Megan Denby

by A Thistle in the Mist

  The moon’s stark beam brought sharp relief to the highlands. The landscape glowed black and white. Pockets of mist had settled in the low lying areas and spread outward, pale fingers creeping toward the dark of the forest. The roof of the stable drew my eyes and I thought of Caulley tethered inside. Soon auld boy, soon, I thought.

  I rounded the room, pausing to peer out each window, until I reached the last. It faced to the north, offering me a clear view of the gated cemetery, just outside the curtain wall of the castle. The headstones stood black against the pale ground and I strained my eyes, trying to distinguish the cross that marked Mother’s grave.

  I whipped back. “What?” I gasped. Stiff with disbelief, I leaned in and scanned the graveyard. There it was again, a slight figure, shimmering in the moonlight. I squinted, my nose pressed to the glass. My breath quickened and fog seeped across the window. I jerked my hand over the window, wiped at the condensation as a flash of white again grabbed my eyes. I stared at the apparition, afraid to breathe.

  “Mother!” I croaked. There was no mistaking the curtain of pale hair, the slender curve of her shoulders.

  My heart thundered as hope and fear collided. Mother! It was Mother. I wasn’t crazy. All of the times I’d felt her near, the scent of her perfume, her image in my mirror, the feather touch of her hand. And now she was right before my eyes, right here!

  I gripped the stone sill, my legs suddenly weak as I watched the ethereal form weave between the headstones.

  Without warning, a pain tore through me. “Ughhh!” I doubled over, clutched my belly, but forced my head back up, desperately searching for Mother.

  She knelt before the familiar cross... atop her own grave! Sweet Jesus! White hands reached out and traced the angles of the crucifix. Her head bowed, as though in prayer, a shroud of hair concealing the face I knew so well. She sat unmoving, and I stared, afraid to blink, desperate – fearful that I would lose her yet again.

  She raised her head and leaned forward, pressing her lips to the cross. Then she rose, her movement graceful, fluid, her shadow black against the silvered ground. The hair slipped back from her face and the light of the moon caressed the delicate features.

  My heart stopped. The enormity of my blunder slammed into my chest and I gasped for air.

  It was not Mother.

  For a brief second I stood frozen then I shoved at the window, trying desperately to open it. My arms quivered but the wooden frame was warped, hopelessly jammed. The willowy figure drifted farther into the cemetery, her feet parting the swirling burn of mist.

  I banged on the glass, “Hannah! Hannah!”

  The white nightdress billowed around her slight figure as she reached the far side of the enclosed area.

  What is she doing outside in the middle of the night? And where in the name of all that is holy is she going?

  She pushed at the heavy wooden gate at the northern-most end of the graveyard until it swung open. She slipped through the crack and was immediately swallowed by the night. The gate closed as though of its own accord.

  Another spasm knifed through my belly and my knees gave way. Not now, please not now. I leaned into the wall, my cheek pillowed by the damp scrape of stone, my eyes searching for Hannah. The cramping grew stronger, heavy pressure low in my back. Cold sweat dribbled between my shoulder blades and I gritted my teeth, waiting for it to pass.

  Hannah reappeared and I watched as she meandered up the rock strewn slope, leaving behind the protection of the castle. I worked at the window, pushed at the frame, clawed at the glass, but to no avail.

  Dear Lord! Where is she going?

  “Hannah!” I screamed, my voice reverberating through the still.

  Then a thought occurred to me. Maybe she was escaping! Maybe she was actually getting away! Hope rushed through me and I clung to the notion for a short moment, the false wish surging in my breast.

  But reality flicked aside this comforting thought, like a leftover crumb of bread. I stared at the retreating figure of my dear sister and grew very cold.

  Hannah moved with purpose up the steep slope. She knew what she was doing, did not hesitate. My sister had never been so intent – so decisive. The sureness of her step sent raw panic pumping through me, the intensity of my terror gaining strength with each step she took.

  Reaching the top of the slope, she turned west, toward the sea. Suddenly I became aware of the distant crash of waves as they hurled themselves to break upon the rocks.

  Sweat sprang from my pores, cloaking my body in a mantle of fear. Backing away from the window I turned and lurched across the room, colliding with the table again. Charcoal scattered and crumbled beneath my feet as I raced to the door. With my fingers curled into fists, I pounded on the thick surface.

  “Help! Somebody help!” I paused, listened; nothing. I battered the door. Mary and Janet and the rest of the servants were two floors below at the other end of the house in the servant’s quarters – too far to hear my frantic pounding. Sloan was probably down in Da’s study but Deirdre’s room was directly below and I felt certain she would be able to hear. “Deirdre, please help me. Somebody! Bloody hell! PLEASE!” My voice cracked with desperation.

  Sweet Jesus, could no one hear me?

  I stumbled back to the window.

  Hannah was still now, her back straight, her face upturned, bathed in the silver of the moon. She stood at the edge of the bluff that overlooked the loch. A gentle wind swept the hair back from her face.

  “Oh, no. Please no,” I pleaded, an arrow of fear piercing my heart.

  I scrambled to the window on the left but the damp had swelled the frame, the one on the right as well. I looked wildly about the room and grabbed the wooden chair. Raising it above my head, I heaved with every ounce of strength I had.

  The glass shattered, shards raining down upon me. I sheltered my head with my arms but felt the sting of splinters.

  Sea air rushed through the yawning opening along with the deadly sound of waves colliding with rock. Stepping over the glass, I shoved a broken chunk of frame out of my way. It thudded to the cobbled walkway below.

  A gust of wind skimmed Hannah, melding her nightdress to her body. Her hair streamed out behind, white wisps in the moonlight.

  And then I saw.

  Her silhouette – black against the glowing sky – revealed a gentle swell at her middle. I saw at last her secret, her torment.

  I lunged forward, my own swollen belly pressed hard to the narrow sill, my fingers stretched out into the night, free at last from my prison.

  “Hannah. Nooooo, lassie. NOOOOO!”

  At the sound of my scream, her face tipped up and for a second her beloved features were clear. Then she stepped off the edge. Time slowed as I watched my sister and her unborn child disappear over the side of the bluff.

  “Hiney,” I whispered to the empty night.

  Another spasm clenched my abdomen. With a soundless ‘pop’, warm liquid flooded down the inside of my legs.

  I tore my eyes from the bluff and stared at the puddle forming around my feet. More fluid gushed as my womb contracted. I fell to my knees and tipped forward in a haze, felt my head hit the cold stone floor.

  A metallic rattle sounded from far away as the blur that edged my vision melded into a veil of lonely dark.

  ******

  Her hands were like ice. They trembled as I cradled them to my heart. Then they slipped, sliding through my grasp. Her eyes, the colour of the summer sky, were marred by clouds of torment. They pleaded with mine, transparent lids blinking slowly. Gossamer strands of hair floated about her upturned face. Then everything sped up and she was falling, hurtling toward the rocks and waves that beckoned from below. Her pain became mine and the rocks sliced through me, cutting, tearing at my innards.

  “No... no more... please...”

  “Och, I canna help if ye dinna help yerself, Meara.” The sharp voice sliced into my head, dragging me to the surface.

  I opened my eyes and the g
rim face of my aunt swam into focus.

  “Hannah?” I croaked.

  “Never mind about yer sister the now, Meara. It’s time ye woke. Ye’ ve a good deal of work to do, girl.” Deirdre’s face was drawn. Thin hair straggled around her shoulders. Lines radiated from her pursed lips. “How a body could sleep through a birthin’ I dinna ken,” she muttered, bony fingers drumming a silent beat against her leg.

  “But I need...” My eyes slid shut and my teeth banged together as a fist of pain strangled my womb. I struggled to open my eyes, my breaths jerking in short pants. I was so weary, so sore. How long had I been unconscious?

  A wet cloth plopped onto my forehead. Water trickled into my eyes and down my cheeks. I licked my lips, searching for stray drops but tasted only the salt of my own sweat. My hands shook violently as I wiped the drops from my lashes. I stared at sloppy bandages that encased each of my forearms. In mute puzzlement I looked to Deirdre.

  She nodded, sparse brows drawn, “Aye, Meara, ye’ve done yerself some damage,” she said, with a disgusted shake of her head. She pointed to my head. “To yer head as well. Och, ye’ve been out for hours, ye ken.”

  My fingers found the lump on the side of my head and I flinched.

  Deirdre looked over her shoulder to the wreckage of the window. “Just what were ye doin, girl? Did ye really think ye could escape?” She gave a short, humourless laugh, shaking her head again, “Not verra smart. Yer lucky ye didna fall. Ye would ha’ killed yerself and that precious wean.” Her voice was sharp with annoyance at my apparent stupidity.

  I stared at the window.

  The rosy glow of dawn bled across the sky. A meadow pipit lit on the sill, preened at its feathers with jerky dips of its beak. Bright eyes peered into mine then with a flick of tail feathers it was gone.

  I dragged my glance back to the skeleton of broken glass and felt the sharp prick of tears.

  Hannah.

  I shook my head. “Nay, Deirdre, I wasna tryin’...”

  Pain, double the intensity, clamped down. Ripping. Tearing. Squeezing my eyes tight, I bit down on my lip, refusing to cry out. Blood spilled onto my tongue. I could not control the movements of my body. I writhed about the bed, elbows and heels digging into the straw-filled mattress.

  This time the pain did not subside.

  I crawled across the bed, desperate to escape. With unrelenting ferocity it attacked again and again.

  Hard fingers dug into my shoulders and pinned me to the bed.

  “Breathe, Meara! Breathe!”

  I twisted my head from side to side. “Nay. I canna.”

  A hand struck my cheek and my head snapped to the side.

  “Ye must! I’ll no let ye lose this bairn!” Deirdre hissed.

  I sucked air into my lungs and opened my eyes. Her face was inches from mine, dark eyes narrowed to slits.

  “It’ll get worse afore it gets better, girl. Ye must stay calm and breathe through the pain. It’s the only way to get that babe out... and ye must get it out,” she ordered.

  Staring into the disturbing eyes, I breathed with slow deliberation until the cramps retreated. Then without warning a wave of nausea swept through me and I gasped, “I’m goin’ to be sick.”

  Deirdre shoved the chamber pot at my face. A yellow wave of stale urine slopped over the side. I pulled back and watched as it dripped on the floor. I lunged forward again as vomit gushed into my mouth. With each heave I tried to hold my face back, dodging the splashes of pee that sprang from the pot. Exhausted, I slid back against my pillow, drenched in what I dully hoped was sweat.

  Deirdre bathed my face, none too gently then held a mug of water to my lips. I sipped, the cool soothing my raw throat.

  “The pains are comin’ on top of each other, Meara. I think ye should be farther along.” Her voice rose as though she was not sure.

  “Ye need to have a look, see what’s wrong,” I said dully.

  “Nay,” she answered too quickly, eyes round with alarm.

  “You must... please dinna let my bairn die,” I begged. Was something wrong?

  Her face froze and she stood motionless. Then she moved to the end of the bed. I pushed myself up onto my elbows and watched, unable to stop my head from lolling side to side.

  Standing as far away as possible, she grasped the hem between thumb and forefinger. With tight eyes and pinched lips, she peered under my nightgown. I grunted as another spasm took me. All colour drained from her cheeks and she dropped my gown as though she’d been burned.

  “What?” I panted, “What’s wrong?”

  “I dinna ken.” Deirdre shook her head and her eyes slid from mine. She began pacing back and forth, skeletal fingers resuming their incessant drumming. She stopped and looked back at me. “The bairn’s tryin’ to come and yer ready... I mean... I think yer ready. But...” Cupping her own chin, she tapped a forefinger against her lips, eyes darting about the room. “I dinna ken,” she repeated, “I think ye should be farther along... but...”

  I felt ill, though from nerves or the birthing I did not know. Nor did I particularly care. Pressing the heel of my hands to my eyes, I pulled a cool mouthful of air across my teeth and blew it back through my nose.

  “Get Mary,” I said. “She’ll ken what to do.” I dropped my hands and watched Deirdre through heavy eyes.

  The panicked look disappeared and anger flared in its place. Her face hardened. She shook her head, lids narrowed. “Nay, Meara. No one’s comin’ up here.”

  “Uhhh. Uhhhh.” A cry, I could not hold back, ripped from my throat as another contraction took control. I moaned and dragged my hands through my hair. Pulling my knees up, I rocked back and forth.

  “GET MARY!”

  I squeezed my eyes and clenched the bedclothes as the onslaught manifested, pain overlapping pain. Through the fog whirling in my head I heard the screech of the door.

  An eternity passed.

  Wave upon wave of pain.

  Then I felt, soft and gentle – oh so gentle – hands caress my face. “Ah, my poor lassie, I’m here now, Mary’s here.”

  I pressed into those hands for a moment then opened my eyes and looked into Mary’s sweet, beautiful face. Tears pooled in her soft, triangle eyes. She leaned in and I felt her warm lips touch my forehead, smelled her familiar, sweet scent.

  “Dinna fash now, lass, I’m goin to help ye get yer bairn out.”

  I nodded, words not possible. The tears that ran down my cheeks gathered in warm pools in my ears. I reached up and pressed her hand to my face again. Her fingers smelled of bread and cinnamon. I closed my eyes.

  Her touch was gentle as she examined me. “Meara, I think I kent what the trouble is but I have to look a wee bit closer. Hold still now, hiney.”

  I bit my lip as her fingers probed deeper. Her voice was muffled behind my raised legs, “Aye lass, just as I thought. Yer babe’s the wrong way round. The bum’s comin’ first.”

  Her head popped up over my knees and she peered solemnly into my eyes.” I willna lie to ye, Meara, it’s goin’ to hurt like a bugger. But I’ll be quick and we’ll ha’ this bairn out in no time.” She paused, her brow knitting. “I think this babe is a wee bit like his mother, no? Verra stubborn!” Her eyes crinkled – that comforting crinkle – and I managed a weak smile in response.

  “Will it be all right, Mary? Will it live?” I whispered.

  Mary, the woman who had taken the place of my mother, the woman who had treated me as her own daughter, and the woman who had come to me when I needed her most, nodded. “Aye, lassie, I promise ye that much. Dinna fash now.” She patted my leg and I had to believe her.

  In a voice I barely recognized, she flung orders over her shoulder to Deirdre, who hovered nearby. “Go down to the kitchen and gather several clean cloots and bring a bucket of boiled water. Be quick now. We dinna ha’ much time. Och and bring my medicine chest as well,” she added in a voice that broached no argument.

  Deirdre did not answer but I heard the plod of her heavy f
eet as she hurried from the room.

  I slipped in and out as more contractions took hold. Mary bathed my face, smoothed damp hair from my forehead. I understood little of the soothing Gaelic she murmured but saw her eyes move from the broken window and back to my bandaged arms. Words were not necessary. The desolate look in her eyes told me enough.

  Deirdre returned with overflowing arms.

  Mary cleared the sketches from my table and dragged it close to the bed, setting up a makeshift hospital. Then she leaned close and cradled my face in her hands.

  “Now, wee Meara, this is goin’ to hurt like the de’il but there’s no other way.”

  “Aye, just do it.” I whispered.

  She moved to the end of the bed, “Take a deep breath, lass.”

  Her hands plunged into my body and I whimpered but did not move, though it felt as if I was being torn in two as she shifted and changed the baby’s position. She withdrew just as another spasm took me.

  “Bear doon now, Meara. Push hard, lass! The head is just there.”

  I pushed. I screamed. I pushed again. Air hissed between my clenched teeth as I tried to breathe.

  “That’s my wee lassie, agin hiney!”

  A roar filled my head and I felt certain my eyes were going to burst but I pushed.

  “Good, lass, good! Yer doin’ fine! Almost there. Now one more time.”

  The pressure increased tenfold. Tugging. Stretching. Heaviness. Then a wet ‘plop’ and I felt my baby slip free.

  The silence seemed to stretch forever.

  “Is it all right, Mary?” I asked as I craned my neck, straining to see. Then I shoved against the bed, pushed myself up. “I want to see!”

  Deirdre stood at the foot of my bed, mouth slack, her face the colour of bread dough. Mary remained hidden behind the tent of my blanketed knees.

  “Mary?” I begged desperately.

  A short slap was followed by a mewling that sounded like a new kitten. The mewling quickly grew to a loud wail, the most beautiful wail I had ever heard.

  I fell back to my pillow. Weary joy filled me and my cheeks warmed with new tears.