was sponging the girls forehead and patting her hand. Une fille, I said, smiling. Le bébé est une fille. Elle est jolie.
At this the girl met my eyes again, and I saw that she understood, that she was calm enough to hear and understand words. Une fille, I told her softly again. Elle est jolie. I tried to think of the word for healthy but couldnt. Elle est bonne was the best I could come up with. The midwife smiled, and so did the woman who had fetched me, and then I sensed another contraction coming.
This time I reached down and held the girls hand, and as her muscles began their tremendous push down, their intense concentric pressure, I tried to project the feeling that these contractions were just her body working hard to accomplish something. This was what she needed to do to get her baby out; she had to release her fear and let her body take over. Her body, like the bodies of women since time began, knew what to do and could do it well. Together we rode the wave of her contraction, squeezing our hands together as it crested, and then I think we both panted as the force ebbed and her muscles relaxed again.
Oui, oui, murmured the midwife. She was down at the end of the bed, pushing the girls knees up, and besides that I didnt want to know. I stayed near the head of the bed, looking into the girls bottomless black eyes, holding her hand, sending calming waves. Her eyes were much calmer and more present; she looked more like a person.
Elle arrivé, the midwife murmured, and the girls face contorted, and fast, fast, I sent images of things opening up, flowers blooming, seeds splitting, anything I could think of in my panicked state. I thought relaxation, concentration, releasing of fear, surrendering to her own body. As I looked at her, her eyes went very wide, her mouth opened, she said, Ah, ah, ah, ah, in a high-pitched voice, and then suddenly it seemed like she kind of deflated. I made the mistake of glancing over to see the midwife pulling up a dark red, rubbery-looking baby, still connected to her mother by a pulsing blue cord. Sweat broke out on my forehead, and my skin grew cold, as if I were about to faint. The baby squinched up its quarter-size mouth, took a breath, and wailed, sounding like a tiny, infuriated puppy.
My patients face softened, and she instinctively reached out her arms. The midwife, beaming now, wrapped the kicking, squalling baby in a clean towel and handed her to the mother, the cord stretching back behind her. As if the entire episode of terror and gut-splitting pain had never happened, the girl looked down at her baby and marveled at it. Feeling somewhat queasy, I looked at the infant, this end product of two people making love nine months earlier. Her face was red and raw looking. She had a cap of long, straight black hair that was glued to her little skull with what looked like petroleum jelly. Her skin was streaked with blood and white goop, and suddenly I felt like if I didnt have fresh air, I would die.
I staggered to my feet and lurched from the room, through the lounge and out the front door. Outside, I took in great, gulping breaths of icy air and instantly felt better. Somewhat embarrassed, I went back in to find that some of the other women had come into the bedroom. They were smiling, and I felt their waves of relief and happiness. They praised the girl, who was now beaming tiredly, holding her new daughter close. The midwife was still busy, and when I glanced over, she was picking up the cord, so I looked away fast.
I had never seen a human birth before and wished I hadnt seen this one. Yes, it was a miracle, yes, it was the Goddess incarnate, but still. I would have given a lot just then to be sitting in a pub, knocking back a pint and watching a football game on the telly.
The girl looked up and saw me, and she smiled widely, almost shyly at me. I was struck by how regular she looked, how girlish, how smooth her soft tan skin was, how white her teeth were. The contrast with how shed been, while racked with pain and fear, was amazing. I smiled back, and she gestured to the baby in her arms.
Regardez elle, she murmured, smoothing the babys cheek. The baby turned her head toward her and opened her rosebud mouth, searching.
Quickly I said, Elle est très jolie, très belle. Vous avez bonne chance. Then I cornered the woman who had brought me and took her arm. I have to go home now.
We were interrupted by other women thanking me gravely, treating me with distant gratitude, then turning, all warmth and smiles, to the girl. They knew I had helped the girl but also knew I was a witch and probably couldnt be trusted. I had mixed feelings. Surely a girl this young ought not to be having a baby. From looking around, I could see these people had no money; who knew how many of them lived in this four-room cabin? Yet seeing how the women clustered around the girl, praising her, admiring the baby, tending to them both, it was clear that the girl was safe here, that she would be treated well and her baby looked after. There was love here, and acceptance. And often, that was most of what one needed.
I tapped my drivers arm againshe was cooing over the baby, who was now attempting to nurse. I kept my eyes firmly away from what I considered a private thing (I was the only one who thought sothere were at least five other people in the room). I have to go home now, I said again, and she looked up at me with impatience, and then understanding.
Oui, oui.Vous avez fatigué.
Right. Whatever. I looked for my coat and shrugged it on. My right hand was sore from being squeezed so tightly. I suddenly felt bone weary, mentally and physically exhausted, and I was ashamedly aware that out of all of us, I had done the least work. Men might have bigger muscles, bigger hearts and lungs, but women have greater stamina, usually greater determination, and a certain patient, inexorable will of iron that gets hard things done. Which is why most covens are matriarchal, why lines in my religion usually went from mother to daughter. Women usually led the hardest, most complicated rites, the ones that took days, the ones that took a certain ruthlessness.
I sighed and realized I was punchy, my shoulder brushing against the door frame as I went through. The night air woke me up, making me blink and take in deep breaths. I groaned audibly as I saw my nemesis, the blue pickup truck from hell. The woman, whose name I had never learned, walked briskly to it and pulled herself into the drivers seat. I climbed into the passengers seat, pulled the door closed, and reflexively clutched the door handle.
Then the door of the cabin opened, and a sharp rectangle of light slanted across the dark yard. Attendez! cried a woman, and she came toward us. She gestured to me to roll down my window, but it didnt unroll, so I opened my door. Merci, merci beaucoup, msieu sorcier, the woman said shyly. I saw that it was the older woman who had been in the kitchen.
I smiled and nodded, uncomfortable about being openly identified as such. De rien.
Non, non.Vous aidez ma petite-fille, she said, and pushed a package toward me.
Curious, I opened the brown paper and found a warm loaf of homemade bread and, beneath it, a somewhat new mans flannel shirt. I was incredibly touched. Right then I broke off a piece of the bread and bit it. It was incredible, and I closed my eyes, leaned back against the truck seat, and moaned. The women laughed. "Cest très, très bon, I said with feeling. Then I unfolded the shirt and looked at it, as if to assess its quality. Finally I nodded and smiled: it was more than acceptable. The woman seemed relieved and even proud that I thought her gift was fine. Je vous remercier, I said formally, and she nodded, then clutched her shawl around her shoulders and ran back into the house.