Facing the Sun by Carol Beth Anderson
Published by
Eliana Press
P.O. Box 2452
Cedar Park, TX 78630
www.carolbethanderson.com
Copyright © 2018 by Carol Beth Anderson
Excerpt from Facing the Gray by Carol Beth Anderson, Copyright © 2018 by Carol Beth Anderson
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact:
[email protected]
Cover by Mariah Sinclair
Edited by Sonnet Fitzgerald
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-949384-00-0
First Edition
Contents
Be an Insider
Characters and Places
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
A Note from Beth
Preview of Facing the Gray
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Be an Insider
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To Leah Faye, who believed any situation was improved with generous servings of food.
And to Jason, who loved his mother so well.
Characters and Places
The Malin (MAY-lin) Family
Jevva (JEV-uh), father
Mey, mother
Misty, daughter
Tavi (TAH-vee), short for Tavina (Tuh-VEE-nuh), daughter, all-blessed
Other children: Zakry, Jona, Tess, Seph, Ista (EE-stuh)
The Holmin Family
Shem, father
Jilla, mother (Jevva Malin’s sister)
Narre (NARR-ee), daughter, touch-blessed
Other children: Elim (EE-lim), Gillun
The Almson Family
Hilda, mother
Sall (SAHL), son, mind-blessed
Other children: Lorn, Berroll (BEAR-ull), nickname Berr (BEAR)
The Minnalen (MINN-uh-len) Family
Runan (ROO-nahn), father
Reba, daughter, sight-blessed
At the Midwife House in Oren
Note: The surname “Kariana” indicates that a midwife is a sun-blessed Karian (KARR-ee-an) midwife who can give blessing breaths to babies born facing the sun. Practical midwives are not sun-blessed.
Ellea Kariana (ell-LAY-uh kar-ee-AH-nuh), Karian midwife
Pala (PALL-uh) Rinner, practical midwife
Nydine (ny-DEEN), meditation teacher
The Grays
Konner Burrell (Bew-RELL), ungifted banker
Ash, real name Jerash Sheaver (JARE-ash SHAY-ver), touch-blessed
Sella, sight-blessed
Aldin (ALL-din), stride-blessed
Camalyn (CAM-uh-lin) Hunt, speech-blessed
At the Meadow
Tullen (TUHL-lin), stride-blessed and hearing-blessed
Kley, Tullen’s father
Jenevy (JEH-neh-vee), Tullen’s friend
Other Characters
Briggun Nolin, nickname Brig, mayor of Oren
Brindi (BRIN-dee), barmaid in Benton, mind-blessed
Gerval (GER-vul), pub owner in Oren
Les Andisis (an-DIE-sis), safety officer, hearing-blessed
Meri (MARE-ee), healer
Mola Ronson, Cormina Councillor
Relin (RAY-lin) the Fierce, ancient hero
Remina Birge (Reh-MY-nuh BERJ), Cormina Councillor, hearing-blessed
Riami Sheaver (ree-AH-me SHAY-ver), Jerash’s wife, speech-blessed
Tisra (TISS-ruh), maid
Zagada (zuh-GEY-duh), touch-blessed man
Religious Names and Terms
Sava (SAH-vuh), the giver of life, magic, and all that is good
Kari (KARR-ee), the First Midwife who tamed magic when she gave her newborn son Savala a breath of life and blessing
Savala (SAH-vuh-luh), Kari’s son, touch-blessed, the First Shepherd and first recipient of tamed magic. The city of Savala is named after him.
Karite (KARR-ite), a sect of the Savani faith
Kovus, a place of punishment in the afterlife
Savani (suh-VAH-nee), the faith of those who worship Sava
Savanite (SAH-vuh-nite), one who worships Sava
Senniet (SENN-yet), a place of peace and joy in the afterlife
Places
Benton, a town in Cormina
Cormina (core-MY-nuh), a nation led by the Cormina Council
Kovus, a place of punishment in the afterlife
Oren, a town in Cormina
Savala (SAH-vuh-luh), the capital city of Cormina, named after the First Shepherd
Senniet (SENN-yet), a place of peace and joy in the afterlife
Tinawe (TINN-uh-way), a large city in Cormina
The Meadow, a closed community thirty miles from Oren
Prologue
I remember that birth with more clarity than any other I attended. Even inconsequential details of that home, on that day, are written on my memory with indelible ink. Running, squealing children playing in front of the house as I arrived. The smell of freshly cut wood piled by the front door. Soot stains on the wall around the fireplace, the knot in the floorboard I felt through my shoe, the squeak of the front door as it was thrown open.
At first I didn’t recognize the girl who answered my knock. We stared at one another for a long moment before I exclaimed, “Misty!”
She was twelve years old, and it seemed that overnight, she had become a young woman. But when she gave me that big smile of hers and said, “I think the baby is a girl,” she again looked like the child I knew.
I returned Misty’s smile then waved to her father, who had fetched me from the midwife house. Jevva took the gesture as permission to leave. He would go fishing during this birth as he did each time his wife was in labor. I think he could not bear to see her in pain. With her father gone, Misty brought me to the bedroom where her mother waited. She then returned to her siblings outside.
I entered Mey’s room, and she opened her arms. Embracing her, I whispered, “Hello, strong mother.” At that moment, a birth pain hit, and she held onto me, pressing her head into my chest and swaying. It was clear her labor was already advanced.
When the pain passed, Mey turned to me in tears. “I’m glad you’re here,” she told me. It is those four words that brought me into midwifery. I love babies, but I chose my profe
ssion because I love women. Mey’s six older children had all been born into my hands, and she had long ago claimed a special spot in my heart.
Soon after I arrived, Mey began to talk through the pain, as she had done during every one of her labors. “Ohhh, my child, come,” she said, her voice rhythmic, vowels extended. “You know what to do. You were made for this. Come, child, come.” It makes me smile, even now—that sweet invitation, a cry of pain and love.
The morning passed in the timeless manner characteristic of labor. The pains continued to strengthen, and in between two of them, I asked Mey my favorite question for a laboring mother. “What is your hope for this child?”
She did not even have to think about the answer. “I hope my child is kind,” she said, “and I hope my child is strong.” She paused and added, “And I know I shouldn’t hope for it, but I have always wanted one of my children to be born facing the sun.”
I smiled. “Nearly every mother shares that desire,” I said, palpating her abdomen to determine her child’s position. “From what I can tell, this baby is facing your side. Likely it will turn to face the earth before emerging, and that is the easiest position—for you and for baby.”
Mey glanced out the window toward her six other children, all of whom had been born without complication, face-down. I knew as soon as her child was born, Mey would be filled with such joy, she would forget she’d hoped for a sun-blessed babe.
The house became stuffier and warmer as the afternoon wore on, and at some point Mey began leaning out the window between her pains, her arms folded against the sill, the summer breeze cooling her skin. Even now I can picture her face, still so young, lit by a slight smile as the wind tangled her hair.
It was through this window that Mey heard two of her younger children bickering. She was breathing deeply through a difficult pain. As it diminished, she spoke in a voice so low, I had to get close to hear her. “Please tell them if they don’t stop,” she said, “they may not survive the afternoon.” Suppressing a laugh, I repeated those exact words to them, and they ran off as quickly as their small legs could carry them.
Not long after that, Mey lifted her gown over her head, threw it on the bed, and continued to pace. Any modesty had faded away during hours of purposeful agony. And why should she be ashamed? Mey, pacing naked in her bedroom, was lovely. As every mother is.
I suspected Mey’s sudden lack of reserve signaled a progression in her labor. Sure enough, when the next pain hit, the sounds coming from her mouth changed. Words had long ago become moans, and now moans became grunts, arising from deep within her. When the pain passed, I asked, “Time to push?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice both determined and desperate.
“Good,” I said. And when I smiled at her, her tired face found the strength to smile back.
On the next pain, Mey turned, putting both her hands on my shoulders, guiding me to my knees as she squatted in front of me. She held onto me as if I were the one tree still standing in a storm, and as she pushed, she roared.
But though Mey was ready, her child was not. It had been years since Mey had needed to push more than a few times to birth a child, but an hour passed, then another half hour, and still her baby did not emerge.
Mey’s pushing continued with little progress. When I saw discouragement taking hold of her, I summoned my gift. Magic filled my hands, glowing with a golden light. I touched Mey’s tense shoulders. In seconds, she was awash in peace, and she was ready for the next pain—or at least as ready as any expectant mother can be.
As I pulled my hands away and released my magic, there was a soft tap on the door. “Mama? Can I come in?”
Mey told me to open the door, and Misty entered. She did not talk to her mother. Instead, placing her hands on Mey’s rounded abdomen, Misty spoke to the child inside. “I’m your sister. We’re all so excited to meet you. I can’t wait to hold you and teach you things. I’ll always be there for you.” And I believed her, believed she would do anything for the child that was coming.
Misty left, and I saw great peace on her mother’s face. Yes, my magic had comforted Mey, but Misty’s visit had helped her even more. Her oldest child had reminded Mey that her youngest child would be born into a family characterized by love.
Still the labor continued. I was as surprised as Mey when the gold and crimson light of sunset filled the sky. Her pains had begun before sunrise, and now I was lighting lanterns. Mey had by then been pushing for three hours.
She looked at the sky and said one word. “Beautiful.” Then, as if the dying sun had renewed her strength, Mey pushed harder than she had in hours, and my hands at last guided the child’s head out of its mother’s body.
Mey’s eyes, which had been glazed, burst to life again. Her teeth, which had ground together in effort, separated in a joyful smile.
But I could not speak. The head that had just emerged was still covered in its bag of waters. And Mey could not see that yet. Nor could she see the child’s face, pressed against the sac that had been its home. Face-up. Facing the sun.
Mey examined my face, and her expression shifted from triumph to concern. “Is everything all right? Is the baby well?”
I gathered my wits and smiled. “Yes, all is well. On the next pain, you will hold your baby, and it will be born in its bag of waters.”
With an expression of awe, Mey touched her child’s head, covered in the smooth sac. I don’t quite believe any of the old traditions about a baby born en caul. I didn’t expect that Mey’s child would be more fortunate than any other, or would be a strong swimmer. But such a birth seemed extra-miraculous, the infant reminding us of its mysterious first home, within a sac in its mother’s womb.
When the next pain swelled, my hands guided the baby out of its mother, into the warm summer air. Mey watched in awe as I pulled the sac off the child’s face and body. I then handed the slippery babe to its mother. Heedless of the dirty floor, of her nakedness, of the fluid puddling under her, of everything except the new creation she had just birthed, Mey brought her newest child to her chest. The room filled with the cries of mother and baby.
Mey exclaimed, “I have a daughter!” I laughed; I had not even thought to check, so focused had I been on removing the sac and on the child’s position at birth.
I touched Mey’s shoulder. “There is something else I want to tell you,” I said. “Your daughter”—and my voice caught; this moment never got old—“your daughter was born facing the sun.”
Mey froze for a moment. Then she was again crying, and she pulled me to her in an embrace, the baby, now quiet, between us. “She is sun-blessed?” Mey asked. “Truly?”
“En caul and sun-blessed. What a lovely birth. What a special child.”
Mey was so focused on her new baby; she was barely aware of me as I cut the child’s cord. Then I spoke. “You did your part beautifully today,” I told her. “It’s time for me to do mine.”
She handed me her daughter and watched in wonder as I held the baby face-up on my forearm, head cradled in my hand. Light from a lantern fell on us, and the little one promptly squeezed her eyes shut. “Sun-blessed child,” I said in a low voice, “in the name of Sava, who giveth the breath of life, I give thee the breath of blessing.”
My mouth covered the infant’s nose and mouth, and her tiny chest rose as my breath entered her lungs.
After she received her blessing breath, the baby’s chest glowed with a strong, golden light that put the lantern to shame. The glow spread up her neck, up both cheeks, and then around her eyes, like a mask. “She is sight-blessed,” I said, and Mey laughed with joy.
I opened my mouth to tell Mey what she might expect as her child grew, but the words stopped in my throat as I saw the glow on the baby’s chest spreading again—this time down her legs and into her feet, all the way to the tips of her toes. “Stride-blessed as well,” I said. Excitement filled the air between Mey and me. Twice-blessed!
And then I did not know where to look, because th
e golden light moved in all directions: down her arms, to her hands. Up the sides of her neck, to her ears. Up the front of her neck, then filling her lips, her nose. It was as if the glow were itself alive, breathing, spreading under the child’s skin. As suddenly as it had started, the movement stopped, and I forgot to breathe as I lifted the babe, supporting her head, examining all sides of her. There was no part of her that was not glowing golden, from the bottoms of her feet to every strand of hair, which shone through its blackness.
My arms jolted when the newborn wailed again, and I handed her to her mother, who looked as if she didn’t know whether to cry or sing or faint. Instinct took over, and Mey held the baby’s mouth to her breast. The infant suckled greedily. As she ate, the glow faded, and she looked like any newborn eating her first meal.
Mey and I raised our heads to look in each other’s eyes. She wet her lips with her tongue. “What . . . Why . . . ?” was all she could manage.
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