My sister came home from the castle of the king. She came back from the many, many months she spent away from our village, from our little, tight-knit community. She came home two days ago. But she did not come home at all. So much of herself is still locked away in that castle with the king who took so much of her.
I couldn't get her to talk. I couldn't get her to smile. She only stared listlessly into the distance, eyes flooded over with the spectres of pain, looking for something that no longer existed. Looking for her lost innocence, perhaps. Or her missing sense of personhood. Or her security.
I couldn't get her to work alongside me in our fields. She was too listless for that. She was too listless to churn butter or bake bread or mend clothing. She was too listless to join in in to the conversations the neighbours would pass around sitting by the fire. She was too listless to play with the children, or talk to the elders, or do anything except stare out with those big, dark eyes of hers. Eyes that held nothing and everything both at the same time. Held things that I know I will never understand.
Her dark eyes are quite gorgeous. And that, really, was part of what sealed her doom. Her large eyes. Her straight nose. Her wide cheekbones. They caught the attention of the king. And he took her away. He took her away and he kept a piece of her to himself in his large castle. A piece that he ripped out of her soft heart with his rough, greedy hands that could never get enough, never get enough of anything to be satisfied.
So here she is. In a corner of our one-room hut in the village. Leaning against a wall. She is surrounded by friends and neighbours. But she can't really see us. Not really. And she can't really hear us either. But we are there for her anyways. We are there for her as much as we can.
"Do you want some bread, Amy?" Maybello asks her. Maybello is a teenager. They’re kindhearted and soft-spoken but stubborn as a rock. If anyone can get my sister to eat, it's them.
Amy doesn't reply.
"Come on, Amy," Maybello presses, "you need to eat. You know that you need to eat. If you don't, you will waste away."
Still no reply. It's like my friend's words aren't even getting through to her.
"You need to keep your strength up. You need to keep your strength up so that you can get through all the hurt and all the pain and come out on the other side. You need to keep your strength up so you can heal. You can heal. You will heal. Amy, please."
She still doesn't respond.
Maybello keeps pressing her, trying to make her eat or even at least acknowledge the rest of us. But you can tell that Amy is lost. That her soul is lost. That it is out there somewhere and nothing that Maybello does can get it back from the far reaches of its wandering. Still, they try. The sweet youth tries their very best. And for that I am beyond grateful.
———
Amy is eating now. It's good that she's eating. There isn't enough food. There never is. But she's eating what we give her. And for that I am beyond thankful. She can live. She might not be alive, not truly, not after what the king did. But still, she can live and I ... I won't have to lose my sister. I've already lost my sister but I won't have to lose her again.
The neighbours bring us food. A different neighbour brings each meal. They know that things are hard on my family right now. They know that things will be hard for who knows how much longer. So they try to do what they can to help. And I make sure to thank them deeply for everything that they are doing for us.
Amy sits listlessly as life moves on around her. My husband and I work the fields. We sweep the floors and mend the clothes and churn the butter. Neighbours come to visit. We go to visit them. Children play with us. They ask what's wrong with Amy. I don't have an answer. Not one that would make sense to them and not one that I know myself.
But we work as a community. We all work as a community. We're all here for each other and we all remain here for each other and because of the strength of our community we can get through this. Because of the strength we all give each other, the strength we all share between us, and grow, and nurture, we can get through this.
Right now I'm coaxing Amy to eat her breakfast. Simple rye bread and a small heap of berries from the forest on the outskirts of the village.
"Come on, Amy. You have to eat." I keep my voice gentle. She listens to me.
All of a sudden she leans over and throws up all over the floor. I exclaim in surprise and jump back. Some of it still gets on my clothes. I'l have to take us both to the river to bathe, after I get out of theses clothes.
———
She doesn't throw up for lunch or dinner thankfully. But for three days in a row, she throws up her breakfast. I think at first that it must just be her shaking nerves from all that she had been through. But eventually my instinct is telling me something else. And the elders of the village are telling me something else.
My sister is carrying life inside of her.
The king did this. It's his. It has to be. It could not be anyone else's.
I ask my sister if she wants to keep it. She puts one hand over her womb. And she looks off into the distance, as she always seems to these days.
"You don't have to keep it if you don't want to," I tell her, "we can get rid of it if you want to. It's up to you."
She sits in silence for a while. I don't know if she's thinking or feeling or of she's just existing. But I respect it. Whatever she is doing, I respect it.
"I'm keeping it," she finally responds to me, voice aching, words not all there. "The baby is not the king’s. It's mine."
I put a hand over Amy's hand over her womb.
"It's all of ours," I tell her. "I will love it. I promise."
———
And I do love the baby. I love him very much.
He is born into the world screaming and full of life. He is born with tufts of light hair on his head and the most striking blue eyes I have ever seen. He has pink lips and a little button nose and long, curved eyelashes. He is born with little frog-like legs and tiny little fingers and tiny little toes, and like all babies, he is infinitely ineffable, he is infinitely precious.
Amy is able to push. Despite all of our doubts and fears, she is perfectly able to push. And she is able to do all that she must in order to get the baby out of the protection of her body and into the dangers of the world. She is sitting on the bedroll, propped up by all the pillows that we have, soaked with sweat and panting. Still, there is a faraway look in her eyes. But she's closer to this moment than she has been to any other moment.
Aliya, the midwife, helps him into the world with her skilled hands and knowledgeable mind and kind words. She makes us all feel at ease, despite all the tragedy surrounding us. She makes us all feel at ease despite the danger surrounding the birthing process. I am grateful to her. I am infinitely grateful. And I wish I could express how much I appreciate her presence.
"Do you want to hold the baby?" Aliya asks me.
"Yes. Thank you so much. Thank you for everything."
She passes the tiny little bundle of life to me, wrapped in a thin blanket that is really more of a sheet.
"Think nothing of it," Aliya tells me.
"But it's not nothing. It's everything. I ... I have no words." I feel the baby against my chest as I speak.
"A new life is beyond words," she replies.
I look at the baby in my arms. He's so sweet. So incredibly sweet. So inctedibly precious and amazing. I have no words to describe him. All I know is that he's perfect. He's perfect. And he's our own. He's so very much our own. He belongs in this family and this community and this village. He is one of the common people, no matter how high born his father was. And he is one of the common people. And we will keep him as safe as we can. We will take care of him as much as we can.
Amy reaches out to me. She doesn't speak any words but I see the longing in her eyes. I see the love. It is love that reflects my own love, and longing that reflects my own longing. I understand what she is asking of me.
"Do you want to hold the baby?" I ask her.
She reaches another hand out. I smile. I carefully transfer the baby over to her. And she holds him tenderly. She holds him oh so incredibly tenderly. And she looks down at his round little face. And she cries. The tears fall from her face down onto the cheeks of the little one. The little one she holds softly and carefully close to her chest.
"I think you should feed him, if you can," Aliya speaks to Amy softly.
I help Amy get her breast out and guide it to the child. He hungrily takes the nipple into his mouth and begins sucking in earnest, his rosy cheeks filling up before every gulp. Amy keeps holding him. And he's healthy. He's as healthy as a commoners’ child can be. This is a blessing. It's such an incredible blessing.
"What should we name him?" I ask.
"He looks like a Jake," Aliya suggests. At this, Amy smiles. And I think it's the first time I've seen her smile since she came back.
"So Jake you are, then," I sing-song to the baby.
———
Baby Jake is four months old. I am holding him as he coos and giggles in my arms. Baby Cleo is six months old. She's in the arms of her father Fred. We are walking to the clinic with our children, hoping to pick up some herbs for their various health issues. Jake has trouble sleeping and Clementine suffers from frequent stomach aches.
The sun is dipping low behind the horizon, painting the sky a brilliant orange. In this light, both of our babies look ethereal, cherubic. Though of course, they look this way all the time no matter what, too.
"It's so much work, taking care of a baby on top of all the other work that we have to do," Fred complains.
"Oh, don't tell me about it," I agree, "there is way too much pressure on young parents." Our babies reach out to each other and giggle as they pat each other.
"It would be better if we could take a break from working the fields while our children were young," Fred suggests.
"As if that's possible," I retort. "There are so many young chilldren. Do you think that the nobles will let us just take time off?"
"You're right, but it's the nobles that are the problem. If they just weren't so very demanding, I'm sure we all could live much better lives."
"We could, but they need their tithes. They always need their tithes."
"Damn that and damn them."
"You're right. But focus on the positive." I pause to get a lock of my hair out of Jake's little mouth. Jake gurgles in protest and I lightly press a finger to his nose. "Anyways," I continue, "we still have time with our babies. We get to watch them grow up. That's such a blessing."
"You're right," Fred agrees.
We switch babies, Fred taking Jake and myself taking Cleo. Cleo is sweet. She's soft. She's a little bit heavier than Jake. She raises her hand to cup my cheek and to trace along my face. I smile at the adorableness of it all. She smiles too, a bright, gummy-mouthed smile. It's so saccharinely sweet and brilliantly bright.
"Are you enjoying being in Auntie Thea's arms?" I ask her in a baby-sweet voice. She giggles and I giggle back.
We keep playing with our babies and talking to each other as we make our way through the huts all around us and towards the healing hut. It's sweet. It's so very sweet. Even through all the sadness, through all the worry, it's so very sweet.
"Jake seems to like me." Fred smiles at the baby in his arms.
"Of course he likes you. You're his Uncle Fred." There is a note of mirth in my voice.
Cleo claps her hands together and I coo at her.
———
I work the fields from sunup to sundown with my husband Davie and all of our neighbours. Amy doesn't work with us. She doesn't do anything except stare listlessly off into the distance. And honestly, I can't blame her. If I was in a similar situation, lord knows I would do the same.
I keep baby Jake in a sling of cloth on my back. There he plays and giggles and gabbles while I focus on the gruelling work in front of me. I go back to the hut and change him when he needs to be changed. And I go back to the fields after that. It's annoying, sure, to take care of a baby and work at the same time. But the king will be expecting his taxes and everyone who can work had to.
Amy stays near me though, and I pass her baby Jake whenever he needs to eat. Amy then holds him, softly, strongly, tenderly. And she holds the baby in her arms and, not saying anything, she cries. She just simply cries. And baby Jake sucks on her breast, and I don't know whether he knows how very deeply his mother loves him, though she is unable to say it.
The sun beats down on us and I worry about baby Jake getting a sun fever. The wind blows, giving us some much-needed respite from the heat. And the summer glares on as we do what we all must, which is work, work, work. All day long.
I wonder what baby Jake thinks of all this. I wonder what all the other babies in their own cloth slings on the backs of their own parents or friends think. Do they know that this toiling, trembling existence is all that awaits them? Do they know that they will soon have to take our places, will have to keep taking our places until death envelopes them as well?
Part of me thinks that there might be something else in store for the children. But I push that part down. It does not make any sense.
———
Jake is a year old. He is playing in the street with three thirteen-year-olds, Karlle, April, and Daniel. They adore him and dote on him so much.
"Up!" Jake calls out, lifting his arms to Daniel. And Daniel obliges, taking Jake into his arms and holding him up high in the air.
"You're so lucky to have a baby," Karlle tells me, something furtive in their words, "babies are so cute."
"They are cute," I agree. “So cute and precious. You will probably have your own babies too, when you're just a little bit older."
"We're getting some good practice, taking care of baby Jake," April comments brightly. There is something deeply tired deep down in her eyes. In all of their eyes.
"Yes, you are," I agree with her. "And you guys are all so good at it already."
"Jake makes it easy," Daniel comments, passing baby Jake to April. "He's so easy to handle."
"Oh you say that now," I assert, "but you haven't seen him when he is at his most naughty. He can be quite a handful."
Jake picks up a stick on the ground and starts thumping the grass with it, smiling in that sweet, bright way of his.
———
"I love Mama!" Jake exclaims, two years old and bright-eyed. How he manages to be so happy despite everything is beyond me. At two years old, the boy has already seen death multiple times. We all see death all around us. Everyone is taken too fast, too young, some younger than others.
"Mama loves you too," I sing-song to him. We are all huddled together by the fire in our hut. Me and Davie and Amy and Jake. It's the middle of winter. That at least means that there is less work for us to do. But it also means that everything is dead cold.
Amy looks at Jake and, silently, she smiles.
"Why Mama no talk?" Jake asks.
"Because, sweetheart, a bad man took Mama's talking away from her."
"Meanie."
"Yes, he is indeed."
"Story time?"
"Sure, Jake." I begin to tell him a story, about how a raven stole the sun from a bad man and restored light to the world. [Author’s note: This is a real story from the Haida people. Check it out.]
———
It is the beginning of summer. Jake is halfway through his second year. I am just now home from a long day at the fields. By home though I mean at my neighbour's house across the street. The house is packed, and the conversation is lively. Jake and another toddler, Liana, teeter through the crowd as the rest of us sit around the fire. Baby Ivan gets passed around from person to person.
"So then the spider told the lord that they would go on the quest for him. But in return he had to grant the spider freedom to spin webs wherever they wanted." Bella's words ring out through the small room.
"I love spider!" Liana exclaims.
"Me too!" Davie responds. "They're so cool."
Right then there is a knock at the door. Which on its own is very normal, people come and go all the time. But there is something about this knock that is very deeply ominous.
"Open the door!" a booming voice calls out. I rise to obey.
Outside there is a knight dressed in gleaming armour, with a harsh expression on his face. He looms down at me from his tall height. Fear clenches my heart tight. This cannot be good. This cannot possibly be good.
"Yes sir," I manage to get out.
"Is the son of the king here?" he barks.
What kind of a question is that? Why on earth would the son of the king be at a rundown village hovel in the middle of nowhere? The king doesn't even have a - oh. Oh damn.
"He's not here," I lie, trying my best to keep my voice even.
"We have received word that he does indeed live in this village. If you do not hand him over then we will have no choice but to kill the entire village."
I try to keep the horror out of my face.
"He's here," I finally confess, "but ... why do you want him?"
"The king wishes to raise his bastard son in the palace with him, where he will have control over what sort of man he becomes, so that he can keep him away from those who seek to depose his majesty."
Oh. So this is a bid to stay in power. The king wants his potential if imperfect heir away from the hands of anyone who could dethrone the king and instate Jake in his place. Of course.
"Will we get to come along with him?" Jake needs his family. He needs us.
"No, you may not, because the king thinks it is best to keep the child away from any corrupting influences."
Of course he does.
"I will give you the son," I concede, because what else can I do? All our lives are on the line. "But," I press, "can you please give us four days in order to say goodbye?"
"Alright. You may have four days. But when they are finished, you must give over the child."
They leave, and finally, I find myself able to turn around. Everyone is looking at me, horrified. Except the babies, who are simply confused. And except for Amy, whose expression is unreadable, but there are tears streaking down her face. Nobody says anything for many moments, and I cannot find it in myself to say anything either, so I just gaze on.
"Who they?" Jake finally asks.
"They're bad men," I speak quietly.
I walk over to my sister.
"I'm so, so sorry," I tell her, tears welling up in my own eyes.
———
The next few days are spent not working, but rather taking Jake around to everyone in the village so that they can say goodbye to him. Jake doesn't quite know what's happening, a fact that both soothes me and breaks my heart at the same time. He's so sweet. He's so innocent. And all of that innocence is about to be ripped away from him in a few short days, and there will be nothing we can do about it.
"I love you Jake, we all love you Jake, always remember that," Old Woman Bettie tells him.
"No matter what, remember where you came from. Remember all of us," young Joseph presses.
"You're a good boy Jake. Don't forget that no matter what anyone tells you, you're a good boy," Sky avers.
Jake for his part is soaking up the praise and revelling in it. I hope he can hold on to these memories. I hope that no matter what happens, he can hold on to these memories.
Amy is holding Jake, and we are in Aliya's hut, surrounded by her friends and family.
"Do you know that, I helped you come out of your mother's belly, little one?" she asks.
"I in there?" Jake's voice is curious.
"Yes you were. And inside there you grew up to be big."
"Wow."
All at once, Aliya falls over onto the floor like a rag doll. We all look at each other in worry. But before we get a chance to do anything, she rises again. But the voice that comes from her mouth is not her voice at all. It is far stronger, far deeper, and far more all-reaching. It is so deeply maternal though, which is similar to Aliya's voice in that regard.
"Take the baby and his family into my forest," the ethereal voice speaks, "there you will be safe."
We are all silent for a while.
"Baby Jake?" Davie asks, "Do we take baby Jake into the forest? Will he be free of the king there?"
"Yes. Take the child into the forest."
"But who are you?" Little Emily asks, eyes wide.
"All will be revealed in time."
With that, Aliya sinks slowly to the floor. When she gets up again, she looks frazzled and disoriented.
"What happened?" she asks in a tired voice.
"I think you became a vessel for a higher being," I answer.
———
Davie, Amy, and I go to the forest with Baby Jake, each of us taking turns holding him. We do this on the morning of the day when the king's men are supposed to arrive, after we've said our goodbyes to the whole village. The forest is on the edge of the village and it stretches out and out throughout the lands, farther than we know.
But the forest is dangerous. It is ever so dangerous. There are knights patrolling it and traps they set for people to fall into. So we make our way with caution, watching where we are going and constantly keeping an eye out for any danger. Heaven knows that if we get caught now, it would spell the literal end of everything that we hold dear.
But still, we trust in the voice. We do not know who the voice is or why they talked to us. But we trust them to show us the way, and we trust them to keep us safe. Because there was something deeply motherly in there. Something so deeply motherly that it seemed to be the pure essence of motherhood itself. And there was something deeply natural, unimaginably ancient, so ancient that it felt like perhaps the first thing in existence.
And so we walk on, carefully.
"Tree so pretty!" Jake coos, pronouncing the r’s as y’s and not pronouncing the t’s at all.
"They sure are, honeybee," Davie tells him.
"I like here."
"So do I, Jakey, so do I," I agree.
Amy, as always, says nothing. But she does smile. And it's a small, fleeting thing. A small, flitting thing. And it's beautiful.
———
We've been in the forest a few days, surviving on wild berries, sleeping under leafy canopies. It's lovely, living here. Even though the nights get cold, they get so cold. I suppose we will have to sew cloaks of fur for the winter. We are almost getting used to it now. We are getting used to this wild sort of existence. It's a free sort of existence, much freer that anything I have ever known.
But then we see it. The king. Dressed in rock hard furs. Riding his tall, maroon, thoroughbred horse, eyes glinting hard and cold like the sharpened edge of a sword. He is flanked by knights on either side, and they are riding down the sloping hill.
They do not seem like they have seen us yet, so we quickly rush to hide behind a large shrub with many leafy branches.
"Hush," I tell Jake.
"Why?" he asks in a naive voice.
"Because the bad men are coming. The bad men who took Mama's voice."
We hide behind the shrub until we can see that the king and his men have gone away. We have to get away from him. We have to get somewhere safe. We emerge out from behind the shrub and quickly start walking in the other direction, Davie nodding at my plan to retreat somewhere safe.
Suddenly, an arrow whizzes by us. Jake screams. Amy's eyes go wide in panic.
"Peasants!" a voice calls out through an iron megaphone, "cease your futile attempts to flee and stay right where you are! Or this next arrow will find its target!"
We stay right where we are as a knight rides up to us, chain mail arnour glinting harshly in the light. He calls on his megaphone for the king to come. And this is it. This is finally it. We are going to die or lose our child or both.
The king gets closer and closer on his large, nimble horse. His eyes are hard with pure hatred. Jake is screaming in Davie's arms.
"Still yourselves!" A deep and ancient voice calls out all around us, seemingly from the ground itself.
The king and his knights halt their horses.
"Leave this family and their child alone!" the voice demands, maternal and protective and fearless. Jake stops crying. Davie holds him right.
Everyone is still for a moment.
"No," the king finally states. He moves his horse closer, and his knights follow him.
Yet in one sudden, terrible and glorious moment, the ground opens up and swallows the king and his party into it. I stare out in amazement, unsure of what to make of this all.
"We have to tell the others the good news." For the first time in years, I hear Amy's voice.
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