Seven Crow Stories

by Robert J. Wiersema

  “Paul,” she said, taking his hand. “He is a real doctor.”

  “Then I don’t get it. Why is he recommending we go to a midwife, instead of just saying he’ll deliver the baby? What sort of a doctor is that?”

  “He’s a good doctor. That’s why he’s suggesting we should go back to see Claire. He knows what’s best for me, and what’s best for the baby. And I think he’s right. I felt more comfortable with Claire than I did in that examining room today.”

  “Yeah, but nobody likes doctors. You’re supposed to feel uncomfortable when you go there.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s not that. It felt right to be at Claire’s. It felt like she knew more than any doctor would. I don’t know why, but I just know that it’s the right thing for me. It’s what I need.”

  They walked the rest of the way home in silence.

  So the months passed in that way. The baby within Abigail grew, from the size of a peanut to the size of a tightly clenched fist, and gradually, to the size of an open hand. And Abigail grew too, at first, barely noticeably, but then, almost overnight, she widened and swelled, the baby setting low-down, her body rounding and glowing. And Paul, who thought on their wedding night that she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, fell in love with her all over again, correcting himself every time he looked at her: no, this is the most beautiful I have ever seen her. . . . At night, where they had used to sleep facing one another, their faces and breaths virtually one, they began to sleep spoon fashion, his body fitting around hers, one arm under her head, one arm wrapped around her belly or over her breasts, as if something could happen to her while she was sleeping, and he wouldn’t allow it. The winter months were a time of growing.

  They became regular visitors at the farm, Paul sitting on the front stoop with John while Abigail disappeared inside with Claire, emerging a while later with a progress report. Occasionally, Paul would get up the nerve to ask John, “So what are they doing in there?”

  John would only shrug, and take a swallow of his coffee. “I have absolutely no idea.”

  And Paul would look out over the fallow fields, not knowing what to think.

  Paul and Abigail walked to the farm every time, always trying out new routes, trying to find the shortest path between the two houses, for use when her time came. Claire told Abigail what to expect, what to look for to indicate that labour was coming on. And late one afternoon in March, it began.

  “Paul!” He heard her calling him from the kitchen in his workshop in the basement. He knew, just from the sound of her voice, what was going on. He dropped the plane onto the board that would form one side of the cradle—an early anniversary gift—and vaulted up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  She was already in her jacket by the time he reached her. Her face was bright red, covered in a light sheen of sweat. “Are you okay?” he asked, pulling on his jacket.

  She nodded.

  “Should I call my father and have him give us a ride over, or are you okay to walk?” He pulled on his shoes without tying them.

  “No, I’m fine. I’ll be fine with walking over.” She took a cup off the table and placed it gently in the sink.

  “Are you sure? Because he said to call. Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

  “Paul, relax. It doesn’t hurt. I’ll be fine until we get there. Plenty of time. Plenty of time.”

  He grabbed the packed bag from under the table. “Are you sure, because you look all flushed. Are you hurting?”

  “No, I’m excited. Paul, we’re having a baby.”

  And that stopped him cold in his tracks, suddenly realizing, fully completely, for the first time, the enormity of what was going on.

  “Do you want to go to the hospital? Because we can call Doctor Evans and have him meet us there.”

  “Paul, let’s just do it this way. This is what we’ve been preparing for.”

  “Okay,” he said, suddenly sobered. “Let’s get going.”

  “Not until you tie your shoes.”

  They left through the back door.

  John was sitting in his usual place as they came through the field, not yet planted. He’d been able to see them coming for over a quarter mile through the fields in the dusk, and as they stepped into the yard, he called out, “They’re here, mother.”

  Claire appeared at the door as Paul was helping Abigail up the steps to the porch. “It’s started?”

  Abigail just nodded, climbing the first step, and Claire nodded back. “Well, come inside girl. We’ll get you ready to have a baby.” She turned to her husband. “Are you ready?”

  “Just let me get my jacket. It’s gonna be a little cold tonight.” He stood up and disappeared into the house.

  “And Abigail, you come over here and kiss this sad lookin’ young man goodbye. You’ll be a different woman when you come back.”

  Abigail leaned over and they embraced, the baby solid between them, kissing quickly, fleetingly, before she turned away.

  “Now you get into the house, girl, get out of the cold,” Claire said, following Abigail through the doorway. She met John as he was coming out. “Take good care of this boy,” she said, loudly enough for Paul to hear. “He looks scared enough to bolt.”

  “You take care of your business and I’ll take care of mine,” he said, zipping up his coat. “Now get inside.” He smiled and they kissed quickly before she disappeared, closing the door behind herself.

  John sat down on the stoop in his usual spot and lifted his mug. “I’d offer you a cup,” he said, “but we’ve got things we have to be doing.”

  Paul pulled his arms tightly around himself, shivering even though he was sweating inside his down jacket. “What sort of things?”

  “Just let me finish my coffee. Just because you don’t have one is no reason to let mine go to waste.” He drained the mug with one swallow and set it back down on the stoop. Rising slowly, he said, “Okay, let’s you and me go for a little walk.”

  They set off through the barren fields, the woods looming dark ahead of them as the sun sank toward the horizon.

  Abigail was wearing only a white shift, lying on her back in John and Claire’s bed. Claire was clearing the top of the dresser, laying out bowl, fresh towels, and a small tray of stainless steel instruments. From the kitchen came a whistling sound. “That’d be my water boiled.”

  Abigail laughed. “You mean you really boil water for delivery?”

  Claire snorted. “No, of course not. You boil water for tea to have while you’re waiting. Would you like a cup?”

  Abigail shook her head.

  ““All right,” Claire said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Abigail’s contraction started the moment Claire disappeared through the doorway. It took her breath away and she couldn’t even scream. Though she wanted to.

  The woods were dim, but there was enough light from the rising moon to see the trail before them and to avoid tripping over branches or stones in their path.

  They walked in silence, until Paul asked, “What are we doing out here? Shouldn’t we be back at the house in case they need any help?”

  John shook his head. “I told you before. That’s not our place. There’s nothing that can happen that our help is going to do anything but make worse. And that’s a fact.”

  “So what’re we going to do? Just walk around out here until it’s all over? Hunt wild cigars?”

  John snickered. “No. We’ve got our things to do. Be on the lookout for dry wood. We’ll be needing to build a fire.”

  “One hit while I was away, didn’t it?” Claire asked, coming back into the bedroom with a steaming cup of tea.

  Abigail just nodded, her face wet with a sheen of new sweat.

  Claire set her tea down on the dresser and, picking up a damp cloth, sponged off Abigail’s face. “I always say that the first contrac
tions are the worst, because they take you so much by surprise, and nothing anybody says or describes to you can even hint at what it’s really going to be like when it happens.”

  “Does that mean this is the worst it’ll get?” Abigail gasped, feeling oddly like she had just run for several hours,

  Claire laughed. “Oh no, it’ll get much, much worse. It just won’t take you quite as surprise.”

  “God, there has to be a better way than this to have children.”

  Claire shook her head. “Oh, no. There’s no better way than this.”

  It seemed to Paul that they had been walking for hours, picking up chunks of windfall branches, before they finally came to a tiny clearing and John dropped his armload on the ground.

  Paul followed suit, then took a look around.

  It was already difficult to see: the sun had long since sunk below the horizon, and the light was fading quickly. But Paul could see enough. The clearing wasn’t large, but bounded by almost impenetrable dark walls of forest on all sides. It was crossed through the middle by a small creek, playing quietly along its stony bed, its banks lined with a fine sand that shimmered white.

  John took several of the branches and walked to the edge of the creek where he began building a fire on a blackened site that looked like it had seen many fires before.

  “What is this place?” Paul asked. “I’ve been all over these woods since I was a boy and I’ve never even seen this place.”

  “This is not a place for boys,” John said, without looking up.

  Claire left Abigail by herself in the bedroom, and went quietly out the back door. Climbing down from the stoop, she went to the garden.

  In the centre of the garden, where the carrots would be later in the spring, was a wide, shallow basin, filled with rain water. Crouching, Claire picked it up and carried it over to the lawn where she set it down again. She knelt next to it.

  Softly, almost imperceptibly, she began to sing. At the same time she sang, she traced her fingertips over the surface of the water drawing liquid symbols that matched the words that she sang.

  The secret, she knew, was not to pull down the moon. Rather, it was easier to catch it before it was fully risen in the first place. Easier for a woman of her age.

  As she sang and traced her symbols into the water, the moon rose there, shimmering in the basin, its surface bent and refracted by the symbols she traced over it. And the sky remained dark and moonless.

  For the moon in the basin was the real, true moon, full and heavy, round almost to the point of bursting.

  And as she finished singing, as her fingers trailed off and dried themselves on her dress, Claire whispered, to the moon in the basin of rainwater, “Wait.”

  John had gotten the fire going, and the flames licked against the dark sky. They both sat on smooth stones at the edge of the creek, the fire between them, just at the line between the stones and the white sand, which glowed orange in the firelight.

  “What is this place?” Paul asked again.

  And this time, John Joseph answered him. “In a sense, this place is a metaphor. There,” he gestured behind them, at the dark forest from which they had come, “is forest, but here is just creek and stones. Sort of a boundary place between two worlds. And that,” he pointed at where the creek came from the forest. “Is the source of it all. Its birthplace. I don’t know what happens before, out in the trees. There’s run-off, and groundwater, and swampy patches, but here, I do know.” He dipped his hand in the cold, rushing water. “We have a creek. Like it had always existed, but only came into its own here.”

  “We came all the way out here for a metaphor?” Paul asked incredulously.

  “That’s part of it,” John said. “But there is magic in metaphor.”

  And Paul realized suddenly what had been bothering him for some time. “Isn’t it supposed to be the full moon tonight? Where is the moon?”

  “That,” John said, “is part of it also.”

  When Claire returned to the bedroom, Abigail had suffered through another contraction, and didn’t say anything to her as Claire took a sip of her tea and sat down in the chair at the side of the bed.

  “How are you doing?” she asked softly, brushing the sweaty hair back from Abigail’s forehead.

  She smiled weakly. “I don’t think I’m too fond of this.”

  Claire smiled back. “Well, let’s take a look at you,” she said, pulling back the covers and lifting the hem of her shift. “Looks good. It’ll be a while yet, though.” She glanced out the window, into the darkness.

  “What will we do?” Abigail asked, in a voice that sounded almost like a sob.

  Claire laid her hand on the firm tautness of Abigail’s belly, where it was cool against the heat, and whispered, as she had to the moon, “Wait.”

  John stood up. “The moon is women’s magic, you see. It has no place in what we have to do here tonight.” He crouched down across from Paul and unzipped his jacket. “For that, we need man’s magic: earth, fire, and blood.” It was then that Paul noticed for the first time the hunting knife on his belt.

  “What are you talking about?”

  John pulled the knife from its sheath, watching Paul’s eyes on it in the firelight. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said softly.

  Paul nodded. The handle of the knife seemed to glow with a creamy warmth, and the blade burned blue in the darkness.

  “It was made for me,” John continued. “The shank is ivory, with inlaid horn. The blade is . . .” He stopped suddenly, looking around the clearing as if he had heard something in the darkness.

  “We should begin,” he said simply, and spun the knife in his hand. Using its shank, he drew a circle in the sand between Paul’s feet.

  “Much though others will argue, birthing isn’t about science or medicine or technology. It’s about magic. Women’s magic. Blood, water and the moon. It’s not a medical process—it’s about creating life from within. Do you understand that?”

  Paul nodded.

  “And there’s no holding that back, no matter what. Abby’s going to have your baby tonight, no matter what happens out here.” John took off his jacket and laid it on the sand behind him. “But there are things that should be done before that happens. Natural things. Things that have been forgotten or overlooked. Becoming a mother is part biological, and part magical. And it’s that magical part, whether you know it or not, that makes a good mother.”

  He stood up for a moment and stretched upwards, then crouched in front of Paul.

  “Take off your coat.”

  Paul did as he was told, the side of him closest to the fire still warm, his other side cold.

  “But that’s only half of it. Every child has two parents. That’s two kinds of magic, but the man’s magic is usually ignored, or forgotten. Men don’t have babies. They’ve got the biological part down pat, but they don’t have any experience of the magic. When you think about having your child, are you afraid?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you feel helpless? Like you don’t know what’s going on?”

  He nodded again.

  “Well, that has to change before you can hope to be any kind of a father at all. Being a father is more than biology. It’s earth and fire and blood.”

  John reached out, took Paul’s left wrist in his right hand, and gently extended Paul’s arm. “The next time you see your father, ask to see his arms. Look very carefully. This is man’s magic.” He extended the knife in his left hand toward Paul’s left arm. “Tell me your fears about your child. As many as you can think of.”

  There was something spellbinding about the fire, the sound of the breeze in the darkening trees, the cool smoothness of John’s voice. Paul felt his fears well up inside him, everything he had tried to push down for the past nine months, everything he had denied while he was being strong and suppo
rtive, everything he had thought he had resolved, all coming back from within him in a rush. The words spilled out, with such a force that he didn’t even notice the razor edge of John’s knife cutting thin lines into his arm, matching a single cut for each fear.

  “I’m afraid he’ll be born dead”

  cut

  “or handicapped”

  cut

  “or not born at all”

  cut

  “I’m worried that . . .”

  As he cut, John sang softly under his breath, the words holding the knife steady as he gently rocked, guiding the blade into the lattice work it was creating, locating the skin when there was too much blood to see. He didn’t even hear the list of fears, concentrating instead on the cuts, each opening like a tiny puckered mouth, thin and perfect, the blood flowing freely, pooling in the circle in the sand at Paul’s feet. With the last fear, the blade stopped moving, of its own accord.

  Paul didn’t even look at his arm, or the blood that welled onto the ground. Instead, his gaze was locked on John’s face, his golden eyes, his barely moving lips. The air hummed with the fading echoes of his chant. John gently released his arm, and, switching the knife to his right hand, gently grasped Paul’s right wrist with his left hand.

  “Now,” he said, his voice sounding as if it was coming from another place altogether, “Tell me your hopes for your child.”

  And the process began again, Paul’s head filling with hopes, dreams, ambitions, his own and those he had already wished on his son. The words spilled from him, as the blood spilled from his right arm, from the intricate tracing of cuts, spilling to the ground and mixing with the blood already there. And John sang again, the same song, different words guiding the knife, halting it as the litany concluded.

  Without saying a word, he stood up, laying the knife on the ground where he had been kneeling, and walked to the fire. Without hesitation, he reached into the light, past the flames, into the coals, taking a handful that felt almost cool to the touch, but which seared and smoked as he held them and walked to the water. Plunging his hand under the surface, the coals hissed and burst, cooling almost instantly.