by Jane Yolen
She showed him a quick smile then, but as quickly put her lips in a thin line, thinking for a second. “Why, boil water, of course!”
“Of course,” he agreed, as if boiling water was the easiest thing in the world in a cave with only an enormous caldron twice his size, no fire, and no water source. “Of course.”
SNAIL’S FIRST BIRTHING
Snail sent Aspen outside to find water. “Remember how odd the land here around is. Let the water come to you.” Then she turned back to the pregnant troll.
“I am a midwife,” she said to the huge creature, loudly and clearly. “Please remember the law.” She meant the one against eating midwives.
The troll nodded.
“Now, let’s get you sitting up,” Snail said, placing a chair against the near wall, and then helping the moaning troll to sit with her back against the chair’s legs.
Snail worried it might be a hard birth. She worried that it might be a cutting birth. She worried the baby might not make it through the canal. But she no longer worried about being eaten. That was the good thing.
And so she set to work.
* * *
IT SEEMED LIKE only seconds later that the prince was back, though it was clearly much longer. She’d already gotten the troll into the right position, had counted the minutes between the contractions, had taught the creature how to push.
Prince Aspen returned with a clay pot lined with river reeds and mud. It was a coarse first attempt but he seemed proud of his handiwork. The pot was brimming over with water.
Snail thanked him profusely even though she worried about how dirty the water was.
“Not sure how we will start the fire,” she said, but he quickly did a piece of princely fire magic, and soon there were flames in the great hearth snapping out what sounded like smart remarks. The pot of water held, and in no time, the filthy water was merrily bubbling away.
She set the knife in the pot in the vain hope that she could cleanse her only cutting implement of any impurities and—she tried not to think of this—any blood from previous troll dinners.
The troll wife groaned.
Prince Aspen turned white, practically glowing in the grey cave.
“Go get me a torch of some kind in case there has to be fine work done,” Snail said, thinking all the while that there was nothing fine about delivering a baby troll, nothing at all.
The prince ran from the cave, clearly happy to be out of there, and Snail turned back to the laboring troll wife. She held the knife in one hand.
“Only if we need it to get the baby out in time,” she assured the troll. “So close your eyes, my dear, and push.” She sounded a bit like Mistress Softhands and suddenly found herself hoping that the old midwife had fared well and was now herself safely delivered from the dungeon.
Then one hand holding the knife, the other on the troll’s massive belly, she began to sing the birthing song over and over. It didn’t matter, as Mistress Softhands always said, whether the mother-to-be was an ogre or a queen, the song soothed. Snail tried to lower her voice to match the troll’s stentorian tones.
Arooo, arooo, little mother, and hush.
Take a big breath and give a big push,
Child that’s within you will soon be without.
Another big push and then give a great shout!
Arooo.
Each time she said the word push, Snail put pressure on the troll’s belly. Each time she sang “little mother,” she grinned at the inappropriateness of calling a troll female little.
She sang the song a full ten times and could feel the baby in the troll’s belly kicking. And, this being a troll baby, it was a very hard kick.
Arooo, arooo, now toe to head,
Little one, spin around this way instead.
Aroooo, arooo, now head to toe,
Little one, now you are ready to go.
Aroooo.
She could see the outline of the child beneath the skin moving under her direction. Breathing in deeply, she held her breath until the baby was fully turned and no longer breach. The magic—so often practiced but never actually used by her before—had worked.
She let the breath go.
“Soon, soon,” she said encouragingly.
The troll wife rolled her great black eyes, and pushed when directed. And on the last push, at the end of the tenth repetition of the song, with a huge shout that rattled the walls of the cave and turned over the pot still bubbling on the fire so the fire itself was put out, a baby troll came hurtling down the birth canal and into Snail’s waiting hands. She was so surprised at the speed and the weight of it, she almost dropped it, but for once sense and competence overrode her tendency for accidents, and she clung on to the baby for dear life—his and hers.
“Good girl,” she told the troll wife. “Nicely done.” Then she cut the umbilical and tied the end in a knot as she had been taught, and slapped the baby on the back.
With that the infant squalled, a sound somewhat between a stallion’s whinny and a pig’s snort but as loud as an avalanche hurtling down a mountainside.
“It’s a boy!” she told the troll wife.
“A boy,” the troll said and grinned broadly. The sharpness of her teeth and tusks was not comforting.
I wish, Snail thought, that motherhood had improved her looks, but at least she understands the law.
Just then, the prince came back. He held out the flaming torch. “See! I have it.”
That’s when he noticed Snail standing there with the giant baby in her arms, still slippery with birth fluids.
“Give me your shirt, Serenity, so I can cleanse the child.”
He shuddered, managing to croak, “Not my shirt!”
Shrugging, she said, “Then take my petticoat and rip it into three pieces.”
He set the torch in a holder than had been hammered into the wall, before helping Snail—still holding the baby—step out of her petticoat. Quickly, he ripped it into the strips she needed.
One she used for wiping the child. One for diapering him. And one for covering him up. Then she handed the baby to the troll wife.
“Can we get out of here now?” Prince Aspen said.
“How?” Snail asked, pointing toward the cave opening. It was already dark outside. Or at least as much of the outside as they could see. The rest was blocked by a huge male troll who was holding up a small rabbit, hardly more than a nibble for such a one.
“Am I late for dinner?” the troll rumbled as he came inside.
WHAT ASPEN BRINGS TO THE BATTLE
When Aspen turned and saw the big male troll, fear hit him as if his heart had suddenly been dunked in cold water. But just as quickly the cold was gone. A sudden wave of heat washed over him, and the strangest thought hit him.
Finally, a worthy opponent.
And suddenly he was no longer Little Bit or Weeper or Sniveler—all the names the Unseelie had bridled him with as a child, and that he now realized he had never really let go of. He wasn’t even Prince Aspen anymore, a name that sounded more regal, but actually came from the time Sun and Moon had seen him quaking at a giant serpent that the Border Lords had captured, shaking, the twins said, “like the aspen’s leaves in a stiff wind.”
No, he thought and then cried out, “I am Prince Ailenbran Astaeri, Bright Celestial, Ruire of the Tir na nOg, and Third Successor to the Seelie Throne.” He was a warrior and a warrior-chief-in-waiting. His sword was suddenly in his right hand and the torch he held in his left glowed brighter from the magic flowing from him to its flames. “I am a Prince of Faerie. I am a power mightier than you have ever seen.”
The male troll flexed his arms and giant muscles rippled and popped. He flung the rabbit aside and roared at Aspen, who roared right back, matching the giant creature in gusto if not in volume.
Raising his sword high, Aspen be
gan to charge forward, and the troll took a giant step to meet him, arms outstretched to grab, smash, pummel, and destroy.
“Stop it!” two female voices shouted, one high, one very low, and the troll pulled up short. “Don’t kill anyone!”
Aspen, however, kept coming and was just poised to take a mighty swing that he knew would remove the troll’s head from its shoulders, or at least his huge kneecap from his giant knee, when Snail ploughed into him from the side.
“Oomph,” he said, tumbling into a heap beneath her, the torch flung from his grasp. He managed—just barely—to hold on to his sword, and desperately tried not to skewer her.
Though I probably should.
“How dare you!” he shouted, struggling to rise.
However, Snail was small, but not slight, and she was peasant-strong.
Aspen could use only one hand to try to get out from under her. He still held the sword and continued to not want to stab her with it. But if she holds me down any longer . . .
“Huldra!” boomed the male troll. “Tell me true, woman, why don’t I kill the intruder?”
“Because they are guests, Ukko.” Huldra answered.
“Guests?” Ukko laughed. “They are food!”
“Get off of me!” Aspen hissed at Snail. All the power and magic he’d felt just seconds ago had fled him, and now he was afraid that Ukko the troll would come and step on his head while he was being held down by a mere girl.
A rather ignominious end, he thought grimly.
“They are midwives,” Huldra said.
“Midwives?” Aspen shouted. That was the final indignity, and with a massive heave, he was able to shove Snail aside. Springing to his feet, he brandished his sword at Ukko. “That is it. I am—”
“A midwife, yes,” Snail interrupted. “Or rather, I am the midwife.” Her hair was wet with sweat and plastered across her face, and she took a moment to tuck it behind her ears. “And I have delivered you a son, Ukko the Cave Troll. A fine son. Big and . . . trollish.”
Ukko squinted at her. “Yes, you could be a midwife.” He turned back to Aspen. “But what is he?” His voice roared the suspicion.
Aspen tried to stand straight and tall like the heroes always did in the ballads, but it seemed useless in the face of the troll’s great height. He would have brandished his sword manfully at the creature, but he noticed his hand had started to shake and didn’t think that would be too impressive. But still his voice held strong as he said, “I am—”
Snail interrupted him again. “He is . . . my . . . er . . . apprentice.”
Both Aspen and Ukko turned and stared at Snail.
Aspen found his voice first. “Your what?”
“My apprentice,” she stated firmly this time. “He was a great help in delivering your son, bringing fire and water as demanded. He used his magic powers to turn the child in the womb.” She took a step toward Ukko, putting herself between him and Aspen. “And you know the law against harming midwives.” Placing her hands on her hips, she added, “And their apprentices.”
Her back was to Aspen, but he could picture the glare she must have been shooting at the troll. It made him smile to think of it, and how often she had turned her fierce anger on him the two days they had known one another.
Though Ukko was ten times Snail’s size, her glare was causing him to stop and sputter. And that made Aspen’s smile even greater.
“But . . .” Ukko waved a big troll hand at the prince’s rich clothes and bejeweled sword. “He’s a . . .”
“Ah, there is that,” Snail said, and Aspen suddenly wondered how she was going to explain his princely attire away.
“He’s a seventh son of a lesser royal,” Snail began, “and—well—you know the old rhyme, I’m sure.” She ran her hand through her hair and Aspen could see that her fingers were trembling. He had heard trolls were nearsighted, and he hoped that was true.
There was a long silence from the Ukko. His jaw had dropped so much, it looked like a cavern. A cavern with teeth and tusks.
Aspen took a firmer grip on his sword.
Suddenly, Snail began to recite in a singsong voice that had little sweetness to it and much desperation.
One is the heir,
Two is the spare,
Three sent away,
Four for the fray,
Five for the kirk,
Six legal work,
And seven alone
Must get the work done.
The troll still looked uncomprehending, though the rhyme seemed to have the power of a spell, for his great head rolled from side to side with the rhythm of it.
Aspen felt happy for the small reprieve. Also, he was positive Snail was glaring up at the troll. It was what she did in a tight spot. Perhaps the troll thought that was part of the spell, too. And, he thought, if Ukko can see that Snail has one blue eye and one green eye here in the dark cave, he will probably credit that to magic, too.
She took a deep breath, then said, “The seventh son. He has to find his own work. And this one, well . . .”
How stupid can the troll be that he needed every little bit of it explained? Aspen wondered. But then, trolls are not known for their brains.
Snail took another deep breath, almost—Aspen thought—a death rattle. And it will certainly mean a death if she cannot convince the big ugly fellow that I am (he shuddered) an apprentice.
For a moment he wondered which was worse: death or embarrassment. Only a moment.
“And this one,” Snail repeated, “has not once but twice caught a baby before it hit the floor.” Another deep breath. “One of them was a mer’s child. And you know how slippery they can be.”
Aspen could see the troll nodding.
“So he—um—like a good seventh son, gets the work done!” Then the rest of it tumbled out. “So his father apprenticed him to a midwife. Me. And part of the training is to seek out places that are far away and to help others for a year under the keen eye of the midwife. We left his father’s . . . er . . . castle and, after a year of wandering, found ourselves in your woods and got lost and . . .”
It was clear she was running out of invention and Aspen was not certain he could help her with that any more than he could catch a baby. But, he thought, I will certainly try. He was about to stand and—Oberon help me!—spin more of the preposterous tale, when fate in the form of the troll wife intervened.
“Did you not hear the midwife, husband?” Huldra said. There was a snap to her tone that made Ukko’s shoulders tense upward as if they were protecting his ears from being boxed. “She has delivered you a son! And the apprentice helped, too.”
Ukko gave Aspen one last angry snarl, then relented. “A son? Let me see this miracle, wife, for didn’t the hedge witch tell us you would never bear a child, before we ate her?”
Stepping lightly around Snail, he received the small burden from his mate. “A son,” he breathed, and looked back at Snail with such a beatific smile on his face that Aspen was surprised to find he was glad he had not killed the great ugly beast.
“Maybe we ate the hedge witch too soon,” mused Huldra.
Aspen thought, Snail really must have powerful magic to make a troll regret a meal.
“She could have marinated a day or two longer,” Huldra added.
“I shall name him . . .” Ukko thought a minute and turned to Aspen. “What are you called?”
Quaking just a little, Aspen took a quick breath and stepped next to Snail. “Ailenbran Astaeri, Bright Celestial, Ruire of the Tir na nOg.”
Ukko nodded. It was like a boulder nodding. “I shall name him Og.”
“A strong troll name, that,” declared Huldra, grinning.
Aspen bowed. “I am honored.” He turned and winked at Snail.
“A killing in the birthing room can curse the lives of all involved,” Snai
l said, softly so that only he could hear. “I apologize for the ruse, Your Serenity. If you could just be my apprentice till we leave in the morning?”
“I couldn’t poss—” he began, but didn’t finish. He knew he should be appalled at her interruption of battle, at her assumption of higher station. He should be angry with her for embarrassing him. He could justifiably have taken her head off for any number of infractions of the laws of royal privilege. But mostly he just felt tired.
Looking at the trolls hugging their newborn and patting its tiny—comparatively tiny—head, he felt the tension leave the cave. He knew that, at least for now, there would be no killing done here. And for that he was completely grateful. And amazingly relieved.
SNAIL FINDS THE WAY
The baby cried on and off most of the night, and none of them got much sleep, Huldra least of all.
Ukko had paced half the night, snarling at his wife, and she bared her teeth at him more than a dozen times while nursing the child. Both of them fell asleep at last and snored with a sound as loud as rolls of thunder in the mountains.
Snail and the prince found themselves wide awake because of the noise, staring across the fire at each other. It was like trying to sleep during a battle.
“How do we quiet them?” Aspen asked at last.
“We don’t.”
“Who could have guessed that having a child was such a noisy occupation,” the prince said, not really expecting an answer.
But Snail answered him anyway, between yawns. “That’s just the way of trolls.” And then she added with a wry smile, “Actually, it’s the way of any parents of any newborn. Sleep becomes a privilege, not a right.” How often had she heard Mistress Softhands say that. And thinking of Mistress Softhands again, she was suddenly wistful, and thought, Must be lack of sleep that makes me so . . . so . . . so weepy!
“If that is true,” the prince muttered, “then I shall never have a baby. I prize my sleep too well for that.” His face seemed a bit pulled in on itself, as if the lack of the one night’s sleep had cost him several years.
