Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [518]
The light faded gradually from the room, and the smell of sun-warmed flowers was replaced by the damp green smell of the willows by the river, and the faint scent of woodsmoke from the cookhouse.
Brianna’s shift was wet through, and stuck to her skin. I dug my thumbs into her back, just above the hips, and she squirmed hard against me, trying to ease the ache. Jamie sat with his head down, clinging doggedly to her hands, still talking soothingly, telling stories of silkies and seal catchers, of pipers and elves, of the great giants of Fingal’s Cave, and the Devil’s black horse that passes through the air faster than the thought between a man and a maid.
The pains were very close together. I motioned to Phaedre, who ran away and came back with a lighted taper, to light the candles in the sconces.
It was cool and dim in the room, the walls lit with flickering shadows. Jamie’s voice was hoarse; Brianna’s was nearly gone.
Suddenly she let go of him and sat up, grabbing at her knees, face dark red with effort, pushing.
“Now, then,” I said. I stacked pillows quickly behind her, made her lean back against the bedstead, called Phaedre to hold the candlestick for me.
I oiled my fingers, reached under her shift, and touched flesh I had not touched since she was a baby herself. I rubbed slowly, gently, talking to her, knowing it made no great difference what I said.
I felt the strain, the sudden change under my fingers. A relaxation, then once more. There was a sudden gush of amniotic fluid, that splashed across the bed and dripped on the floor, filling the room with the scent of fecund rivers. I rubbed and eased, praying that it would not come too fast, not tear her.
The ring of flesh opened suddenly, and my fingers touched something wet and hard. Relaxation, and it moved back, away, leaving the ends of my fingers tingling with the knowledge that I had touched someone entirely new. Once more the great pressure, the stretching came, and once more eased slowly back. I pushed back the edge of the shift, and with the next push the ring stretched to impossible size, and a head like a Chinese gargoyle popped out, with a flood of amniotic fluid and blood.
I found myself nose to nose with a waxy-white head with a face like a fist, that grimaced at me in utter fury.
“What is it? Is it a boy?” Jamie’s hoarse question cut through my startlement.
“I hope so,” I said, hastily thumbing mucus from nose and mouth. “It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen; God help it if it’s a girl.”
Brianna made a noise that might have started as a laugh, and turned into an enormous grunt of effort. I barely had time to get my fingers in and turn the wide shoulders slightly to help. There was an audible pop, and a long, wet form slithered out onto the soggy quilt, wriggling like a landed trout.
I seized a clean linen towel and wrapped him—it was him, the scrotal sac swelled up round and purple between fat thighs—checking quickly for his Apgar signs: breathing, color, activity … all good. He was making thin, angry noises, short explosions of breath, not really crying, and punching the air with clenched tiny fists.
I laid him on the bed, one hand on the bundle as I checked Brianna. Her thighs were smeared with blood, but there was no sign of hemorrhage. The cord was still pulsing, a thick wet snake of connection between them.
She was panting, lying back on the crushed pillows, hair plastered wetly to her temples, an enormous smile of relief and triumph on her face. I laid a hand on her belly, suddenly flaccid. Deep inside, I felt the placenta give way, as her body surrendered its last physical link with her son.
“Once more, honey,” I said softly to her. The last contraction shivered over her belly, and the afterbirth slid out. I tied off the cord and cut it, and placed the solid little bundle of her child in her arms.
“He’s beautiful,” I whispered.
I left him to her, and turned my attention to immediate matters, kneading her belly firmly with my fists, to encourage the uterus to contract and stop the bleeding.