CHAPTER 16
I’m sure C’vest and Stella’s ranch is nice, but I hardly glance at the exterior, so focused am I on Becky’s brain as I help her into the house after her dangerous influence of a friend.
“Being near your wife induced mine,” I accuse C’vest as we come alongside one another in his home’s entryway.
Becky huffs an incredulous laugh. Stella does too. But C’vest nods, accepting this logic. It isn’t a far-fetched notion. It’s a phenomenon attributed to some sea creatures.
C’vest, holding his wife’s elbow, guides Stella—and thereby us too as we follow beside them—to their birthing room.
Just inside the threshold, I stop dead and stare.
Outside, Paco makes a loud “HAWWWWWWW!” noise that shakes the windows. He isn’t calling us; he’s calling the mares that C’vest and Stella own. The mares were at the fenceline that runs alongside their ranch’s long drive, and Paco was thrilled to make their acquaintance.
It was clear to us onlookers that the bemused mares could not say the same.
(Underwhelmed. That was their reaction, in a word.)
“Wow,” Becky breathes. “Your wall murals are… incredible.”
Mutely, I jerk my chin down in agreement. In Stella and C’vest’s birthing room, someone has painted a representation of the pelagic realm. A myriad of underwater creatures found in the Sunlight Zone to the Abyss are frolicking in a sea of bright, nearly electric colors .
Vibrant corals and anemones and seafloor fishes decorate the lower portions of two walls, representing the benthic realm very nicely.
The other two walls are quite the contrast, with Western scenes. Bovines native to this planet, called Nfurian, dot the hills on one wall. The other wall depicts a horse, a very shiny horse, painted to look like the one that pulled C’vest’s and Stella’s wagon if I’m not mistaken.
A crib sits in front of this wall. Over the crib is a hoop, and dangling from the hoop is a deliberate blend of sea creatures and Western animals. In the corner of the room is a wooden cow affixed to a pair of curved wooden pieces.
“What is that?” I ask.
“A rocker,” Stella answers, rubbing her back as her husband hauls furniture around, moving things to make the space even more appropriate for birthing. Masculine nesting behavior. “Traditionally, you give children a rocking horse. But we raise cattle here and C’vest saw this bull rocker and liked it. We decided to buy it for our baby instead of a horse.” She catches her mate by the hand and pets his arm, stilling him.
His face appears stoic—but his brain gives away that he’s anxious.
Understandably.
He tips his head to the center of the room where one chair, what must be a labor chair, sits prominently.
Tucked in the corner opposite the bull rocker is another chair, just as fine looking, just as Stella described.
I guide Becky to the tucked-away chair, which is against an ocean mural wall on its left and a Western mural on its right.
“Pull that over here, next to me,” Stella instructs. Then she blinks, her hands beginning to worry her husband’s arm. “Unless you want to be over there. It's okay if you want some privacy. We can also put you in the guest room, if you’d prefer. ”
I start to agree that privacy is preferred, but Becky answers, “By you sounds good.” So I carry the chair from the corner where the mural worlds collide and set it near Stella’s.
“Do you want me to get the rug for the floor?” C’vest asks. “There will be less risk of you slipping.” The question isn’t directed at me so I remain silent as I return to Becky’s side. C’vest has shifted so that he’s in front of Stella, his hands brushing from her shoulders to her hips. “I know you were worried about it getting stained, but we can buy a new one if we need to replace it.”
Stella pats her husband on the chest. “I think we’re okay for now. Why don’t you two go take care of the horses? Give Becky and me a chance to settle in without you both hovering.”
Banished to stabling duties, C’vest and I efficiently untack, brush, and feed the wagon horses, and after I care for Paco, I lock him in a stall.
Paco brays as I leave. It’s a distinctly amused sound. I believe that he wishes me to know he enjoys a challenge.
When we return to the house, C’vest directs me to follow him to a siphon room where we wash our hands and arms and faces thoroughly—and then we wash our hands again for good measure. I hastily pat my beard dry with a towel he hands me.
“Where is the midwife?” C’vest grumbles as we return to our wives, who are midwifeless and seated on the horseshoe-shaped seats of their birthing chairs—
And both of them are breathing in an alarming pattern.
“What has your wife done?” I growl at C’vest, rushing forward.
He snarls a protest behind me.
Stella regains her normal pattern of breathing and calls, “C’vest, can you please rub my back?”
He nearly knocks me over to reach her .
Becky looks up and holds out her hands to me. In one of them, her thumb is folded over a wooden comb. “Stella is teaching me how to breathe with a relaxed jaw during a contraction.”
I meet her eyes to let her know I’ve processed her statement as I help her to her feet and round her, getting shoulder to shoulder with a bristling C’vest, and begin rubbing Becky’s back as he works on Stella’s.
I copy his strokes, which start at his wife’s lower back and move up to her shoulders. When he changes target areas and concentrates on the areas above and below her hips, I do the same for Becky.
Our wives resume conversing to each other, grimacing every so often through a contraction. The back rubbing session ends when they each need to use the siphon room. When they return to the birthing room, they mostly stay on their feet, walking around the room. Waiting for a medical professional to appear. Having contractions. Allowing their cervixes to open without medical supervision of any kind.
When they retake their seats once more, C’vest prowls at his mate’s chairside until she tells him to sit, please.
He obediently retrieves a stool from a closet. Grudgingly he hands me one too.
We no more than sink down on them when there’s a knock on the door. C’vest lunges up to answer it. He returns swiftly, nearly dragging in a woman carrying a bag of supplies.
The midwife.
“Wash your hands,” I warn her.
She gives me a sharp look. “I’m Jane, and I’ve delivered more babies than you can imagine. I wash my hands.”
“William,” Becky says. “Come here.”
Setting her bag down and beginning to unpack it, Jane informs me rather severely, “I have only so much tolerance for being ordered to do what I already know to do by worried husbands. Consider this your only warning, sir.”
“Sorry,” Becky tells her, petting my arm .
Jane shrugs and shares a look with my wife. “I understand that it’s hard for a man to watch his wife in pain. It’s why I try to develop some level of trust before birthing day arrives.” Her eyes drop to the way Becky is now fisting her hands and I’m rubbing her back through a contraction. “Are you in labor too?”
“Yessss,” Becky confirms.
Jane looks between Becky and Stella, who is also having a contraction. “How far apart?”
“Four minutes for Stella,” C’vest replies. “Five minutes for Becky.”
While the significance of the contractions’ timing is lost on me, I can’t miss the way Midwife Jane’s eyes widen.
“Well,” she says. “This will be interesting. I’m going to wash up—” she sends me a pointed glare as she announces this, “and I’ll be right back, ladies.”
Becky keeps me corralled as best she can from midwife Jane and C’vest. She manages very well until her contractions become more severe.
“Remember,” Stella tells her, speaking through gritted teeth, her hands gripping the flared sections of her chair. “Squeeze the comb during your contraction to distract yourself from the pain. And keep your jaw relaaaaaxed,” she hisses out.
“I think you need to—” I helpfully start.
Becky slaps her hand over my mouth—the hand not holding the comb she’s squeezing.
“Tayyk yer owwn addvyce,” I manage to say, my lips mashed against Becky’s palm. I kiss it.
“Shhhhh,” she says to me, with teeth that aren’t quite gritted, I’m relieved to note.
C’vest growls from the side of his wife’s chair, not pleased that I attempted to point out helpful advice for his mate.
A few contractions later and Becky throws the comb .
By a wide margin, she misses Jane, who is seated on a low stool positioned between Stella’s legs. But Jane still sends Becky a warning look. “Enough of that.”
I retrieve the comb and place it back into Becky’s clammy palm.
Becky begins to sob.
I’ve never felt so powerless in my life. Internally beside myself but gripping onto a calm exterior with everything I’ve got, I offer her more ice chips, ones that C’vest showed me how to obtain from their refrigerator which dispenses them. “You are doing well,” I tell her, not for the first time.
“This is taking forever,” Becky weeps.
“You’ve been laboring for hours,” I agree. “I must say I am quite impressed. It’s my understanding that the pain of childbirth is torturous, and to think that you’ve been undergoing it for so long… The resilience of a woman is astounding.”
Becky only cries harder.
Jane sighs and shoots a harassed look at C’vest. “Do you have duct tape for that one’s mouth?”
To my relief, Becky laughs.
It’s a choked sound, but I recognize it for what it is. Heedful of her condition, I fondly pull her to me.
Just as quickly as her mirth flared though, her face crumples again. She presses her head into my chest.
Carefully I peel sweaty tendrils of her hair off her cheeks and frame her face in my hands. “You will give birth soon,” I promise her. Because it must be soon. As pointed out, she’s already been at work for hours delivering this tadpole.
“I’m scared,” Becky admits, tilting her head back and looking up at me with fear in her eyes.
I bring my arms around her gently and hold her. “I am too,” I admit. “I was once chased by an Orcinus, which is a terrifying predator from where I’m from, and I was very nearly overtaken. This is more frightening than that.”
“SHUT HIM UP!” Midwife Jane barks.
And to my delight, Becky chokes out another laugh.
When the women began pushing in earnest, we moved their chairs so that C’vest and I are essentially back to back.
Even if I glanced over my shoulder, C’vest is blocking my view of his wife, if I dared to look over at her. I don’t. I have plenty enough to focus on, and I grasp the concept of privacy. I give the other couple as much of it as I’m able.
Stella growls as she suddenly bears down during her next contraction, which has arrived even quicker than the last. And her husband’s brain spikes in the sectors for alarm and relief and fear.
“I see the head,” Midwife Jane announces.
“Oh, thank God,” Becky pants in solidarity, getting to her feet and moving to her new friend. And the laboring women reach for each other and hold hands.
Midwife Jane has her sterilized hands cupped under Stella, waiting for the tadpole to emerge.
Agonizing moments or minutes later—it’s hard to track time amid this stress—the tadpole is caught in Midwife Jane’s evidently capable hands.
“It’s a boy!” she announces.
I manage to drag my gaze away from Becky to acknowledge the newling’s arrival with a congratulations for his parents—and I’m stunned speechless.
The offspring is half Yonderin. Which, in an abstract way, I was aware would be the case. To see him though… Human from head to his belly, he’s the most fetching infant I’ve ever seen. But then, at his hips, he has a drastic transformation. Shiny blue scales cover his lower half, much like a Yonderin. At the same time, he’s very much humanoid. He has legs .
As if to demonstrate this, he kicks out his legs and on his tiny feet, even tinier toes spread. Between the toes is an opaque membrane. Webbing. He has little webbed toes.
I’m entranced.
I’m roused from my staring because Becky’s brain is troubled and I don’t know why.
I catch her looking between me and the tadpole. I can’t read the look on her face.
She turns away from me and something I read off of her, perhaps the studious way she’s now avoiding looking at the Yonderin-human, sets me back on my heels. I’m struck with the question: is Becky repulsed by the idea of a half-Yonderin, half-human hybrid?
Does Becky not want an offspring of mine?
“What is the matter?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “I want to get down.”
“Get down where?”
She’s grimacing now. “I want to get down on all fours.”
“Need that rug,” C’vest mutters and pulls away from his family and rushes from the room.
“Before you get down, let’s check you,” Midwife Jane says, washing her hands in a bowl with a thorough efficiency I can appreciate. “You.” She jerks her chin at me, then the pottery sitting on a small table by the door. “Pitcher. Pour it on my hands.”
I leave Becky’s side and do as the midwife has bidden, aiding her in rinsing her hands. Once her appendages are clean, the midwife inserts her hand into a part of Becky that of late, only I have been in. “We’ve got Lightening.”
“Lightning?” I ask, restraining the urge to throw a look out the window. There hasn’t been a day of rain since I arrived here.
“The baby is descending,” C’vest offers, returning with a rolled-up rug that’s new, judging by the plastic wrapping it. Carefully he frees it from its casing and rolls it out on an area of the floor none of us are standing.
I send him a glance of thanks, both for the explanation and this comfort for my wife. Then I help Becky move to all fours atop the woven material.
“Don’t spread your knees,” Midwife Jane cautions. “It pinches your canal. Harder for baby to get through.”
I help Becky position herself so that her knees are under her hips.
“Spread your feet,” Midwife Jane orders.
Becky groans as I help her slide her feet—but not her knees—until she’s splayed, with her knees under her and rotated in. As Midwife Jane shoos me aside and draws Becky’s gown up, I nearly gasp.
There’s a tadpole’s head emerging.
“Now just like with Stella, we’re not going to rush this,” Midwife Jane cautions. “It’s not like vids where Mom gets screamed at to push. Rushing things is how you tear a woman. We’re also not going to cut anything. I’m going to massage the lips of your vagina and help it stretch around your baby’s head. Ready?”
“Yeah,” Becky pants.
Scandalized anew, relegated to Becky’s shoulder, I can only rub her back and hold her dress as Midwife Jane massages my wife’s private areas.
And we wait.
Off to the side of us, with C’vest acting as her bristling guard, Stella successfully nurses her offspring for the first time.
Grunting, squeezing her birthing comb, Becky painstakingly delivers our tadpole.
“It’s a girl!” Midwife Jane informs us.
“HAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!” Paco bellows from the vicinity of the porch, making the occupants in the room jump. He follows this with a loud slam of the screen door that sounds as if he cracks it out of its hinges .
“What the hell is that?” Midwife Jane asks in alarm.
“Our little smartass,” I say fondly. Feeling fondness for everything. I’m euphoric, I realize. C’vest must be seeing all the happiness chemicals flooding my skull—and I don’t even care. I couldn’t bridle right now if someone offered me a million credits and all the shiny horses.
Becky starts to cry. Relief and sadness are a swirling mix in her brain. “Mattie,” she weeps. “If we had a girl, Joel wanted to name her… Mattie.”
“We’ve had a girl,” I confirm. “Mattie is a lovely name for a human.”
Becky… cries harder.
Unsure what to do, I pet her hair and her shoulder. “I came across literature stating that male children are more prized in some cultures. Is this the case on Traxia? Is the gender of your child causing you emotional pain?” I query.
“No,” Becky asserts.
“William,” C’vest calls, standing closer than I realized, when I turn from Becky to see why he’s interrupted my conversation with my wife.
I do a double take.
In my extreme distraction, I entirely missed that this is not a content male. C’vest is not settled. He is not full of jubilation and wonder at his newling and his wife’s accomplishment. Although I do see sectors in his brain that indicate he feels those things, they are being eclipsed by something much darker. He’s experiencing such dark emotion that his aggression comes off of him in waves.
Behind him, his mate is cuddled with their young. Behind the protective barrier of my body, my mate is cuddling our young. If C’vest would return to his mate’s side, all would be as it should be.
To my surprise, C’vest motions for me to leave my family and follow him to the door of the room.
Torn, I do. Because I’d do anything to move him—with the state he’s in—away from my mate and child. “What is it?” I ask.
From outside, Paco brays, “REEEE! REEE! REEEEEE…”
By the sound of it, he’s wasting away from lack of attention. His honks are trailing off almost sadly.
C’vest’s mouth is pulled into a grim line. “I can’t let Alvert remain a threat.”
“Ah.” This makes complete sense to me. With a vulnerable mate and a newborn, in his position, I wouldn’t either. In fact, I was considering hunting this Alvert person myself.
C’vest jerks his head at our women and children. “Will you stay with them?”
Stunned, I stare at him. He’s trusting me—a rival Yonderin —with his mate and child?
He exhales, impatient, and pins me with a look that stops my blood. “If I don’t come back, will you protect Stella and our son?”
Mutely I nod.
C’vest glares into my eyes. “If I don’t come back, you get Stella and our son to a shuttleport. Don’t let her stay here. It’s not safe. You hear me?”
“Yes,” I vow.
With a deep nod, he returns to his mate’s side. He kisses her and their babe.
Stella stops him by taking his hand. “You’re going to take care of Alvert, aren’t you?”
She says this quietly enough that Midwife Jane can’t hear her. Perhaps not even Becky. But my ears pick up her words easily.
C’vest stares at his mate with such intensity. “I’m taking care of you. I’m going to make you and our son safe.”
Stella grabs his lapels. “You come back safe. Do you hear me?”
Looking firmly into her eyes, he nods. Then he leans in and kisses her .
He nuzzles his offspring next, where the little creature is lying over his mother’s breast. Then he leaves to eliminate the threat to our families.