Self-Made Scoundrel by Tristan J. Tarwater

being undone and then a creak as the door was opened, the midwife appearing at the door with a knife in her hand.
    She cut the rope sealing the door and put an arm around Dershik’s shoulders, ushering him into the birthing room while everyone else hung back, waiting. Dershik gulped as he looked inside, curious as to what he would see within.
    The room was dim and it smelled of sweat and blood. A servant filled a lamp with scented oil to clear the air and the heady aroma of the flowers and resins mixing with the human odors was strange. Piles of cloth were being put into a bundle, stained pink and red and brown. A strange chair with no true seat to it sat in the middle of the room. Dershik saw Jerila laying in bed, her face sweaty and peppered with red dots but smiling. Her light eyes looked weary but she smiled at Dershik as he approached, all the women in the room watching.
    “Here he is,” Jerila said. Dershik saw the baby, its smushed face pressed up against Jerila’s breast, its mouth sleepily trying to nurse. A hint of strawberry blond hair sprouted from his small head. He could only stare at him, hands at his sides, not sure what to do. Sister Kiyla laughed, pouring a glass of beer.
    “Take him from her so she can have a drink,” Sister Kiyla said. Dershik looked to her and noticed how old she appeared. Silver strands ran through dark brown hair and wrinkles framed her eyes. Dershik pressed his lips together, wondering how to take the baby. Jerila smiled as she unlatched the baby from her breast and wrapped him in the yellow and blue blanket specially made for the child. Dershik reached out and she placed the babe in his hands.
    He was so little, so loose-jointed. His skin was a mottled pink and white and pale eyelashes and brows barely showed on his face. One tiny fist sneaked out from the various blankets, jerking clumsily as the baby tried to control its limbs. Dershik cradled the boy in his arms and sucked in his breath as the infant opened its eyes, deep blue and watching. Ceric’s eyes. The baby’s real father was outside the door, waiting to see him. Dershik made sure the blankets were wrapped around the baby tightly so it wouldn’t catch a chill and he walked to the door.
    As was the custom, he placed a hand to support the baby’s head and neck and lifted the child slowly over his head, for all the people into the room. “A boy,” he announced, trying to shout it but holding back, feeling suddenly awkward. The people cheered loudly, which promptly startled the baby. The baby cried out, over the shouts which made everyone cheer even more, slapping each other on the back. Dershik saw his brother and smiled nervously, holding his nephew close to him as his brother lowered his eyes and nodded. The ritual done, he took the crying baby back into the room.
    The baby’s crying sounded louder in the smallness of the room and Jerila sat up and reached out her arms, taking the baby from him. As soon he was with his mother he quieted down, nuzzling against her and soon suckling once more.
    “He’s got a lusty cry,” the midwife said, beaming happily. Her blood-stained apron had been removed, her homespun brown dress and red belt setting her apart from the others in the room. “It’s a good sign, means he’s strong. He’ll make the family proud, that’s for sure.”
    “He’ll need a strong name,” Dershik said. “I’ve got a few ideas.” He nodded at Jerila. “I should go and see to the household. Arrange for the naming ceremony. Do you…need anything?” He looked to Jerila hopefully, feeling awkward yet again.
    “Be sure to answer anyone’s questions about the baby,” Jerila said, giving him a look saying much more.
    “And have bone broth and bloodroot salad brought up, rare meat as well.” The midwife put her hands on Dershik’s shoulders and directed him out of the room gently. “Go on, you can come back later.” Dershik stumbled into the throng of people still hanging around, some of