Darkness blinded her. With it came the overpowering odor of pack rat dung and the faint sweetness of moss. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out the green-velvet tufts that veined the cracks in the rock. Kestrel blinked. Strange paintings covered the walls, faded, old. Six square-bodied red figures curved upward from the floor, following the arc of the cave so that their eyes peered down at Kestrel from the center of the ceiling. Zigzagging lines of Power issued from their open mouths, shooting toward the floor. Though they bore
human bodies, their faces resembled bears, or maybe lions, with their teeth bared. They seemed to be crowding around her, watching, waiting.
“Blessed Star People, what is this place?”
Frightened, Kestrel traced a magical sign in the air to protect her. from any Evil Spirits who might be lurking close by. She kept her eyes on the figures as she stooped to arrange the things she had gathered so they’d be close at hand. Softly, she began the Birthsong: “We crouch before you, Above-Old-Man, tossing in pain, tossing…”
A faint growl rose. It seemed to be coming from the Lion men. Their red eyes glistened, as though alive and angry that she had invaded their sanctuary.
It’s the river, or the thunder. The roar of distant thunder echoing through the cave. That’s all it is! But sobs choked her. Had she been in her own village, her mother would have Sung the Birthsong while her grandmother painted wavy lines of black and red from her navel to her breasts. Kestrel kept Singing the Song to bolster her courage: “We crouch before you, Above-Old-Man. Tossing in pain, tossing. Our blood flows, as yours once did. Bringing Life to the world. Tossing in pain, tossing. Above-Old-Man. Hear us. Lead this child through the dark tunnel. Lead it into the Light born from your blood. We crouch before you, tossing in pain….”
Kestrel wept. The Birthsong ceremony reenacted the primeval journey of the First People through the World Navel, where they had emerged from the underworld and traveled to the two sacred mountains that marked the boundaries of the Bear-Looks-Back Clan’s territory. The world had been perfect then, pristine and beautiful. Had any of those first women felt the fear Kestrel did now? With every moment that the birthing went on, she could sense her husband, coming closer, closer…
Lightning flashed blindingly, and Kestrel heard it strike the bluff above her. Chunks of sandstone were blasted from the cliff and flew outward, tumbling as they hurtled toward
the river. Dozens of white splashes pocked the roiling gray water.
As the pain intensified, Kestrel wished desperately for her mother. “You’re alone. You have to … to do this by yourself.”
She slipped her torn dress off over her head and threw it down by the sharp chert flake and handfuls of grass. Then she squatted in the opening of the cave and clenched the choke cherry stick between her teeth. The opening spanned barely half of her body length, making it easy for her to brace her back against the dry stone on one side and her hands against the other side. Her legs shook so violently that she feared they might not hold her through the coming ordeal.
It took only moments before sweat ran hotly from Kestrel’s naked body. She pushed with all of the strength left to her, moaning at first, then weeping and praying, and when the pain grew unbearable, she screamed. And then, at last, the baby emerged, headfirst.
“It’s a girl, Iceplant! I’ve given you a daughter.” She broke into miserable sobs.
With shaking hands, Kestrel lifted the chert flake and sliced one of the fringes from her dress, then knotted it around the girl’s umbilical cord and cut it. Kestrel’s arms trembled as she lifted her daughter by her feet and shook her until the baby gave her first cry. Then Kestrel’s groping fingers located the handfuls of fragrant grass with which to wipe the little girl clean of the smeared blood, tissue and fluid.
The infant’s wailing terrified Kestrel. Lambkill had ears like a lynx. Assuming she could cross the river, it would take another ten or twelve days of steady walking to reach Otter Clan Village. Hiding her trail would be hard enough. How could she hope to lose Lambkill while carrying a crying baby? Tenderly, she placed her daughter amidst the soft folds of her antelope hide dress.
Pain twisted inside her again. Sucking in a deep breath, she braced her-hands against the wall and pushed. Was it a
second child? Or just the afterbirth? She dug her fingernails into the limestone and wept as the agony swelled. “Help … help me … Above-Old-Man! Help!” She cried out sharply and pushed. And pushed again. Panting for breath, she shifted to spread her legs a little wider. One of her legs buckled, and her knee crashed to the stone floor. Kestrel sobbed brokenly as she struggled to resume the birthing crouch.. She braced her hands on the opposite wall again and held her breath and pushed and prayed… until the second child emerged. A boy. Tiny. Beautiful.