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aguuPrologue; Birth
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The night Arantele was born, it had rained. Not soft, gentle showers but great drops that bore their way through the huts, splashed and spat at the village's feet turned the warm slate-grey stones upon the moon sugar beach black with rage. Her mother's screaming rivalled the howling of wild dogs, the attending nurse saw the young woman's red face blotch with purple, white knuckles gripping the swan feather bed as she forced the child out of her womb.
The blood was more than expected, spilling from the bed onto the floor. No woman had lived with this much blood loss, and no baby had been born on the island without a mother. Lightning split the sky as the baby was inspected, the last of the blood washed away.
“A healthy girl,” the nurse said to me as the child began to cry, for it was a priest's duty to oversee the delicate matters of life (and in this case, a death). I had overseen hundreds of births and deaths in this village, but none as close together as this. The baby's crying was hard, like her mother's screams had been.
She was an old, gnarled soul and handed the baby to me like an offering, swathed in the old cloth of silk and lace.
”Someone will take the mother's body in the morning. Then life shall go on as before.” The old crone said, tending to the clay pot at the hearth. Milk, I supposed, since the mother no longer lived to provide for her.
The rain was slowing, lightning and thunder ceased to dance and make music. The weakened fire could breathe again without fear of being extinguished by the slush and flood of water. The little one's crying was soft, fainter now as she caught her breath, her eyes opening and closing.
Instead of the brown, green, even blue eyes that colored each villager, her eyes were a translucent gray, pale like a spider's web.
“Arantele.” My voice whispers to her. The old tongue for a spider's web seemed like a fitting name. She looks up as if she understands me and a ghost of a smile is on her face.
The old nurse-crone handed me a bowl full of milk—“Got to feed her the old way, Saint Ursagaea, like you'd feed a kid.”--I sat near the fire, where she had been a few minutes ago and dipped my right hand into the milk, placing my fingers near her mouth to suckle.
It was a painfully old and slow process to take my fingers from her hot, hungry mouth and redip in the quickly cooling milk, not being allowed to stop until she was satisfied.
Only when she was asleep, did the rain stop. “Find the father and send him to the chapel—“
"Not going to happen, Saint Ursagaea," The old woman says, addressing me as if I were Lord Alexander himself. "The woman came alone in this storm and in labour as well. Nary a proper man, the bitch had to die as well--if you excuse my language, sweetling. Ain't your fault you're all alone in the world."
"No," I replied. "Arantele will grow and be a priestess, serve and atone for her mother's sin." No woman would take her in, not without asking about the mother.
Life and seclusion near Lord Alexander's own heart, I hoped, would keep this spider-web child safe.
The soothsayers predicted for her an unusual life. She will be a slave and a goddess, they proclaimed. Loved by no one and yet she will possess everyone. She will live a life void of reason and bathe in it as well. And the most important of all: She will die young, and yet live eternally.
My duties as both saviour and leader of the island took up much time, and I rarely saw the girl. Seven acolytes and three priestesses parented Arantele, although they said that she saw much of me. I did not think much of it. Little girls, no matter how odd the birthing, would always be little girls. They were easily bought with sweets and a small story, and the church had plenty of both.
_________________
The night Arantele was born, it had rained. Not soft, gentle showers but great drops that bore their way through the huts, splashed and spat at the village's feet turned the warm slate-grey stones upon the moon sugar beach black with rage. Her mother's screaming rivalled the howling of wild dogs, the attending nurse saw the young woman's red face blotch with purple, white knuckles gripping the swan feather bed as she forced the child out of her womb.
The blood was more than expected, spilling from the bed onto the floor. No woman had lived with this much blood loss, and no baby had been born on the island without a mother. Lightning split the sky as the baby was inspected, the last of the blood washed away.
“A healthy girl,” the nurse said to me as the child began to cry, for it was a priest's duty to oversee the delicate matters of life (and in this case, a death). I had overseen hundreds of births and deaths in this village, but none as close together as this. The baby's crying was hard, like her mother's screams had been.
She was an old, gnarled soul and handed the baby to me like an offering, swathed in the old cloth of silk and lace.
”Someone will take the mother's body in the morning. Then life shall go on as before.” The old crone said, tending to the clay pot at the hearth. Milk, I supposed, since the mother no longer lived to provide for her.
The rain was slowing, lightning and thunder ceased to dance and make music. The weakened fire could breathe again without fear of being extinguished by the slush and flood of water. The little one's crying was soft, fainter now as she caught her breath, her eyes opening and closing.
Instead of the brown, green, even blue eyes that colored each villager, her eyes were a translucent gray, pale like a spider's web.
“Arantele.” My voice whispers to her. The old tongue for a spider's web seemed like a fitting name. She looks up as if she understands me and a ghost of a smile is on her face.
The old nurse-crone handed me a bowl full of milk—“Got to feed her the old way, Saint Ursagaea, like you'd feed a kid.”--I sat near the fire, where she had been a few minutes ago and dipped my right hand into the milk, placing my fingers near her mouth to suckle.
It was a painfully old and slow process to take my fingers from her hot, hungry mouth and redip in the quickly cooling milk, not being allowed to stop until she was satisfied.
Only when she was asleep, did the rain stop. “Find the father and send him to the chapel—“
"Not going to happen, Saint Ursagaea," The old woman says, addressing me as if I were Lord Alexander himself. "The woman came alone in this storm and in labour as well. Nary a proper man, the bitch had to die as well--if you excuse my language, sweetling. Ain't your fault you're all alone in the world."
"No," I replied. "Arantele will grow and be a priestess, serve and atone for her mother's sin." No woman would take her in, not without asking about the mother.
Life and seclusion near Lord Alexander's own heart, I hoped, would keep this spider-web child safe.
The soothsayers predicted for her an unusual life. She will be a slave and a goddess, they proclaimed. Loved by no one and yet she will possess everyone. She will live a life void of reason and bathe in it as well. And the most important of all: She will die young, and yet live eternally.
My duties as both saviour and leader of the island took up much time, and I rarely saw the girl. Seven acolytes and three priestesses parented Arantele, although they said that she saw much of me. I did not think much of it. Little girls, no matter how odd the birthing, would always be little girls. They were easily bought with sweets and a small story, and the church had plenty of both.
