"Now!"
Pima, sweating and bawling and thrashing for the past eighteen hours, focused every fiber of her body and bore down.
"Good girl," the witch praised her. "Again!"
"No!" yelled the midwife. "You will be killing her and the babe!"
Murmurs of consent rose from the other women gathered in the tent. The witch ignored them. She'd fully intended to remain in the background and let the village women do as they'd always done, provided all went well. It hadn't. Several hours into the labor she'd stepped in, unwelcome as her help was to everyone but Pima. Deft fingers, trained by decades of substituting for an old woman's sight, had felt the breech and pushed and palpated until the babe was turned at last.
"Don't listen to them," she whispered soothingly. "Nobody will be killed, least of all you and your babe. Do it!"
Letting out a deafening scream, Pima obeyed. Moments later shouting and outraged squeals erupted from the women, suggesting that a man had entered the tent. Most likely Jinto, half mad with worry. The old woman refused to let the breach of tradition distract her. To her mind, a father had every right to witness the birth of his offspring. And he'd arrived just in time. A damp, kicking little life was slipping between her hands and began to squall lustily.
Relieved to the core of her soul, she gave a rusty chuckle. "There! Didn't I tell you, Pirna?"
Then someone manhandled her out of the way. No matter. Let the midwife take over. From here on out the woman could do no harm.
"It is a girl!" hollered Jinto's deep voice. "Pima, do you hear? It is a girl!"
"I'm not deaf, husband," Pima replied hoarsely. "And I'm sure the hunters in the mountains heard you, too."
Laughter flooded the tent, warm and easy and good-natured. It drowned out even the little girl's protests at a world so different from what she'd known these past nine moons and more and dispelled the last remnants of the tension that had built among folk expecting the worst. A pair of hands gently grasped the old woman's arm and guided her to sit on a stool. She was grateful for the kindness, realizing for the first time that she must have been up for a day and a night. Slowly, commotion melted into quiet a contentment that tolerated even Jinto's unheard-of presence in the birthing tent.
Before long she heard hushed conversations, some appraising the merits of the child, agreeing that the little one looked strong and healthy and possessed the requisite number of fingers and toes; others reminiscing about how Sirvin's labor had kept the village awake for a full two days when she'd had her twins, or how young Lila, friendly enough but not very bright, had never even known she was with child until the babe had arrived, quite unceremoniously, halfway down to the beach. The surprised mother, who until that moment had been convinced she was suffering from indigestion, had carried her son home in a clam basket.
Underneath the babble, the old woman could make out the soft, greedy gulps of the little girl who had been given to her mother to suckle. All was as it should be. She rolled her head a little, loosening stiff muscles in her neck, and wondered if and when somebody would think to offer her food. They would, eventually, because they expected it would keep the witch favorably inclined. They were right, at least on this occasion. By her count, she hadn't eaten since noontime the day before, and she felt ravenous.
"What will you call her?" one of the women asked.
"We haven't thought on it yet," replied Jinto. "Pima was sure it would be another boy, so we've got a name for him, but we can't very well call a girl Tallan."
"Speak for yourself," Pima said over the titters that rose. "I have a name for her, and a very good one. We shall call her Teyla. Provided you give your consent, Mother."
The tent fell utterly silent. Though unable to see, the old woman could feel the stares prickling on her skin. She was startled into speechlessness, a rare thing for her, as nothing much surprised her anymore, but this request had been entirely unforeseen. An honor, to be sure, and what little vanity she had left urged her to give permission. Still…
"I-" she began but never got to finish.
From outside the tent came a yell. "Jinto! Jinto, you are needed!"
The voice belonged to Wex, Jinto's friend from childhood, and it was accompanied by running footsteps. Wex and his men had been out fishing, so he couldn't possibly realize that Jinto had cause to be preoccupied. A moment later and among the resigned giggles of the women, Wex burst into the tent.
"Jinto! Why don't you-" He stopped abruptly. "Oh…"
The witch fancied she could hear him blush.
"So the lad has decided to arrive?" He sounded gruff with embarrassment.
"He hasn't," Jinto pointed out. "She has. What is it? Can it wait?"
"It can, until I have greeted your daughter."
Upon which Wex broke into such cooing, it would have made him a laughing stock had anyone dared to poke fun at him. Once a burly boy, he'd grown into a bear of a man, much respected and trusted advisor to Jinto who, after his father's passing, had stepped in as leader of his people-although, as he never ceased to remind the old woman, he didn't feel it was his place. She disregarded his protests with the same regularity. Jinto was a caring and capable leader, which was all that mattered.
Now, it seemed, curiosity and concern had gotten the better of him. He knew well enough that his friend didn't get excited over nothing. "So, what is it?" Jinto asked again.
Clearly, Wex didn't consider the matter suitable for all ears. He lowered his voice to a whisper, and much as the old woman strained, she couldn't make out a word.
"You have done well," Jinto said at last and paused briefly. Then, "Will you go with Wex? There is someone in need of your skills."
Not until a strong hand clasped her shoulder, did the witch understand that Jinto was talking to her. In truth, she would have preferred sleep to tending the wounded or sick, but she knew that he wouldn't ask lightly, especially after what she'd done for Pima and the babe. "Very well. Take my hand, Wex."
"I have been waiting to hear you say that all my life " He gently helped her to her feet.
"Fool!" she groused, biting back a smile. "You can carry my basket for that."
He led her from the birthing tent and, as soon as they were out of earshot, began to explain. "My men discovered him washed up on the beach, and I thought it best if nobody else found out for now. You know how edgy folk are around strangers since the famine. They'll say we have taken in enough refugees and leave him to die."
"At the beach?" she asked. "Where did you bring him?"
"My tent," replied Wex. "It is past the edge of the village and nobody has much cause to come that way. Which probably is for the best."
"I should think so."
For the rest of the way he kept quiet, leaving her to her thoughts, which wasn't an altogether good thing. She had to force herself not to get excited, though excitement would offset her exhaustion at least. Still, it might mean nothing, most likely did. There'd been other occurrences. Rare, it was true, but it lay in the nature of the sea to bring flotsam, including a body now and again, some poor soul washed overboard from another village's boat. In all the years only one of those foundlings had survived to live out his days wild-eyed and crazed by what he'd suffered. For a brief while she'd thought he might be the one, but she wouldn't go down that road again. And yet, on no other occasion had there been flaming things tumbling from the sky only days before…
"We are here," Wex said abruptly, startling her.
She heard a tent flap being thrown back and rushed footsteps scurrying toward, around, and past her. One of Wex's men ordered to watch the foundling and now dismissed, either by Wex's silent order or by his own misgivings at the sight of the witch. A tug at her arm, and she followed it into the tent. The heat of a roaring fire leaped at her and wrapped her in a blanket of smells; the faint mustiness that seemed inherent to a bachelor's tent, remnants of stew she would no longer feed to a pig, much less to a person, the pungent scent of salt and seaweed-a blessing, given the other aromas-and the stench of a burning that had nothing to do with the fire in the tent. If she hadn't injured her hand the other day, she might not have recognized it so readily.