Strands of Starlight by Gael Baudino Page A

chest. Mika looked alarmed. Clare let her bloated arm fall to the side and stared blankly at the ceiling. A long contraction shuddered down her belly.
    “Jeanne, Miriam,” snapped the midwife. “Some cold cloths for her forehead.”
    Jeanne brought them, but Miriam pulled herself away from thoughts of the power and took the basin from her. The room was wavering in her sight as she wrung out a cloth and placed it on Clare's brow. The mother's eyes flickered.
    Mika was wiping her hands. “I think the baby's in a good position,” she said. “I won't be able to tell for certain for a while.” Her face was pale.
    “What is it?” said Miriam.
    “The baby's in trouble,” the midwife whispered. “There's little I can do right now. Pray.”
    “Pray?” It had been years since she had prayed. She could not start now, not here in this house with a roomful of women, a delirious mother, and the white fire of her healing battering her from within.
    Jeanne brought the tea. Clare was hardly able to swallow. Mika gave it to her in minute sips after stirring in a little honey, then sat down by the pallet and wiped Clare's face periodically with the cool cloth, murmuring reassuringly. She was obviously waiting.
    The conversations among the women by the fire started up again, soft words about children, housekeeping, husbands, and Clare. There was an element of worry in their tones to be sure, but there was also confidence. Mika was here. She could do anything.
    Hours passed. Outside, the sun crawled toward the horizon. Inside, Clare was still delirious, now in heavy labor, crying out in a vague voice when the pain became too great. Mika bathed Clare's face, felt the muscles of her belly, tried to get her to drink a little more of the infusion.
    Miriam sat beside Mika, the magma burning through her back, a white haze of pain creeping into her vision. Her hands shook. Toward evening, Mika turned to her. “Maybe you'd better go.”
    “It's too late for that.”
    Jeanne brought more cool cloths. Mika waved her aside and bent over Clare, who was, between contractions, tossing back and forth on the sweat-soaked pallet.
    “I can feel the baby's head,” she said softly to Miriam. “It's not breech. So that means toxemia. Mother of God, I wish it were breech!”
    Just then, Clare shuddered, and her face, already blank, lost all expression. Mika slid a hand beneath the mother's knee, elevated it, and gave it a slight blow just below the kneecap. The leg jerked in a massive reflex, the foot swinging high toward the ceiling once, then again. The twitches died away slowly.
    “Jesus—”
    “Mika?”
    Mika was already reaching into her bundle. She came up with a short, thick stick. “Miriam, you'll have to—”
    The midwife was cut short by a sudden spasm in Clare. It was not a contraction. It grew quickly, massively, spreading through her body, twisting it, wringing it. Clare's head slammed down on the pallet, her back arching. Mika shoved the stick into Clare's mouth just as her jaws snapped shut, splintering the wood. Clare moaned as she writhed on the pallet, shuddering terribly.
    “Miriam, hold her,” Mika snapped as she grabbed and pinned Clare's legs. Without thinking, the little healer flung herself across Clare's head and shoulders, fighting against muscles that were clenching the woman's entire body. A froth of spittle grew around Clare's mouth, and her gasps sprayed flecks of spume into Miriam's face. She hardly noticed: the fire was climbing rapidly.
    Abruptly, the seizure passed, and the woman went limp and unconscious. Miriam lay on her, exhausted. The women by the fire had fallen silent, and she heard only the crackling of the fire, the wind, and the sound of blood dripping from the pallet.
    Mika straightened. “Jeanne,” she said. “By my bundle is a pot of ergot infusion. Put some in a cup.”
    Jeanne was staring at the pallet. Blood was pooling rapidly around the unconscious Clare, soaking the matting, dripping to