Tirzah and the Prince of Crows

by Deborah Kay Davies

  Tirzah’s eyes are huge and tear-filled. Just think, her gran goes on. Tomorrow this will all be over. Poof! In the past. And your baby will be here. Tirzah listens, but the idea of tomorrow doesn’t make much sense, and a baby is unimaginable. She is trapped now, in this room, in this body that has turned against her. Her mother comes in with a mug of her gran’s tea and some toast. Do you think you could manage this? she asks. Tirzah drinks the smoky, strange liquid and nibbles a crust, and all the while, pain claws at her insides, raking her back. The pains you are having are the bones and muscles moving, making room for the baby to travel, Gran says. That’s all they are.

  Tirzah shuts her eyes, thinking about the mysterious adjustments going on and trying to breathe smoothly. But all the time she lies quietly, there is another part of her that is desperate to jump out of bed and scream. This other version is terrified and wants to pull her hair till the roots rip from her scalp. Help! Help! Help! she screams, banging against the walls, punching her belly. With an exhausted effort, she shuts that person out and gazes instead at her mother’s lovely face as she massages Tirzah’s feet. In less than a day, this will be over, she tells herself, trying to think of the baby, as her gran said. All over, and a new, tiny person will be alive in the world. But the idea of a baby is drowned out by the pain dumping itself down all over her. The pain is building: it is as big as a shed, now as big as a house, now as big as a fir tree, and Tirzah can’t help but cry out. She wants to push and push, but is unsure.

  Now Betty is back, and as she enters the bedroom. Tirzah slumps on to her pillows, mutely gazing at her. You are being a wonderful girl, Betty says, wiping her sweating brow with a rough, damp cloth. Tirzah feels safer now Betty is here. Granny brings up another tray, and the three women sit quietly. Tirzah has a drink of water. Well, Betty announces, measuring with her fingers under the sheet, she is fully dilated, and I think ready to push. The rest is a flickering scarlet and black dream to Tirzah. She is struggling as she has never struggled before. She has to do this, she knows; she has to do it or die. Her legs are trembling and her lips swollen. Tiny maroon veins break through the white skin of her neck as she braces her feet against the bed frame, tucks her chin in, grips her mother and grandmother’s hands and pushes and pushes. Then, at last, with a tearing scream, in a slither of blood and juice, her baby girl bursts into the world.

  Your Sorrow Shall Be Turned into Joy

  (John 16:20)

  When the naked baby is placed in Tirzah’s shaking arms, she dare not look. One lightning glance earlier had made her want to faint away. Cariad, someone is saying, here is your beautiful little one, but printed on Tirzah’s eyelids is a picture of startled, cream-smeared limbs, swollen, bloody lips half-open to show an inch-long, stumpy tongue, and a hollow belly sprouting with a braided purple and cerise umbilical cord. The longer she keeps her eyes shut, the more difficult it is to open them. I cannot, I just cannot, she says, beginning to cry as she thinks again of the child’s punched-looking eyes. The baby is like a warm doll in her slack arms, curiously heavy. There is a shifting at the side of the bed, and Tirzah becomes aware of her grandmother’s presence. Now, dear, she is saying, you must open your eyes and say hello to your daughter. Tirzah stops sobbing to listen. You need to recognise each other.

  Tirzah forces her eyes to open slightly, and through her lashes sees an almost transparent pink and gold creature blinking up at her with eyes bright as bluebells. She lets out a breath and has a proper look. The baby is studying her, its flower of a mouth softly closed, and for a few moments they lock eyes. Oh, Tirzah says. The baby opens an almost weightless hand and lays it on Tirzah’s breast reassuringly. The women gather to have a good look. She’s the image of you, Mair, Gran observes. Her little face is shaped just like yours. Her mother blushes. Oh, I don’t know, she says. She has Tirzah’s beautiful blue eyes, anyway. Betty helps Tirzah to give a first feed, but she is not sure anything comes out. Then her mother brings a tiny wrap-around vest and a nappy, and takes the baby from Tirzah. Already it looks more robust. Let’s put some glad rags on, shall we? she says, swiftly covering the dimply body with its gruesome, stiffly poking umbilical knot, and topping everything off with an all-in-one. Gran gets the crocheted blanket, and they wrap her up so that just the crown of her blonde head and sweet eyes show. Then they hand her back to Tirzah for a moment. After a hesitant sniff, Tirzah looks at her grandmother and says: But she smells wonderful. Then she rests her mouth and nose on the velvet head, planting a series of kisses on the baby’s eyes and nose. I wished for a girl, and here she is.

  Betty comes to the bedside and lifts the baby out of Tirzah’s embrace. Now we must make you nice and clean, she says, and Tirzah notices the dishevelled bed and stained sheets that cover her body. Her mother brings a steaming bowl and towels. This is a present, Gran announces, and hands a tin of talcum powder to her. Just a little something I thought you’d like. It’s called Bluebell, Tirzah says, reading the label and thinking of the child’s eyes. While she washes Tirzah, Betty explains she is pleased that she will not need any stitches. Stitches? Tirzah asks, her insides tightening. What stitches would those be? No need to trouble yourself about them now, Betty goes on, busy powdering. And your baby is fit and well, even if she is on the early side. In the next day or so the roads will be clear enough for you both to go down to the hospital. Soon Tirzah is presentable and fragrant. Can you stand for us to sort things out? Betty asks, and Tirzah nods, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and walking to the waiting chair. Oh, to be young, Gran says, laughing.

  The room is different to Tirzah now. For those long, unspeakable hours when terrible things were happening, death had seemed to wait for her in the folds of the curtains. But the blood and screams, tears and sweat are all gone, and the room is light and clear, the air sweet with talcum powder. In the corner, the crib stands, with its little breathing mound swaddled in blankets. Tirzah settles back into the freshly made-up bed, and her mother brings cups of tea and hot, buttered crumpets for everyone. I don’t know about anyone else, her grandmother says, but I am conked out. They all nod in agreement. Soon Tirzah begins to feel sleepy and is aware of someone taking the plate out of her hand.

  When she wakes, Betty brings the baby to her. Here she is. All four pounds of her, she announces. She’s a bit reluctant to feed, being so early, so we need to coax her. Time for another go, and together they get the baby latched on to Tirzah’s nipple. Ouch, she says, her toes curling. There is a squeezing sensation in her breasts and a warm release as something begins to flow. But there isn’t enough for her, she sobs. Look, I don’t have any milk. Her mother moves to her side. This is the special milk that comes first, Betty says, and there’s only a little bit of it. Very precious, it is, though. With lots of good things in it. The little one might not get the knack of feeding at first. Tirzah gazes at the baby sucking, its fingers resting like a strange, beautiful clasp on her open nightdress. Betty leans over. But I can see she’s hungry and trying her best, she adds. If she has Tirzah’s appetite we can all look out, her mother says. Oh, Mam, Tirzah sighs, a wave of love making her speechless. Yes, her mother says, stroking the baby’s fair hair.

  When Tirzah comes downstairs late the next day, her steps feel oddly weightless. She is back in her old clothes, but her tummy is like the shrivelled skin of an over-stretched purse, and she hates it. That will soon go, her mother says, but Tirzah can’t quite believe her. Other things are just like they always were; her toes are thin again, and her fingers. The tracery of broken veins on her neck has almost disappeared. She doesn’t want to think of how wet and spongy her other parts feel. But that too will tighten up perfectly, given time, her mother promises. Her breasts are like hot bags of ball bearings, sensitive to any pressure, leaking milk all over the place. She is yearning to go out into the freezing, dazzling morning, but no one will let her. She is sick of house air and longs to fill her lungs with the mountain’s blustering breath. In the kitchen, her father is at the table, reading
Spurgeon. Suddenly, Tirzah is shy. Dada? she whispers. He stands and wraps her in his arms. Well, well, he says into her hair. You have done a good job. Then he clears his throat and sits back down. It’s off to the hospital in the morning, I believe, he continues, picking up his book. Now the snow plough has been round. I will get the car out. Thank you, Dada, Tirzah says, and drifts towards the front room, unsure of what else to say to him.

  It’s going to be a funny life, Tirzah realises: feeding the baby, changing her, resting. The snow has stopped for now and Betty has been to check the baby. Outside the world is pristine, and Tirzah is already stifled in amongst the piles of baby clothes and nappy cream and breast shields. It’s as if she is only playing at being a mother. Each time the baby cries, her breasts harden, then spurt milk in a way she has no control over. The real part of her, the part she has always been able to tell what to do, would love to be striding out on the crystalline eggshell surface of the snow, baring her face to the icy wind. And she still hasn’t thought of a name. Biddy keeps making suggestions, but Tirzah wants to get the hospital visit sorted first. She wants to know that everything is well with the baby. Then she can think about what to call her.

  Give Her the Living Child … She Is the Mother Thereof

  (1 Kings 3:27)

  The next morning, Tirzah and her parents ready themselves for the journey down the valley. They gather round the baby while Tirzah’s mother bundles her up. Go and get the car, Gwyll, her mother urges. Honestly, standing there, gawping like that. Tirzah is amazed at the way her father obediently goes off, jingling his car keys. I won’t be a jiffy, he calls before closing the front door. The air is keen when they pile into the car. Tirzah can almost feel how the cold must be pressing on her baby’s skin, even though she is so muffled in covers that only the smallest section of her face is visible. Her father drives slowly down the cleared road and Tirzah leans forward, trying to make the car go faster, eager to get this over so they can return home. In the empty hospital waiting room, they sit in silence. Have they forgotten us? Tirzah asks, just as a nurse appears. Mummy and baby, come this way, she says. Tirzah doesn’t want to leave her parents, and lingers. Off you go now, her father says. We’ll be here, waiting.

  She is shown to a room where the nurse gently takes the baby from her arms. Tirzah watches as she walks away down the corridor and disappears through another door. Pop on the couch, she hears someone say. I will be back soon. For a moment Tirzah finds herself entirely alone, and reluctantly inhales the surgical smell of everything, eyeing the gleaming bits of medical equipment that seem eagerly to lean in at her from their hooks on the walls. But they don’t frighten her like they used to. Her mind is not really in the room; it is following the invisible thread of her baby’s cry down the corridor. By the time the doctor has returned and she has been examined, she is jittery. All fine here, the doctor says. You’re healing nicely. You can get dressed now. Milk is seeping into her jumper, and she can still hear the baby grizzling from far off. The sound tugs more powerfully at her now, and pulling on her pants and long socks, she hurries down the corridor into a room whose door is ajar. The sight of her baby squirming in a little glass container hits her like a bolt of electricity and she rushes across to scoop her up, startling the nurse. With the baby in her arms, Tirzah instantly relaxes. The nurse smiles. Your little one is doing well, she says, and seems to be developing a lovely healthy pair of lungs. Keep her warm and bring her regularly to the clinic to be checked and weighed. We’ll see you again in two weeks’ time. As the nurse gathers her paperwork, Tirzah gets the baby wrapped back up for the cold, fumbling a little, her hands still shaking. In the waiting room, she can hardly pause for her parents to gather their things. Come on, she says. Let’s go. Then she remembers she has forgotten her shoes, and thrusts the baby into her mother’s arms to go and fetch them.

  Back at home, Tirzah’s mother puts the kettle on before taking off her coat. Well, that’s a weight off my mind, she says. Thank you, Lord. Her father is holding the baby for the first time, a new expression on his face. Amen, he says, his voice thickened. There is a stamping of boots outside the back door and Biddy’s voice calls, Anybody home? Come in by here, lovely, Tirzah’s mother calls back. You girls go upstairs, she goes on. And take the baby with you, Tirzah.

  The girls lie on Tirzah’s bed with the baby curled between them. She has filled out all her little creases now and is smooth and pale, the early transparent look long gone. They watch as she sleeps, one hand cupping her chin like a person trying to work out the answer to a tremendously difficult question. So, Tiz, Biddy says. I think you should decide about names. She’s getting on, you know. Tirzah kisses a perfect, squidgy foot. Something will come to me, she replies, adding: It’s strange to think she shouldn’t even be here yet. Tirzah pictures the growing baby, folded up in a dark, wet sleep all those months. She’d wanted to get to me as fast as possible, she thinks. That’s why she came early. It’s a wonderful thought. What about Angelique? Biddy asks. I think it’s beautiful. Have you gone off your trolley? Tirzah says. Angelique? What sort of name is that? I’ve been reading a book about someone with that name, Biddy answers dreamily. She’s French and has blonde hair and blue eyes. All the men are mad about her. Shut up, Tirzah says. Are you twp? Honestly. All the men? She’s not even a week old, for goodness’ sake. Yes, but she is blonde, Biddy goes on, and she has blue eyes. Tirzah starts to laugh. I know, she says, maybe I’ll call her Bluebell. She puts her face close to the baby’s. Little sky-eyed angel, she croons, suffused with relief that the eyes looking up at her aren’t rain-grey. You are my lovely girl.

  They both watch the baby, listening to her quiet, rhythmic breathing, and in the silence Tirzah tries to find the best way to explain how the thought of Brân has been pressing on her. She wants to tell Biddy how tired she is of thinking about him, but doesn’t know what to do about it. She lifts the warm, floppy bundle and puts her in the crib. There is a knock at the door. Who’s for a little snack? her mother asks, popping her head in. When she has left the tray, Tirzah brings up the subject of Brân. What if he’s frozen solid in his hut? Biddy asks, biting into a sandwich. Don’t say such a thing, Tirzah says, immediately picturing Brân encased in ice, his grey eyes like glass marbles. We’ve given him lots of things to keep warm, haven’t we? Yes, yes, Biddy answers, swallowing. I was only joshing. Tirzah can barely keep still; her room is fuzzy and close, and the snuffling from the cradle is suddenly driving her mad. Oh, Biddy, I have to get out to the woods soon, she says. I understand, Biddy says, looking at her doubtfully. How, though? Your mother watches over you like a jailer. But I am just as good as new, Tirzah cries, jumping up. Look at me.

  Biddy clears her throat and points to the two wet patches of escaped milk on Tirzah’s blouse. That’s nothing, Tirzah says. What I mean is I’m fit and healthy, aren’t I? The doctor said so. And Biddy nods. People fuss too much. I know what I can do better than anyone, Tirzah goes on. I’m right, don’t you think? Well, maybe … Biddy starts. Well, maybe what? Tirzah asks. Well, maybe nothing, Biddy answers. You only had a baby a few days ago, that’s all I’m saying. Anyway, why do you care so much for that boy? He doesn’t deserve a thing from you. Tirzah can’t explain, even to herself, the burden she must carry. Is this what my mother meant about my ungovernable heart? she wonders. I don’t love him, but there are ways I am connected to him. She shakes her hair out of her eyes. I can’t explain, she says. It’s just that I have to do something. She takes Biddy’s hand. OK, Biddy answers, I just thought I’d ask. Now, let’s think.

  They discuss what to do and decide to leave things for another week. Even though a week sounds like a long time, Tirzah feels better having made a decision. How they will manage to escape she doesn’t know, but she’s not going to worry any more. They agree that Biddy will prepare another bag for Brân, so they can just take it when the time is right. Every day Tirzah looks for an opportunity, but no one seems to want to go out or leave her alone for a moment. At times she is
so full of feelings she closes her bedroom door and howls into her pillow. Never has she cried so hard; her sobs are body-shaking. Has there ever been another mother who cries more than her newborn child? she wonders guiltily in the moments when she’s calm. And then, suddenly, at the weekend, the way becomes clear. Her parents have decided to visit some house-bound folk for a few hours, and she and Biddy are to play Monopoly in the front room.

  They sit either side of the gas fire and stare speechlessly at each other as Tirzah’s parents fuss around, getting ready. Here are some nice crisps, her mother says, coming into the room again, this time with her coat on. And a bowl of grapes. Have some pop if you want. We will be back by five o’clock. The crib is in the corner, and she has a last look at the baby, rearranging the covers. You will be all right, won’t you? she asks Tirzah. Betty is on hand if you need her. Don’t worry, Mama, Tirzah says, stifling the desire to throw back her head and scream. Me and Bid and the dwt will be fine. As soon as they are gone, Tirzah feeds the baby and changes her nappy. You mind you wind her properly, she says, handing her to Biddy. Make sure she does some good burps. And give her a nice cwtch. She likes that. Biddy lifts the baby up to her shoulder and nods. And you be very careful, Tizzy, she says. I’m not sure this is such a good idea now. Oh, pish, Tirzah says, ignoring Biddy’s anxious eyes. When she is bundled up and has slung the bag across her back, she hugs Biddy and kisses the baby before leaving by the back door.

  The air is pure and sparkling, and the village silent. As she walks up the cleared road between the shrinking drifts she sees lighted windows, even though it is still early afternoon, and remembers that February is only a week old. Single, clumpy flakes start meandering down from the vast, pearl-grey sky. Tirzah sniffs the air, full of energy, and soon she is striding across the empty fields on the snow’s untrodden white crust, her cheeks burning pleasantly and her forehead numb. With each step she senses her home-bound life falling away, and a resolution firms inside her: Brân can’t be allowed to go on living alone like a savage. No one should live that way when there are houses and people so close by. She skims the snow’s crisp surface. Over the woods ahead, amidst the moving snowfall, she thinks there is a whirling circle of crows, but when she stops to have a proper look, they are not there. The cold has killed every sound. All she can detect is the weightless flumping of snowflakes as they settle. When she gets to the rim of leafless trees, she is warm, and takes off her gloves, enjoying the frosted air between her fingers. Shaking the snow from the shoulders and arms of her coat, she hoicks the bag on her shoulder and pushes on.