The room is filled with neighbours. People from all around. I lean against the pillows on the low cot of the birthing hut, against the wall, breathing hard due to the contractions starting. Beside me, my wife Malati is holding my hand. She’s trying to be brave. I can tell that she’s trying to hold her emotions in. But I can also tell that she’s absolutely terrified.
Everyone is, from midwife Clara with her dark eyes checking the pulse on my wrist, to old lady Amana holding onto my shoulders. If only the only thing they were all afraid of was the birthing process. If only the only thing to fear was whether the baby would come out okay.
“Focus on your breathing,” Clara speaks to me solemnly. “Try to relax. All that stress is bad for you. Bad for your baby.”
“Okay, Clara. I’ll try.” I take a few deep breaths, in slowly through my nose and out slowly through my mouth, just like I’ve been taught. But it barely does anything to calm my nerves.
“There you go,” my next door neighbour Yenata whispers to me soothingly. “Just focus on your breathing. Don’t focus on the pain. Let it go through you, but just focus on us.”
The contractions are coming in harder now. I moan in pain. I grasp tightly to Malati’s hand and she grasps back, lifting my hand to her mouth to give me a soft kiss. Clara looks for any signs of my water breaking. Amana murmurs out a string of soothing words in my direction.
I’m so grateful for all of them. So grateful.
I focus on the pain ripping and tearing through my insides. It’s warm pain. It’s pressing pain. It’s nice pain. And, for this moment, it’s all that I think about. All that I allow myself to think about. I focus my thoughts so that they do not go astray. And I hurt.
I feel my waters breaking, warm and swift, and I hear the cheers that envelop the crowd.
“Good job,” Amana encourages. “You’re doing so well.”
“Thank you,” I get out between pants before groaning in pain.
Everyone’s here. Everyone’s here with me while I give birth because everyone loves me. They love me. And I have them. No matter what it does I have them. And they can get me through this. Whatever happens next, they can get me through it.
No. I can’t let myself think about whatever happens next. No matter how much it weighs down heavy on me. No matter how much it’s been weighing down heavy on me all this time.
My Malati’s hand is warm and soft and solid and real against my palm and fingers. It’s so solid and real and unmistakably there. She’s here to support me. She helped me make this baby and now she’s helping me birth them. And I can birth them. I’m strong. I’m loved. And all the love packed tightly into this small room is making me strong. I have to birth this baby.
But then what? Then what? How do I stop my baby from …
I scream. And I can’t tell if it’s because of the pain or if it’s because of the fear. But for the moment it scratches out of my throat and bursts through my ears as I close my eyes and double over.
Midwife Clara holds me by the shoulder and gently keeps me held up.
“There, there,” she coos gently. “I know it hurts. Of course it hurts. But you can get through this. You can do it.”
“We’re here,” a lady from the village, Amahi, tells me. “We’re all here. And we’ll protect you.”
They’ll protect me. They’ll protect me. But who will protect the baby? The baby. The baby who I’ve protected and nurtured and built up and carried inside my own body for these past nine months. The baby who will be so young and fragile and innocent and tiny and helpless and defenceless and …
I scream again. And it’s more overwhelming and horrible than last time.
“Stara. Stara.” Clara’s voice is soft but firm, pressing into me like warmth from a fire. “You have to focus on getting your baby out,” she continues. “You have to turn your mind to that. I know it’s hard. I know it’s so very hard. I feel it too. We all feel it. But the only way this baby has even a chance of staying alive is if you get them out of you.”
There are tears in my eyes but what she says is absolutely true. I pant for a moment before nodding my head. The contractions start up again in earnest. And I moan sharply and steadily as pain wracks my body.
“I can see the head!” Clara exclaims to me. Once again there are cheers all around.
“You’re doing beautifully,” Amana encourages, “absolutely beautifully. I’m proud of you. So proud.”
I smile, but it’s a trepid thing. I don’t feel that it’s really there. I don’t feel that she really sees it.
I know that everyone is scared. Maybe not as afraid as I am, but everyone is definitely afraid. And yet they’re trying to push it down. They’re trying to do anything and say anything that would support me, that would lessen my own fear. I can’t say that it’s really working, but I appreciate it nonetheless. I appreciate it so much.
“Stop pushing for a bit,” Clara tells me.
“Okay,” I manage to get out. I breathe hard as I fight against my impulse to push.
“You can push again.” I feel my body let itself loose.
“Stay strong. Stay corageous. We’re all giving you our energy.” Amahi’s words make something bright flicker inside of me for the briefest moment. They’re giving me their energy. They’re all giving me their energy. And because of them I can do this. But I don’t want to.
“I want to keep the baby inside me. It’s safe to keep the baby inside me. I don’t want to let them out it’s too dangerous. It’s too dangerous out here.” I keep babbling frantically as Clara moves to shush me.
“Stara. Stara,” she softly explains, “the baby will die if they stay inside of you. The baby will die. For sure definitely. If they come out into the world then they have a chance. It’s literally the only chance they have, in order to have any sort of a chance at life they need to be born.”
And she’s right. She’s so right. I would be sealing the fate of my baby all by my own self if I did not let them be born. I concede this and I keep pushing again. This has to happen. I have no power to stop it. The only thing I have is hope. Hope that things won’t go horribly wrong.
“The head is almost out!” Clara exclaims.
“You’re doing great, /vitasi/, you’re doing great.” I wish my wife’s words could soothe me. But they don’t and it hurts and it hurts so much and it keeps hurting until I can’t even keep track of time anymore.
People keep talking around me. Whispers of prayers and incantations. Prayers for protection. Prayers for healing. Prayers for life.
Finally, finally, after time uncountable, the baby is in my arms. The hurt doesn’t stop. This is the worst part yet.
I cry, holding the child. The child is crying too. He’s a boy, most likely, though obviously it’s too early to know for certain. He’s beautiful. So unimaginably beautiful that I could never describe it no matter how much I tried.
He has tiny wisps of soft, dark curls scattered in a tiny tuft all over his head. His light golden skin is so soft and sweet. His arms are tiny, his legs are tiny, his little bitty fingers and toes are so overwhelmingly tiny. His nose is a little, stubby button and his eyes are so big and dark.
My wife kneels beside me, and gently caresses the baby’s face.
“There, there,” I soothe him in a quiet voice. “It’s all right. Mommy’s here. Mama’s here. All your aunts are here. We’re all here for you.”
I get out my breast and let the tiny child latch onto it, with his tiny, deep pink lips and his little gums. Everything about him is so tender. Everything about him is so delicate. Everything about him is so fragile, so breakable, so …
“What should we name him?” My wife asks reverently. I turn to look at her for a second. Everything in her face is so incredibly amazed. Everything about her face is so incredibly in love.
I’m in love. I’m in love with this baby who I’m just now seeing for the first time. There is the steady singing hum of quiet prayer all around me as all eyes are turned to this young new life in my arms. This infinitely precious new life.
“I think we should name him Honano.” My voice is breathless.
“Honano. Miracle. What a beautiful name,” Amana breathes.
“Yes,” Yenata agrees. It’s a very beautiful name.”
There is more talk all around me as all the ladies all around agree to the name. I simply focus on my little baby miracle sucking at my breast. He gazes up at me with those startling large, deep, dark eyes. And he captivates me entirely.
It’s tender, so tender, oh so very tender, being here, surrounded by so many of the people I love, holding this tiny, precious treasure in my arms. I have to treasure this. I have to treasure it with everything that I have, with everything that is inside me. Because Lifemaker knows that I may not have him for much longer. I may not have my baby for much longer.
My baby. Our baby. My wife wipes the tears from her eyes beside me.
One by one each woman moves to my side. One by one each woman traces a protective sigil on the cheek of my baby. I pray that it’s enough. It may not be enough. Roughly half of the babies are … ended. Nearly half of the babies don’t make it, no matter how much protection they have.
“I’ll get the carving,” Yenata states sombrely.
“Be careful with it,” Amahi calls out after her.
“Of course I will.”
Soon enough she returns, holding a little circle of polished, reddish wood, carved into an intricate geometrical design. My wife and I spent years working on it. We hope it’s enough. It might not be enough.
I relish the feeling of holding the baby in my arms for a few minutes longer.
And then the air all around us shifts. It grows heavier. Harder. Slightly, imperceptibly hotter. Stuffier. The room grows more stark, everything goes seemingly sharper than it was before. My breath freezes in my chest as I keep my eyes fixated on my little miracle.
I pushed him out. I pushed him out. I birthed him. Will it all be for nothing? Will those nine long months beforehand be for nothing?
There is a hissing sound punctuated by a bunch of scratching noises. I lean against my wife. I do not dare to look. I don’t need to look. I can feel its horrible, twisted presence inside of to the room, as the hissing grows louder and louder.
I can’t breathe. My breath is frozen, my blood is frozen my heart is frozen, my soul is frozen. I clutch baby Honano tighter. As if I can keep him safe by keeping him in my arms. As if I have any power at all.
Everyone around me is quiet. My wife, the midwife, my neighbours. All their prayers and chants and muted, hopeful pleading to a deity that may or may not care about us have stilled. They are waiting with bated breath.
I don’t think anyone in the room can breathe.
Malati kisses the top of my forehead, kisses the cheek of the child.
“A dirty little thing,” a voice remarks, twisted and corrupted and so deeply wrong, “covered in birthing fluids. Sucking like a piglet on its mother’s teat.” It almost sounds like the disunified buzzing of a thousand horrible bees. It’s so very unnatural, down to its very core.
“Your reverence,” Amana speaks, voice fearful yet strong, “it’s an honour to have you gracing us here.”
“So it is, so it is,” the corruption answers darkly, heavily.
The room is dead quiet again for what seems like time uncountable. Nobody knows what to say. Nobody knows what to do. The apprehension comes down all around us, thick and smothering.
I have faced this before. I have faced this so many times before. Not as a mother, of course, but as a friend and a supporter and a community member. No matter how many times I’ve done it, it doesn’t get any easier.
“So,” it starts again, voice grating and difficult to listen to, “do you have my offering?”
A woman hands Malati the little carved circle. It’s about the size of both of her hands put together. We spent hours and hours each day slaving over this peace of work, trying to get everything just exactly right. We tried to get everything right but maybe we didn’t succeed. Maybe we couldn’t succeed.
Almost half the offerings are not deemed good enough.
My wife leaves my side and I hear a sound somewhat akin to a snake striking. My heart jumps into my throat. I tighten my grip on my little baby. Honano starts crying in my arms. This is not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.
“It’s acceptable,” it finally declares, voice slightly interested. I feel like the weight of a thousand boulders has been lifted off of me. Finally, I can breathe again. I let out a long sigh of relief as joy floods through me, bright and hot and sparking all-consuming.
The air clears up, cool and still and light as it is supposed to be. I look around the room. There are faces of relieved women everywhere. There are no other entities, besides the women. The carving that we made is also gone.
Abruptly, someone starts singing. A joyous, hopeful song of celebration. We all join in, as I hand the baby to my wife and we share a sweet kiss in the midst of all the women.
This is a good day. This is a beginning.
My baby is mine. I can keep him.
———
I am sitting by the window, light streaming in. Most of the people are outside now. The children are playing. The adults are working in the fields. Life is going on all around us. It’s a beautiful day. Or, it would be a beautiful day had it not been for the constant pressure weighing down upon me. Weighing down upon all of us.
I’m minutely carving the perfect, symmetric, geometrical lines and ridges into the piece of wood in my hand. It’s beyond stressful. It’s overwhelming. The fear courses through me and my nerves are unravelling as I move the stylus perfectly, minutely, steadily over the wood. 275Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBRZLDLIzzf
<->275Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡg4KT7wAngP
Malati and I take turns. One of us goes into the fields one day and one of us stays behind to carve. The next day we switch it, the other one going into the fields. It helps take some of the weight of the pressure off. Everything is better when done together. Even horrible tasks such as this. Especially horrible tasks such as this.
The pressure squeezes me right in my throat and my gut. The pressure overcomes my mind. The aching, arching pressure leaves me almost nauseous and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to breathe easy. I never was able to breathe easy.
I have to get this exactly, one hundred percent right. I have to make it beautiful, symmetrical, intricate, multi-layered, elegant, stylish, perfect. I have to make this piece of wood in my hand as perfect as it can possibly be and I don’t know if I’ll succeed.
I don’t know if I’ll fail.
People fail all the time. Their carvings have flaws, kinks, things which are not perfect. And they pay the price for it. Lifemaker knows, they pay the price. People who have succeeded once can fail later. People who have succeeded twice, even, can still fail. There’s no room for overconfidence here. There is no room for anything except perfection.
I don’t have much time left. A scant few months. A scant few months before our craftsmanship is put to the ultimate test. And I cannot let any of this precious time go to waste. I am already heavy with the new baby growing within me, and I have to be finished before the child is ready to come into the world. I have to be finished before it comes to haunt us again.
Not that it doesn’t haunt us all the time, in a more indirect yet still weighted way.
And so therefore I am working through my cramped hands and I am working through my straining mind and I am grinding down on my back and I’m full of tension all over my body but still I keep working on. Still, I can’t do anything about it. I have to gulp down the stress and the pain and I have to keep working on.
Because we’re running out of time.
We’re running out of time.
We’re running out of time.
It’s not as if we didn’t spend a lot of time on the carving. Malati and I started a new carving the day after Honano was born. You never know when the next baby will come. You try to not have any others but still you never know when the next baby is going to come. We had a good six years after our first baby was born in order to prepare for a new one though, thankfully.
I wonder, briefly, if making a child would be a less stressful thing, if it would be a joyous thing instead, if it hadn’t been for it. If we could be sure that the young lives we bring into the world could be safe and could be prosperous. If the beginnings were not tainted with ends, if the love was not coloured by fear, I think pregnancy and childbirth could in fact be absolutely beautiful times of joy and love and brightness and hope.
But dreaming has no point. Wishing that things were better had no point. We have to cope with what we have to cope with and we have to live through what we have to live through. It exists. No matter what we desire, it exists. No matter what the Lifemaker desires, even, it exists. And all the forces of the world are abjectly powerless against it. And so we have to learn how to live with the pain, with the grief, with the fear. We have to learn how to live with the hurt and the loss and the pressure. We have to learn how to live with the anguish.
My eyes are hurting from the concentration. They are aching in a way that makes me just want to close them and to put cool water on my eyelids. But I can’t do that. Not now. We’re running out of time. And I still have to focus anyways. I still have to focus as much as humanly possible, more than humanly possible, on the task at hand. No matter how much the strain hurts, I have to strain everything within myself.
I lose track of time. I always lose track of time when these things are happening. When I am carving the offering. Time seems to stall forever and pass by as quickly as sand through my fingers. And I have no idea whether seconds or hours or nothing or everything is passing. But eventually, I am reminded of the steady, methodical ticking of time as the light that streams in from outside the window grows dim and soft.
I cannot work in this light. It’s too dim. And so I gather a handful of candles and I ever so slowly, carefully, light them one by one, making sure to keep them away from the offering. If it gets burned or even singed, we are done for. My baby is done for. The baby who I already love, despite never having met them, that sweet baby is done for.
And so I work by the light of the candles and by the light of the window until the light outside dims even more, as twilight stretches its dark blue blanket over the sky and dims the fields outside. It’s too dark to work now. The light of the candles, of even the fire, is not strong enough to illuminate the carving properly. If we work in darkness the chance of making a mistake is far too high. We can’t take that chance.
And so I get up and take our carving down the wooden steps and into the darkness of the cellar. I find the box made of strong metal placed in the musty darkness of the cellar. It is the most expensive thing that we own. I open the heavy padlock with the key hanging on a string around my neck, and I place the carving carefully inside the box. I then lock it up tight to ensure that it stays safe.
I ascend the stairs and get ready to be in the midst of humanity again.
———
It’s warm, under the blankets. It’s soft and sweet, with my little six-year-old boy sleeping in front of me, my arm over him, my wife sleeping behind him. It’s sweet and it’s soft and in the intimacy of the moment, I almost feel safe.
I almost feel as safe as I ever could be within my life, a life that has always been coloured with disquietude. But I have these people. I have these people. No matter what else happens, I have these people. And I get to sleep alongside them on worn, soft blankets on the floor of our house in the midst of the summer night.
I can’t sleep right now. I’m not certain why. Though I think that it’s for the best. It means that I have the time and consciousness to take this in. I have the opportunity to feel my baby and my wife sleeping beside me, peaceful, content, oblivious to the cares and the worries of the waking world, dreaming whatever they’re dreaming in tranquility. And it’s beautiful, it’s ever so beautiful, to experience this. To feel their warmth and their even breathing, to lie beside them and drink them down like pure, clear water.
I drift off to sleep, mind heavy with a cozy sort of tiredness. At least tonight, everything is as perfect as it can be.
I am jolted awake. I smell smoke. All the serenity shatters around me as I realize that I smell smoke. And this isn’t faint and distant campfire smoke either. It’s close. I can tell that it’s close. My heart thuds in my chest as I sit up on my blankets.
“Wake up! Wake up!” I yell at my family, violently shaking Honano. “There’s a fire! There’s a fire! We need to leave!” Sharp panic dances through me.
“Mommy. What?” Little Honano asks, confused and weary. He’s so sweet. So sweet.
“We have to go. There’s a fire.” My voice is firm and urgent. I can hear the fire crackling in the main room.
“What the heck?” Malati exclaims, drowsy confusion coating her thoughts and words.
“Malati! Wake up! We need to go!” We don’t have much time. I need to save my family. “Climb out the window!” I tell them, a plan forming in my alert mind.
Honano’s expression is open and fearful. I get up and pull him up alongside me. I drag him to the window.
“What about the offering?” Malati’s voice is horrified and filled with dread. The offering! It’s still in the cellar! I turn to look at her, terror flashing in my eyes.
“We have to get it!” I yell at her.
“I’ll get it. You focus on getting Honano out.”
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be sending Malati out into the danger of the fire. But I have to do this. It’s the only way to keep the baby safe.
All these thoughts rush through me in a fraction of a second as I rush over to the window, dragging my son behind me. I take him in my arms, and push him out the window. He cries out in fear. But he is out of the house. Safe. I climb out after him, and grab him by his skinny little arm again. I take him to a safe spot a few houses over.
“Don’t go anywhere,” I tell him solemnly as I think about what I must do next. Malati must still be in there, trekking through the flames in order to get to the precious metal box inside the cellar. I hope she’s safe. I know she’s not.
I bang frantically on the doors of my neighbours. And I tell them what has happened, all in a rush. I watch their confused, sleepy faces become alert and afraid. And my neighbours bang on the doors of their neighbours until the whole village is awake.
Everyone has wide, alert, afraid eyes as they frantically rush around with buckets, pouring water onto the fire whenever it gets too close to the other houses. It’s chaos all around me. But it’s an ordered sort of chaos. Everyone has sprung into frenzied action. Everyone knows what to do. Everyone knows to keep the neighbourhood safe.
I am the only one who is standing still. I am the only one who doesn’t have a job, have a purpose. I can only take it in, only take everything around me in as I watch my house burn. Images flow through my mind, passing by as if I am watching everything from a distance, as if I am watching everything from underwater. I hear shouts from all sorts of directions all around me but I can’t make out what they are saying.
All I know is that something is deeply, terribly wrong. All I feel is absolute dread within the very depths of my soul.
I am drowning in it. And I sink deeper and deeper, faster and faster as the burning brightness moves and flows through my eyes, as the darkness envelops everything, as people rush this way and that, steering clear of me as they come careening by.
Suddenly it’s all too much. The mountain on my chest is too much. I start screaming, covering my ears and closing my eyes and sinking to my knees. In the darkness all around me all I can feel is the ripping in my throat, the oozing in my chest, the twisting in my gut. I open my eyes. And there again is the chaos and the disorientation of the world. I close them again. And I keep screaming.
Eventually there is something warm against my shoulder. I open my eyes to see someone kneeling in front of me. They are telling me something. But I don’t know what. But they keep repeating the words over and over again until the world becomes a little bit more calm and I can understand.
“It’s okay. You’re okay. Everyone’s okay.” Tomino from across the village has a low voice, and his words are soothing. But still, something twists in my gut.
“Where’s my son? Is he safe?” The words come rushing out so fast that one word bleeds into another.
“He is. He’s perfectly safe. Everyone’s safe.”
“And my wife?”
“She’s safe too, although she had major burns. She’s with the healer.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Hey, it’s okay. Can I get you some water?”
“That would be appreciated.”
“Alright. Give me a moment.”
I sit there in the nighttime collecting my thoughts until he returns with a cup in hand. I drink it down in one full desperate swoop.
“Did she get the box?” I ask him when I’m done.
“The box? Oh, yes, she did. She got really bad burns on her hands, though. Don’t worry. They’ll heal. She was smart enough to use two rocks to grasp the box.”
“Oh, thank the Lifemaker.” I breathe a sigh of relief. So maybe everything is alright after all.
Tomino rubs slow circles on my back with his warm hand. And that simple action is so deeply grounding, like a soothing tea for my soul. For this I am so grateful.
“Do you want to go see her?” He asks me.
“Sure.”
He gives me his hand to help me up and I rise from the ground. We continue exchanging words as we walk through the night to the healer’s hut.
Inside I find my wife, my son, Afeena, Colato, and a handful of other people, along with the healers Faya and Miro.
“How are you doing?” Miro asks me.
“A lot better now that I’m here,” I reply.
“Your wife is in good hands. Do not worry.” Faya’s voice is kind.
“I am,” Malati replies, “and so are my hands.” She chuckles a little. Her hands are covered in salve and so are her shoulders, her back, and her feet.
“Mommy,” Honano starts, worry etched in his young voice, “I stayed right where you told me to until Colato got me. And then I went with him to the healing house and I saw all the people here.
“That’s great, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you.” I smile at him, though my smile contains worry at its edges. “Were you scared?”
“I was, but I’m not anymore.”
“That’s good. You were very brave.” I turn to Malati. “Is the box okay?” I ask her.
“It is.”
So we made it out after all. We’re all okay. Everything’s okay. We’re all okay. The conversation goes on around me, with everyone joining in chaotically and seamlessly. I join in. And my heart rests easy. As easy as it can at least. Of course my heart cannot ever rest truly easy. I don’t even know what that’s like.
———
I’m at Yenata’s house. She and her spouse let our family stay here for as long as it takes to build a new house. It was so nice of them both, though of course I knew that this is exactly what they would do. We’re all a part of each other. We all take care of each other. Our needs are their needs and their needs are our own. This is the way it has always been. This is the way it will always be.
It’s nice here, in Yenata and Sumne’s house. It’s a good atmosphere. Lots of people all around. With Yenata and Sumne and their children Dalia and Arena. With Honano and Malati and me as well. We’re all packed. There’s lots of coziness and warmth and company. Lots of support and belonging. It’s a beautiful place to raise a baby.
Speaking of the baby, I have to work on my carving. Sumne is sitting beside me working on their’s. I don’t have much time left. I don’t have time to take any time off. I’ve already lost a day recovering from the fire.
I go to where the metal box is, in Sumne and Yenata’s cellar. It’s hard to descend the ladder with my pregnant belly but it’s not overly hard. In the darkness of the cellar the only light comes from the lantern on the wall. I find the glinting of the metal box, misshapen from the fire, and I tie it onto my shawl before ascending the wooden ladder and emerging into the light.
Something is wrong. I can tell that something is wrong. There is a dreadful, deadening feeling deep in the pits of my soul. I don’t know why I feel like this. But I’ve been told by many people to not ignore my instincts. So I guess I should pay attention to the dread I am feeling.
But whether I pay attention to it or not, it’s not as if I can do anything about it. I just have to go on. I just have to carve. I just have to open the box and start working on the carving. That’s all I can do. All I can do for my baby.
I fold my legs and take a seat beside Sumne, who does not even notice me, as intensely focused as they are on their carving. By the light of the window, I sharpen my carving knife with the sharpening rock that we are both sharing between us. And then I move to open the box.
I pull on the lid of the box. But it does not open. My heart drops down into the pit of my stomach. I am overcome by all-consuming terror. The box will not open. The box will not open. Why will the box not open?
I pull it again, as hard as I can, one hand on the lid and one hand on the box. The lid does not budge.
“Damn!” I exclaim, voice slightly delirious. Sumne turns to look at me, apprehension in their widened eyes.
“What is it?” They ask.
“The box,” I answer. “The box carrying our carving. It won’t open.” These words rush out of my mouth all too fast and I don’t know if they understand them or not.
“Stay calm.” Their words are blank, but I can hear cracks of emotion coming through from under their tone. “We can fix this. Let me take a look.”
I let them try to open the box, and just like me, they fail.
“I’ll try to open the box again and you watch it closely to see what’s happening,” they suggest.
“Okay,” I agree.
They turn the box over and over, slowly, as they try to open the metal. I observe the small case closely.
“I think I see the problem!” I cry, slightly elated. “The metal on the lid, it’s fused to the metal underneath it. That’s why it can’t open.”
“Good. We found the problem. Now all that we need to do is find the solution.”
“How do we do that?” I ask.
“We’ll think of something. I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
I look again at the lips of the box, which are melded together.
“Do you guys have a saw?” I ask Sumne.
“We don’t, but the people across the street do.”
“Let’s go ask them for it.”
“Good idea.”
We go together. Out the door and across the street full of little pebbles. I’m still dead afraid. But I am hopeful. I’m hopeful that we can find a way through this. I’m hopeful that we can save my baby.
“Can we borrow your saw?” Sumne asks Aero who opens the door.
“Sure,” he answers. “What is it for?”
“My carving box melted shut during the fire.” As I speak I can see the worry flicker to life in Aero’s eyes, a black and lightless, unnatural fire.
“Oh my gosh,” he states. “I’ll get the saw right away.” He dashes off and not even a minute passes before he returns, the serrated metallic saw in his hands. He passed it to us, and wishes us good luck. We thank him for his help.
Back at Sumne’s house, the two of us kneel on either side of the box.
“I’ll hold it, and you saw,” I suggest to Sumne.
“That’s a good idea,” they tell me.
And so I hold the box tight and they scrape the saw back and forth against the lid at dizzying speeds. The tool blurs in their hands. All around us is the high, grating sound of metal scraping against metal. We keep going at it for time uncountable. Perhaps an hour.
“I’m tired now,” Sumne tells me, “Can you take it from here, and I’ll hold the box and you saw?”
“Okay.”
I put all the energy I have into it, until my thoughts are delirious and my arms are burning. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts oh so much. But still I keep going through the hurt. I have to keep going through the hurt. Through the aching and the burning and the dizzying speed. I cannot see my hands, they blur in front of me as I move my arms back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Again and again and again and again.
Finally I am too tired to go on. The sound of ringing metal ceases around me as I let the saw rest.
“Should we take a look at it now?” Sumne asks.
“Yeah, I think we probably should,” I answer.
“Hopefully something happened,” they reply.
“Yes, hopefully it did,” I agree.
My heart beats in my throat as I pick up the box to take a look at it, examining the edges where the lid meets the metal underneath.
My spirit shatters at what I see.
“Not even a small dent!” I cry out. “All this work, and we made not even a small dent!”
“That’s not good.” Sumne cannot mask the emotions in their words now. I hear the dead, cold horror in their tone.
“Lifemaker’s curses,” I swear.
“Lifemaker’s curses,” they echo.
“What should we do now?” I ask.
We both take a long moment to think about it, to go over all of our options inside our heads.
“We could try using an axe,” Sumne suggests.
“That’s a great idea,” I reply. “Let’s go.”
We both go down the street, in the dust of the day, to the house of Sajaye, the woodcutter.
“Can we borrow your axe?” We ask them, after they answer our frantic knocks.
“Sure. Bring it back when you’re done, though.”
“Of course.” Sumne answers.
And then we are walking back down the streets, feet bare, hands clasped together. We go inside to collect the box, the box that holds the source of all of our worries and woes, the box that holds the representation of everyone’s worries and woes. And we set the box down on a tree stump by the meadow in the village, a perfect place for cutting wood. Or for cutting metal.
“I’ll swing the axe, you hold the box.” My words have a dark sort of determination to them.
“Sure. Let’s do that.”
Sumne holds the box down tight and I wind up with my axe. I let it swing, right at the lid of the box. I hold my breath as I am swinging. Everything rests on this moment. This has to work.
And it does work! It actually works! But just a little bit. The metal is not broken. It’s not chopped open. It’s too strong for that. But it is dented just a little, tiny bit.
“Do you want to take a swing now?” I ask Sumne. We switch, and they take a swing. We switch again and again and again and again, until the sun starts dipping low onto the horizon. Still, we make barely any progress.
“We have to give it all our energy,” Sumne tells me, “or else we’ll be struck doing this forever. And we both know that we don’t have time.”
“You’re right,” I agree with them. “We don’t have time.
We keep swinging until the light is gone. And then we go home.
“The box is sealed shut,” I tell Yenata and Malati after they come home from their day of work out in the fields.
“What?” Malati’s voice drops and her eyes go wide.
“Don’t worry. Don’t worry. We’re hacking it open with an axe.” Sumne tries to soothe them both but it only works slightly.
“Will I get to see the baby?” Honano asks, his childish voice filled with a sweetness and an innocence that makes my heart break.
“You will,” Yenata tells him. “I promise, little starlet, you will.”
That night I hold Honano close. I was so close to loosing him, back when he was born. I was so incredibly close. I wonder if I’ll have as much luck next time. So I pray. I pray to the Lifemaker with all my heart. I pray that the Lifemaker can do something to help us. That They can stand up to it.
The next day I am working in the fields. But worry constantly eats away at me and I find myself unable to focus on the jobs I have at hand. I find myself only able to wonder if Yenata and Malati are making any progress. I wonder if they will be able to save the hope that we have. If they will be able to save the carving in that box.
At the end of the day, I look at the box. It’s a bit more dented, but not enough. Not nearly enough. We will have to do better. We all will.
The next day I am working with Sumne again. We are using all of our strength to make any progress that we can. We don’t have time. We don’t have time. We don’t have time. We don’t have time at all. Each day my stomach grows a little larger and a little rounder. Each day the life growing inside of me comes a little closer to the physical plane of existence. To our plane of existence.
Why did the Lifemaker have to put this life in me? Why did the Lifemaker have to put this life in me? Why? This tiny, fragile, infinitely valuable life is not safe with me. It’s not safe in here. It’s not safe at all. We can try out best to protect it but we all know that our best is not enough. We all know that our best is so very often not nearly enough.
And we don’t have time.
It is this that I am thinking of as I swing my arms with all the strength that I have. As I hack away at the metal in front of me. My lungs burn and my whole body is exhausted but I have to keep going. I have to keep going.
I swing. And I swing. And finally, with a wrending blow, one of my swings cuts straight through the metal. I hear a thud.
“Yes!!” I call out, bright sunlit jubilation pouring over my heart.
“Yes!!” Sumne echoes. We look at each other, both beaming in glowing smiles. Without saying anything, we come together into a hug. And it’s whole and it’s warm and it’s solid and it’s everything that the best of hugs should be.
“Let’s take a look,” Sumne says softly.
“Yes.”
We open the box. And we take out the carving.
And it has a line cut through it. A line cut through it where the axe hit it on its way in.
Everything around me goes black.
———
I am sitting up in the cot of the birthing hut. On one side of me is Malati, holding my shoulders in her arm. On her lap is little Honano, who looks at me with terrorized, overly-large eyes. Clara the midwife is here. Old lady Amana is here. Yenata and Amahi and Afeena and Faya and Liva are here. The whole room is packed with women from the village. They’re all here for me and, as always, I’m glad they’re all here for me.
But I can see the cold, unrestrained dread etched in all of their faces. No matter how they try to hide it, I can see it there, clear is day. They are a lot more fearful than they are hopeful. Usually the fear and the hope mingle together in equal parts. But they all know that this baby does not have a chance. They all know that my baby does not have a chance.
Even little Honano knows, as young and as innocent as he is. As innocent as we try to keep him. He still knows. And it’s too much for his tiny little heart to carry. It’s too much for his tiny heart to carry and yet still he carries it anyways. He carries it because he has to carry it. Because that is the way of our village. That is the way of our lives.
It shapes everything about our lives. It shapes everything about our development. It shapes everything about our love.
I’m not going to give birth to this baby. No matter what happens, I’m simply not. Because my baby’s not safe. My baby’s not safe out here in the outside world where it can get them. My baby is only safe inside me, only safe inside me, only safe inside of me where it can never reach no matter how hard it tries. I have to keep the baby inside of me no matter what my body tells me. No matter what the others tell me.
My entire body is exhausted and is burning in energy both at the same time. My entire body is focused on the birth. My stomach and back and hips twist and burn with agony. With so much agony. But all this agony doesn’t hold even a candle to the agony that I am feeling inside. It doesn’t hold a candle to the dread and the worry. And so I don’t listen to the agony in my body. I don’t listen to it. And no matter how hard it tells me to push, I don’t push.
I don’t push. I don’t push. I can’t push. Not here. Not now. Not like this. I can’t inch my dear little baby even an inch away from the protection and sanctuary of my womb. I can’t push them even an inch towards the harshness of the world and all the evil that’s within it. All the evil forces against which us tiny, tiny, infinitely insignificant people are absolutely powerless.
I can’t summon it. I can’t summon the thing which all parents and grandparents and neighbours and friends dread each time there is a new baby in this world. I can’t summon it. No matter what.
And so I clutch Malati’s hand so hard that I can feel her bones shift and squeeze underneath me. I squeeze her hand so hard that I’m sure she must be in incredible pain. I squeeze Baira’s hand equally hard with my other hand. And I grit my own teeth so hard that it gives me a headache. And I fight against my body. I fight against the contractions coming upon me in waves upon waves upon waves. I fight with everything that I have.
“You have to push, Stara. You have to push.” Clara’s words are soft and sad and urgent. But I don’t listen to her. I don’t listen to her. I don’t say anything as I simply don’t listen to her, gritting my teeth in determination.
“Stara,” she continues, “You have to push. You have to push. It’s the only hope we have. If you don’t push, then the baby will die inside of you. The baby will die if you don’t push.”
“The baby is safe with me,” I manage to get out through pants. The baby is safe with me. The baby is safe inside me. I am the only one who can protect the baby. I am the only one who can save the baby. Clara means well, but she can’t protect the life I have carried inside myself for so long. She can’t protect my child. Amana can’t protect my child, Afeena can’t protect my child, Amahi can’t protect my child. Yenata can’t protect my child. Liva can’t protect my child.
Not even Baira, who’s been silent this whole time, whose hand has been on my shoulder this whole time, whose other hand has been held in my own, not even she can protect my child. Not even Malati, the other mother of my child, can protect them. It all rests on me.
“Stara, please,” Amana’s voice calls out, urgent, “You have to push. You have to give the baby a chance at life.”
“No,” I cry out, through the pain in my body and the pain in my mind, “the baby will die.”
“The baby will die if you don’t push,” she replies. And I can barely hear her reply. I can barely hear it but I can hear it. But I don’t care. I don’t care. She’s wrong.
“The baby will die and so will you,” Amana continues. “Do you want to die? You can’t let yourself die. You can’t let yourself die when you have a young child to take care of. When you have a community full of people who love you and who need you.”
“I don’t care,” I reply, panting. I can’t let my baby die. I can’t let my baby die. I just can’t. Everyone else will live without me. Even sweet little Honano, who will be so heartbroken, will live and will have his other mother to care for him, as well as the rest of the village. But this new baby. This new baby who grew inside my body, this new baby will not live.
“Stara,” Afeena speaks pressingly, “Stara, we can’t lose you. We can’t let you die. Everyone needs you. Everyone loves you. Please push.”
I fight against the new wave of contractions, in too much pain to answer. Too focused on fighting my own body to answer. My body is screaming at me the exact things that everyone around me is telling me. But I can’t let my body have its way. I just can’t. So I fight through the screaming, burning, aching pain. And I scream so loud that my ears hurt.
“If you love me,” I rush our breathlessly when the contractions finally subside, “don’t make me push.” They have to understand, they have to understand what I’m going through.
After all, so many of them have had children. So many of them have lost children. So many of them have had their friends and neighbours and family members and community members lose children. They know how it feels. They know the terror. So why are they not on my side?
“Please, understand,” Liva avers to me. “Please understand that you and your baby will die if you don’t get the baby out. This is the only chance the both of you have.”
“I can’t.” I breathe out.
I can see that baby Honano is crying. This must all be too much for him. It must be way too much. The young kid is only seven. But still, he needs to be here. If this is the last time he sees his baby sibling or me again, he has to be here. He has to spend as much time with us as he can.
He’s not saying anything, even though he’s crying. It breaks my heart to see his round eyes filled with tears. Malati is holding on to his chest, and he is leaning back against her, leaning into the comfort and the protection that she provides. I’m glad he has her. I’m glad he has his mother.
“Stara,” Liva presses, “push.”
“Stara you have to help us. You have to help your baby. You have to help yourself.” Clara’s voice is insistent.
“Stara, think of your other child,” Afeena insists.
“Having the child is the only way to have hope of saving them,” Faya asservates.
“Stara.”
“Stara.”
“Stara.”
“Push.”
“Have the child.”
“Push.”
All the very many voices melt together into one delirious, many-voiced, many-toned unison as my body becomes more and more desperate to pass the baby through. I barely know what’s going on around me anymore, I barely know what’s going on inside me. All I know is that they’re telling me to push, they’re all telling me to push. I do not even know who is talking when. All the very many worried, concerned faces blur as the world tilts off its axis and becomes increasingly dizzying.
Still I focus on fighting my body with everything I have, I focus on fighting my body with everything I am. And that makes me even more delirious than before. All that I can focus on is the pain. All that is real is the pain. All that’s inside me is inatinct. Two different instincts pulling me two different ways. Both instincts crying out for me to protect my child.
The world tilts dangerously far all around me and my mind seems to be swimming. I feel increasingly woozy. But still, still I force myself to fight on.
Until all at once, everything goes black.
———
“Stara. Wake up.” There is a voice beside me. A voice I cannot recognize. There is something cool and wet on my forehead. I open my eyes. And I see the room that’s filled with women from the village.
Beside me there is the sound of a baby crying. Dread immediately settles into my core as I realize what’s going on. As I realize what’s happened. No. No, this can’t be. It can’t be. It can’t. Lifemaker, no.
I push myself up, fighting through my tiredness and my aching and my pain. Beside me Malati is holding our baby. She is holding them tight to her chest. Honano is stroking the baby’s cheek and forehead.
This is my child. This is my child. This is my child. They’re so sweet. They have soft, bright pink lips and soft dark curls. Their eyes are so overly large, so sweet and round and big. Their eyes are a soft golden colour. And their cheeks have little dimples on them and so does their chin. Their little legs are folded like frog legs and their arms and legs have folds in them. I can’t see any hints as to whether they’re probably a girl or probably a boy, but they’re infinitely beautiful nonetheless. They’re so beautiful.
It shatters my heart to a million pieces. I can feel the tears forming in my eyes.
“Can I hold them?” I ask.
“Of course,” Malati answers. And she passes the baby to me. I take them carefully and gently, making sure I support their back and their head with my arms.
They’re so soft inside my arms. So soft and so tender and so small and so warm. Fragile. Vulnerable. Defenceless.
“I failed you,” I whisper to the child, in a gentle, hushed tone. “I’m so sorry that I failed you.”
“You didn’t fail them,” Malati assures me. “I promise. You didn’t.” Her words are sweet. So sweet. But she’s lying. I know she’s lying. Still, I focus on the child in my arms, as Honano leans over to give them a soft, gentle kiss.
“What should we name the baby?” I ask.
“I was thinking, we could maybe name them Aramane,” Malati replies. “It means flower of paradise.”
“Aramane,” I whisper softly, smiling just a little bit through my brokenness. “That’s a beautiful name. What do you think, Honano?”
“I think I like the name,” he replies, caution and sadness in his young voice.
“Do you love your baby sibling?” I ask him.
“Very much,” he replies, and that reply breaks my heart even more. Though I knew that that would be how he would answer.
“I love them too,” I tell him. “And I love you.”
I pass the baby to Malati again, keeping my hand on their chest, feeling their little heart beating under my much larger hand. Malati holds them close yet again.
One by one all the women make their way to baby Aramane and they each trace a protective seal onto the newborn with their finger. Their touches are cautious and protective, soft and serious and gentle. And I am so grateful for them. So grateful for the protection that they are giving our child.
In the middle of it, Malati passes the baby back to me, and I hold them for the rest of the sigil-drawing ceremony.
“Your child is so beautiful,” Savi tells us reverently.
“Thank you,” Malati replies.
“Thank you,” I echo.
Honano is still stroking the baby and patting the baby and kissing the baby and giving them whatever affection he can. He’s still very careful though. My baby boy is still so careful.
There’s a small part of me that almost feels safe here, almost feels safe with my baby in my arms and my wife beside me and my son in front of me and all the women in my whole community around me. There’s a part of me that can almost forget the danger that lurks right around the corner. There’s a part of me, however small, that almost wants to feel victorious at what we’ve all accomplished together.
But I can’t truly forget. I can’t truly forget what lurks in the spaces between reality, ready to come for my child. I can’t truly forget the danger, and because of this, deep, aching sorrow flows through me and settles inside of me. The deepest, most aching sorrow that I have ever felt before, though I have truly felt this type of sorrow before.
My entire soul, everything I am, is in jagged, broken pieces. I will never recover.
Still, I make the most out of the small moments I will get with the baby. I pass them to Malati and Malati passes them to me and we both hold them close.
My heart sinks deeper than I ever thought it could sink when the air all around us gets just a little bit heavier, just a little bit more polluted, just a little bit more dense, and I can smell the faintest traces of a strange smoke that’s not truly like smoke at all. No, no, no, this is wrong. Everything is wrong.
I hold Aramane tighter against me. They’re with me. They’re with me. They’re with me and I can protect them. But I can’t. Not really. No matter how hard I try, I can’t.
Fresh tears spill out of my eyes.
I don’t look at it. I can’t bear to force myself to. I never have looked at it before, not during all the many many births I have attended and not during any of my own. It’s just too potent, too powerful, too horrible. I fear that if I ever see it, I will lose my sanity forever and ever.
I do however look at my son. He is looking out in front of him with terror carved on all of his features. I look back down at my baby. They begin to cry in my arms. I rock them soothingly, but they keep crying. I know why they’re crying. It’s the same reason why I am crying. Though I think the innocent young one doesn’t truly know the danger that they’re in. I don’t think they could ever fathom it, with their tiny, brand-new mind.
“I’ll go get the carving,” a woman states solemnly. I don’t know exactly who it is but it sounds like Liva. I’m sure she echoes the feelings and thoughts of all the women.
A voice like a thousand angry wasps cuts through the air. It sounds like metal on metal. Like hatred and greed given sound and form. It makes me shiver.
“A new baby,” it snarls, “how sweet.” I can hear the sarcasm in its voice.
“You’re exatlation,” Amana speaks, “please show mercy on us humble, small people. Please show mercy upon this baby.” Her words are imploring and raw, but still held together and calm in a forced sort of way.
“I will give the mercy that you have earned.” I can tell that his horrible, grating, dreadful voice is aimed at us. And I can tell that he is not too pleased.
“Your reverence,” I start in a weak, shaky voice, “We are trying our best to please you. Please, we are trying our best to please you.”
“I will be the judge of if you are pleasing me or not,” it snarls back at me.
“Your reverence, please.” That’s all that Malati says.
I cradle baby Aramane near me. And I let Honano stroke her arms. We don’t have time. We don’t have time. We don’t have time.
“My tribute. Where is it?” The horrible creature - no, monster - asks.
“Here you go,” Malati speaks.
The tribute we carved for it is almost perfect. Almost. Almost is the key word. The little chipped dent made by the axe was carefully, oh-so carefully sealed over with resin. You can barely tell that it’s there. But you can tell. You can tell and I know it will not be pleased.
“How dare you disrespect me with an imperfect offering!” The loudness booms through the room, making my soul jump in my chest and my ears hurt. Honano cries out in fear. Aramane cries louder. I try to rock them, but I know it won’t be enough.
I know it won’t be enough. Nothing I ever do will be enough.
“Please,” I cry, my tears watering my shaky voice. “Please, please, please don’t take them.” My lips quiver.
“Do not dare tell me what to do!” There is a loud rumble of thunder, and I hold my baby tighter, hold them right against my chest. All at once the colours in the room become brighter, harder, sharper. And I can feel in my heart that something is deeply, deeply wrong.
Then, as quickly as it appeared, the thing disappears. And I am left with my baby in my arms, the world returning back to normal.
But everything is not okay. Nothing is okay. The tiny form in my arms is limp and ragged and altogether silent. My mind tries to tell me something but I push the thought away in disbelief.
“Baby. Baby?” I coo to the child gently as I rock them in my arms. They make no response. “Come on. Wake up.”
Nothing.
“Pass them to me,” Clara asks. And so I do. She’s a midwife. She knows what she’s doing. She knows how to keep babies safe.
She uses one hand to support the baby on her lap and another hand to feel for a heartbeat.
I see tears well up in her eyes.
“They’re gone,” she says in a small, barely-there voice.
I scream.
———
If you like this piece check out my Twitter my handle is @FSairuv and I post about human rights, social justice, and the environment.
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