Untitled

Chapter Ten

The days grew longer in March and for Rory somewhat darker. Isabelle continued to administer to the sick, but refused to assist any woman in childbirth. Disillusioned over her sister’s refusal to accompany Richard Bent to their home this morning, Rory broached the delicate situation. "Who do you suppose will help Melanie Bent deliver her firstborn?"

"Who helped before I arrived?"

"That’s not good enough. Too many babies died and at times, mothers. You’re here now and no one knows more about childbirth in these parts than you."

"I’m not a physician, Rory. Everything I know, I learned through experience."

"And birthing your own children."

Isabelle rubbed her forehead. "I can’t do it anymore; please don’t ask me to. After Jane―"

Rory took on a militant tone. "That’s ridiculous. Her death was not your fault. We didn’t get there in time."

"Luck of the Irish doesn’t and has never meant good luck, but whatever its origin, the charm I once had is gone."

"What does that mean? It has nothing to do with charm but rather skill and God gifted this skill to you."

"It matters what I think here," she tapped two fingers against her head. "I don’t want to taint or hex, if you will, the babe or the mother." Isabelle looked at her, tears fighting for release. "This conversation is over."

Stunned by her sister’s admission and refusal to discuss it further, Rory sought the shelter of her room to brood over the chat with her sister and the churning cauldron of local events. In recent weeks, headlines in the local newspapers stirred the bubbling pot as talk turned to secession, Civil War and unrest among hostile tribes in the area. Angry with the Federal government over broken treaties and banishment from their ancestral hunting ground, the Dakota Sioux threatened to revolt. Counties to the West of Guilford had their hands full with renegade natives breaking into homes, stealing food and killing livestock. Rory tossed and turned in her bed that night and worried about Isabelle, the natives and war.

Jon’s muted footsteps scuffed the plank floorboards below, his words scattering up the stairs, "Who would be calling at this hour?"

A commotion from the front porch drew her to the window. "I’m going to laugh if Jon opens the door to a raccoon scavenging for food."

Isabelle’s voice: "Jon, here’s the rifle."

Rory moved to the landing at the top of the stairs, the lofty perch affording her a good view of everything taking place downstairs. Rifle tucked under his arm, Jon opened the door and ran his sleep-drugged gaze over the visitor.

A colorful blanket hugged the Indian’s shoulders, exposing his long braids to wet snowflakes. Compelled to see more of the scene playing out, Rory navigated the steps and crossed the kitchen. Peering over Jon’s shoulder a young maiden on a travois came into view. Held in check by a young boy, a scrawny horse blew air through its muzzle, and pawed at the ground. Two women and a handful of children shivered beneath frayed blankets; their soulful eyes shuttered against the bite of a frigid wind.

"Dear God." Jon puffed out a heavy breath. "Hope the children aren’t as emaciated as the horse."

Rory’s heart swelled. Jon had always been sympathetic to the weary and downtrodden, held a cauldron of sympathy for the red man’s plight. When they lived in Boston, Jon held no punches when voicing his opinion to the government about their inhumane treatment of the local tribes.

Isabelle had crept forward and borrowed Jon’s other shoulder for a peek. "Who is it?"

"Natives, the man is trying to tell me something."

The brave pointed to the prone woman and walked two fingers in the direction of the barn.

Rory took a second look at the woman on the travois. Her breath came in rapid bursts and near her belly, the blanket formed a perfect circle. "She’s with child and my guess is she’s in labor, Isabelle."

"Jon, please lead them into the barn. Rory and I’ll join you right away."

Rory turned to her sister. "I’ll grab some blankets from the trunk and go with Jon."

"Don’t forget your coat. As soon as I gather up some food and my medicine bag, I’ll be out."

They snatched their coats from nearby hooks, and Jon grabbed a lantern from the wall while Rory scurried toward the trunk for blankets. Together, they led the ragged group into the barn. Jon pointed to the stall where he stored fresh hay for the animals. "Bring her in here, son. It’s clean and a bit warmer than the other areas."

Muscles strained when the brave lifted his woman from the travois, and as if carrying a jewel-encrusted crown, laid her down on the blanket Rory had spread over the straw. The women and children huddled into the stall, the youngsters seeking refuge in a corner, the elders dropping to their haunches to tend her. Isabelle scurried in with cold sandwiches for the children, a bucket of hot water and a plethora of clean rags.

"I have an idea, Jon."

"Let’s hear it, lass."

"What if we fill the metal trough with wood and start a fire to keep them warm?"

Jon tapped his lip with his index finger. "Risky in the barn, but if we prop it up with iron bars on the bottom, it might work."

"I’ll hang blankets from the side of the stall for added warmth while you and Rory fill the trough with wood."

Rory studied the brave while she worked. The man hadn’t uttered a word. And other than several smothered moans when a contraction gripped her, the woman suffered in silence. From the corner, the children were also quiet, content to eat their sandwiches and watch the scene play out. Jon lit the fire in the trough and in a gentle yet firm voice, warned the children not to touch the metal.

A primitive, lilting chant filled the small chamber. One of the elders lit a pipe and blew smoke over the laboring woman and then fanned it toward their faces. A type of ritual was taking place and perhaps a prayer for the mother and expected child. Out of the corner of her eye, Rory saw the brave sign to the eldest boy. The boy signed back and offered her a smile.

"This is our cue to leave, lasses. I think they can manage on their own now." Jon led the way back to the house, plodding through the ankle-deep snowdrifts.

Isabelle clucked her tongue against her cheek. "The mother is quite young."

"And small," Rory interjected.

"Yes, worrisome when it comes to childbirth."

"You two can worry all night but I intend to get some sleep. The natives are much tougher than us, used to harsh elements."

"Speaking of which, what are they doing traveling at night in this weather?"

"Passing through, I suspect, and got caught in the storm." Jon yawned and closed the door behind them. "Goodnight, ladies."

Rory trudged up the stairs again, less tired than before from all the excitement. An hour passed, and another while she tossed and turned. The frantic pounding on the door didn’t jar her awake, she was awake, worrying about the young woman in the barn. She and Isabelle almost collided rushing to answer the door.

"There’s trouble, Rory; he’s motioning me toward the barn. I’ll go with him, but please wake up Jon."

"Don’t forget your coat." Rory shook her head. "It’s beyond me how men sleep through this ruckus.” Standing outside their bedchamber, and thinking of the twins sound asleep, she kept her voice low. "Jon, Isabelle needs you in the barn."

Rory heard a muffled groan and then the sound of feet hitting the floor. Rory was donning her coat when Jon entered the kitchen. "Trouble?"

"We think so. Can you boil another kettle of water before you join us?"

"All right, lass, be there soon."

With trepidation, Rory entered the barn and walked to the stall where the natives gathered. Sweat drenched the young woman’s forehead, streamed down her torso and drenched her doeskin dress. Glassed over with pain, her obsidian eyes shone under the dim light of a lantern. Hovering around her, the elders’ hands reached skyward and native words spewed from their lips. Were they calling on deceased spirits to help her? The brave held his woman’s hand, a deep furrow creasing his brow.

Isabelle placed a hand to the woman’s forehead and turned to Rory with a somber look. "She’s burning with fever."

"Can you help her?"

"I-I cannot, but you can, Rory."

"Me? What I know about childbirth you can put in a thimble compared to you."

Isabelle came to her feet and ventured outside the stall. "Don’t ask me to; I cannot. Not after Jane."

"Jane wasn’t your fault. You did everything—"

"No! I won’t do it. The child will die if I do." She hesitated and rubbed her forehead. "Or the mother."

"That’s the most ridiculous statement I’ve ever heard from your lips."

Jon bustled in with a pail of hot water. He must have heard the tail end of their conversion. "What’s the most ridiculous statement?"

"Isabelle is talking foolish. She claims she cannot help this poor soul because . . . well because if she does, the woman might end up a dead soul."

Jon’s eyebrows met in the middle.

"It’s not open to discussion. I’ll not do it. I’ve said my piece and you can argue until Hades freezes over." She looked at Rory and then Jon. "I’m not going to take part in another woman or child dying at my hands."

Jon blew a long burst of air. "Rory, you must help her and Isabelle will coach you." He caught and held his wife’s eyes. "It’s irrational to believe you’re responsible for Jane Miles’ death. She was young, her pelvis too narrow to accommodate a large baby like Levi."

"She bled to death before my eyes." She visibly shivered. "I rest my case."

Anger sparked through Rory, and a surge of adrenaline. "I’m not going to stand here and let her die. Tell me what to do."

"Jon, help them get the woman onto her knees. Leave the leather strap in her mouth; she’ll need it."

Rory moved to the interior of the stall, dropped to her knees and offered a reassuring smile to the brave. "I don’t know if you understand my words."

"He does," the eldest boy spoke from the corner. "My uncle cannot speak but he can hear and he knows your language."

Her confidence surging, Rory smiled again. "I’m so happy to hear that. All right, we need to get your woman onto her knees. I’m going to be right behind her and Jon," she pointed to him, "will be on his knees in front of her."

The brave nodded.

"We need to get the baby to drop down. Do you understand?"

Another nod.

With her elbows hugging her chest, Isabelle offered encouraging words. "Make sure he understands the child is stuck, not dead."

The man looked up at Isabelle with a tentative nod.

Rory and Jon took their positions once the woman was on her knees. "Wrap your arms around her, Rory, under her rib cage." Isabelle remained calm, stoic. "When her abdomen tightens with the next contraction, apply minimum downward pressure. We’re trying to encourage the infant to follow the natural course."

Waiting for the next spasm, Rory offered her opinion. "If the natural course is for the babe to drop downward, why do women go through childbirth lying down?"

"Good question," Jon interjected.

"It’s difficult to alter centuries of tradition. While in pain, most people lie down." Isabelle peered over the wall. "The next contraction is coming."

"I feel it," Rory said.

The woman moaned and her jaw tightened when the full crescendo washed over her. The contraction subsided and the maiden drew several heavy breaths through her nose, expelling them around the leather strap.

The brave motioned to the children, led them from the stall and then wringing his large, bronze hands, paced the main corridor of the barn.

"The elders say it is bad luck for a man to watch when his child enters the world."

Rory heard the conversation between Isabelle and the eldest child, saw the man pace like a rabid hound, but saved her energy for the next onslaught. It arrived within minutes.

"Easy now, Rory, ease the infant down with gentle pressure. You’re doing fine, just fine." Isabelle’s tone held pride.

The maiden clenched her fists after the last spasm, and the onlookers held their breaths while waiting for the next assault. Amid the chaos and short intervals between contractions, Rory admired the woman’s stoic courage.

"Your efforts are paying off, lass. See how much room you have under her rib cage now? A few hard pushes from her and we might see a newborn with the next contraction."

The elders seemed to understand their sisterly banter. They eased to their haunches in front of her and spoke in their native tongue. A group effort arrived with her next contraction. The women cajoled and encouraged her to push. Jon even contributed by emitting a few grunts with an animated face. From behind, Rory kept up the pressure and soon the raucous cries of a newborn filled the stall.

"You did it, lass!"

Rory drew an exhausted breath and smiled up at her sister. "We did it."

The brave rushed into the stall, opened the cotton wrap around his son and beamed. With an appreciative nod, he looked at Rory with mist-clouded eyes.

"My uncle thanks the copper-haired woman."

"You are very welcome." Rory looked at the boy. "What is his name?"

"Broken Tongue, and his woman is called Yellow Leaf."

"Yellow Leaf," Rory repeated with a mixture of awe and reverence. "A lovely name."

The woman slumped onto the hay again and closed her eyes, her breathing returning to normal. An elder placed the boy to the mother’s breast and covered him with an animal pelt. The children crept from the shadows to take a peek at the arrival and then giggled.

Jon looked at the brave. "We’re happy your son and woman are well."

The brave signed to the boy in a lengthy conversation.

"He says we were traveling to Little Crow’s village. It was not Yellow Leaf’s time. When the storm came, we changed course and came here."

"We’re glad you did." Jon tousled the boy’s thick mop of black hair.

"The elders say the woman with hair like the crow is a great medicine woman." He looked up at Isabelle. "That is why we came here."

Jon beamed. "See, Isabelle, your healing abilities are known far and wide."

She affected a humble smile. "Not anymore, Broken Tongue, but Rory, the copper-haired one, did a fine job."

Jon, Isabelle and Rory made a quiet exit from the barn. To the east, a scarlet sun fringed in shades of ginger rose in the sky.

Rory stopped to inhale the beauty. "Red sky at night, sailor’s delight, Red sky at morning, sailors take warning."

"You remember?"

"Of course, Isabelle. I recall being sick with a fever as a child. You held me in a rocking chair by the window. When the sun came up, you whispered that in my ear."

For the third time that evening, Rory clambered up the stairs and crawled beneath the covers. She didn’t wait long for sleep to find her.

* * *

Rory awakened late in the day and scrambled from bed, eager to check on the mother and new baby.

Jon greeted her in the kitchen with a cup of strong, black coffee. He nodded toward an empty chair at the table and the bright fabric gracing the back. "I assume they left that for you."

"They’re gone?"

"Like the days of last week, lass. Went to check on them several hours ago and the only thing in the barn was the blanket draped over the side of the stall."

Rory crossed the short distance and picked up the blanket. "It’s lovely, but I wanted to see how they’re faring today."

"It’s the way of the natives. They never stay in one place too long."

Rory gazed out the kitchen window. "I’ll never forget them or their visit."

"I think we all feel that way. What a grand adventure, a little frightening for a time, but nothing beats the miracle of new life."

Rory sank into the chair, the blanket draped over her lap. "After hearing that baby cry, I agree, Jon. Nothing beats the miracle of new life."

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