Shadow of the Storm Page 8

  Reva tipped her head toward the mother without loosening her reassuring hold on me. “I have examined this one, dear girl. Everything is normal. She is healthy and nearing the time to push. All you need to do is comfort her, encourage her, and catch the baby.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I am.” Pride burned in Reva’s eyes, flaming as bright as if she were a fresh young girl instead of a woman haunted by a lifetime of slavery and loss in Egypt.

  Would that pride ever gleam in my own mother’s eyes? Why could she not see that becoming a midwife made me feel more like a resilient sapling and less like a hollow reed?

  I wiped every stray wisp of apprehension off my face, constructed a smile in its place, and knelt in front of Tova, the laboring woman.

  Her eyes went wide when she realized that it was me, and not Reva, in that position. “What are you doing?”

  “I have attended many births.” I repeated Reva’s words, concentrating on keeping my tone smooth and steady. “And Reva is right here.”

  “But you are not experienced enough to deliver—” A pain seized Tova, cutting off her complaint.

  When the contraction lessened, I looked up at her, ignoring the glares of her mother, who loomed next to Tova like a lioness with her cub. Instead, I focused on holding together a look of peace and confidence, in spite of the shaking hands that gripped each other in my lap.

  “It is not I who will deliver this baby, Tova.”

  Her brows arched.

  “It is you; your body is doing all the work. I am simply here to catch your little one and be your servant. You keep doing what you are doing. Breathe deeply, concentrate on pushing this precious one into the world, and I will simply make sure he or she does not fall. All right?”

  Obviously still skeptical, Tova and her mother continued glaring, but when another wave of pain hit Tova, all arguments ceased, and my training, young as it was, slipped into place.

  “Push into it, and let your body do its work. There, that’s right. Baby is already showing the top of its head. You are doing well.” I had seen every part of labor, from the early pangs to the bloody, triumphant end, but as I talked Tova through the process, something instinctive came over me, and I heard myself saying things that I did not realize I knew. As if outside of myself, I heard my voice, calm and collected, reassuring that she was doing well and that it would not be long before she held her child in her arms.

  “There now, the head is out.” I ensured the cord was not wrapped around the little one’s neck and breathed thanks to Yahweh. “Good. Tova, we need an enormous push here. Bear down hard and yell all you want. This will hurt.”

  I repeated the words I’d heard Reva say so many times, though I had no real understanding of the pain any mother endured. An irrational thought—that I would never know such pain and wished that I could—floated to the top of my mind. I batted the foolish desire away with an internal swipe of my hand. What a ridiculous notion—jealousy of Tova’s pain.

  With one last scream from Tova, the baby made her way free from the cocoon of her mother. As I held the tiny body in my hands, watching her take her first breath, wonder swept through me. It was as if a new light had burst into flame inside the tent, a tiny offshoot of glory borrowed from the Cloud atop the mountain.

  I laid the baby on Tova’s chest, and she caressed her daughter’s face, still covered with the slime from birth and swollen from the traumatic journey.

  “So beautiful. So beautiful.” Her whispered chant held pure adoration.

  Sparked from the union of mother and father, this little life had been pieced together by Yahweh himself. Understanding, like a new bud, sprang up inside me. This was why Reva had been so adamant that I learn midwifery. She knew me well enough, from youngest childhood, to know that I would cherish such an honor.

  With sudden lucidity, I could see my path stretched out in front of me. I would never marry. My fulfillment would not be in birthing my own children, but in having a hand in birthing many, perhaps hundreds or thousands of children. And when my hair was silver and my fingers gnarled and pained, I would pass the knowledge to the next generation—not my own child, of course, but someone like me, a girl I would intuitively know would follow in my footsteps. Perhaps it would even be this sweet baby who cooed now at her mother’s breast, fingers stretching and kneading the air.

  A movement at the edge of my sightline caught my attention, and brief as it was, I could have sworn I saw Dvorah’s hand slip from a basket and slide something into her satchel. The movement was so quick that I brushed it off as my imagination in the next instant. Surely Dvorah would not take something from a Hebrew family, especially in plain sight.

  Indecision flipped over and over in my mind. Reva should know if Dvorah truly had stolen something, but I had seen only a hint of movement. What would be the good of saying something if I was wrong? I could not risk accusing her falsely. Dvorah’s hatred of me burned bright enough now; I had no interest in adding fuel to the flames.

  14

  6 TISHRI

  7TH MONTH OUT FROM EGYPT

  Ziba and her baby are doing well, thanks to you.”

  Ayal! I gasped, and my foot slipped from the wide rock I’d been balanced upon, staring into the burbling water under the dappled shade of a juniper. Crumpling, I pitched forward off the rock. With swift dexterity, Ayal grabbed my arm to prevent me from tumbling into the stream.

  “Thank you. How clumsy.” A blush heated my cheeks as he righted me. The subject of the daydream I’d been swept away with was here, touching me.

  “My fault. I surprised you.” His grip tightened, and his thumb traced a quick path across my skin. He blinked a few times before letting go and stepping away.

  Steady on my feet but still reeling from his touch, I looked around for Dvorah. She must have migrated farther downstream, out of sight. No matter my protest, Reva demanded that Dvorah and I work together, insisting that we were well suited. What made her think so, I could not begin to fathom. Even after the excitement of a twin birth this morning, Dvorah had merely informed me she needed to wash the blood from her garments and stalked off without another word. Ayal and I were alone next to the stream that twisted out of the wadi, not far from where his sheep were penned.

  Collecting my nerve, I tried to mask my wobbly voice with curiosity. “How is the rest of your flock?”

  He stood taller, and a warm smile spread across his face. His hair was longer now. It tousled about in the breeze like fine strands of richly dyed linen, inviting my fingers to tame its dance. “Doing well. We just finished the last of the shearing, so that should keep you and your mother busy.”

  “Well, my mother and Kiya at least. And my sisters are learning to take my place.”

  “You are no longer weaving?”

  A leaf rushed by on the current. I focused on its dips and swirls to distract myself from his nearness and the effect of his low timbre on my pulse. “No, I am learning to be a midwife under Reva.”

  “I am glad to hear it. You were so steady with my ewe. So calm. I can only imagine what a wonderful midwife you will be.”

  “My mother might disagree.” I toed the pebbled ground.

  “Your mother was not there when you calmed Ziba with your lovely voice, or when you freed that lamb’s hoof with impossible serenity.”

  I tugged at my braid, flattered by the unexpected compliments. “Thank you for allowing me to take part. It gave me the confidence to fully embrace the idea of midwifery.”

  “I do not doubt you were made for it. To bring life into the world,” he said, his smile affirming the sincerity of his praise.

  He understands. He sees me. Sweet warmth curled in my stomach at the realization, and at the honest encouragement in his kind eyes. Eyes I had no business searching as deeply as I was. Would someone see us here, alone, and misinterpret?

  A flutter of wings in the juniper above us drew my attention upward. A small, brown sparrow had alighted on a twisted branch, tilting
her head back and forth as she studied me from her high perch.

  “What a curious little bird!” I said.

  The sparrow chirruped and then warbled out a call, speckled breast vibrating to the rhythm of her high-pitched song.

  “I wonder if her mate is nearby.” I smiled at the thought of the sparrow calling to her love.

  “If so, he will no doubt be drawn to her.” Ayal peered into the foliage with an enigmatic expression. “No male could resist such a beautiful voice.”

  “She needs such a voice, as drab as she is, or he would never find her hidden there among the leaves.” The tiny bird preened her feathers as if preparing for her mate’s arrival, then repeated her lilting twitter. I sighed. “I wonder if little brown sparrows long for their colors to match the brightness of their songs.”

  “Perhaps it was the voice that drew him in at first.” Ayal’s cheek quirked and he paused, his gaze traveling from the sparrow to me before he continued in a gentle tone. “But I think that although others may see a quiet, unremarkable brown, he discovered a depth of beauty and strength that fascinated him—made him long to see her again. Made him ache for just one more note of his songbird’s sweet music.”

  Warmth rushed to my limbs at his words—words I suspected had little to do with the tiny bird nestling in the juniper.

  A cool breeze swept through the wadi, bringing with it the scent of wild jasmine and pushing back my headscarf. Grateful for the distraction, I lifted my chin, closing my eyes to enjoy its sweet caress. When I opened them, Ayal was watching me. Not with a glance of curiosity or a brief perusal, but with a desperation that slowed time. He took a step toward me, then two, before stopping as if by force. The gentle breeze shifted and swelled into a wind. A few rebellious curls slipped from my braid and whipped about, lashing my face.

  “I cannot stop thinking about you,” he rasped. “I’ve never known anyone like you, Shira—bravery in perfect balance with sweetness.” He reached out and brushed an errant lock of hair from my cheek and tucked it behind my ear. His hand lingered against the side of my neck, his touch burning like fire on my skin. “I wish . . .”

  My knees trembled. He was so close, yet somehow still too far away. Indecision tugged at me. You have been here before, said one side of my heart. He is not the Egyptian, whispered the other.

  “I have no right . . .” His manna-sweet breath washed across my face, causing me to lift my chin as the two sides melded into one question—why had Ayal not been the first to kiss me?

  As if in response to my silent wish, he bent his head, whispering my name with aching tenderness. He drew a quick breath that resembled a sigh and touched his lips to mine. A haze of blissful disorientation washed over me, and I clung to his tunic with trembling hands as he pulled me closer. I’d wanted nothing more than to be in this man’s arms since he’d said he called his sheep by name, but the sudden image of Akharem’s accusing eyes floated across my vision. I stiffened.

  Ayal released me—the move so swift that I stumbled backward, breathless and dazed. He dug his hands into his hair with a tortured groan.

  “Shira. Oh, Shira. I am sorry.” He backed up a few steps, clawing at his beard with one hand. His eyes were like twin caverns, wild and bottomless, before he turned and strode away, head bowed and shoulders slumped, leaving me standing by the stream in a cloud of confusion.

  Dvorah

  Shira walked right past me, so caught up in thoughts of her lover she did not see me behind the thorny acacia bush. I hadn’t meant to spy on them and had only been washing the mess out of my tunic when I noticed them standing next to the stream.

  By the way the man looked at her, I could see it was not just a friendly conversation. The fervor in his gaze reminded me of how Tareq’s sapphire-blue eyes held me prisoner the day I met him in the marketplace in Thebes.

  Yet the man who stood with Shira did not have the confident set of my husband’s shoulders or the entrancing brashness that had pulled me toward him like the tide to the shore. Instead, he spoke quietly, watching her as a man studies a rare jewel. I was shocked that he kissed her, but even more surprised that he slithered away so quickly.

  The ethereal expression on Shira’s face as she floated by told me that she had not seen what I had. Regret hung like a death shroud around that man. I knew the feeling well, it was the mantle I had worn far too long. Only one familiar with its folds and valleys would recognize its depths.

  In contrast, Shira’s constant optimism was grating. Like a little girl, she was giddy with excitement over every little thing—blood, fluids, screeching mothers—none of it bothered her. She worshipped at Reva’s feet like a dog and beamed at every baby like it was her own. She would have her own children someday, so why did she act ridiculous over everyone else’s?

  And the singing! The girl hummed all day long, as if by compulsion. Every single task was accompanied by music. Her voice was not awful, but I was well past tired of hearing it.

  When she’d seen me give that amulet to Leisha, revulsion had been plain on her face. If she revealed what she had seen, I would no doubt be dismissed, since Reva prohibited such things with some nonsense about being offensive to Yahweh. But how else could a woman ensure protection from the demons that snatched a baby’s breath at birth and weakened a mother during her travails? Besides, Yahweh cared nothing for me or my son, or he would not have killed my husband.

  Just this morning, I had again begged Reva to let me work with someone else. But like always, she refused, insisting that Shira and I would learn to work well together and reminding me that I had agreed to the stipulation. The old midwife must be going senile to pair the two of us, but I did not have the luxury of walking away. Working with this strange girl was a necessary evil—for now. I hoped it would not be too long. By all the gods, I did not know how much more I could endure.

  15

  Shira

  7 TISHRI

  7TH MONTH OUT FROM EGYPT

  What are you smiling about, Shira?” Reva’s hawkeyes were on me as I slathered oil and salts on the newborn’s flailing little body, giving the distinct impression she could discern my thoughts in detail. My heart quailed at the suggestion. Reva was much too observant for my comfort.

  “Just enjoying this sweet one.” I kissed his tiny nose, glad I had a good excuse for the ridiculous grin that had insisted upon revisiting my lips all day.

  Has Ayal approached Eben yet? I should have spoken out before his hasty retreat yesterday, but surely Eben would not be angry that Ayal had stolen a kiss before securing a betrothal. I knew from Kiya’s own mouth that Eben had done the same. Such an honorable man Ayal was, to feel such guilt even after such an innocent, and welcome, kiss—so different from the Egyptian.

  Was there truly a chance I might not be alone for the rest of my life? Hope hovered around me like a dove taking flight as I indulged the tender memory of Ayal’s strong arms around me.

  I did not miss Dvorah’s glowering presence today as I hummed to myself, wrapping the infant in long strips of cloth and pulling them taut. The baby immediately stilled, comforted by the swaddling.

  Placing a babe in his mother’s arms was always a joy. I did so with relish, tucking the precious bundle into the crook of her arm. She looked up at me with tears of gratitude in her eyes, a stark contrast from the curses she had thrown at me less than an hour before. I hoped she would not remember such words and be ashamed of them later. I could not imagine the searing pain that would cause such venom to be spewed at a midwife.

  I shifted back on my heels to enjoy the interaction between mother and baby, but something cut into my bare sole. I lifted my foot, not at all surprised to see a small stone etched with a hippopotamus head painted in vibrant red.

  Another charm. In the many tents I had visited over the past few weeks, I had seen many such items. Amulets, small statues, even shrines with household gods at the center. Anger buzzed through me. Why would this young mother resort to calling on the gods of Egypt to protect h
erself and her baby, with Yahweh watching over us day and night?

  Reva always lectured the women when she saw such items in their tents and refused to come back unless they were gone. What would be the use in drawing attention to the charm as the new mother cradled her newborn? I moved to pack my oils, trying to brush away the unease that now tainted the beauty of this birth.

  Unaware of my discovery, Reva was admonishing the young mother to rest as much as possible over the next few days, to enjoy the gift of her time of cleansing. How kind of Yahweh to bless a new mother with a command to be alone and at peace with her new child for a few days.

  An elderly woman who had stood silent in the corner throughout the delivery now caught my eye. Assuming she was one of the new mother’s relatives, I gave her a congratulatory nod before I left the tent.

  I sat cross-legged near the cookfire, re-braiding my rebellious hair and waiting for Reva to finish. The old woman from the tent appeared at my side and folded herself down to sit on the ground beside me.

  “I watched you today, almah.” She tilted her head to one side and looked at me from the corner of her eye. Her thick, white hair was braided, like Reva’s, in two long braids, and she wore no jewelry except a worn copper bangle around her wrist.

  Almah. Unmarried and childless. This woman did not know me, yet the epithet stung.

  “You did a fine job assisting that mother. But you will not make a good midwife.”

  My jaw dropped. A dull pain lodged in the middle of my chest, cutting off any reply.

  “Being a good midwife is more than knowing how to birth a baby, it is being willing to deal in truths.” She patted her weathered palms together in emphasis. “Babies die. Mothers die. These are truths. And if you cannot say what needs to be said, no matter how painful, insulting, or embarrassing, then you cannot be the midwife you should.”

  Echoes of my mother’s words rose up in my mind. What did I know of being a midwife? Or of the depths of pain a laboring woman would endure?