Chapter 45
Rock dust falls from my lap as I push away from my desk and rise.
“Hello?” The unfamiliar masculine voice stops my rushed advance.
I slip my stinger out of my dress pocket and clutch it in my palm, thumb ghosting over the trigger, primed to press in case my visitor came with ill intent.
When I finally get a glimpse of him, I sigh and slot my weapon away.
“Is your mother home?” Rainn jams his fingers through his white locks, which already stand on end, as though he’s been messing with them for a while. “Thyra’s water broke, and she’s in a lot of pain, and I don’t know what to do, and—”
“Is Mor not answering on the pack link?”
He shakes his head. “Neither is Nordin, and—and…”
The poor man looks on the verge of collapse.
“Pain’s normal. It’s actually a good sign,” I add as I head to the bathing chamber I share with Mor. “Is Thyra alone or is someone with her?”
“She’s with her sister.”
“How dilated is she?” I call out, as I rifle through the wooden crate my mother uses to store ointments, herbs, and poultices.
Even though I never trained at midwifery, I’ve accompanied Mor to so many births that I’m well-versed in what herbs to pack and what doses to administer.
“Brynid?” Rainn asks.
A grin startles my lips. “No. Not Thyra’s sister. Your mate. Is she dilated?”
“Dilated? What’s that?” Rainn now stands on the threshold of the bathing chamber, eyes as wide as a snow owl’s.
“Her cervix.”
“Her what?”
“The canal through which your pup is about to come out. Has it widened?”
“I don’t know.” He scratches his head. “I didn’t look. I—”
“You’re mates,” I remind him with a gentle smile. “Ask her.”
I grab three jars—dried yarrow to help in case of hemorrhaging, ground meadowsweet to combat inflammation, and dehydrated valerian to calm Thyra’s nerves.
And Rainn’s. Then I pocket the jar of whale fat for lubrication—huh…
I’ll be holding on to that one—and finally the pouch of willow bark, which I plucked out this morning to relieve the pain between my legs.
“Brynid isn’t sure what to look for.”
“Do you have a sharp knife at home?”
More white appears around his ice-blue irises. I remember being shocked by his overall pallor the first time we met—a condition that Thyra explained he was born with—but admittedly, the man has never looked so chalky.
“To cut the umbilical cord.” I leave out the part of widening the passage in case the baby’s head is overly large, fearing the detail might make Rainn swoon. “I know most of you usually use your claws.”
Did I really just say most of you? Shit. I pray Rainn is too distraught to have picked up on my fumble.
When he doesn’t respond, merely gawps, I add, “It seems Mor left the house with her tools.”
Which includes her needles and thread. Since most households stock those, I’m not overly worried.
I wrap everything up in a clean towel, then knot it, creating a sling to loop around my chest. “I’ve assisted with birthing, so I know what to do, but it’d be best to get my mother.
She went to deliver a Vale babe.” I walk back toward the future father.
“Carry me to your house. If Nordin still doesn’t answer, run to the Vale Valley to get her, all right?
” When Rainn doesn’t nod or speak, I smile up at him. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
He finally jerks out of his stupor and leads the way out of the house, shifting so fast his body doesn’t even flicker; it simply puffs.
I climb atop his back, then hold on as he races down the grid of roads.
Unlike the sinuous paths of my youth, everything here sits at straight angles, from the pit houses to the roads to the stubby forest surrounding the expansive settlement.
Thyra is mid-contraction when we burst in, her face glossed with so much perspiration it shines brighter than her ochre irises. She looks up from the edge of the table she’s fisting, hinged at the waist.
“Zaskja?” she wheezes before sucking in air and blowing it out in rapid increments.
“Hi.” I smile at her, then at her fourteen-year-old sister, who appears just as spooked as Rainn. I’m guessing this is her first encounter with childbirth. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’m simultaneously being”—Thyra’s lips round with a breath, which she releases with a hiss and a sob—“punched and stabbed.”
“I’m never having children,” Brynid mumbles, her green eyes pleating with the same disgust that rumples the bridge of her freckled nose.
I snort because I’ve heard many women say this over the years, and most of them have borne babes. “Brynid, can you fill a mug with hot water for me?” I set down my towel on the cot and pick open the knot. “While we wait for my mother, may I take a look?”
“At what?” Thyra pants.
“At your birth canal.” I pull up my dress sleeves and wash my hands and arms all the way to my elbows.
My friend’s lids reel high.
“Believe it or not, I know my way around a cervix.”
“Really?” Thyra’s next exhale smacks of relief.
“Yes, really. Just like I know my way around my mother’s medicine cabinet.” I pull out a piece of bark and hold it up to her mouth. “This will help with the pain. Chew on it.”
Thyra opens her mouth, and I stick it in.
“I won’t lie. Nothing I brought will completely quell the discomfort, but it should make it more bearable.”
“You’re my absolute favorite person right now,” Thyra garbles, around her mouthful of willow bark.
I smile. “Are your knickers off?”
She nods. “They were drenched.” She gasps. Squeezes her eyes shut. Curls in on herself.
I stroke that place between her shoulder blades. “Breathe.”
I’m suddenly reminded of two nights ago, when Nordin told me to do the very same thing. I consider distracting Thyra with the tale, but I want Saga to hear it first. Not to mention that Thyra might ask who took my virginity. Merely thinking about revealing Nordin’s name reawakens my nerves.
I walk to the other end of the table, pull up a chair, and part Thyra’s legs. My friend rolls up with a screech that makes Rainn pounce back inside the house.
“Did you get through to Nordin?” I ask him.
“Yes. He called your mother home.”
Right before I duck beneath Thyra’s skirts, I instruct Brynid to add a stalk of all three dried herbs to the piping hot mug.
Thyra is dilated, and not just a little. I can see a tuft of white hair. Even if Mor runs faster than she’s ever run, there’s no way she’ll get here in time to deliver this babe.
“Rainn, can you pass me the jar of whale fat?” I ask.
When no jar appears beneath my little tent, I poke my head back out. He’s standing at Thyra’s side, looking down at her with such glazed eyes that I realize they’re conversing.
“Brynid, pass me the short jar.” I nod to my makeshift satchel. “And a damp cloth.”
The younger girl gathers both. Her hands shake so hard that the jar almost drops.
“Get her to drink the brew you made. And get some in Rainn too.”
Brynid bobs her head, then helps her sister take sips in between the contractions.
They’re getting so intense, Thyra barely has time to recover.
I wipe her down, then set the cloth underneath her, take a dollop of lubricant and massage it into that widening circle of flesh that looks close to bursting.
Like Mor does, I use my fingers to estimate the width. Another few contractions, and Thyra will need to push.
Like when I chisel stones or sand down metal, I shut out the world and slip into that place where nothing else exists.
“Ready to come out, pup?” I find myself murmuring.
I used to find it strange when I heard my mother do it, but as I sit in front of this little life about to surge into the world, as I run my fingers over its dewy head, speaking to it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m going to need your help as well,” I tell her or him, just as Thyra yells long and hard.
Blood and mucus stream out. How odd that I find neither revolting. I suppose it’s because it’s a source of life and not death.
After another couple of gut-wrenching cries, I pull my head out from underneath her skirt. “You’re ready to push.”
She shakes her head, throttling her sister’s and mate’s hands. “No, I’m not. I’m not ready.”
“Well, your pup’s ready for you to do it.”
Both she and Rainn blink at the mention of the life they’ve made.
“When I say push, you push with everything you’ve got, all right?”
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You can,” I reassure her, patting her ankle. “A few more minutes, and the pain will be a thing of the past.” Most of it, anyway.
I get back into position and flip her skirt up to allow more light to shine through.
My hands glisten with so many fluids and solids that my scars stand out more starkly. Too starkly. I suddenly worry that Rainn or Thyra will notice them and ask me not to touch their baby. I begin to fist my fingers before realizing how ridiculous I’m being.
Not only has Thyra already seen my hands, but she’s never once looked at them with disgust. All she said when I told her the story was, “Fenrir, what pain you must’ve been in.”
“Push,” I tell her.
The skin around the baby’s head splits, ejecting not only furrows of blood, but also more white hair.
“Got your white hair, Rainn,” Brynid comments, peering down her sister’s body. Though the bridge of her nose is still pleated, her eyes sparkle with wonder.
“Push,” I instruct Thyra.
A miniature nose pokes my open palm, then a mouth. I don’t even have to tell Thyra to push again, because instinct takes over. What a miraculous thing, our body.
As soon as the babe’s shoulders slip through, I twist the newborn around. Two more contractions break the pup out of their first home and into their—his new one. Head nestled in one of my palms, tiny butt in my other, I lift him. He wails. So does his mother. So does his aunt. Rainn only blinks.
I lay him on his mother’s chest, then, snagging my lip, I sit back down to deliver the placenta. “Twine,” I suddenly say. I forgot to pack twine for the umbilical—”
“I have some.”