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

   Marguerite stopped in the doorway of the bedchamber.

    A contorted Beatriz lay, clad only in a plain white sheath, on a raised bed, the mattress of which seemed much thicker than the scanty palliasse Marguerite was accustomed to sharing with her mother. The dark frame of the bed displayed many luxuriously carved twisted animals of fantastic varieties, all bewilderingly foreign to Marguerite. Other dark, similarly carved furnishings of varied dimension and uses hugged the walls. By the bedside a young house servant was standing, frozen, like Lot's salt-pillar wife, deep dismay etched on her face, a wet cloth in her hands, presumably meant to wipe the sufferer's brow.

    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, gripping the lower jaw of a lion whose roaring visage protruded solidly from the headboard. The woman's knees were bent, and her feet dug into the mattress beneath her. With each pang she let out a guttural cry and tread down hard enough to raise her arched back into the air. Between spasms she attempted to roll onto her side, gasping and exhausted. The poor servant girl at her side was able only to wince and lean away each time her mistress cried out.

    Noticing Marguerite in the doorway, the servant rushed over, her eyes searching in panic behind the little girl. Marguerite, half the older girl's size, took her gently by the arm. "The midwife is coming. Quickly, heat water. Bring several bowls and small pots, and clean cloth. Tear it into lengths."

    The housemaid stared down at Marguerite, surprised at the youngster's commands, then turned uncertainly to a figure in the shadows.

    Madame Agnes Argent, the family's neighbor, had risen from her chair and was looking disapprovingly at Marguerite, sizing up the condition of her clothes, her loose hair, the dirt on her face. "Water is being readied in the kitchen," she said with dry voice. "Where is your mother? Beatriz is delirious with pain."

    Like most of the town's children, Marguerite found Madame Argent frightful at best. A tall, cadaverous woman, she was only a few years senior to Jehan's mother but looked double that, with dull sallow skin, sunken cheeks and eyes, and a mouth like a leathery slit from which deep creases radiated. Some said she had traded with the devil in her youth: beauty for a quick mind and a nimble tongue, and the temerity to unleash it in any circumstance. Everyone, including her husband, feared her cutting diatribes and condescending criticisms.

    Marguerite, feeling uniquely powerful now because of her association with her mother's valuable skills, determined she would not be intimidated, and pulled herself up to her greatest height to face the woman. "The midwife sent me ahead to prepare things; she'll be here in moments. You can help hold Madame Bûche, if we can find a birthing chair. Have you such a chair, Madame?" She let the unkind comment fall in silence, hoping it would stun Agnes Argent enough to make her retreat. Marguerite knew full well Madame Argent was barren.

    The housemaid broke in, "My mistress has such a chair. I know where it's stored; I'll get it." She was halfway through the adjoining room before Marguerite could reply.

    "Fetch another lantern," Marguerite called after the maid, "and sow's milk, if you have it. And don't forget the other things!"

    From the bed Beatriz moaned loudly, "Who is here?"
Marguerite turned back to the bedchamber. Madame Argent had returned to her chair in the shadows, arms clamped tightly across her chest. "Celeste's girl," she said sourly.

    Marguerite approached the bed.

    "Madame, the midwife comes. All will be well." Getting only a groan for a response, she turned to Jehan, who had been standing silently in the corner, as far as he could get from his suffering mother. When their eyes met he immediately made for the door, but Marguerite went to stop him. "Don't be afraid," she whispered. "Your mama needs you. Go to her and comfort her until my mother gets here. I have things that need doing."

"Come here Jehan, hold your poor mother's hand. If I die tonight I want it to be in the arms of my one living child. God will allow me that."...