He knows not what he says, said my husband. He has not been right for many a year, you know he speaks nothings. He took my arm, to lead me away from the marketplace but I would not move.
The child will not live, the simpleton said again. He looked at me. He pointed to my belly. He will not live. He will shrivel. He will wither. Look to the sun. Her dark places. You must count them and beware. Forget the child. I bowed my head. The sun greedily burned my pale neck. I allowed John to lead me away, as the simpleton called out to me. The sun has her dark places. You must count them, count them. Let him go. Then he laughed a terrible laugh and my heart ate itself in fear.
At night I get up. My husband is asleep and happy in his slumber. He snores. I go out into the field, wearing only my nightgown. I wet my feet on the damp grass. My hair hangs plaited down to my waist. My belly shifts the material forwards, higher at front than back. I hold my left hand to it. Shhh, I whisper to my child. The moon looks down. She is a kind moon, protecting me from her sister sun. At the top of the hill I lower myself to the ground. I lean my back against the tree and look out over the valley. This will be yours, I whisper to him. You will live long and strong. Your bones will not snap, your neck will hold firm. He does not know anything. He is a simpleton. He speaks only nonsense. You will be my perfect boy. Golden skin and full of laughter like your father, dark hair and wise like your mother. The child shifts in my belly. I know he hears me.
Now I am nine moons gone and the time is coming soon. He is a fine healthy baby, said the doctor who came when John called for him after that day in the market. You must not fret yourself, you are a strong woman, be getting on with your duties, there is nothing to fear. John smiled, held my hand, thanked the doctor. I felt nothing but a chill in my spine and a tumbling in my stomach.
I sit under the tree and cling to my unborn one, whisper softly that he must be strong, that soon he will be out into this world and we will be his loving protectors. He must not come until he is ready, I whisper. Stay safe inside me. You will know when it is right. The moon shines silver and I pray this night will last for ever and the sun will not rise.
I awake in the morning unrested. John does not know I have been out. I am careful to hide from him the damp upon my nightdress, the night air in my breath. His is cheerful, as is his way. I cry inside as he whistles and sings. I heat the water and make bread, and into the dough I pour my fears and the stirrings of my heart. I bake the bread but I burn it and it is wasted. I throw it outside for the pigs. It was not good bread, it had my fear for binding. The pigs will not touch it. It lies there, becoming one with the earth.
We pass more nights and days, the sun growing in her power, her dark places shifting and shaping. I see them from the side of my eye. I cannot look upon her fully, I glance sideways and see her staring down at me, waiting to devour my child. I am waiting too. They say a woman is always waiting. I wait for birth, blood, screaming and disappointment. John does not wait. He whistles and works, kisses my mouth and sleeps in peace.
My pains come in the marketplace. I have fish in my basket and potatoes. I drop the basket and see the fish slide onto the stones. I hear a scream and it is my scream. My belly is on fire, I am splitting open. I fall to the floor, and I see the fish on the stones, a blood eye staring into my own, as I listen to my own screams and feel a heat between my legs. They come and carry me to my bed. I think I hear the simpleton. He is laughing.
You must push, they say to me. I push and I push and the pains are a blanket over my body, smothering me and I think I must die. But I do not die. The child comes from me, trailing blood. It is a boy, they cry. You have a son! I am weak. Does he have everything, I whisper. Is he whole? He is beautiful, they tell me, a beautiful boy. They try to hand him to me. From the corner of my eye I see him, pink and red, his head covered in my thick black hair, his arms and legs soft and tough.
I turn away. I cannot take him. Here is your son, they say to me. I say nothing. I turn to the wall. They mutter and shuffle and hold him and say that they do not understand me, that a mother must take her child, that I am possessed. I grow cold.
I feel him gone. I feel the space inside me where he laid his head. There is a hole near to my heart and the hole is the shape of him. I hear his cries and I do not know him. I close my eyes and in the darkness I see the sun burning.
