"Linville, Susan Urbanek - Born in the Seventh Year" - читать интересную книгу автора (Linville Susan Urbanek)

Born in the Seventh Year
by Susan Urbanek Linville

Myrica grasped the willow rungs in the ancient birthing stool. "Please let this baby live," she cried. Another contraction ripped through her body. Sweat burned her cracked lips. "It's time," said Rubra. The darkened room filled with the strong odor of rosemary and lemon balm, as the herbs were dropped into a boiling pot. "You must push now. Push the child out." Myrica pressed her spine into the well-worn wood and dug her toes into the sod floor. Rubra's wrinkled hand moved along her swollen body, pressing against the muscles to relieve the pain. Bone pushed against bone and flesh against flesh. Myrica took a deep breath and bit her lower lip. With a whimper, the child took its first breath. "She's alive," Myrica laughed. "Thank the Earth Mother."

"One more push." Rubra brushed her graying red hair away from her face. "This is not finished yet." Myrica hardly heard the words. The child lived! Her first two daughters had been born blue and still. They had been beautiful fairy creatures, with creamy dark skin and catgreen eyes, but had had only one nostril and no lungs with which to breathe.

"Let me hold her," Myrica said. Finally, she had a living child, an infant to hold next to her breast and nurture.

Rubra moved the infant to the hearth, where she cleaned it with herbal oils. She pulled a piece of old linen from the table and wrapped the child.

"I have a new cloth for my baby," said Myrica.

"He will not need it."

"No!"

"I'm sorry." Rubra pushed open the wooden window, signaling the arrival of a male child. Cool damp air crept into the room. Myrica shivered. She could hear the Wikkens, the witch fairies, rattling squirrel bones to keep pixies away.

"Please, let me hold him." Myrica wiped the tears from her face. "He's my only living child."

"It's better you don't touch him. The parting will be less painful."

"Less painful?" Myrica shouted. "How would you know! You've never had a child to lose!"

Rubra turned her back to Myrica and held the child closely.

Before Myrica could speak again, the door latch lifted and three Wikkens entered the birthing hut. Dressed in dark robes, they flowed into the room, smelling of holly and sweet incense. Each wore a long necklace of thorn and nightshade. Rubra handed the infant to the Wikken Elder, a short female with long white hair.

"He's my child!" Myrica struggled to stand, but fell in a pool of blood and afterbirth. "Go away, before I summon the wood magic against you!"

"He is lost," said the Elder. "Another will be found for you. A human child will fill the void now in your heart."

"No!" Myrica tried to crawl toward them, but Rubra grabbed her and quickly wrapped a blanket around her shivering body.

"Let them go," Rubra whispered, guiding Myrica to the sleeping mat.

"This is your brother's child too. He is part of your blood."

"It's the law, Myrica."

"I don't care about the law."

"You should!" Rubra's eyes were large and dark, like a wild cat's ready to kill. Myrica's cheeks flushed. She looked away from Rubra. The Elder held Myrica's baby in the firelight. "Look at the bones protruding from beneath the skin. This male is weak and sickly." She held up his foot. "He is webbed between the toes. It's a sign of bad blood."

"I will make potions to strengthen him. I will find a human to nurse him."

"You know the law," said the Elder. "This is the Seventh Year. All males born in the Seventh Year must be given over as changelings. We need the strength of human blood. You must know, after the death of your other children, that the blood runs bad."

"You can make an exception to the law. My grandfather was Tanoak, high wizard of the wood. His blood is in this child."