Finally, Briah gave up and simply stared at the waves. They weren’t really gray, she decided. More like liquid silver, or maybe burnished iron. There was something powerful, yet peaceful in the way it all wove together: sea and sky; wave and cloud. Without moving her gaze from the panorama before her, Briah began to weave the strands of fiber into a fine mesh. Her technique varied with her mood: now the loose weave of a basket; now the tight braid as of a lock of hair.
The resulting net was not as light or graceful as those she had seen in Finool, but when she swam out to Seal Rock with it and pulled it through the water, it caught her two large silver perch before sunset. So excited she nearly dropped them, Briah hurried home and cooked them over her fire. She planned on only eating one that night, but her baby insisted on the second. Before she knew it, nothing was left but delicate white bones—which she knew she would find a use for.
“I did it!” Briah told the seals that night as they swam together. “I made a thing I had never made before; I learned a skill no man or woman ever taught me! All I need is here! I will provide for myself and my child—and no one will make me a whore again!”
As always, the seals seemed to be listening. And when an adventurous pup swam close enough for her to pick up and hold, it warmed Briah in places her fire never could. It was good to have something living and breathing to talk to. Sometimes, when the mornings dawned with a cold that went right to her bones, or she caught sight of the cradle filled only with feathers, Briah looked with longing at the warm, soft fur of the seals. As friendly as they were, they would be easy to kill.
Yet Briah knew she would not. They were the closest to family that she had in this place. Perhaps it was only madness borne of loneliness and fear, but it made her feel better.
****
By now, Briah had developed a routine. Every morning she drew water from the stream and gathered breakfast from the sand. Then she scaled the cliffs to check her always empty snares, and gathered what plants, eggs or feathers were available.
Afternoons were devoted to fishing, fuel gathering, exploring or tool making. Throughout all that, there was always time just to sit and stare at the waves, or lay on the strand with her eyes closed and feel the waves wash over her, sucking, pulsating and embracing.
Briah explored a little further west, and found good spots for fishing, but was usually too tired to go far.
Ten days after she set them, one of Briah’s snares caught a rabbit. She was so amazed she nearly forgot to sing the proper thanks to the animal as she killed it. Meat! Briah had a sudden ungrateful urge to think of the stew she would make tonight as her first true meal since arriving here. And that fur! Mottled brown and white, a thick winter coat, it was small, but perfect for lining the cradle.
She set about making a feast. Sitting comfortably in her cave, Briah skinned the rabbit with a knife made from an oyster shell. It had been a long time, but her fingers remembered how. After rinsing the meat in fresh water, Briah cut off the large hind legs, skewered them on a pointed stick and set them to roasting over the fire. There wasn’t much meat left after that, but she cut up what there was, wasting nothing. With the meat in her stew pot, Briah tried to decide what else to throw in.
The legs roasted quickly. She set her treat on a flat woven platter and went to enjoy it in the rare sunshine outside. Sitting on a smooth rock, with water lapping about her feet, Briah savored the rich, juicy rabbit. It was a thrill to rip meat from bone, and feel the resistance of tendon against teeth grown unused to anything denser than an oyster. Finally, Briah stripped the last morsel of flesh from the bones and flung them into the ocean. She followed in a slightly more restrained manner, inviting the sea to wash the grease from her hands and face.
Some seals came by, and Briah, slightly tipsy from the rich food, nosed them playfully. They pulled away however, and Briah wondered if the smell of meat was offensive to them. “No matter,” she told herself. “I’ve got too much to do to spend the afternoon playing in the water.”
She retrieved the rabbit hide from her cave, and gathered up sticks, tools and what was left of the carcass. Using a mussel shell scraper, Briah removed all bits of tissue and blood from the inside of the skin. After rinsing it alternately in salt water and fresh water, she staked it out on a frame of driftwood. Next she rubbed in a paste made from the rabbit’s brains, salt and marigold petals. It would dry in the sun for the rest of the day, then by her fire at night. Brushed and cured properly, it would be a perfect baby blanket.
Briah spent the rest of the afternoon making her first entirely land based meal since arriving on these shores. To the meat she added carrots, onion and a few pieces of the starchy white root she had taken to calling turnip, even though the taste was not quite the same as the turnips back home. With only a little salt for flavor, Briah set the whole mess cooking with hot stones. The meal took longer to cook than fish did, so Briah busied herself taking inventory of her supplies.
Driftwood and bracken took up nearly half the living space. In the very back, on a convenient rock shelf, sat a basket of dried fish, and another of dried seaweed. Next to them were piles of shredded willow bark, dried marigold petals, moss and wormwood. Baskets, water jug, tools and work in progress were on the other side of the hearth, near the bed. And wedged into the tiny space remaining between bed and rock wall, was the cradle.
Briah gazed at the place critically, and then suddenly began rearranging everything. She shook the sand from her blankets, and wrinkled her nose at their smell, deciding to wash them after supper. She almost went out for more food and feathers, but the stew was ready then, and for a moment Briah forgot about everything else.
She ate her meal directly from the pot, skewering pieces of meat and vegetable with a smooth sharp stick, and scooping up mouthfuls of broth with a deep round shell. It had taken many tries and many burned fingers for Briah to master the skill of eating with a spoon that had no handle. Now, she hardly gave it a thought.
The sun was setting as Briah went to the shore to scour her dishes and take her evening swim. Just as she reached the water, Briah felt a tight pull inside her womb, followed by receding waves of pain. “This is not like those other times,” she said. Then she felt water pouring down her legs.
Her labor had begun.
Willing herself to remain calm, Briah remembered that a first labor could take a very long time. The midwives always advised keeping busy and relaxing during contractions.
Returning home only to drop off her clean dishes and dirty clothes, Briah decided to take her swim, but remain close to shore. Two more contractions came while she rocked in the waves. With the third, Briah left the water.
For all her thoughtful preparation, Briah had no idea what to do with the long night that lay ahead of her. Impulsively, she began to dig for clams, even though the fading light made them hard to see. She found only a few before the position became too painful.
The contractions were coming more quickly now. Briah moved her clothing and blankets to the rocks above the cave to prevent them from becoming soiled. She built up the fire until it shone more brightly than the full moon rising behind her. A full moon was a good sign, wasn’t it? On her back beside the fire, Briah examined herself as best she could. The baby had dropped into position, and its head seemed to be in the right place. Beyond that, the laboring woman could tell nothing.
Sweat began to bead on her forehead, but hard labor had not yet begun. She tried to stand, but a particularly hard contraction struck her then, and she staggered outside.
The beach was no longer a nurturing, healing sanctuary. Instead its emptiness was oppressive. She was all alone. If she died in childbirth no one would ever know, or hold her hand in those last moments. There would be no chance for the baby. That thought, more than any, terrified her.
Briah tried to rest in the sand, but the fear made her restless. She tried to walk, but the pain drove her back down. When dark shapes began to gather around her, she screamed, fearing they were Gath
erers from the Underworld. But they were only seals. Dimly, Briah perceived that they wanted to help. They could not speak her language, nor she theirs, and flippers were not designed to ease human babies into the world, but it was good to not be alone. They came close enough for her to touch, and Briah found stroking their warm, soft fur calming.
The contractions were coming closer together, but the baby showed no signs of leaving her womb. She tried not to think of all the things that could go wrong. She went back to her cave for some willow bark, but chewing it only upset her stomach. She took the knife she had made for cutting-the cord, the mat to catch the baby and a piece of rabbit sinew and went back outside.
Back on the beach, a few seals remained as Briah tried once again to settle down and wait. As the night wore on, she dozed between contractions, but not long enough to get any real rest. She looked at the moon. It had scarcely moved at all since her labor began, but that was wrong, for surely this had been going on for several days at least. Every part of her body was on fire and something inside was trying to break open.
Briah was not sure when she began crying out, only that it was too soon to begin pushing. Then, wet noses were poking against her and that hurt so much that she slid across the sand to escape them, rather than fighting them. The wave took her by surprise. Coughing and sputtering, Briah tried to escape, but the seals continued to push.
“You’re going to drown me! Why? I’ve never hurt any of you!” Then slowly, she realized the pain was easing. The buoyant water acted as a cushion. Gentle waves massaged her straining belly, and while the water could do nothing about the pressure inside, it could at least counteract gravity’s pressure on the outside.
She stayed in the water for a long time, riding waves of surf as she rode waves of pain, learning to breathe with the pain and thus ease it. Finally the salt water began making her skin itch, and her throat burned with thirst. She crawled out slowly, bracing herself for the resurgence of pain, but it wasn’t as bad as she feared. Clutching her birthing mat and knife, Briah made her way to the stream, grateful that the low tide made reaching it fairly easy.
The moon was setting, and the real work was just beginning. Briah had barely slaked her thirst when an irresistible urge to push overcame her. She struggled into a squatting position over the birthing mat.
Grunting and pushing, she felt the head emerge; felt her skin tearing to allow the child out. She nearly fainted with the pain, but hung on. This was the time someone should be helping her; she needed another pair of hands but there was no one.
The sky was growing light around her, but that did not help Briah’s spinning vision. Balancing on two feet and one hand, she used her other to feel the head. It was fully out; she felt a tiny nose. Somehow, she had to free the shoulders. The rest would be easy. Taking a deep breath, Briah slid two fingers inside her engorged birth canal and felt a slippery pair of shoulders. Twisting them gently, and praying she did no damage, Briah eased them forward.
Suddenly, the baby slid out and dropped onto the mat. Nearly collapsing, Briah eased back on her knees, taking the baby with both her hands. Gently lifting it until the cord reached its full length, she took another breath, pushed, and expelled the afterbirth. Her baby blinked in the growing light and looked up at her.
CHAPTER 9
The first rays of sunlight spilled over the waves as Briah stared in wonder at her son. He was so tiny! Had she ever seen anything so small—or so perfect? Had she ever even looked?
She scarcely had time to look now. There was still work to be done. Opening his mouth with one finger, Briah extracted a glob of mucus, and then turned the infant, so he lay across her palm on his stomach. Before she had even thumped his back, the baby let out a loud squall.
“He is breathing!” the new mother cried to the rising sun. “I have borne a son, and he lives!”
Next, Briah tied two strands of rabbit sinew around the umbilical cord and used her knife to slice between them. The child was now a separate being, no longer attached to any part of his mother. Soon she would have to bury the afterbirth and the soiled mat, but for now Briah wanted only to lay here on this beach and stare at the miracle she had brought forth.
It was all she had the strength for, anyway.
Leaning into the shallow stream, Briah dipped the baby into the slow current. Water that sparkled with the sun’s reflection carried away the bloody fluids. Gently, Briah washed the waxy coating away from his body. He sputtered and coughed, and she quickly pulled him to her breast, sheltering him from the chill morning. Thanks to the sun, it was a warmer day than most, but rain clouds hung low on the horizon. It was winter, and everything Briah needed to warm and dry herself and her child was in her cave. Somehow, she had to get them both there, and soon.
Then she felt something that made her forget all about moving. The infant had found his mother’s nipple—and he knew exactly what do.
Gazing down, Briah watched her child’s tiny mouth close securely on her left nipple. He sucked contentedly, for although she had no milk yet, a heavy, nourishing fluid was already there. Besides, the baby wasn’t hungry. He just needed comfort after his traumatic ordeal.
His mother needed comfort as well, but she was getting all she needed just watching her baby suckle, counting his tiny fingers and toes, wondering at the miniature penis and testes that made him one sex and not the other.
Finally, Briah pulled herself to her feet. The world spun and she feared she would drop the baby, but she had to get back to the cave. One slow step at a time, Briah crossed the sand, waded through the rising tide and finally reached her protected cove—trailing blood all the way.
The fire had burned down, but she collapsed beside the embers, sighing in the warmth that hovered there. Everything she needed was within reach. Briah dried her baby with a rag that had once been her shift, grabbed the rabbit skin from its rack, swaddled him and set him in his cradle—all without doing more than shifting position. Then she built up the fire.
With the cave warmed and her baby safely stored, Briah turned next to herself. She struggled to her knees and took moss and marigold from her shelf, and packed them inside herself to stop the bleeding. Then she used half her water supply to brew a tea of willow bark and wormwood. It tasted bitter but she drank it all, knowing it would ease her pain, and help her womb contract.
That was it: the sum total of her medicinal stores and medical knowledge. In her old life, there would be herbs to strengthen her blood and bring on her milk. Wise old women to show her the best positions for nursing and answer the hundreds of questions that tumbled through her mind. Here, she could only rest by the fire, eat when she was hungry and nurse when her baby demanded. She could treat herself with teas and moss until her supply ran out.
And she would either grow strong again or die—her baby with her.
All that day and the next, Briah spent recovering her strength and getting acquainted with her new baby. The bleeding slowed to normal postpartum flow and her appetite picked up. The dried fish and seaweed nourished her well enough, and fuel and medicine supplies seemed likely to last until she could go out for more. There were no signs of childbed fever or any other immediate killers of newly delivered women.
The baby seemed fine as well. Briah believed that he cried loudly enough to wake the dead—which she sometimes thought she was during those first days. He nursed strongly, and even seemed alert: his big dark eyes reminded Briah of a seal’s. She told herself he was perfectly strong, yet he looked so tiny and helpless that Briah found herself crying at odd moments. What if her milk never came, and she had to watch him shrivel and die?
As violent as her mood swings and intense as her weakness was, Briah was grateful she had nowhere to go and no decisions to make. And since it rained most of the time, she didn’t even have to go to the stream. Every available container was set out to collect water, while Briah herself just crawled to the entrance and sucked the streams of water from the rocks above whenever she was thirsty.
/> It was pleasant just to snuggle up with her son by the fire, and watch the rain come down. Soon she would be busy again, but for now, Briah relaxed, and dreamed of the future. Her son would need so much, and there was no one but her to provide it. Her milk—if it ever came, she thought, rubbing sore breasts—would sustain him for the first few months. But he would grow and need more blankets, moss for swaddling, a bigger cradle....
And other things too. A name. An identity. Briah had not thought of a name yet. Normally that was a father’s job, but her child had no father. She suppressed a sudden rush of rage and fear as she remembered the man who sired her baby. But that man was no father, and he couldn’t hurt them here. Still, the anxiety remained, and Briah searched her baby’s face for any sign of Lir. She found none. Of course, who knew what he would look like when he grew up? His fuzzy down of hair was brown like hers, but that could change. His skin was creamy, fairer than her own, but beautiful. She hoped his dark eyes would remain as they were, but that his head would stop pointing soon. His name, and his place in the tribe, would determine what he was to become.
“We are a tribe of two, my son. Only you and me.” She hoped that, somehow, it would be enough.
Towards evening of the second day, Briah ate the last of the rabbit meat. Out of nowhere came the realization that she had reset the snares almost three days ago, and not checked them since. Normally, this would not have been too serious, but for Briah nothing felt normal right now. She had a sudden image of a small rabbit trapped and starving. Such a horrible death! She tried to dismiss it. Animals—including humans—died that way every day. She was in no shape to scale the cliff, and there was s probably nothing in the traps anyway.
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