the floor in a thin stream.
“ Jeanne! ”
Jeanne fumbled with the pot and a cup.
“I . . . don't understand,” Miriam forced the words out.
“What's happening?” The power was white-hot now, flooding her mind, blanketing her sight.
Mika moved with terrible purpose. She snatched the cup of infusion from Jeanne, then turned around and pulled Miriam off the hemorrhaging woman. “She's bleeding to death, Miriam,” she said. Her voice was like ice. “The fit tore the afterbirth away from her womb. Jeanne, you'd best run fetch the priest.”
The peasant woman threw the door open and set off at a run.
Blood dripped steadily, soaking the rushes on the earth floor, puddling, spreading. Mika forced Clare's mouth open and tried to make her drink the ergot tea, but she would not awaken, would not swallow. “Clare. Clare! Swallow! Dear God!”
The women had stood, and were huddled together now by the fire, watching silently. “ Ave Maria, ” one said, “ gratia plena, Dominus Tecum . . .”
“Clare! Drink, please. . . . If we can get your little one out, your womb will close and you'll both live. Clare . . .”
Miriam heard it all from within her small crucible of light and pain. The power had broken free of her spine and had flooded her, streaming through her body, burning terribly, each muscle and nerve and fiber igniting in turn, blazing white-hot.
Too late. She could not stop it. If Clare was, by a miracle, restored, it would fade, but otherwise it would go on and on like this until Miriam herself passed out, screaming, as she had that one day when she had seen the leper in the hills outside Maris. She had no choice but to shriek in agony or submit and be violated once again.
She was sitting on the floor by the pallet. The pool of blood lapped at her scarred legs.
There were footsteps on the path outside, and the door was flung open again. The deep tones of the priest's voice made Miriam shudder, and she dragged herself to hands and knees. “Get him out of here,” she cried. “Get him away!”
“How dare you—”
She could not see his face, could not see anything. She got to her feet and shoved him aside blindly, her outstretched hands groping for the bleeding woman. “Get him away. Mika!”
“Miriam! No!”
She nearly laughed. Mika might as well deny a thunderstorm, or a flood, or a forest fire. She was screaming now, the white fire tearing the sounds from her lips in ragged hunks. Near fainting, she bumped into the edge of the pallet and fell forward onto soft, dropsied, fevered flesh. She smelled the rank odor of old sweat, the ripe stench of growing death. “Get him out of here,” she cried again.
And she let the power have its way with her.
There was a change in the air, a sudden cry, a flash of white light. The world spun. Then the fire faded from her body, and when Miriam came to herself, she heard the wail of a newborn child.
“A girl, Clare,” Mika was saying. “You have a daughter.”
***
“I have to leave,” said Miriam. She was crumpled into a corner of Mika's kitchen like a rag doll that some child had carelessly flung down. There was a dark, metallic taste in her mouth, as if she had bitten a sword blade, and her belly ached, though not from hunger. She watched blankly as Mika put together a cold dinner.
“I know,” said the midwife tiredly. “I know. I saw the priest's face.”
Miriam gave a short, bitter laugh that had no feeling behind it. “At least he didn't pick me up and throw me on the fire then and there. He was almost funny. He looked like a fish, puffing and blowing.”
Mika turned away with a platter of dried fruit and smoked meat. “Why did you do it? You . . . you knew the birth would be difficult.”
“Yes.” Miriam stirred from the corner, got up, and cleared a seat for Mika. The two women sat down and Mika said a blessing. Miriam sat with her hands folded. She did not believe in God anymore. She believed in nothing save her power, and she wished
“ Jeanne! ”
Jeanne fumbled with the pot and a cup.
“I . . . don't understand,” Miriam forced the words out.
“What's happening?” The power was white-hot now, flooding her mind, blanketing her sight.
Mika moved with terrible purpose. She snatched the cup of infusion from Jeanne, then turned around and pulled Miriam off the hemorrhaging woman. “She's bleeding to death, Miriam,” she said. Her voice was like ice. “The fit tore the afterbirth away from her womb. Jeanne, you'd best run fetch the priest.”
The peasant woman threw the door open and set off at a run.
Blood dripped steadily, soaking the rushes on the earth floor, puddling, spreading. Mika forced Clare's mouth open and tried to make her drink the ergot tea, but she would not awaken, would not swallow. “Clare. Clare! Swallow! Dear God!”
The women had stood, and were huddled together now by the fire, watching silently. “ Ave Maria, ” one said, “ gratia plena, Dominus Tecum . . .”
“Clare! Drink, please. . . . If we can get your little one out, your womb will close and you'll both live. Clare . . .”
Miriam heard it all from within her small crucible of light and pain. The power had broken free of her spine and had flooded her, streaming through her body, burning terribly, each muscle and nerve and fiber igniting in turn, blazing white-hot.
Too late. She could not stop it. If Clare was, by a miracle, restored, it would fade, but otherwise it would go on and on like this until Miriam herself passed out, screaming, as she had that one day when she had seen the leper in the hills outside Maris. She had no choice but to shriek in agony or submit and be violated once again.
She was sitting on the floor by the pallet. The pool of blood lapped at her scarred legs.
There were footsteps on the path outside, and the door was flung open again. The deep tones of the priest's voice made Miriam shudder, and she dragged herself to hands and knees. “Get him out of here,” she cried. “Get him away!”
“How dare you—”
She could not see his face, could not see anything. She got to her feet and shoved him aside blindly, her outstretched hands groping for the bleeding woman. “Get him away. Mika!”
“Miriam! No!”
She nearly laughed. Mika might as well deny a thunderstorm, or a flood, or a forest fire. She was screaming now, the white fire tearing the sounds from her lips in ragged hunks. Near fainting, she bumped into the edge of the pallet and fell forward onto soft, dropsied, fevered flesh. She smelled the rank odor of old sweat, the ripe stench of growing death. “Get him out of here,” she cried again.
And she let the power have its way with her.
There was a change in the air, a sudden cry, a flash of white light. The world spun. Then the fire faded from her body, and when Miriam came to herself, she heard the wail of a newborn child.
“A girl, Clare,” Mika was saying. “You have a daughter.”
***
“I have to leave,” said Miriam. She was crumpled into a corner of Mika's kitchen like a rag doll that some child had carelessly flung down. There was a dark, metallic taste in her mouth, as if she had bitten a sword blade, and her belly ached, though not from hunger. She watched blankly as Mika put together a cold dinner.
“I know,” said the midwife tiredly. “I know. I saw the priest's face.”
Miriam gave a short, bitter laugh that had no feeling behind it. “At least he didn't pick me up and throw me on the fire then and there. He was almost funny. He looked like a fish, puffing and blowing.”
Mika turned away with a platter of dried fruit and smoked meat. “Why did you do it? You . . . you knew the birth would be difficult.”
“Yes.” Miriam stirred from the corner, got up, and cleared a seat for Mika. The two women sat down and Mika said a blessing. Miriam sat with her hands folded. She did not believe in God anymore. She believed in nothing save her power, and she wished
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