The Midwife | 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
Text copyright Myrrh Sagrada © 2004

hough she worried about her daughter's fears, Celeste had learned years ago that to assuage those fears she had to separate herself from them and behave in a way that conveyed calm and surety.

    The girl smiled as she regarded her mother's gentle face, turned half golden by the firelight. She nestled into her body and lay her head on her breast, breathing in the familiar, comforting fragrances lingering on her mother's clothes and skin from the day's activities: woodsmoke from laying fires, soap from boiling garments, musk and dried grain from feeding stock, the pungent sweetness of lavender and overripe apples from their gathering, and the dusty sweat of the work itself.

    Marguerite felt everything about her mother was beautiful. She didn't know it the way one knows the usefulness of a newborn bull calf or when to sow and reap - but she felt it somehow, inside. Her mother's beauty seemed to Marguerite to come not just from her face and form, but from her intentions, from the way she treated people, from her hard work and care.

     In the greater world of the town, though, Marguerite was at a loss, unsure of her ability to judge people's goodness. She had seen that sometimes the ones who were fair of skin and finely dressed, the ones people fawned over and treated like royalty, turned out to be cold and rude, and she thought them repulsive. Yet everyone else seemed to accept them, tended to their needs, did everything they could to assure their comfort and happiness, and envied their beauty. It seemed the way of the world that these people were to be respected and cared for, no matter their interior merit.

 Around the corner of the hutch appeared the dark form of a boy not more than seven or eight, breathless from running. "Mistress Celeste! Where is the mistress?!"

     Her mother had neither fair skin nor fine clothes, and yet she had something ... a light and a warmth, something that people - the people who regarded Celeste as an indispensable and trusted healer - found comforting, refreshing, soothing to the eye and to the heart. They greeted her with smiles and kindness, and their faces somehow brightened on her arrival, as if a lantern had been lit inside them.

     There were, of course, the others - the ones who regarded the girl's mother sourly and avoided her when they could do it without publicly displaying the contempt in their hearts. And some were not even ashamed of such a display. Marguerite had seen them in the market, crossing themselves and turning quickly in the opposite direction, or in their shops, burying their heads in their work. They'd whisper as the girl and her mother passed, and she'd hear the hissing arrows of their conversation - "dreadful little hut ... banished ... spells ... no husband ... skillful, but ..." If only they could know her as she is, Marguerite thought, as I know her.

     A dull rumble in the girl's stomach roused her, and she looked up. "May I have a cup of milk before bed, Mama?"

     "Take a draught from the skin. Then we must get to sleep. We've got a lot to do tomorrow, going into town."

     A cold pang shot into the girl's heart as she hurried out to the hutch. She was not adept at hiding her displeasure with town trips, and she was glad her mother couldn't see her face now. Marguerite knew if her mother had seen her frown, she would feel she had to comfort her and teach her again how to overcome the obstacle of fear; and Marguerite knew her mother had enough to worry over without that.

     In thin pearly light cast by a rising full moon she covered the short distance from the cottage to the hutch and reached for the goatskin hanging in the shadows, heavy with milk still fresh from the morning. Suddenly there were rushing footsteps and she wheeled around and hollered, "MAMA!"

     Around the corner of the hutch appeared the dark form of a boy not more than seven or eight, breathless from running. "Mistress Celeste! Where is the mistress?!"

     It was Jehan from the woodwright's shop. Marguerite knew his voice.

     "What is it?"

     Celeste appeared at the doorway.

     "I'm here, boy. What's the matter?"

     "Mistress Celeste," the boy said, still panting, "Come at once, please! Mother sent me. The baby comes, but does not come! The pain is great, mistress, please hurry!"

     "Marguerite, get my things," Celeste commanded as the girl rushed by her. She leaned inside the cottage and added quietly, "I may need the knives."

Next: Day's End and A Life's Beginning