The Dovekeepers - Alice Hoffman [100]
Before she would agree to go any farther, Yael gestured to Shirah, her upturned face a tangle of emotion. I heard her whisper. “If there’s a choice, make sure to take the child. Let me go.”
“Yes, yes,” Shirah agreed. She threw me a look to let me know this was the time to agree to anything. We helped Yael into the storerooms, then down a long hall, pausing when the pangs became overwhelming, continuing again each time they eased.
“This is where the demon rolled on the floor,” Yael murmured warily.
“She was a housemaid, not a demon, and her child is large and healthy,” Shirah said to assure her that all was well.
Soon enough the fire was lit and the water boiled, all done quickly and in silence. Nahara and Shirah worked together as if their intimacy had not been severed. I noticed that Nahara was praying while Yael began to labor and that she glanced, disapproving, at the figure of Ashtoreth that Shirah had placed on a stone shelf so there could be an offering made of the blood of childbirth.
The baby was nearly ready before we were; it seemed he couldn’t wait to enter our world. Yael sobbed and asked us to make a single vow: we would make certain she would see his face. She spoke as though she were on her deathbed and would have only a single opportunity to witness the life she was about to bring forth. She continued to plead, insisting she would be willing to walk into the World-to-Come if she could but once see her child, unlike her own mother, who had given birth with closed, unseeing eyes.
“Nonsense. You’ll see him every morning and night,” Shirah promised, advising the mother-to-be to attend to the task at hand.
“I want to know the color of his hair, and if his eyes are dark or light,” Yael went on.
“Yes, yes,” we all were quick to agree, for the air had shifted; it was dense and thick. The time had come. Blood brimmed where Yael had bitten down on her lips, and her face was ashen.
There was a birthing stool to crouch upon, but Yael could not focus on it, nor would she do as she was told. She begged Shirah to raise the child as her own if need be, making certain he would not be turned out the way motherless infants sometimes were in times of strife, left in the wilderness for the jackals. Shirah managed to calm the panicked creature with a torrent of promises. Nahara brought water to soothe her fevered forehead and lips.
Once begun, it was a surprisingly easy birth. Yael now bore down when she was commanded to do so; she was fierce, all the more so when Shirah urged her on. “A woman who wails, labors well. It’s only silence we must fear. So go on, roar,” Shirah instructed.
Yael did so. She was indeed well spoken in fury, and it seemed this wordless rage was her true language. She pushed with all her might, her face straining and flushing. Once, twice, and then the baby’s head appeared. Yael was exhausted and said she could do no more. Shirah and Nahara set to work with oil and hot water and entreaties. At last, the mother-to-be gathered her strength and bore down a third time. The child entered this world, falling into Nahara’s hands as though he wished to be no woman’s burden. He was a large, handsome, dark-skinned boy. We quickly wrapped him in linen and placed him in his mother’s arms.
I went to take in some fresh air after the child had safely arrived, exhausted by the labor I had witnessed and by the sheer emotion of the night. I had been thinking of my own child, that beautiful girl I had lost, how it seemed only moments had passed from the first breath she had drawn to her last. To my surprise I found the Man from the North on the steps. Like a ghost he’d unclasped his manacles, then slipped from the dovecote to climb over the living