The Awakening

by Pierre C. Arseneault

  “Now!” Bessie shouted at Henri.

  An anxious Henri reached for the lantern before realizing that he couldn’t take it with him this time. The women needed it more than he did. He paused at the doorway, watching as the strange woman spoke with a firm and loud voice to his wife.

  “Good. Now, when I tell you to push, you push.”

  Henri heard his wife scream as he exited the cabin into the black night. He looked up to find thick clouds covering the moon. This made the evening’s darkness even more disheartening and difficult to navigate. Under normal circumstances and with the ability of taking his time, he could have easily found the old well in the absence of light. This year’s drought, however, meant that their well had dried up months earlier, forcing Henri to dig a new well further away from their cabin. Even though this well seemed to have plenty of water to last them throughout the driest of years, the fact that it was farther away from the cabin was going to be a challenge with this untimely delivery. He knew he needed to be quick, but not being able to see the path leading to the well proved much more difficult than he expected. Another scream resounded from the small log cabin that he called home. It shook him to the core and made him clutch at the bucket while he strained to see where he stepped, stumbling now and then along the path, his old boots catching roots and rocks as he went along. Eventually, his eyes adjusted to the darkness as he made his way to the new well.

  The young woman named Sparrow had argued that she could get to the Masterson’s cabin faster on foot, but the large, bearded man would hear nothing of it. He had insisted on taking her on the horse drawn cart, arguing with her that riding would be best and that he would get her there without delay. Sparrow had felt an unease wash over her as she conceded and agreed to go by the horse drawn cart.

  The baby was much too early and this worried the doula. She had seen this before and Sparrow thought that perhaps her estimation had been wrong. She had felt confident earlier in Martha’s pregnancy that she knew when the child would be born. But as the mother’s belly had grown large faster than anticipated, Sparrow couldn’t help but think that she might have been wrong this time, even though the moon counts since the woman’s last period should have brought her delivery at the end of another full month. Sparrow’s instincts were always accurate, having been a doula since she’d been a young girl, helping her mother in her own duties and learning the ways from her, so this unexpected early birth concerned her. With clouds parting and the light of the moon helping, the bearded man pushed his horse harder. Sparrow held onto her seat next to the man, holding on tight to her basket with the supplies she would need to deliver the premature baby. In his careless haste, the man continued to push the horse, bellowing his thunderous voice to order the animal to go faster still. As they rounded a sharp turn, the cart hit a large rock and broke a wheel. The horse neighed as its reigns were pulled back by the stopped cart. Without hesitation, Sparrow jumped off the cart, grabbed her basket, tore a slit in her dress and ran in the direction of the cabin she had visited so often in the last few months.

  Soon the beacon of the small lighthouse appeared in the distance. She knew she was close. She ran faster still until she could see the cabin on the horizon and a small glow emanated from the open door. As she ran toward the wooden cabin, eager to help deliver the Masterson’s baby, she noticed a woman heading into the forest on the opposite side of the home. Confused at first, she slowed her pace. The running woman was not Martha, she was much too mobile for that. She ran fast with long silver hair trailing out behind her. As she watched the woman vanish into the woods beyond the small home, Sparrow hesitated, as she somehow knew the woman didn’t belong there. An anguished bawl scream coming from the shack made her decision for her and her legs carried her towards the man’s voice. She heard panic in his cries as she made her way to the path, then through the doorway, stepping over a wet floor and a half full bucket of water.

  Martha lay on the blood covered table, her legs spread and half a baby protruding from her vaginal opening. Her labia had been torn several inches and she was bleeding profusely. The baby was half out and seemed stuck as Martha was too weak to push; she drifted in and out of consciousness. Henri, screaming and in hysterics, was standing at the end of the table, his hands and upper arms covered in blood as he tried to hold the slippery baby.

  Without hesitation, Sparrow stepped in front of Henri, shoving him out of the way as she took over. Knowing how to grip the baby with her right hand and where to push down on the mother’s belly, she helped free the baby. As she handed it to a stunned Henri, she wiped her bloody hands on her dress and removed her apron. Using this, she pushed it against Martha’s labia in hopes of stopping the bleeding. She had believed it to be a tear at first, but now could clearly see the woman had been cut with a knife. She was also hemorrhaging. This was bad, very bad. Sparrow knew time was of the essence, but tried to remain calm. The first few moments of a baby’s birth would mark the path of its life and would determine if it was to be full of chaos and fear, or one of calm and peace.

  “Bring her the baby, Henri. Let him meet his mother.” Sparrow’s voice cracked as she tried to hide her own fear.

  “Martha,” Henri muttered. “It’s a boy. Martha?” He approached his wife, carrying the small baby in his large, burly hands.

  Martha lifted her head from the table, her eyes trying to adjust and look at her husband as she spoke. Her skin was akin to February snow.

  “What about the other one?” Martha croaked, her voice parched and dry.

  “What?” Henri asked in confusion. “I don’t understand, Martha.” He looked back at Sparrow, who lifted her face from her task of trying to stop the bleeding, and looked puzzled also.

  “Twins, Henri. We had two babies,” Martha added as she held up a trembling hand toward the baby her husband cradled.

  “Twins?” Sparrow inquired. “There’s only one child, Martha.”

  “There were two,” Martha added. “Bessie has the other.”

  Sparrow’s eyes grew wide as she realized that Bessie must have been the woman she had seen running into the woods. There was no other baby to be seen in the cabin. Twins would explain the rapid growth of Martha’s belly. But the other baby, Bessie must have taken it. Why, wondered Sparrow.

  “Hold this and press as much as possible. Don’t take the pressure off,” she said as she showed Henri the crumpled apron she had been using to stem Martha’s bleeding. Once Henri held both the cloth and the baby, Sparrow walked over to the doorway, picked up the axe that was leaning against the door frame and ran from the cabin heading in the direction she had seen the woman go.

  The air surrounding the calm clearing was as dry as the grass underfoot at the edge of the high cliffs. On one side was the dense forest, and on the other, below the cliffs, the waters reached out as far as the eye could see. Off in the distance, near the cliff, stood the island’s lighthouse, its light warning vessels of the island’s presence.

  During overcast nights like this, darkness carried itself on the slick surface of the water as much as it did below. The beacon of the lighthouse provided but a very faint glow on the surrounding land as it made its circular sweep.

  Bessie had set the newborn baby down on a patch of dirt as soon as she had come out of the forested area. She had run as fast as she could to get to the clearing, where the wide pentagram she had previously carved into the soil waited eagerly for its infant adornment.

  With blood covered hands and forearms, the tall, grey-haired woman picked up a large, sharpened human shoulder blade taken from a small pile nearby. Bessie began cleaning the deep grooves in the soil, fixing what had been disturbed, remaking the lines of the five pointed star, digging with the bone to ensure its trenches were deep and clear of debris. Directly in the center of the large pentagram, lay the naked baby girl, still covered in birthing liquids and blood, awaiting her fate. Her cries became louder as Bessie took a small,
wooden kerosene bucket that she had hidden in the brush and set it on the edge of the pentagram. She turned the spout at the base of the bucket, allowing its contents to flow. Soon, a strong pungent and oily odour drifted around the area as the liquid filled the channels in the soil. Bessie stepped inside the center of the pentagram where the baby kicked and screamed. With a few strikes, Bessie lit a match and set the kerosene on fire, creating flames in the pentagram that burned a foot tall.

  The small baby kicked her tiny newborn legs and scratched the air with her small arms. Her newborn’s lungs inhaled the reek and stench of the burning kerosene, making her cough and cry so hard she choked as she screamed louder still.

  Reaching into the small pile of human bones, Bessie picked up a smaller rib bone. With intricate markings on its length and the end having been sculpted as sharp as a knife blade, Bessie’s eyes widened as she grasped the handle of the makeshift dagger. She spoke in a tongue that didn’t belong on this island as she ran the sharpened bone across the palm of her left hand, drawing blood.

  The winds that had been calm picked up strength, fanning the flames that burned all around the baby, making them climb higher into the darkness. In the baby’s eyes, the fiery light danced, reflections of all that was to come. All around them, dust began rising with each gust as Bessie lifted one bloody hand into the sky and placed the other on the baby’s head. She spoke her incantation, calling forth words that no woman from this island should know, though she spoke them with confidence. She raised the sharpened bone high as she repeated the peculiar words, the flames danced in her wide eyes too as they stared into the sky above, looking at the darkness and beyond.

  The winds grew stronger still and began to stir the leaves of the trees nearby. A few loose branches flew about, some flying over the cliff side and being carried down into the churning waters. The baby lay quiet now, its eyes opened wide as if staring up in the sky, the flames warming her blood-slicked body. Above the baby and Bessie, high in the night sky, a crow cawed. It swooped around swaying trees a few times before making its way over the pentagram. It darted this way and that, flying in the same pattern that burned on the ground below.

  Sparrow ran as fast as she could into the woods, in the same direction she’d seen the woman with the grey hair flee. The axe was heavy to carry, but she had known by instinct to bring it. Her arms and legs shook as she ran but finding and safely bringing home the newborn baby kept her running. The small trail in the wooded area near the cabin was slight but she knew how to keep her footing in such terrain. She was used to the forest.

  The trees ahead of her thinned and she saw light coming from flames. Gripping the axe with a stronger hold in her left hand, she ran harder, her legs pumping and her heartbeat quickening with each step. She felt the air surrounding her change as she got closer. It became heavy, like the muggy blanket of air right before a huge rainstorm.

  Sparrow emerged from the forest and into the clearing to see Bessie sitting in a ring of fire as she raised her hand into the air. Winds whipped about dust and leaves, creating a swirling vortex of debris. Sparrow saw something clutched in the woman’s hand as it shone dully in the firelight. Blood covered the woman’s hands and trickled down her arm where the object she clutched pierced the skin of her hand. Without hesitation, Sparrow jumped through the flames and struck Bessie with the butt of the axe, knocking her to the side and into the fire in the process. Looking down at her feet, Sparrow gasped as she saw something she didn’t expect to see. The baby girl. Though covered in blood, the infant was still alive. Sparrow had feared the worst when she had seen the weapon in the woman’s hand and the blood trickling down her arm. The baby lay quietly as she wriggled about amongst the hot, crackling flames. All around them, the winds grew stronger, whipping about loose forest debris in a slow but very odd sort of orchestrated swirling pattern around them.

  Sparrow dropped the axe and scooped up the slippery child. She cradled her against her left shoulder as she stepped out of the burning pentagram, her dress singed at the hem in the process. She patted her dress to make sure it would not catch flame with one hand, while she struggled to hold onto the baby. Once sure her dress was not catching fire, she turned her back to the diminishing flames to get a good look at the baby girl. She pulled her up and away from her shoulder, holding her with both hands, trying to examine her body, looking for visible wounds or any sign of an injury. The small baby girl, wide-eyed but calm, seemed fine, other than being covered with her mother’s blood.

  A shadow appeared over the baby’s face, and Sparrow realized that she had not struck Bessie as hard as she thought. Clutching the baby to her chest, she spun around to come face to face with the crazed woman. The woman’s dress was on fire.

  Bright flames were spreading from the bottom of her dress and creeping upwards as smoke curled about her. Her bloody hands tried to grab the child from Sparrow’s protective embrace.

  “Give her to me now,” Bessie cried as she clutched for the newborn. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “No,” Sparrow shouted, her voice filled with fear. “You’ll hurt her.”

  The women grappled. Sparrow held the baby close to her shoulder as she struggled against the woman. Bessie appeared frightened, although she was the one causing this chaos. Bewildered by the actions of this woman, Sparrow took several steps away from the remnants of the burning pentagram on the cliff’s edge. The woman followed her, pleading as she went.

  “Please, give her to me. I need her!” Bessie wailed.

  “No! Get away!” Sparrow replied, gripping the newborn tighter.

  “You must give her to me. She told me what I had to do. Please, you must!” The flames on Bessie’s skirt were now up to her knees. She appeared unphased by the tendrils of smoke and the flames growing larger.

  “Who told you? Who are you speaking of?” Sparrow cried out. She knew she had to protect the baby.

  “The voice in the field. She told me what I had to do! You cannot stop me from doing what I need to do! Give me the baby!” Bessie’s dress was engulfed with flames from the waist down yet she seemed completely unaffected.

  The winds grew even stronger as Sparrow stepped dangerously close to the edge of the cliff, trying to protect the child as best as she could. The slowly churning vortex of debris from earlier was now being transformed into a windstorm that Sparrow had never seen the likes of until tonight. Branches and twigs flung outwards and in all directions. The dust and grit hit her cheeks and she tried to shield her and the baby’s eyes. With each plea from Bessie the gusts of wind grew stronger.

  “You are not hurting this child!” Sparrow shouted.

  “You don’t understand,” Bessie replied. “If I don’t sacrifice this newborn child, we will all die.”

  “You’ve lost your mind.” Sparrow continued backing away from the woman, scared for herself but more so for the baby she held and was desperately trying to protect.

  “She will come and make it rain. She’s told me so. She promised me she would. Our crops will grow, and we will flourish. All of us.”

  “What?” Sparrow replied as she stepped next to an oak tree that had its roots embedded in the cliff’s edge.

  The winds grew wild, the flames in the pentagram flickered stronger as the women argued, unbeknownst to them that they debated not only the fate of the child, but of the oak tree covered island as well.

  “Give her to me,” Bessie cried as she lunged at the woman with sharpened bone in hand. The flames of her dress were now burning higher, and the sleeves were starting to catch fire. Sparrow stepped to the side, avoiding the crazed woman’s desperate grasp. Bessie nearly lost her balance, almost toppling over the cliff, but instead she grasped at the tree and stopped herself from falling to her death.

  Bessie turned to face Sparrow as she spoke. “You don’t understand,” she pleaded with everything she had left inside; tears streaked her face as she att
empted to convince Sparrow to give up the baby. “She has to die for the rest of us to live.”

  In that moment, the strong winds blew in their direction. Several pieces of dry and dead branches, crisp old leaves as well as twigs rushed towards them in a gust. Both of their skirts flapped back and forth, getting caught in the crosswinds that were blowing from the land and the sea. Bessie’s grey hair flew out behind her, as the strongest gust caught the edge of the cliff. Bessie’s eyes widened as she peered down in time to see the oak tree’s roots give way and her dress engulfed in flames. Lifting her head, she locked eyes with Sparrow’s, her mouth unable to produce any sounds with the dreaded fear that engulfed her. She looked down in panic as the earth under the mighty tree’s roots began to crumble. Bessie struggled to keep her footing but stumbled as the dirt beneath her feet fell away, bit by bit, as it parted from its hold on the cliff and began its descent in a slow, but downward slide.

  Sparrow turned her back to the woman, unable to watch the scene unfolding before her, and trying to protect the baby now not from any imminent danger, but from the emotional scars that would mark the child all of its life.

  As Bessie stumbled backward, she flung the sharpened bone towards Sparrow with as much force as possible. Sparrow cried out in pain as the sharpened bone pierced her back and protruded from her right shoulder.

  Stumbling forward, Sparrow fell to her knees, but managed to not drop the infant despite the unbearable pain in her shoulder. She then set the child on the soft, grassy earth, fearing that she might drop the baby in her current state.

  Sparrow turned her head to see the tree tumbling out of sight and over the edge of the cliff. A large section of the earth around it had also slid away. On the new edge of the cliff, Bessie’s fingers desperately grasped at the dirt and dry grass, trying to clamber back to solid ground. But the grass was dry from the drought, and the roots were not as strong as they would have been in a normal summer. As Bessie’s hands failed to find a solid hold, more earth crumbled away. Her scream was carried to Sparrow by the strong winds, a scream that she would never forget, and neither would the small child, even if only remembered in her nightmares.