The Rasken

Noku's Invaders I

Suzanne Maxwell

Heat from the fire being stoked in the next room was oppressive and made the air thick and hard to breathe. Antiseptic vapors blended with the wood smoke. Crouched silently in the hallway outside the door to her aunt’s bedroom, Margole sucked in the thick air, trying not to choke, feeling like a trapped skree.

“It should have come by now,” the elderly voice of Sagee whispered.

“Not this one,” the voice of Margole’s mother sounded louder and less anxious. “This one is taking its’ own sweet time.”

Margole had been waiting in the hallway most of the night, ordered by her mother to stand by in case she was needed. Straining to listen to what was going on behind that closed door, Margole’s limbs ached, and her breathing was ragged. As the next wave of pain approached, she braced herself, breathing in short, rapid breaths. Sucking air in and forcing it back out, pain ripped through her own small body even before Hilde’s screams began.

Hilde’s screams blasted through the door and reverberated up and down the narrow hallway. Margole clamped her hands over her ears to block the pain and screams that refused to stop this time.

The commotion brewing in the next room boiled over. All at once, metal pans clanked, the intensity of the voices grew, and steam from the hot water curled out from under the door.

As the wave of pain subsided, Margole backed farther into the corner, squeezing her eyes shut. Forcing herself to relax, an unwanted image appeared. As it formed in her mind, tears filled her eyes. This time, her Aunt Hilde hadn’t miscarried. The baby would be born, but if Margole’s premonition was correct, a miscarriage would have been kinder. She allowed herself a moment to follow the images beyond the initial premonition, but they were fuzzy and vague.

Hilde was chieftess of Mellansh. If she couldn’t produce a healthy daughter, the consequences were unimaginable. The premonitions in Margole’s mind refused to take her beyond that disturbing initial image. Longing to run home and lock herself in her bedroom, instead, she stayed crouched in the hallway, waiting for a summons.

Sagee and Margole’s mother, Beliva, were attending Hilde. Sagee, a master teacher and midwife, was Margole’s mentor. Her aged, wrinkled skin with dark rust-colored blotches that stained her cheeks all but disappeared when the glow of her light brown eyes trained on you. Margole had learned much about the ancient ones and their wisdom from Sagee, and was convinced that Sagee was not only the wisest person in Mellansh but likely all of Hera.

Margole’s mother, Beliva, was the only one capable of handling Hilde. Without Beliva’s help, this baby would not be born, and Mellansh would be without an heiress. Maybe that’s why it was having such a hard time entering this world. Like it’s mother, this baby wasn’t ready for a life filled with responsibility.

Beliva had a gift for bringing babies safely into the world. Hilde would need that gift and all Sagee’s skills to get through this pregnancy.

  The night droned on. Hilde continued screaming and sobbing long after each contraction. The baby must be breached. Margole shuddered, repeating to herself over and over again that she would never, ever bear a child. Silently, she prayed to Tula to keep her womb empty, forever, like Sagee. This spring, Margole would turn fifteen and would be expected to take part in the Eros Ceremonies. She vowed to run away until each ceremony was over, and the men were long gone.

The next bout of screams was worse. Margole’s innate ability to sense the feelings and emotions of others was being severely tested. That sense told her Hilde was rapidly approaching the end of her body’s pain threshold. Margole clamped her hands over her ears again, approaching the end of her own endurance. The screams shifted to a more desperate, beast-like wail, and then everything went quiet; the pain dissolved.

Had Hilde died? Margole could no longer read her.

  The door opened, and Beliva stuck her head out. “Margole, come in here!”

  Margole scrambled to her feet and almost fell on legs gone numb. She shook out the numbness and hurried into the bedroom.

            “Put two drops of this on her tongue every five minutes,” her mother ordered, handing Margole a small eyedropper bottle, while studying the clock, “in three minutes.”

            Sagee was pouring boiling water on a set of tools. Hilde’s long black, wavy hair that looked so much like Margole’s draped across the pillow. The blue, orange, and yellow skin splotches that dotted Hilde’s cheeks usually appeared smoothly blended, but now stood out sharply against her pasty white skin.

Margole resembled Hilde more than her own mother. Hilde used to love to remind her of that and often told her she should have been hers. With no daughters of her own, Hilde had spoiled her little look-alike, while mostly ignoring Margole’s two older sisters. Hilde often complained that it wasn’t fair that Beliva, the youngest of three sisters, already had three daughters while she had none.

            Margole stared at the clock, waiting for the three minutes to tick by.

            “Where’s Sienna?” she asked, not daring to look away from the clock.

            “Sienna?” Sagee’s low voice chuckled harshly. “She had a hard enough time being present at her own pregnancies. We don’t need the helpers to become patients.”

            Then she gave Margole an appraising look. “You’re not going to go squeamish on us, are you?”

            Margole shook her head and then fervently hoped not. Her stomach was fine, but her mind would carry the burden of this event for the rest of her life.

            When the last second ticked by, Margole forced Hilde’s mouth open and put the two drops from the bottle on her tongue.

            “Check her pulse between dosages,” Sagee ordered.

            A trace of Hilde’s last expression before she was put under lingered on her face. Although it was an expression of pain, there were strong undertones of anger. The regal expression she used to wear, the one that Margole had so admired, had long faded. Hilde had borne one son, who was the same age as Margole and her twin brother. That birth had been followed by a string of miscarriages, three in a row. The first one hadn’t counted because it happened early on and there was some doubt as to whether Hilde was actually pregnant or just experiencing female problems. But there was no doubt about the second two, one five months into the pregnancy, the second, seven months. There was hope that this one would be the one that brought Hilde the daughter she so desperately needed.

            Hilde’s eldest daughter would become the next chieftess, carrying on the tradition of her mother, as had her mother before that, and so on. There hadn’t been a break in the Mellansh tradition for over a hundred years.

            If this birth was deemed a miscarriage, Hilde would have to forfeit the opportunity to have more children. Village law said no more than three miscarriages, and Hilde had already pushed that limit. If she was unable to produce a daughter, then Sienna, the second eldest, would inherit the power of the rasken and become the new chieftess, breaking the long-standing tradition. Sienna currently had two sons, but was pregnant again with what she prayed would be a girl.

            Sagee was ready to begin. She lifted the sheet that draped over Hilde’s knees and sucked in a deep breath. Hesitantly, she brought the sterilized scalpel toward Hilde.

            “What if she dies?” Margole asked. “Shouldn’t Sienna be here to get the rasken?”

            Sagee’s old, wrinkled hands began to shake. “Sienna’s pregnant,” she said, her voice hushed, “she can’t accept the rasken.”

            “I’ll do this,” Beliva said, taking the scalpel from Sagee. “She won’t die,” Beliva insisted, making two small slits with the knife.

            Hilde’s blood seeped out, staining the white bed sheets and spreading to the floor. Margole wanted to ask if the blood should be spilling out so quickly but bit her lip and remained quiet.

            “Give her four drops next round,” Beliva said. “And try not to watch. I don’t want you upset.”

            Margole’s jaw dropped as she stared at her mother in disbelief. How could this get worse? Then she remembered her premonition. Straining her neck to watch, she waited for the baby to emerge.

            “Four drops,” Beliva repeated.

            Margole’s eyes flew to the clock. Quickly, she administered four more drops.

            “We’re not going to have much time,” Beliva said, turning to Sagee. “Are you ready?”

            Sagee was threading a needle. She poured some alcohol in a dish over the needle and thread and moved it next to Hilde’s bed.

“The baby’s bad,” Margole said quickly and then added softly, “I saw it.”

            Beliva gave her a sharp look. “You sure?”

            Margole sucked in her breath. “Pretty sure.”

            “Damn!” Beliva examined Hilde’s face.

The face was dead white, even the splotches were almost invisible now. The large lump in her stomach wasn’t moving. It was as if the little one was afraid to come out. Margole waited at Hilde’s side afraid a monster was about to emerge. A nightmarish thought of the little monster devouring all of them played with Margole’s mind.

            With one quick motion, Beliva reached inside and jerked out the baby, feet first. Sagee stepped in behind her, squeezing the cut skin shut and stitching while Beliva gently tapped the baby on the back.

            After a moment of silence, it let out a wail of complaint.

            Margole turned her head away unable to look at it.

            “Oh, Tula!” Sagee exclaimed, when she saw the baby.