The Shore of Women

by Pamela Sargent

  As I reached for a piece of dead wood, a sharp pain stabbed at me; I groaned as my belly cramped. My time was coming. Somehow I remembered to pick up my wood before stumbling down toward the camp.

  I set down the wood and called out; Cress ran toward me from the riverbank. “It is time,” I said, and nearly doubled over with the next pain.

  “Are the pains coming often?”

  I straightened. “This one is passing.”

  “You must go inside before the next one comes.”

  I clutched at her cloak. She led me to our hut and fed the fire while I knelt on my mat. “I’ll stay with you now,” she said. “The others will come soon.”

  Cress helped me prop my back against the wall. All my fears were suddenly amplified. The child might be born with a defect; I might be unable to deliver it at all. I might have it and be unable to nurse. Then the pain took me again, and I could think of nothing else.

  Between the pains, Cress forced me to my feet, supporting me with her arm as we walked around the hearth. The pains were soon sharper, the contractions closer together. I moaned as Cress settled me on the mat. “I can’t…” I started to say.

  “You are strong enough, Birana. You mustn’t fear.”

  Dimly, I could hear the voices of the men as they returned to the camp. “Cress,” I gasped, “fetch Arvil.”

  “I cannot. This is not for him to see.”

  I clenched my teeth. “Please! I want him with me.”

  She shook her head but got up and left the hut. Another pain shot through me; I forced myself not to scream. When it had passed, Arvil was at my side.

  “Birana, is it painful for you?”

  “I’ll be all right. Stay with me.”

  “I shall. I must make something for you.” He went to the fire and crouched as he took out a pouch of herbs. Cress and Hyacinth entered; I closed my eyes.

  “Birana.” Cress was handing me Arvil’s cup. “You should drink this. It will dull your pain and won’t harm the child.” She glanced at Arvil. “We also know of this herb.” She held the cup to my lips as I drank.

  Hyacinth said, “The man must leave us.”

  Arvil rose. “I will not have Birana face this without me.”

  “You cannot…”

  “It was I who brought her to this,” he said firmly. “I’ll stay.”

  “If the child is cursed,” Hyacinth muttered, “it will be on your head.”

  “Stop it!” I cried, frightened. “I won’t hear of curses now! I want him to stay.”

  Cress murmured to me, reminding me of how to breathe. I took in air and exhaled, panting. Cress handed me a soft piece of leather as more pain seized me; I put it into my mouth and bit down. Hands pulled off my clothes, then laid a hide over me. Willow was near, massaging my thighs as the other two women washed their hands in hot water. My fingers dug into Arvil’s arm. His face was pale; each time I moaned, he winced. I expected him to flee, to hide from this with the other men.

  Throughout that night, I was in labor. The pain forced everything else from my mind; my body was fighting itself, trying to force what I carried from me, and yet it seemed the child would never be born. I promised myself I would not scream in Arvil’s presence and broke that promise many times. I didn’t care about the child; I only wanted the pain to end.

  I screamed and gasped for air, throwing the hide from myself. My body’s struggle and the heat of the fire were making me feverish. Hands kneaded my belly and thighs and then forced my legs apart.

  “I see the head,” Willow said. Cress leaned over me. “It is coming now.”

  “Birana, you must bear down, you must push the child out. You are open enough, but you must help.” Cress gripped me as a hand reached inside me. “Push!”

  I panted and bore down. Arvil was still with me; I caught a glimpse of his terror-filled face before he lifted a hand to his mouth. “Arvil!” Cress said sharply. “If your courage is going to fail you now, then leave us. I cannot tend to you now!”

  “I will stay.” His voice sounded faint. He took my hand. I cried out, feeling the child leave me, then pushed again as fluid flowed from me.

  “So much blood!” Arvil cried. He dropped my hand. Hyacinth was speaking, chiding him. I fell back on the mat.

  The pain was gone. I opened my eyes. Cress dipped a soft piece of hide in warm water and began to wash me. Something lay on my chest; it squirmed in my arms. I heard another cry, a baby’s cry.

  “Is it…” I whispered.

  “See for yourself,” Cress answered; she was smiling.

  Hyacinth thrust her stone knife into hot water, then cut the cord. I drew my child to my chest, touched the small body, counted the fingers.

  “A girl,” Cress said. “You have been blessed. Our band is blessed.”

  “Arvil.” I turned my head. He was at my side; he had not run from the hut. Too exhausted to say more, I drifted into sleep.

  When I awoke, Cress was holding my daughter, now clothed in a tiny fur robe. Someone had covered me with a hide.

  “Birana.” Arvil was speaking. “The women say you’ll be well, that the child will live.”

  “She is hungry,” Cress said as she handed the child to me. Arvil eased me up. I pulled at my nipple until milk flowed; the baby nursed at my breast.

  “She is so small,” he said. “I didn’t know how she could come from you, how she could pass through your opening, but now she seems so small.”

  “She’ll grow.” Her eyes were blue; the fine hair on her nearly bald head was as pale as Arvil’s.

  “She will grow strong, I’ll see to it. I will teach her how to hunt.”

  Hyacinth shook her head. “You should not have been here to witness this, and now you speak of teaching a man’s tasks to her.”

  “Be silent,” Cress murmured. “He has brought no harm to the girl. Perhaps the other men will think on this when another child is born and won’t huddle in their hut away from us.”

  My mind cleared; I was suddenly aware of my dilemma. This band would want more children from me now, would expect me to bear as many as I could. My child was a girl. I thought of her growing up among these people. The women, kind as they were, would dull her mind with their tales and teach her to submit to the men. Arvil might protect her for a time, but when she was old enough to bear children, the men would summon her with no thought of her wishes. Whatever children she and I might have would only prolong this group’s tenuous hold on life, without altering its eventual fate.

  I had cursed my daughter by giving her life. I looked down at her round face, at the pursed lips suckling at my nipple, and thought of putting a hide over her mouth and nose when we were alone. No one was likely to guess what I had done; children had died here before. I gazed at my daughter, held her to me, and knew that I could not commit such an act.

  “That child will live.” Cress sounded as proud as if she had borne the baby herself. “She should have a name.”

  “Nallei,” I responded almost without thinking.

  Willow drew her brows together. “Nallei?”

  “She was a woman who was like a mother to me. She might have wanted a daughter of her own, but…” I swallowed. “In a way, she made my child’s life possible. Nallei is dead. I want my child to have her name.”

  “Nallei,” Arvil whispered as he gazed down at our daughter.

  The winter soon passed; in spite of the cold, Nallei thrived. I had enough milk to feed her. Arvil went far from the camp in search of meat for me but helped me care for Nallei whenever he could. The other men muttered at this, clearly wondering why a man would bathe a child or hold her while she slept, but said little. When they mocked Arvil, they did so gently; our child, after all, was whole and healthy. Arvil’s behavior could be excused.

  With Nallei tied to my back or resting in a sling against my chest, I was able to forage. Days came when the wind from the sea was warmer and green shoots began to poke their way through the light covering of snow. I was stronger; Arvi
l delighted in his child, still wondered at the apparent miracle of her birth. The guilt that had haunted him was gone; the band was content; Nallei and I were safe.

  I wondered if I could bring myself to leave. I could free Nallei from this life, yet when I thought of the journey that might lie ahead, my mind faltered. I knew where I could take her but also pondered the obstacles that I would face along the way. It was easier not to think of leaving, to tell myself I could make my plans later.

  I was searching for greens along the bank when Arvil finally spoke to me of his own thoughts. He untied the straps holding Nallei to my back and held her as I dug at ferns and watercress.

  I smiled at him as he made a face at the child. “The men will mock you again,” I said.

  “Pelican will, but he is only a boy. Even Tern now says that a man with such good seed may act as he wishes, although he would not treat a child this way.” Nallei whimpered and let out a wail; he rocked her until she quieted. “Before she came into the world,” he went on, “you and I spoke of leaving this place.”

  “Yes.” I would have to tell him my thoughts now. I looked up, making certain no one was near. “I’ve been afraid to think of that, but we can’t wait much longer.”

  “That is not what I think, Birana. She is so small still. If anything happened to one of us, the other could not tend her alone. If we were both…”

  I stood up and adjusted the sling holding my plants. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “There are others here who can help care for her. We can wait until she grows, until she’s able to walk and travel with us, and then…”

  “You know what will happen if we stay. We’ve had one child, and the others will want us to have more. And we have to think of Nallei, too. You know what her life would be like here, and when she’s older, she may not be able to leave, may be afraid to go.”

  He handed the baby to me. “I have thought of leaving. I’ve thought of everything you say. You think that, if my seed doesn’t flower in you again, the others will summon you, but I won’t let it happen, I’ll find a way to stop it. You say we must think of Nallei. I am thinking of her. Even if we left this camp now, where can we take her? Will you leave her alone in this world with no friends when we’re gone?” He took a breath. “Even this life would be better.”

  I gazed into his gray eyes, steeling myself. “There’s a place we can take her where she can have a life.”

  “Where?”

  “My city.”

  His mouth dropped open. “But they cast you out. You said…”

  “They cast me out. Nallei’s a baby, she did nothing. They can’t punish her for what I did—even the cruelest ones there wouldn’t harm a baby girl. They’ll have to take her in.”

  He gazed at Nallei, then lifted his head. “Your enclave wanted you dead. When they see that you are alive…”

  “Let them see it!” I moved closer to him. “You don’t have to come to the wall with me. They needn’t know about you at all. I can protect you if you wish.”

  His face hardened. “You are saying I’m a coward.”

  “I’m saying you can do what you like.” I sighed. “I don’t want to make this journey. I could go on here, become like the others. But how could I forgive myself if I saw Nallei growing up with nothing to hope for except keeping this pitiful group alive for a few more generations? Do you want to see us both become like the women here?”

  Arvil did not reply.

  “She could have a life in the city. It’s worth the chance. I can accept whatever happens to me if I know she’s safe there.”

  “When she is older…” Arvil started to say.

  “When she’s older, it’ll be too late. The city might take a baby, a small one who wouldn’t remember this world. They wouldn’t take an older child, one they’d have more trouble training, who might not be able to adapt.”

  “In the city,” he said, “she’ll learn to hate us, if she learns of us. She will despise me for being a man and scorn you for what you have done.”

  “She may learn to understand us in time.” I spoke with more confidence than I felt. I could not believe that the city would willingly condemn my daughter, an innocent and one of their own kind, but they would know how she had come into the world and many would scorn her for it. Nallei might grow up as an outcast, yet her life there would surely be better than what she would endure here; she might be grateful for that. “Perhaps, when she is grown, she may try to change the way things are.”

  “You would enter the enclave yourself if you could. You would leave me and forget what I’ve been to you.”

  “It’s useless to say such things. I can’t enter the city again.”

  He turned toward me. “This journey… it would be harder than the one that brought us here. We might not live through it. We would be on foot, with Nallei. Who will help us?”

  “We must try, for Nallei’s sake.”

  He glowered at our child; I held her closer to me. “It is all for Nallei now—everything you do.”

  “That may be true.” I touched his face. “A mother’s bond with her child is a strong one. I thought a father’s might be as strong if he knew that the child was his.” He shied away from me. “Arvil, if you won’t come with me, I’ll have to go alone.”

  “You cannot make the journey by yourself.”

  “I will make it one way or another. Let the city take my life if I reach the wall. Part of me will live on in her.”

  He paced along the riverbank as I waited for his response. Whatever I had said, he knew I could not make the journey alone, that I would never reach the wall. He could go to Tern now, see that I never left the camp; he could comfort himself by believing he was protecting me.

  He stopped pacing and folded his arms. “You know how to use the Lady’s circlet.”

  “Of course,” I murmured, wondering why he had mentioned that.

  “Perhaps there is no need for you to go to the wall. It might be better to take Nallei to a shrine, to summon a few of your kind there and leave the child for them, escape before they can reach us. We will have to think about this.”

  My heart leaped; he was agreeing to travel with me. “Arvil, I…”

  “Do not thank me. You may find cause to regret this. I may curse myself for leading you back into danger.” He took my arm as we walked back toward the camp.

  During the following days, I collected the things I would need for the journey. Each day, I carried a piece of dried fish or meat or a tool to the hole I had dug by a tree’s roots, then covered it with a stone, making certain no one had followed me there. I supposed that I could hide my preparations from the women by stealing only a little every day.

  I was not prepared to find Cress standing by the tree as I crept there early one morning. I wanted to run but forced myself to approach her. “I thought you had gone out to forage,” I said. “You will find little here.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What did you carry here this time?”

  I swallowed and shook my head.

  “I know what you’re doing, Birana. I have seen what lies under the rock. Did you think you could take things from our hut unseen?”

  “Who else has seen me?” I asked.

  “No one else yet, but they will soon know. Why do you steal and hide what you take?”

  I reached into Nallei’s sling and took out the dried fruit hidden under her covering; she stirred and clutched at my hair with her small hand. “I’m not stealing. I’ve taken only what I use or haven’t eaten. I won’t take anything that belongs to you.”

  “Why?” The wrinkles around her mouth deepened. “But I do not have to ask, do I? You need food for a journey. You’re planning to leave us.”

  I could not deny it. “It’s true,” I whispered. “Arvil and I are going to leave with our child.” I waited, expecting her to rail against me, to run back to the camp and summon Tern.

  “Why, Birana? Have we been so evil to you?”

  Her question pained me.
“No, Cress. You’ve been kind; you’ve been my friends. If I were alone, I might stay with you, but I have to think of my daughter. Please try to understand. In the citadels of the Lady, she can be given a home and a better life than she has here. That’s where I’m going to take her.”

  “That was the Lady’s purpose for you? To send you out so that you could bring this child back to Her?”

  I shook my head. “But She’ll take the child.”

  “We cannot go to the Lady’s realm, Birana. Always we were told this—my mother told this to me, and hers to her. We must wait for the Lady to come to us. I thought that you might bring Her…”

  “I came out of a citadel. Now I must take my child there.”

  “And will the Lady take you back?”

  “No,” I replied. “My child may find a home there. They won’t take me back.”

  She bowed her head; tears ran down her wrinkled face. “You’ll be taking our last hope with you. Hyacinth’s children die, and Willow lies with Skua and brings forth no young. My sins keep me from bearing more young. There will be no mates for our boys. We might as well cast ourselves into the sea.”

  I put my arm around her. “You mustn’t say that. You could still…”

  “Don’t speak falsely to me now. There will be nothing for us.”

  “There would be nothing if I stayed.”

  “There would be children!”

  “Yes,” I said, “and children for them in time, but after a while there would only be what you have now—children born weak or ill. If I thought there was a chance for something else, I would stay, but there isn’t. You’d need many more men and women here for your children to thrive—the seed of one man and one woman isn’t enough.”

  Cress wiped her face with one sleeve. “Now I see that the Lady has forgotten us. I helped you bring your daughter into the world, and now you’ll take her from us.”