“Alice, come on, push!”
I stroked my friend’s fuliginous hair, matted to her forehead despite the frigid temperature weighing the air inside the cottage. Water boiled in the iron pot hung over the fire, but the cold stole away the heat before it escaped the stone hearth.
Alice screamed, clenching the bones of my fingers against each other like grain between millstones. Yet her grip was weakening. I felt her struggle to remain upright on the birthing stool.
I gazed questioningly at Jane, one of my two assistants. The other was my daughter, Elizabeth. She held Alice’s other hand while Jane searched for signs of the babe’s head in the flickering candlelight.
Jane met my gaze with a worried expression and gave a weary shake of the head. “Why won’t the babe come?” she asked.
“Have you seen the night sky?” Elizabeth asked. Her oval face was pale and sweaty, her eyes troubled. “The Lady hangs full. An ill omen.”
“There aren’t such things as ill omens, Elizabeth!” I snapped. The last thing I needed was for my foolish daughter to start talking about mooncalves born from illegitimate conceptions. Still, I couldn’t blame them for feeling uneasy. Alice had refused to give up the identity of the babe’s father, and the labor was going badly.
The idea sent icicles down my spine. Alice wasn’t just a friend; we were practically sisters. We had been raised in each other’s homes, washed in the same tubs, ate at the same tables, and often slept in the same beds. Our village had already lost too many to the winter snows. I couldn’t bear to lose her, too.
“Jane,” I beckoned, “switch with me.” I cupped Alice’s chin, tilting her head until her tired eyes met my own. “When the next travail comes, bear down hard and don’t let up.”
Alice only nodded, too exhausted for words. I took Jane’s spot and gently worked my fingers into the birth passage, seeking the babe’s crown. Alice cried out, and I felt her give everything she had, shrieking her battle cries like a warrior. I felt it then, the springy, smooth curve of the baby’s head.
“It’s coming!” I shouted in triumph. “Keep it up, Alice!”
But she was weakening. I felt the babe’s head begin to retreat up the birth passage. “Oh no, you don’t, little one!” Quickly, I angled my fingers outward and shoved hard. Alice screamed, and the babe moved forward again, enough for me to dig my nails into the soft flesh of its shoulders. Alice gave a last, breathy roar. I squeezed and pulled, praying it wouldn’t slip.
At last, he came into the world, slick skin mottled and red, and I breathed a tearful sigh of relief. With his first cry, I stood, raising him so that his mother might see and take heart at the miracle of the life she’d born. But her eyes were closed. Her chest no longer moved with the rhythm of life.
“Alice?”
A powerful scene, and not uncommon for the time.