The Smiling Stallion Inn

by Courtney Bowen

  Habala handed Oaka to Smidge, instructing him to take the baby to his crib, and then she ran over to her husband. The rest of the crowd stood stock still, staring open-mouthed at the poor woman and the bloody sword laying at her feet.

  “Idiot people,” Habala muttered to herself as she joined her husband.

  “I think she’s in labor,” Geda told her.

  “What?” Habala mouth dropped open as she looked down. The woman was heavily pregnant. She’d been hiding that fact underneath her heavy cloak and dress. Habala was stunned that the woman had been traveling so close to her time. Habala herself had barely managed to get out of bed during the last few weeks of her pregnancy.

  Barely conscious, the pregnant woman was breathing heavily. Her dress was stained from her water breaking, and the blood on her dress hadn’t come from her sword. Habala swore to herself. The woman must have strained herself too much in these last few hours.

  What a mess, Geda thought to himself.

  “We need to get her up to a room and into bed. And we need to send for the midwife.” Habala said.

  “I’ll get the midwife,” Smidge offered as he returned from settling Oaka in his crib.

  “And I’ll help you carry her into our room,” Habala told Geda as Smidge ran for the door.

  “Our room?” Geda asked.

  “Of course; ours is the nearest bed.” She made to lift the woman by her feet and then gave Geda a silent look that said, Well, are you going to help me or not?

  Grumbling under his breath, Geda helped Habala carry the very pregnant woman into their room, which was the only bedroom on the ground floor. As Habala began to undress the woman down to her chemise, Geda left to herd everyone out of the inn. He knew the curious would only linger and make matters worse.

  * * * *

  Habala’s jostling to get pads under her woke the woman. “Where am I?” she mumbled, reaching up to push her dirty ash blonde curls out of her eyes. Listlessly, she peered about the shadowy room. Only one candle burned on the nightstand.

  “You’re in my room at the Smiling Stallion Inn,” Habala told her. “I’ve sent for the midwife. She should be here shortly.”

  The woman merely nodded and laid her head back down. “My sword,” she suddenly gasped, raising her head and reaching out to search for it beside her.

  Habala took her cold hand and patted it. “It’s all right; you’re safe,” Habala said, trying to sound reassuring. “My name is Habala. I’m the innkeeper’s wife.”

  The woman wilted, weakly dropping her head back upon the pillow. “My name is Kala. I’m so sorry about all this trouble,” she said, as Habala draped the blankets over her to warm up her icy skin. She was trembling like a leaf in a gale.

  “It’s all right, Kala; you needed help,” Habala insisted. “You need to relax. It’s not time yet.”

  Kala snorted, her straight nose flat and large with rounded nostrils. “I can’t relax yet. I’ve not even paid you yet,” Kala insisted, starting to raise up. “Could you go get my—”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Habala said, pushing Kala gently but firmly back down. “Is this your first baby?” That must be why she’s so scared, Habala thought as she fluffed up the pillow to place behind Kala’s head.

  She hoped the midwife would hurry up and get here.

  “I’m just not used to—” Kala gasped and groaned. “Are you sure it’s not time yet?” She gritted her teeth. “It feels like…”

  “Don’t worry; the contractions need to come closer together,” Habala said. “I’m not used to this sort of thing either, but I’ve been through a birth of my own recently, my first.”

  “Your first?” Kala asked, looking up.

  “He’s over there,” Habala said, pointing over to the cradle in the corner in case Kala couldn’t see it. “My baby boy, Oaka, my firstborn. He’s just one week old.” For once, Oaka was quiet, hopefully asleep.

  “One week—congratulations,” Kala said, staring over at the cradle as if she hadn’t seen it before. “Was it hard?”

  “It was hard, but the first time usually is,” Habala said. She didn’t want to talk about it, in case it might scare Kala even more, but she managed to say, “It takes time to enlarge the passageway, I suppose.” She cleared her throat, embarrassed at talking about such bodily matters.

  “I couldn’t bear it,” Kala said, shuddering.

  “Milady…Kala, I don’t mean to pry…” The “milady” just had slipped out on its own, as if it suited her. “What were you doing out there?” Habala asked.

  “I had to come here,” Kala said, infuriatingly calm as she stared out the window at the snow falling.

  “But it’s dangerous out there!” Habala cried. “Traveling all alone through the forest in the middle of the night and in your condition, especially with the snow falling—you could have been killed or died of hypothermia!” The candle on the nightstand flickered.

  “Nearly killed,” Kala muttered. “Survived. You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

  “No, I don’t, but…” Habala sighed and said, “What would you’ve done if you’d been forced to deliver your babe out there on your own? Neither of you would’ve survived!”

  “I suppose you’re right on that account, which is why I had to get here. I had no place left to go,” Kala said, looking down as if she couldn’t bear to face Habala.

  “No place? But don’t you have any family to take you in?”

  “No place. No home, no family.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “My husband is dead,” Kala said mournfully. She looked up. “And he was my husband, if you were wondering about that.”

  “What was his name?” Habala asked, deciding not to argue with her.

  “I can’t tell you that,” Kala said.

  “What? Why not?”

  “You’d not believe me if I did tell you. And even so, he’s gone, gone to Pidamana, where all good people go when they die. And I hope to join him there soon if I’m good enough.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Habala asked.

  “I’ll not survive this, Habala. I know it. You’d know this, too, if you were to search your heart long enough,” Kala said.

  A knock sounded on the door just before Habala could speak. “Hello? It’s me, Habala,” a voice said as the doorknob started to turn.

  Habala stood up. “My brother-in-law. He must be back with the midwife,” she explained to Kala, striding over to open the door a crack.

  “Where’s the midwife?” she asked when she saw he was alone.

  “I couldn’t find her. Geda and I are going back out to see if we can find her.”

  “What about our guests?”

  “Most of them are gone,” Smidge told her, leaning against the wall by the doorway. “A few of them are staying, though, and they’re quite adamant about not wanting to leave. Some of them are your relatives, some of them are mine and Geda’s, and we’ve even got an official or two staying.”

  “What? Why would they do that?” Habala asked.

  He stared at her. “They want to be here when the woman has the baby, just to be sure she’ll be arrested and questioned properly over that bloody sword of hers.”

  “I suppose I should have expected something like this,” Habala murmured. “Try to get them gone, or at least to stay out of this room until she’s had her baby and has had some rest. Having a baby is hard, painful work.” She sighed. “I don’t want Kala disturbed in the midst of her labor.”

  “Yes, Habala,” Smidge said and then walked away.

  “What was that about, Habala?” Kala asked.

  “Nothing really,” Habala said, closing the door. “Smidge and my husband are…never mind.” She changed the subject. “How can you know what will happen to you after giving birth?” Habala asked, striding back toward Kala and sitting down beside her on the bed.

  “An oracle told me,” Kala said. “Same way I know my son will be born tonight.”

  �
�An oracle, like the Oracle of Mila?” Habala groaned.

  “What is this Oracle of Mila?” Kala asked, perplexed.

  “I can’t believe in this. You don’t know who the Oracle of Mila is!” Habala gasped, surprised. “My apologies. It’s just that the Oracle of Mila lives near here. I do believe in the gods, of course, but I don’t believe an oracle, or any other living person, can speak for them. I just don’t believe that one of these so-called oracles could know the future better than any one of us.”

  Kala needed her mind focused on delivering her baby, safe and sound. No distractions! “Don’t mind me,” Habala added. “Everyone is entitled to their own beliefs, even when it comes to oracles.”

  “You’ve fire within you,” Kala said, staring at Habala. “Which is good, I suppose, although it still surprises me. I thought, with what Menthar had done to Mila, fire wouldn’t be allowed inside the forest.”

  “What in the name of Tau are you talking about?” Habala asked, confused.

  “Never mind that, it’s just theological stuff,” Kala said. “The point is, I believe you’re a good woman. And even though you don’t believe in the same things I do, you’ve been very kind to me. And I want my son to have the best possible upbringing he can possibly have.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Habala said, already suspecting where this was leading.

  “I don’t believe I’ll survive this birthing,” Kala said, “and I want you to find him a family that will take care of him and give him the love I won’t be able to give him when I’m gone.”

  Habala squatted down beside Kala’s bedside. “I promise you’ll get through it alive, don’t fear. And even if you don’t survive, I promise you I’ll raise your son myself and give him the love you couldn’t give yourself.” Habala frowned, wondering why she’d made such a promise, but she couldn’t bring herself to retract it.

  “Oh, Habala, I—”

  “You shouldn’t give in to these fears and doubts, though, these oracles and his or her prophecy,” Habala said, standing up. “I’ll make sure that you survive and give your son the upbringing he—or she, since it could be a girl—deserves.” Habala whispered, “Please don’t give in to these fears and doubts.”

  “I’m so sorry, Habala.” Kala gasped. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, and I know you’ll be a good mother.” She closed her eyes and turned away. “I know my son will be safe with you and your family, and I hope you can forgive me.”

  “I’ll not forgive you for being so foolish. Don’t give up!” Habala insisted.

  Kala opened her eyes and turned back to Habala. “I want to be here, with my son, but there is too much death within me. He’s safer here with those of fire than with those of death.”

  Smidge and Geda finally arrived with the midwife, and for several hours she and Habala watched over Kala, while Geda kept track of their hangers on in the common room, but Smidge left after a short while. He’d had some business to take care of at home, though he didn’t really have much of a business to speak of, aside from working at the inn or patrolling with the town militia.

  Finally, the midwife declared it was time, and Kala’s labor proceeded. She cried out, reminding Geda of the elk that sometimes wandered the woods, lowing as they grazed. And then the baby boy was born, just as Kala said he’d be, wailing loud enough to prove his health and to wake Oaka, who wanted to be fed. Habala nursed and changed him, and then put him back down again while Kala held her own newborn, giving him that all important first time at her breast. The baby was a pudgy little thing, with the barest hint of brown hair on top of his tiny head. When Habala finally got to hold him, she noticed there was hardly a trace of his mother’s delicate features in his round little face. He must take after his father, Habala thought.

  Kala named him Basha in the hopes he’d be the one to prove her case, the one she’d waited so long for. Minutes later, Kala closed her eyes and drifted away, gone forever. She was buried out in the cemetery by the standing stones.

  * * * *

  “Malakel it, now we’ve got two babies,” Geda complained the night after Basha’s birth and Kala’s death. They were exhausted after the questioning by family, friends, and neighbors, not to mention the constable. He and Habala had put the babes to bed, with Oaka in his crib and Basha in a dresser drawer until Geda could make another crib for him.

  “We can raise them,” Habala told him. “I’ve got enough milk for both.”

  “What about other families?” Geda asked.

  “I said I’d do it,” she told him. “Besides, how well off are we? Surely we can afford to raise two boys, with this inn, when other families have hardly anything.”

  “Well, this inn isn’t exactly the best source of income,” Geda told her. “The Smiling Stallion has been in my family for generations, yet it’s a daily struggle to keep it afloat.”

  “The Smiling Stallion is the only inn in town,” Habala insisted.

  “With good reason. Hardly anyone ever comes to stay in Coe Baba, except for those oracle worshippers,” he said with bitterness. “There’s not much of a future in the inn-keeping business beyond the basics.”

  “What about the bar?” Habala asked.

  “The bar? There’s the expense of keeping it well-stocked, of cleaning it up, not to mention the cost of—”

  “Geda, we are one of only two places in this town that has a bar,” she reminded him. “Surely that brings in the money?”

  “Well, all right, so we do have money, but it’s not going to last. When these boys grow up, they’re going to need a livelihood.”

  “Oaka will get the inn, you’ve my promise,” Habala said, fed up. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “That’s not what I wanted to hear. You know me better than that!” Geda shifted uncomfortably as he glanced at the dresser drawer where baby Basha lay. “It doesn’t seem fair to Basha.”

  “Oaka is our firstborn, our blood; I won’t let Basha get in the way of that,” Habala said. “But let me tell you one thing, Geda, I won’t let Basha be pushed around or pushed aside,” she insisted. “We’ll both grow to love him and take care of him like he deserves. He won’t get everything that Oaka will get, but he will still be our son.”

  Geda stared at her, shocked by her fierce maternal nature. “I suppose we can raise Basha,” Geda said, his defenses weakening, “But he’s different from us; he isn’t our blood.” Thinking to himself, he added, “What will we tell him, and others, when they ask?”

  “We’ll tell them the truth,” Habala said. “We’ll tell them about Kala, and the promise.”

  “What about Oaka?” Geda asked.

  “I hope Oaka will be a good boy,” Habala said, softening. “I hope he’ll be a good big brother. And I hope they’ll love each other just as much as we love them.”

  * * * *

  “This boy Basha will bring nothing but pain and misery to Geda and Habala,” Lapo said, glancing over at the inn as he and his wife passed by the next day. “I can tell.”

  Mawen glanced up. “Do you suppose the balnor—?”

  “Balnor? What makes you say that?” Lapo said, glancing at his wife.

  “Balnor makes perfect sense to me.” Mawen shrugged. “Suppose he didn’t have a father, one married to his mother anyway?”

  “Balnor…” Lapo chuckled. “Makes perfect sense to me as well.” They both laughed at the thought of a balnor boy being raised by the innkeeper and his family.

  Chapter 16

  Ghost

  “Welda, the goddess of love, laughed at

  Qei, god of the harvest. “Gorbana the

  Huntress can’t truly love you, for she knows only

  Of death, of war, of the hunt. She doesn’t know love.”

  —The Legends of Arria

  When Kala stumbled into the inn with a bloody sword, about to give birth, I was there with my mother Brigga. I left my mother in a hurry and went to see Old Man, telling him what had happened. “That sounds like it would make a gre
at story,” Old Man said, his eyes shining. “A pregnant woman walks into the inn—”

  “This isn’t a story, nor is it a joke,” I said. “This is serious. You need to stop trivializing things, Old Man.” I never had called him Father, not face to face anyway. I left him in a huff to return to my mother, but I returned to Old Man’s hut the next night, after the woman had died, and news had spread across town of what had happened to her.

  “The call of battle is like a song, the cry of a baby is like a hymn, and the laughter of children is like a choir, raising their voices in praise of their gods…” Old Man muttered, writing all of this down by candlelight, as it was late at night. “The rider was a fairly young woman of twenty-five years. Blue-eyed in clarity, with blonde hair reaching all the way down—”

  “Blue-eyed? I thought her eyes were brown,” I said, standing next to him and bending down to read his work. “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Ah, well, blue-eyed just sounds better,” he said. “I’m writing this story down to document last night’s events for future generations. It sounds fascinating and mysterious, after all, and it might be something people would want to know about.” He continued writing…

  …to her shoulders. But her hair was limp and matted after her long trip, when once it had been soft and combed. Her face was also too pale, with not even a hint of a brisk hue after her cold ride. She held herself with dignified bearing, yet grimaced at the pain she felt. The horse was also uneasy from the wolves howling in the forest, as they awoke for the night…

  “The wolves weren’t howling; they weren’t even awake yet,” I said, straightening. “It wasn’t even midnight. Old Man, you sure have a funny way of writing that makes—”

  “My dear Nisa, please don’t criticize me; I told you once—”

  A flash of light exploded with a burst of smoke, and then a wind whipped through the hut, tugging at our clothes and hair like it wanted to show us something spectacular. Old Man and I turned and squinted, holding onto our hair as we shielded our eyes. We coughed as the smoke spread through the one-room hut.