This is a Gothic novel set in the early 1900's.
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Chapter Two
A pregnant Indian maiden, heavy with child, took several parcels under her arms and set out on her birth walk. It was a journey only for the mother-to-be … no one else! If it was a hardship, so be it. Most women happily returned home in three to five days bearing their new heir; others never returned.
She paused, now and then, as contractions doubled her over. Sweet Water wore an unadorned, brown-skinned, doe dress with slashes over both breasts so that she could nurse the new-born immediately after birth. She need only pull her breast out between the slashes. Its’ knee-length was convenient as it easily lifted up when she squat for delivery.
The maiden walked into a virgin forest a bit south west of the nearest city. The squall of her newborn cut through the quiet of the night as the screaming Negro died a few miles away.
Breathing in measured gasps, the lass, barely fifteen, squat—still--as the afterbirth slimed its’ way between her spread legs. Oozing in clots torn from her loins, the effect of its’ passing left her feeling drained.
Arching her back, tossing her shiny, long black hair that hung, glistening, with the sweat of her prolonged labor, she moaned. It had been three long, uneventful, days so far even though she spliced herself with the knife two days prior. The child resisted birth.
Finally ready, his feet dangled out first, he tried coming breech but she kept pushing him back inside, tried to turn him about. Looking down, touching him, his mother saw the umbilical cord had wrapped about his throat. She refused to let him be born that way.
Older women had instructed her on how to deliver her child; it was up to her to remember their words. She would either return with or without the child or neither returned. It was the way of her people, the Cherokee.
The ground beneath her, soaked in her blood, was sacred. Mother Earth cradled her first born before his birth mother held him, nursed him … loved him.
Sweet Water gasped when she noticed that what eased from her loins—it was not a bloody mass of placenta--was another male child. She bore twin boys but there was no similarity between them. The second born, unfinished, unholy, had no face! The front skin between his hair and his neck lacked all human features. He could not breathe one breath of air, behold the heavens or smell the scent of nature.
Yet, a muffled cry rose from it though she knew not from whence it came. Quickly, she turned him over in the dust, pressed his head into the ground and held firmly. Such a child dare not live to bring shame upon her and her family.
Fearful of this one, but mindful that the birthing wasn’t finished yet, she lifted her first-born, squalling infant to suckle at one of her breasts and dug into the dirt with her free hand to bury her second son.
The scent of spring perfumed the never-ending forest about her that bore witness to her dreadful superstitious, murderous nature.
I’m a good mother. She glanced proudly, awe-stricken, at her ravished, nursing son. “I will make it up to you for destroying your brother and will be the best mother any child could want. I promise.”
A sudden swoosh of wings overhead made her gaze upward to behold a bald eagle in flight. Eagle Wings is what I will call you my child. The birds of heaven will carry you on your flight of life.
Still she pawed at the harden earth, clawing it in miniscule pieces as best she could. You! She dropped her eyes to her dead son and frowned. You shall be called Noman; for you died at birth and will never become a man. Only I will know that you ever were and I will tell no one … ever!
Children born with imperfections were bad omens and seldom survived their births. Women spoke in hushed whispers of those who were left in the woods; few took time to bury such off-spring but left them as fodder for the wolves.
Sweet Water could not possibly walk away from such an ugly, soulless thing. Being eaten freed his soul and this one, so she thought, lacked a soul to free. He would best be buried deeply in the folds of Mother Earth’s arms. She would soon devour that which was less than human and bless the woman who provided such bounty.
Chilled, having lost much blood, she nearly lost her balance and tottering on her bent legs. Squatting, keeping her legs just so, was hard but far less hard than standing up and stooping over. Soon the afterbirth would come. Once that and the dead child were buried, they could return to home.
Men never worried, or so it seemed, for their wives. Those who never returned were forgotten …they became one with the forest. No one mourned. Life was hard, rugged. One either survived or they didn’t.
The pouches of food and drink Sweet Water brought with her was now gone, empty. Few women packed more than three days’ necessities and the lack of supplies left her a bit anxious.
Drop! Come on!
Urging the afterbirth out, the lass stopping digging momentarily, then she tenderly reached inside again. She felt nothing but blood.
Perhaps it already came.
Sweet Water turned Noman over and saw the mass upon his belly.
Good! I can bury you both and go home!
She clawed more intensely at the blood-drenched dirt, was finally making progress, when a hard gut feeling, turning her insides out, doubled her over. “Aaa …aa,” she involuntarily moaned. “Oh, God have mercy.” She began to chant in her native language … as other women had done before her.
A huge, fist-sized blood mass fell out between her legs, and, as if turning on a faucet, a scarlet river cascaded behind it. “Aaa …aa, aaa …aa, aaa …aa.” Something spilt her life blood by the gallons.
The ghost of her grandmother wavered before her … whispering. “The mud pack, dear, make the bloody mud pack and live.”
Her father, the tribal medicine man, lost his mother shortly after his birth. Grandma crawled out of the woods but her husband, the Chief, carried her back to the birthing site.
“You dishonor me by crawling on the ground. If you cannot walk back on both feet, stay in the woods.” Pride … everyone has a measure but honor can be costly.
“B.b.but …,” the weak woman was horrified. “This baby is your son. Will you take him?”
Grandmother had held her father, the newborn, UP and closed her eyes in silent devotion … praying that he would live. With deliberate pause, the swaddled infant disappeared into his father’s arms as he turned to leave the woods. Grandmother was never seen again.
Sweet Water made the paste of blood and mud, well mixed. The scarlet pool continued to grow, to drain her, until, consciousness waning, she began smearing the mixture freely between her legs. Layer after layer was absorbed but soon blood no longer fell.
Slowly, but thankfully, the maiden steadied herself and rose, Eagle Wings still suckling. With her free hand she bent and buried what she had to, then stooped to check the mud mixture. It was not only holding but drying. Good. With measured pauses, the Indian maiden slowly took small steps that, eventually, would lead her home.
Thump, thump, thump.
Was it her imagination or was the heart of the buried child still beating, following her every move? What did HE want? Ahhhh … revenge!
Sweet Water detoured by her village on her way home. Her husband had gone to the mountains, he was a trapper, and she didn’t want to be alone with the sounds surrounding her. The thump, thump, thump was becoming louder, harder to shut out. Her parents would be welcome company.
Sitting quietly in his teepee, her father, hearing the thump, thump, thump in his head, suddenly bolted upright, clutched at his heart and whispered to his wife sitting nearby. “A child has been born … that should never have been. We will hear nothing of him because he’s been laid to rest already but, from my grandson’s loins, a Peacekeeper will come forth. Not in our lifetime, of course.”
“Is Sweet Water all right?”
“Yes, dear.” The elderly man padded his wife’s shoulders. “But let’s not speak of the legend for she won’t owe to having had the faceless fiend … or his demise. My grandfather started this and my great-grandchild will finish it! So be it!”
