Mercy of the Moon

by Jennifer Taylor

  “I hope it works,” he said.

  It needed to. Sarah breathed rapidly, cheeks flushed. How could she best nurse the child? First, Maggie instructed Ian to shut the drapes and bolt the door. They could not be too careful. God only knew what someone might think they were doing.

  Then, she instructed Ian to help Samuel move her lower in the bed. She had Samuel get into bed with her, behind her head with his legs straddled around her. Sarah leaned against his chest, head lolled, eyes open in slits.

  “I can feel her heat through my clothes,” Samuel murmured.

  “It will take about a half hour for the concoction to take effect,” Ian said.

  Maggie changed the baby’s clout. She took off her little nightgown, working on sheer instinct; perhaps it would help Sarah to feel the baby, skin to skin. Out of consideration for Samuel’s feelings, she motioned for Ian to turn his head as she prepared Sarah for breast-feeding. When, God willing, their endeavor was successful, she could drape her to shield her breasts from view.

  Sarah’s petite size would allow Samuel to hold the baby in his arms in front of her; perhaps it would help to explain to her what they were doing. Sarah had once described the feeling of her milk coming down as a million tiny pin pricks all at once. In her state, how would she react when the baby took hold?

  “Sarah, your baby must be fed and you must nurse. Do you remember nursing Ruthie? It will be painful at first, and then you will be much relieved.”

  She did not respond, but at least with Samuel’s touch upon her, she had stilled. Perhaps Ian’s medicine was taking effect now.

  Maggie opened Sarah’s night rail and exposed one hot, engorged breast. She circled her thumb and forefinger around the areole and as gently as possible squeezed the area slowly, rhythmically. Sarah stiffened as the early milk began to seep out.

  She nodded to Samuel. “Ruthie, give your father the baby.” He held the babe in his arms as Maggie positioned her at Sarah’s breast. The babe fussed and rooted for the nipple.

  “Samuel, you must be prepared to hold onto Sarah tightly. I do not know what she will do when the suckling begins. It is painful at first.”

  The babe made several attempts until suddenly, she latched on. Sarah stiffened and uttered an incoherent cry as the strong little jaw clamped down upon her tender breast. Maggie massaged the sides of her sister’s breast to encourage the milk to flow, letting out her breath bit by bit as the baby drank greedily. For what seemed like endless hours, they waited.

  Then, miraculously, a light of awareness rose upon Sarah’s face like the sun. Eyes wide with shock, she looked down at the babe.

  “Sarah.” Samuel kissed his wife’s cheek. “Your daughter. You have a daughter.”

  She searched his face and laid her hand on the baby’s torso, stroking the smooth skin. “I don’t remember,” she whispered.

  Ruthie blinked and placed her hand over her mother’s. “I’ve been taking care of her, Mother.”

  At the sound of Ruthie’s voice, Sarah smiled and reached for her daughter. She closed her eyes, tears rolling down her pallid cheeks. “My sweet Ruthie.”

  Maggie laid a blanket over the babe and slipped outside to give them time alone, telling Samuel he must have the baby nurse on Sarah’s other side as well.

  Ian followed her out. She had never felt so elated, so alive.

  “It is cold out, sweeting.” He draped her cloak about her shoulders, fastening it at the neck with care.

  It must have been cold, but she did not feel it and felt as light as a gull on the wing. Sarah had returned to them.

  Ian smoothed the hair back from her face. “You are clever beyond measure. You brought Sarah back from her nightmare.”

  “But you made the medicine that calmed her.”

  “I merely stirred things, but you, you are worthy of song, my Maggie.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her, softly. His firm lips tasted of cloves, warm and spicy.

  Sarah alive and conscious, and this man, odd musician-apothecary, like no other, at her side! Having his hands upon her felt as natural as breathing. As he touched her, a heavy weight slid off her shoulders and she saw her joy reflected in his eyes.

  “We must get out of the rain,” Ian murmured.

  When had it begun raining? His fingertips, firm and warm, rested on her upper arms. She reached up into the darkness and laid her palm against the hair lying wet against his head, his shirt plastered to his wide shoulders. Joy magnified as she touched him, felt the elation coursing through him as if his body had joined hers.

  The rain cooled the blush on her face as she led him to the barn. With a cold splash of clarity, she remembered what Ruthie had said when she’d first arrived at the cottage. “Something strange...”

  “What is it, Maggie? What is troubling you?”

  She struggled to focus on Ruthie’s story, but in truth, after breathing in his spicy scent, she only wanted to be encircled in his arms. Still, she repeated the word that Sarah had called out in her sleep.

  “Ee-shell?” The pressure of his fingers on her arms increased.

  “Yes.” She leaned into him in the darkness.

  He nuzzled his lips in her uncovered hair. “So soft. I believe I’ve heard that name before. I cannot place it—in my travels, perhaps. I will think upon it when I return home.” His voice rumbled in her ear, melodic, rusty.

  She must touch him; he was soaked through, his skin warm against the cold shirt. The muscles of his chest played against her hand as he breathed. Without thought, she pulled his shirt out of his breeches and slipped her hands inside it to feel his bare skin. His muscled stomach tightened as her hands slid up his torso. So warm against her cold fingers.

  Her palm circled the matting of crisp hairs upon his chest and closed over his heart. She wrapped her other arm around his back. His heart pounded against her palm and he moaned, his hands in her hair, lips upon hers. His manhood strained against her stomach, and she pushed against it.

  Suddenly, he cleared his throat and backed away. “There is only one way this will end, my sweet Maggie, if we continue in this fashion. I want to touch you like the finest musical instrument, with delicacy and fervor and not as if you were a common doxy who exists merely to satisfy my itch. You do not deserve such treatment.” He kissed her again, gently this time.

  She made an effort to steady her breathing and cool the heat that rushed through her body. He left her at the cottage door and walked away, singing as he went. Without his body against hers, she felt as bereft as an orphan.

  ****

  By the time she returned inside, the babe guzzled from the other breast with gusto, and Ruthie snuggled against her mother’s side while Samuel rested his chin on Sarah’s shoulder.

  Samuel glanced up. His eyes narrowed upon seeing her soaked hair. But he merely pressed his lips together, no doubt choosing to ignore her in favor of his newfound contentment. She did not blame him. Why spoil this perfect moment?

  As late as the hour was, there were tasks to perform. First on the list was getting Sarah to eat some soup. The babe rested with her wee head on Sarah’s neck. Samuel had placed his big hands on top of Sarah’s to help her hold the child there. The babe wore the drunken look little ones get when they are beyond sated. She removed her and put her in the cradle, then urged Ruthie upstairs to have a decent night’s sleep.

  Sarah looked pale, but so greatly improved that Maggie stopped in mid-step and offered a prayer of thanksgiving. Upon opening her eyes, she found Sarah staring at her, eyes slightly unfocused.

  “Maggie,” she whispered.

  She embraced her sister, the first opportunity she’d had. Her shoulders felt parchment thin. “Yes, dear girl. How are you feeling?”

  Sarah ignored her question. “What happened to me?”

  “You have been quite ill, Sarah.”

  “I do not remember.”

  Thank God she did not. Would it be necessary to tell her what had happened before someone in town did? She must h
ave a proper bath—she would soon notice the grave dirt in her hair, would she not? And what if Ruthie said something?

  Maggie squeezed her hand. “You have been through a lot, Sarah. You must give yourself time. Give yourself a chance to rest, to regain your strength. Close your eyes and rest while I fetch some soup.”

  “I fear that if I do, I will disappear again,” she croaked, her voice still hoarse from exposure and lack of use. She sank her head back onto the pillow and closed her eyes. “I am so very tired, Maggie. Surely more tired than a new mother should be.”

  “Do not worry. You’ll get your strength back if you do as you’re told,” Maggie said, happy to play the older sister again. “Now let me see how you’re healing.”

  First, she examined her breasts; they had already improved. After she fed Sarah and made her comfortable again, she wandered over to the table and noted with relish all the food the townspeople had brought, out of kindness and curiosity. For the first time in a long time, she tucked into a meal with fervor.

  Ian had forgotten his lute. She ran her fingers over the neck of it, and imagined his fingers stroking, warming it with his caress, applying with delicacy just the right pressure upon the strings, upon her.

  She took a deep shaky breath. What might have happened in the barn if he had not stopped her? She had all but invited him to take her maidenhood, without hesitation, thinking nothing of the consequences. She barely knew herself anymore. But the feel of his torso against hers, smooth like polished beach rock...

  What had she almost done, that she would let herself be at the mercy of a man’s desires, just like her mother? That she had almost let a man take her on the floor of a barn? But the heat and pleasure rushed through her, and she understood what it meant to yearn. So there existed a man who could control his urges? Or perhaps he stopped because he did not desire her the same.

  He had left the imprint of his lips upon hers and his own essence from his tongue in her mouth. The warm molten honey had flowed through her body and the only thought had been how she could get closer to him.

  Reality washed over her like the splash of a rogue wave. It was clear: she was not one iota different from any other woman, from her mother. What stopped her from becoming her mother, powerless against the needs of a man?

  Sarah sat up when the babe began to cry. Maggie placed the child in her arms again so it could feed. Sarah lay back and sighed contentedly. Their own mother came to mind unbidden. Never had contentment touched her face, only the pinched look of grim acceptance and suffering as one babe pulled at her teat and another reached his arms up for her, two more children playing in squalor at her feet.

  Shortly after her mother’s death, Father took his fists to the pub for a change of pace and died of knife wounds. By then, she was under the tutelage of the old midwife, and she and Sarah helped with problem deliveries for local farmers when they needed slim hands. Five years later, smallpox took their brothers and sisters. Samuel married Sarah, and they moved to King’s Harbour.

  How close she had come this evening to risking herself, becoming her mother, without hope, a victim of a man’s selfishness. Had she forgotten the promise to herself? But what of the rightness of his heart beating against her hand, his touch awakening her body? What of her needs? She splashed her flushed face with cool water from the ewer.

  She resumed her meal. There were other more pressing things to consider. How to make Edward Carter accountable for his malevolent treatment of Sarah? She had felt the threat of his ill intent when she questioned him about her sister. He had made it clear he would happily ruin them with his malice-barbed words, spoken with that unctuous charm. She had worked hard to establish herself as the town’s midwife and would not let him destroy her reputation.

  Jonas must be questioned again. Surely he knew something, for he certainly acted guilty. How to extract information without attracting attention? Would Edward Carter wreak vengeance on her as he had threatened?

  The food soon succeeded in making her sleepy. As she stood up to go sit in the rocker, she noticed the heavy weight in her apron and pulled out the strange figurine that had been in Sarah’s hand. With her handkerchief she dusted the dirt off, taking it by the fireplace to study in the dim light.

  It was a statuette of red clay, hardened by age. An old woman with a bent back carried a water vase, upside down. She had a hawk-like nose, with fierce, slanted eyes like a cat, her sharp chin jutting out, mouth agape as if speaking. On top of her head, a coiled serpent hovered, fangs sharp and ready to strike. A chill crawled on the back of Maggie’s neck.

  Suddenly, the statuette glowed like an ember snatched from the fire, but did not burn her. She hastily placed it on the mantel and prayed for calm. Where had this strange object come from? What did it mean? She climbed the stairs to sleep for a few hours. Surely she must rest or go mad.

  ****

  In the deep of night, a woman’s voice downstairs roused her.

  “We can wait no longer,” the voice commanded. “We have saved her. She must join her sister and avenge.”

  “Holy God, what is this?” Samuel cried.

  She clattered down the stairs. Samuel stood with the fire poker in his hand. The fire roared in the fireplace behind him, sparks rising. He stared at the opposite wall, where reflected in the glow of the fire, the shadow of the old woman stood, her fierce eyes the only color glowing amber into Maggie’s. The snake upon her head undulated, body coiled in a knot, forked tongue flitting in and out from between sharp fangs.

  “I have waited long, midwife. We have saved her. I carry the power of the womb in every woman and will help you but you must avenge. Tu hermana—your sister—is saved so together you might destroy this womb killer.”

  Her legs grew weak. “What would you have me do?”

  The shadow of the fierce old woman swelled and threatened. Maggie’s heart throbbed in her throat as the shadow of the snake took on skin and scales of yellow and green and uncoiled from its mistress’s head, slithering down the wall into the dark recesses of the room.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Intuicion, medicina,” the spirit rasped. In a vapor the color of red clay, the old woman vanished.

  Maggie heard a rustling beside her. Sarah was kneeling, hands raised in prayer, then collapsed on the floor. Samuel rushed to pick her up and carried her to bed. Upon examination, she was not hurt, merely weak.

  “Sarah,” she said, clasping her hand. “You are not strong enough yet to get out of bed. Why did you kneel to that apparition?”

  “I don’t know,” Sarah whispered. “I only knew that I must.”

  “Light the candles, Maggie.” Samuel stood guard over Sarah, one hand holding the poker and the other upon Sarah’s shoulder, and darted a glance at the wall where the spirit had been. He wiped the sweat from his brow and motioned for a quivering Ruthie to crawl into bed with her mother. “Do not worry, Ruthie. I will watch over you.”

  “Samuel, I am not afraid,” Sarah murmured and fell asleep at once, as did Ruthie. Maggie lit the candle on the mantelpiece with trembling hands. The figure of the old woman still rested there where she had placed it. She grasped it in her hand; perhaps holding it would give her understanding. The figures were the same, yes—the gnarled hands, serpent upon the head—and the water jar overturned—what did it mean?

  Samuel shifted position and squinted, scanning the room. “Maggie,” he whispered, in a strangled voice. “What was real? The snake, that woman—how can I protect my family against—what is it? Is it Satan? Sweet Jesus, fetch us some whisky.”

  She handed him a glass and took a sip of her own, the fire of it reassuring. This she understood: whisky burned when she swallowed. She was a midwife. Her life was dictated by the moon and the wombs of women. She dealt in what could be seen: A woman’s belly swells with child and with a midwife’s help and the force of her womb, together they bring forth her child. The force of her womb—power—power and pain—is that what the snake woman meant by “the power
of the womb?”

  Maggie examined the babe and found her sleeping as soundly as her mother. She and Samuel stood in silence, listening to their regular breathing, and before long her tight muscles loosened, just a bit.

  Samuel swayed on his feet.

  “Samuel, why do you not sit?”

  He shook himself. “No, I must guard them. Maybe it’s true what some of the town are saying, that Satan brought Sarah back. Perhaps if I get Vicar Andrews...no, I do not believe it.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “I tell you, Maggie. Dawn cannot come soon enough.”

  “Samuel, what did the spirit mean when she said, ‘we have saved her?’ Who saved her?”

  He did not answer.

  A prickling of unease crawled from Maggie’s forehead to her shoulders. The weight of her confusion pressed upon her chest. She felt herself sinking into cold depths and struggled to breathe.

  And then soft hands rested upon her head and a voice of infinite gentleness whispered, “Do not be fearful, midwife. All is well.”

  “Who are you?” she asked, searching the room and noticing Samuel’s alarm.

  “What is it, Maggie?”

  “I don’t know. I only know she has reassured me. You did not hear her?”

  “Her? Who?”

  “I don’t know. She said not to be afraid, that all was well.” Peace settled over her as still she felt gentle hands upon her shoulders in blessing.

  “Could she be an angel?” Hope brightened his face.

  “Mayhap she is. I feel no malevolence from her, only peace. One thing for certain, Samuel; we must trust in Sarah’s goodness.”

  “Yes, but what of the apparition and the snake?”

  “I will speak with Ian.” The thought of seeing him again helped steady her, as dawn seemed a lifetime away. The smile that cajoled the dimple under his eye to come out and play. The sound of his laughter, uninhibited and inviting.

  Samuel snorted. “What makes you think he has the answers?”

  “I don’t know. He has seen the world, has seen many inexplicable things. And he speaks many languages.”