Forbidden Land

1 "Now!" The old woman's voice was as sharp as the ancient, taloned hands that pressed hard against the young woman's belly. "Bear down! Now!" In the shadowed darkness of the hut of blood, Lonit obeyed. The child was coming, coming on a tide of blood and pain. She would not be here to greet it. She was too tired. Even though the midwives were holding her upright, she felt herself slipping away, drifting into delirium. The two women who held her by her upper arms shook her. Jarred her. She was annoyed with them. The pain was passing. The tide of blood had brought no child after all. Why did they not allow her to lie down? Her blood ran down her legs and was seeping into the thick layer of grasses and lichens covering the floor. How she hated the sweet smell of blood and the rank, moldering scent of winter dark that filled the little hut. Just thinking of them sickened her, and she wished that the midwives would clear the soiled floor covering away and bring in fresh, which, unstained, would smell of the summer sun. Summer! How she longed for summer! The gray lichens and golden grasses pricked the soles of her feet. She was too weak to stand, but perhaps it would not be so good to lie down. The floor covering had been spread to absorb blood and birth debris, not to provide comfort. That would come later, after the child was born. If it was ever born! Woman of the West, bear down, I say!" Who spoke? Old, talon-fingered Zhoonali? Wallah? Iana? Kimm or Xhan? Lonit could not tell. Around her, the overcrowded confines of the circular hut were a blur of sweating, watching women, as naked and painted with ash and rancid oil as she. Above her, the interior framework of mammoth and camel ribs arched upward toward the hide-covered vault of the unvented roof. A jumble of thong-joined caribou antlers supported the ceiling. How she wished that one of the midwives would fold back a portion of the hides, allowing the smoke to vent and fresh, cold air to enter. It was so close, so dark--and so smoky that she could barely breathe. Her eyes rolled back in her head. The ceiling appeared to float, high . . . so high. The racks of antlers seemed to move through mist, as though the spirits of the caribou were taking them up again and forming an invisible migration into the night. Lonit wondered if her spirit would follow. It would not be such a bad thing to die . . . to join her ancestors . . . to be away from pain, away from the probing eyes and hands of the midwives. She would follow the spirit caribou herds as her people had done since time beyond beginning--only this time she would go alone and not come back. "No!" Her own shout of defiance startled her. The ghost caribou fled into the night, and the antlered ceiling hung steady and unmoving. She was suddenly aware of the rich, acrid stink of burning bison tallow and knew that the moss wicks in the stone lamps were guttering--again. How many times had they been replaced since she had been proudly escorted to the hut of blood by her man. How long had it been since she had entered the hut stripped off her specially made waiting garments, and ceremonially fed them to the fire of new life coming? The embers of that fire were cold now, as were the ashes that had been drawn from the smoldering fire pit to paint her body and the bodies of the midwives with symbols that honored the life-giving powers of Father Above and Mother Below. Her mouth was dry. Someone gave her water from bladder skin. "Just enough to moisten the throat. There. No more." Wallah smiled, but there were only sadness and empathy in the wide, loving eyes of the aging matron. Lonit was so exhausted she could barely swallow. She closed her eyes. Since her labor had begun, the sun had twice risen and fallen over the edge of the world. Now it was night again--a long, cold Arctic night filledSarabande, William is the author of 'Forbidden Land' with ISBN 9780553282061 and ISBN 0553282069.