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

2. Day's End and A Life's Beginning

  
ehind them the one remaining bright slice of the darkening western horizon faded quickly from crimson to black as the trio made their way along the footworn path toward town. Vespers rang out clear in the distance and, as if in response, the children left the path and hastened directly over the hill. "Take care on the rocks," Celeste called, "and assure Madame Bûche I am coming!" She watched the light of their lantern sway and bounce as the children clambered to the top of the rise.

    The midwife prodded her donkey to a quick trot, reckoning to enter Axat only slightly later than the children. The many leather pouches she had slung across the beast's back jostled in rhythm with his movements, their various mysterious contents producing trembling timbres according to weight and shape and sounding like a collection of old skin rattles.

    Celeste settled into a tolerable position on the donkey and over the ensuing jouncing half-league sang and prayed to herself, invoking the assistance of the supernatural in her coming task.

*****

    Upon cresting the final hill, Jehan and Marguerite paused for breath. They were close enough now to look down into Axat, perched on the next ridge. A dense shadow cast by the encircling stone wall crept through the town from west to east, blanketing all except the bell tower of the central church, which rose out of the heavy darkness like a great moonlit arrow to pierce the night sky.

    Marguerite knew the heartbeat she felt rushing in her ears was not just because of the run. She was eager to be involved in the birthing process, and her excitement was mounting. Gone was the cold, frightened child folded up before the hearth. In her place atop the hill now stood a keen and lively spirit — an apprentice healer filled with the seductive anticipation of infusing a fragile new soul with strength against fortune and uncertainty, to assist it in accepting the blessed burden of life. Marguerite was already imagining the newborn growing into a smiling, burbling baby. The family would be grateful to her and to her mother. Perhaps Madame Bûche would even allow Marguerite to help look after this little one.

    Jehan and Marguerite watched the town a moment longer. Scant yellow lights wavered across upper-floor windows as some residents, yet preparing to sleep, passed from room to room carrying the last candle of the day. A few small fire pots still glowed orange at the intersections of lanes. The children knew they would soon be extinguished, when couvre-feu was called.

    "Come!" said Jehan, and ran off down the hill, Marguerite in pursuit.

    As they approached the town walls the children called to the gatekeeper, who earlier had allowed Jehan out on his urgent errand. He opened to them and they raced through calling back, "The midwife follows!" They left the old watchman peering into the dark, scanning the landscape for Celeste's arrival.

    Marguerite scrambled after Jehan through murky, narrow streets, grateful it was night and glaring townsfolk were all inside. She gathered her skirts to keep them from dragging in the mud and offal, and more than once lost purchase on some of the slicker cobbled stones.

    The children passed by the market street, its air still heavy with a familiar odd harmony of odors: the redolence of decay-tinged fruits and vegetables, the rank of newly butchered meats, the savory sweetness of herbs, the acrid fume of freshly tanned leather and the biting after-scent of fired metals.

    Finally the children reached their goal. As they approached the door of the woodwright's shop, a sharp cry from within the house pierced the night air. Jehan seized Marguerite's hand and led her into and through the darkened ground-floor shop.

    Freshly worked wood was one of her favorite smells, and Marguerite couldn't help but breathe deeply as wood fragments crackled under her feet. Jehan glanced back at her apologetically; he had neglected to sweep the shop these three days of his father's absence. Upon reaching the stairs in the rear, the pair hurried up into the family's living quarters.

    Marguerite had never been inside Jehan's home, and now slowed her pace, surprised by the size and beauty of these rooms hung with tapestry and displaying lustrous, exquisitely crafted furnishings. In one room the table at which the family took evening meals was pushed against the far wall, leaving considerable open space in the center. Marguerite reckoned this room to be bigger than her mother's entire cottage. Numerous carved stools stood against walls, leafy vines of wood winding about their sturdy legs and snaking up to embrace the delicately curving plateaux of their seats. Several small tables were artfully placed about, the carving of their limbs matching that of the chairs. Each was covered with a cloth of embroidered white linen, upon which a candle stood in a gracefully wrought silver receptacle. One table displayed in addition a large leather-bound book lying propped open, a green silk marker draped languidly down its center. Marguerite crept up to it, drawn to the shining gold, deep crimson and vibrant blue of its illuminated pages. It was a Bible, but not like her mother's small Bible. It reminded her of the Holy Book Brother Auguste had shown her last spring as they sat beneath the cherry tree just outside the walls of the abbey garden. She was reaching up to touch it when Jehan burst back into the room and seized her by the hand to lead her to his distressed mother.

On the bed, glistening with sweat, Madame Bûche grimaced and moaned, one arm firm upon the underside of her big hard belly, the other flung up and behind her head...