by K L Conger
Standing there, framed by the cabin's doorway and shivering in the light cast by the popping fire, stood a young woman. For a glimmer of an instant, Taras thought he saw Inga standing in his doorway. His heart leapt at her blond hair and pale skin.
A second look told him this was not the woman he loved and waited for. Though light of hair and skin—reminiscent of Inga—her eyes were much darker. Her features, less delicate. This woman wore no cloak, but her clothing did billow around her in the wind. Her skin looked pale as ash, and Taras wondered vaguely if a vila had come for supper.
No. Taras peered more closely. He'd seen this young woman before. But where? Another five seconds of study brought the memory to the surface. He’d seen in her in the village when he’d visited months ago. She had sat apart from the other villagers, something of an outcast.
Her long, tangled hair now dripped with moisture. Her belly swelled with child. Her dark eyes held both caution and resignation.
She shivered in the doorway, and Taras felt a curiously strong compassion for her.
Taking his hand away from his knife, he stepped cautiously toward the shivering young woman. To his surprise, she did not step back. He would have thought she’d have some fear of him. He was a stranger to her, after all, and a foreigner to boot.
“It’s you,” he said quietly. “How did you—”
The young woman’s knees buckled. She collapsed.
Taras caught her before she fully hit his wooden stoop. Her body still received a jolt from the fall. Worming one arm into position under her shoulders and the other under her knees, he scooped her up and took her into the cabin. Laying her on his bed, he covered her with pelts. Her clothing had soaked through. He’d have to get her into something dry.
The blankets he draped over her shuddered violently as she shivered. For the first time, Taras registered the red rings around her eyes and the pale clamminess of her skin. Not all the moisture on her face came from the rain.
He rested a hand gently on her forehead. It emanated heat like burning coals. Poor girl.
Turning back to the open door, he crossed the room and stepped out onto the porch, looking both ways.
How did she get here? Surely, she couldn’t have made the journey alone from her village. Yet, there was no one. Even if someone brought her, wouldn’t they, too, want shelter from the storm? She must be alone. With a sigh, he went back inside and firmly shut the door, sliding an extra wooden plank across it and into the two rungs he’d built just wider than the door. An extra measure of security against anyone who might try to force their way in.
Did the young woman become ill from walking so far in the storm, or did she walk to his cabin because she’d become ill? He remembered well how no one helped her when the wolf came. He didn't know why, but he didn’t think it could be a coincidence that she seemed to have no friends in the village, and now she’d arrived alone.
Over the next hour, Taras gently eased her out of her clothes and into dry ones. He swaddled her in one of his shirts, which billowed around her, entirely too big. He didn't bother putting pants on her, as he didn't think he could have maneuvered his britches over her round belly. Instead, he wrapped her from the hips down in a blanket, doing his best to tie it at her waist in the semblance of a skirt.
He tore up his oldest shirt, dousing one of the rags in cool water to lay over her forehead. Warming the remains of the stew he’d eaten hours ago, he offered it to her. She remained only semi-conscious, and he couldn’t get her to open her mouth. Twice, when it opened on its own, he took the opportunity to jam the spoon in—feeling distinctly insensitive—but it only happened twice in half an hour. She swallowed scant spoonfuls. Not nearly enough.
When she’d fallen into a deep slumber, complete with loud, ragged breathing, Taras piled animal skins, including the wolf he’d killed in her village, to create a pallet on the floor by the fire.
As he lay down to sleep, a painful reminiscence hit him. This reminded him all too much of sleeping on the floor in his rooms in Moscow and giving Inga the bed when their arrangement first began. This was quite different, of course. He no longer resided in Moscow. It wouldn't have mattered whether he'd slept on the floor or beside the young woman on the bed. There was no one to judge. No one to tell. Most importantly, this woman was not Inga.
This woman would soon deliver a child. If this woman had a mate, if the father of her child still lived, she probably wouldn’t be here by herself. Chances were, she walked the earth alone. A fever Taras couldn’t be sure she would live through ravaged her body. Worry struck him more firmly. He would show this woman all the compassion he could muster, but he didn't relish the idea of burying a woman and her unborn child.
He shifted on the pallet. On the other hand, what if the woman died and the baby lived? Did he want the responsibility of a child? No. Taras realized firmly that he did not. No, it wouldn’t happen. The mother lay in a warm place now. She would live to care for her baby.
With possibilities running rampant through his head, he dozed until sudden moans startled him from his sleep.
The wind still howled like a living thing outside, and his fire had burnt down considerably. Several hours must have passed.
Rising from his bed of skins, he went to check on the expectant mother. A sheen of sweat covered her skin and her forehead remained hot. He re-wetted the now nearly dry rag and laid it on her forehead once more. She made no more noise. Taras built the fire back up and returned to his blankets.
The instant he laid down, she moaned again, then cried out in pain.
Taras sat up in alarm. Jumping to his feet, he crossed back to her bed. She barely seemed conscious. Her eyes opened, rolled back in her head, closed again. She curled into a ball, as though her stomach pained her.
Taras pulled back the blankets and found exactly what he’d feared. Blood and water soaked the thin blanket wrapped around her waist. Taras had never delivered a human baby before. He’d delivered the offspring of a few animals back in England as a lad years ago. If there were any complications, he wouldn't have the slightest idea what to do.
Still, this woman's baby was coming. Nature would not be held back.
Feeling self-conscious, he gently guided the young woman's knees up, so they pointed at the roof and her feet rested flat against the bed. The young woman cringed again, her entire body drawing in on itself with pain, and she screamed. Taras glanced between her knees. He could see the baby's head. It would not be long at all.
The young woman grunted and gurgled. Taras could tell she bore down, though she made little noise. Perhaps she simply didn’t have the energy to scream.
The male child arrived minutes later, looking purple and slimy. He remained ominously silent, and a pang of fear lanced through Taras’s chest. He remembered he needed to wipe the slime from the boy’s face, especially around its mouth and nose. He did so, and rubbed the boy’s chest roughly with clenched knuckles. Seconds felt like years as he tried to induce breath. The idea of losing the child frightened Taras more than he would have thought. Finally, with a violent spasm, the child opened its mouth and wailed. His skin instantly turned pink.
Taras warmed some water and cleaned the baby off as best he could. He stood over the child’s mother, who appeared to be sleeping. Her slumber seemed too deep to be normal, however. Sweat soaked her from hair to hem and her breathing sounded ragged.
“My lady,” he shook her shoulder to try and wake her. She moaned delicately, but didn’t so much as open her eyes. Taras didn’t think she felt well enough to feed her son. He wrapped the baby in skins and placed it on his pallet beside the fire.
Taras wrapped the mother up as best he could in skins.
As he picked up the baby again, he touched the boy’s hand. The tiny blue fist felt like ice. Worrying that such a small creature wouldn't be able to stay warm even so close to the fire, Taras unlaced his shirt to lay the baby against his chest, hoping to keep it warm.
He barely slept, too afraid the
child would stop breathing or he would fall asleep and roll over, crushing it. Each time he nodded off, he jerked awake minutes later, awakened by the child’s squirming movements, the howling of the wind, or the mother’s ragged breathing.
The fresh mewling of the child abruptly woke him. The fire had burnt down again, so he must have slept a few hours. The cabin retained most of its heat, despite the dying of the fire. Other than the baby’s cries, Taras registered only a strange silence. The wind had finally gone still.
He sat up. He would need to wake the mother and try to get her to feed her child. The boy could not go much longer without nourishment.
Rising, he scooped the child into his arms and crossed to where the mother lay. He stared down at her for a full minute before his tired brain truly comprehended what he saw. The wind was not the only thing that fell silent while Taras slept. Her chest no longer moved. She looked more peaceful than at any time since she’d arrived.
Bone-deep sadness made Taras’s entire being ache. This baby had lost its mother, much as Taras lost his when only a boy. Except this child would have no memory of the warm, feminine face above his bed at night. If he lived long enough to sustain any memories at all.
She’d never even laid eyes on her son.
Taras studied the baby boy in his arms, wondering how on earth he would keep it alive. He had nothing to feed it. He must dig one grave, now. He prayed there wouldn't eventually be two.
Chapter 7
August 1552, Siberia
The morning after the baby boy's birth, Taras buried its mother. It became the first grave he’d dug in his new home, and filled him with a deep melancholy he couldn't shake. Death remained the one companion no man could escape.
He wrapped the baby in all the skins he owned to keep it warm against the elements. The wind remained calm, but the air felt cold and the child wouldn’t survive long out of doors, and an even shorter time without food. Taras tied a long blanket over one shoulder and under his opposite arm, creating a sling, so the boy lay against his chest as he traveled. He rode Jasper slowly. Even Jasper's most gentle canter would jostle the child too much. So Taras walked Jasper toward the village the young woman had come from.
She must have family there. Despite whatever she’d done to anger the villagers, perhaps the child's grandparents or the girl’s siblings would want to take the baby on. Taras certainly couldn't take care of it himself. He vaguely wondered how to convey the situation to the villagers. Their dialect sounded strange enough that Taras didn’t understand all their words. No matter. He’d simply have to find a way.
He set out early and reached the village around noon. It looked much the same as the last time he’d visited. The huts sat in some semblance of a square, with tiny, man-made streets between. The villagers sat outside them, talking and working at small tasks.
Many rose and turned to stare as he approached. As he neared them, the same young man he'd spoken to before walked out to meet him. Taras had forgotten the youth. This should solve his communication problem. The last time he’d come, he and the boy had communicated fairly well. He dismounted gently as the boy walked up to him.
The boy, looking uncertain, gave a gawky and awkward bow. "Has my Lord, come to collect payment for the deer meat?"
Taras stared at the young man for a moment before full comprehension of the question came. "Not at all. That was a gift." He glanced down at the baby in the sling. "I suppose I do have another favor to ask, however."
The boy arched an eyebrow in curiosity.
Taras indicated the sling and the young man stepped up to peer down at the baby.
“There was a young woman here when I came last,” Taras said. “She sat by herself, away from the others. She arrived at my home last night during the storm, her belly swollen with child."
The young man raised his eyes to Taras’s. Comprehension dawned in his face. "Is this her child?"
Taras nodded. "Her son. She died this morning."
The young man took a step back. "I am sorry to hear it, but most in the village will think it fitting."
Taras frowned. "Why? What did she do to anger the village?"
"She bedded with a well-respected man who did not belong to her. It is his child she has born."
Taras glanced beyond the young man at the villagers. In such a small village, with such a small group of people to choose from, Taras felt surprised they’d be so finicky about such things. "Is that all?" he asked.
The young man frowned, his brows furrowing in concentration. "The man is an elder and his wife has not been able to bear him a son. The girl, Dinara, insulted him and his wife by bearing the child instead.”
Ah. The small village politics of jealousy were at work here. It wasn't so much about the indiscretion as the child itself. Which only made Taras's predicament harder.
He stepped forward. “What is your name, boy?”
“Grigory.”
Taras nodded. “Grigory, I cannot hope to care for this child. His mother is dead and I have nothing to feed him."
Grigory shook his head even before Taras finished. "No one in the village will want to take the boy in. They’ll be shunned and disgraced for helping Dinara’s child."
Taras studied the ground, thinking. "What if we simply tell them a traveler left the child with me and I’m seeking a home for him? You don't have to tell them who the child's mother is."
Grigory’s eyes slid to one side, considering. Ultimately, he shook his head. “I think they will know. Dinara left only yesterday and today you show up with a child. A boy child, who will likely grow up to look like his father. They’ll figure it out, my lord."
Taras sighed. He supposed they would. These people may be uneducated, but they weren't complete fools.
The boy’s eyebrows jumped. "Perhaps I can fashion another solution for you, my lord. Come with me. Leave the baby with the horse. Best if the others don't see it."
Taras frowned uncertainly, but walked around to Jasper's other side, so the horse blocked him from the villagers’ view. He slipped the sling from his shoulder and hooked it around the horn of Jasper’s saddle, so the baby hung suspended at Jasper's flank. He tied the horse’s reins to a tree, then followed Grigory toward the village, keeping a few feet behind him.
The boy went to stand in front of a particular hut. The man sitting in front of the hut couldn't have been more than a few years older than Taras. Physically, he appeared much worse off. Gray streaked his hair, though his face remained unlined, and his hands looked painfully gnarled.
For the next few minutes, Grigory made a case for giving Taras a goat. Taras didn't understand everything the boy said. Some of the words he used were different than the ones used in Moscow, which made his meanings difficult to understand, even though Taras deciphered most of his sentences.
From what he could tell, Grigory claimed Taras nursed some unseen ailment and needed goat milk to heal it. He didn't know what ailments these people used goat milk for. Probably more superstition than medical treatment. Still, he understood Grigory’s plan. The youth also hinted that because Taras gifted the elk to the villagers, he should receive the goat in return.
The gnarled man in front of the hut motioned Taras forward. He spoke the same language as Grigory, but mumbled. Taras didn't understand him.
Grigory turned to Taras. "He asks if, in the future, you would be willing to trade with us. In the heart of winter, food is hard to come by and many of our people die. Perhaps you might bring food and we will trade for it?“
Taras swept his eyes from the man to the other villagers, most of whom stared at him with concerned yet hopeful eyes. He bowed his head graciously. "I’m happy to trade with you in the future. I will do my best to provide you with food when the snows come."
Grigory had translated his elder’s words for Taras, and the man obviously understood Taras, for his mouth split into a wide, toothless grin.
Taras immediately felt the villagers’ happiness and relief around him. Several o
f them set about getting things ready for him. They led a small, skinny goat out from behind the row of huts, a rope looped around its midsection like a harness and connected to a leash at its neck. The villagers placed the leash in Taras’s hand. He smiled and thanked them.
At that moment, he noticed a particular woman several huts away, glaring at him. He hadn't noticed her the first time he’d come to the village, though she’d no doubt been present. A leather thong secured her dark hair at the nape of her neck. It fell down her back in tangles of black, white, and gray. Her features were severe, her cheek bones sharply pointed. She glared at him as though he'd insulted her deeply.
Taras couldn’t imagine what he’d done to anger her, but clearly she wasn’t happy to see him. Taras slipped the baby’s sling over his neck a few minutes later, careful to keep the child covered. He wondered what the villagers thought he held in the sling. As they still obviously thought him a god, he doubted they’d question it.
Ultimately, they gifted him the goat, its rope tied to Jasper’s saddle, and the pelt of the elk he’d left them before. He tried to decline it, encouraging them to store it up against the coming winter. They wouldn't hear of it.
"It is part of the trade," Grigory said. “You bring us meat. We will skin it and give you the fur. It is only fair because you’ve helped us to live."
Before leaving, Taras noticed the same angry woman glaring at him again. He raised a hand to all the villagers, but gazed directly at her, hoping to win her approval. If anything, her eyes darkened. She lurched angrily to her feet, spun on her toe, and disappeared into her hut.
So, not all the villagers were happy about this arrangement. Not all were in awe of him. He supposed it was to be expected.
He returned to his cabin, holding the baby—who’d stayed entirely too quiet since its birth—and towing a bleating goat.
The sun had begun to sink below the horizon as he arrived home, laid the baby on his bed, and built a fire. He took the goat to the barn, stabled it beside Jasper, and milked it into a wooden bucket. Once inside, he put the milk into one of his water skins and gently tipped into the baby's mouth.
