The Complete Collection (7 page)

Chapter 7

Devotion that’s
undying is a frightening sort of fate

For, aptly named,
it weakens not, nor quiets in the night

Immortal and unending
love, that’s always within sight

The very polar
opposite of deepest, vengeful hate

Undying, not
eternal, which implies an ebb and flow

Though constant,
not intense, as that which can’t begin to die

The pounding of a
mother’s heart, the tears the martyr’s cry

The spillage of a
soldier’s blood, a sacrificial show

You hold the power
to evoke what you need me to be

I’ll mold and shape
to fit your hand, fill any empty space

And in return, this
beggar asks for any spare embrace

A coin or two of
love from you—past that small price, I’m free

Devotion that’s
undying is a fate that I accept.

It lives on in
these words that tell of secrets that we’ve kept

Chapter 8

Seducing my husband was not as hard
as I thought it was going to be.

Right away, I knew I was with child. I just knew.

The newfound robustness of my body, along with my
rediscovered confidence and sensuality, made it difficult to ignore.

I badly want this baby. But it must be….explained. My
husband’s mother is suspicious.

The Blacksmith knows what I have to do to survive.

I made a special dinner after discovering my secret
enjoyment of decapitating our chickens, and it is after the third or fourth
drink that I realize it is only a matter of time.

“What’s got into you, girl?” she says.

I don’t have long before this evil witch notices my body
changing.

“Nothing. I am beginning to enjoy making dinner,” I say.

I avoid her eyes.

I force myself to appear affectionate to my husband. This
disgusts me, but not more than I love my baby. I must protect it. Us.

And so I smile a lot. I touch him a lot.

He is a man, after all.

Sometimes both the women who live with him forget that.

The neckline of my dress is appropriately loose. My breasts
are fuller than ever. I know I glow with health and happiness. My husband’s
guard is down.

I can do this.

I must wait until the house is quiet.

I hear the shudder of my husband’s mother’s breath as she
sleeps.

I steal into my husband’s room. I can tell he hasn’t been
asleep for long.

I untie the top of my dress and stir him, climb on top of
him.

He awakens sluggishly, but his eyes suddenly widen at the sight
of me, of my body.

I don’t think he’s ever seen me in this way.

It works.

The length of time it has been since he has last had these
relations should make my task quick, though no less distasteful.

The door bursts open.

“What is going on in here!?” she yells.

The wretched old woman comes in, furious. We meet, eye to
eye, and I see — she is jealous.

Fevered
with jealousy.

It thrills me. For the first time, I have won, old woman.

I try to control the perverse laugh rising in my throat as I
gather my clothing together.

My husband looks terrified.

“Get out! Whore!” she says.

I attempt to look terrified as well but all I can think of
is the cleaver coming down on her neck.

This time, her cane isn’t coming for me. I leave them to
their business as I hear it whistling down on him
,
and he cries out:

“I’m sorry!”

I think to myself how my husband’s face turned so suddenly
to that of a little boy. A little boy mothered by a twisted, possessive woman
who will never let him go.

And then, I smile.

Chapter 9

With my baby to keep me warm, I do
not mind the cold days of winter.

He stirs within me when I sing.

We know it’s a boy.

The harsh weather means fewer chances for me to steal away,
but I know the Blacksmith is always there.

My husband has been properly shamed for his behavior, and
will not look at me.

Meanwhile, his mother looks at me with even more disgust
than she did before, if that is possible, and mutters about having another
mouth to feed.

I don’t care.

I care only about this life that is growing inside me. And
about my Blacksmith.

My hair has become lush, flowing. My body is flush with
life.

The Blacksmith’s gaze tells me that I have never been more
beautiful. Our time together has never been more sensual, although we are not
able to hold each other. Our connection is beyond physical and spiritual; it
grows within me.

And I sing.

Moon cradle….

There is an old rocking chair in my room. I rock the unborn
baby inside of me and sing to him.

My hand rests on his heart, and his rests on mine.

I rock. I feel peace.

I wish away the days.

I will make your life better than mine, baby.

Not long, baby.

Not long.

Chapter 10

Many weeks have passed. My baby is
growing.

The signs of spring return, and with them, foolish feelings
of hope push through the barren soil of my battered heart, tentatively seeking
sunlight.

I am happy, relatively, within my miserable existence. I go
about my duties and try to keep this happiness quiet.

My husband’s mother directs her venomous stare at me
whenever she can.

I have decided that once my son has grown enough to travel,
we will leave this place with his father.

He has a good trade. I can keep house. But first, I must
have this baby. It is difficult to wait, but I do not want to risk traveling in
a delicate state until he and I are less vulnerable. We need to build a house
and a life, and we must all be strong enough to do it.

I imagine our life somewhere else, in a tiny house with a
garden, the sound of his irons in the fire out back.

I will grow corn and vegetables. We will keep chickens.

“What are you smiling about, girl?” the old woman says.

I ignore her.

“You think I don’t know what you’ve been up to?” she says.

I turn to meet her eyes.

“That child isn’t ours,” she says.

Ours
. The way she says it sends chills down my spine.

“You stay away from him,” she says.

I realize by “him,” she means my husband.

“You stay away from him, and keep to yourself, or I’ll tell
him and he’ll toss you and your little bastard out,” she says.

I see her twisted jealousy flare up again. It makes me
smile.

“Agreed,” I say. Old woman, that’s one sacrifice I have no
problem making.

And soon enough, we’ll be out. Away from under this
nightmarish existence, our son will grow tall and strong.

I will give this baby a better life than the one I have
lived.

Someone must have loved me, once, too.

The songs I hear in my head, taken from somewhere far back
in my memory, are gentle ones.

I can remember warmth, arms, and music.

I remember kindness before darkness. Maybe in another
lifetime, as a baby before I was tossed aside. A distant grandmother.

The thought reminds me:

I am not worthless.

I am not useless.

I am deserving

The Blacksmith has shown me what it feels like to be loved
as a woman, and as this baby grows, I can remember what it felt like to be
loved as a child.

We spin and twist in the darkness as only lovers can, losing
sight of where one of us ends and the other begins.

There is warmth in his icy eyes.

Our child will come from what light can be found within both
of us.

I’m ready to feel love again. I’m changing.

I am ready to be a mother.

Soon, baby.

Soon
.

Hope is such a foolish thing, isn’t it?

Maybe not this time, Jessie.

But I’m a fool.

Chapter 11

Something is wrong.

The pain is too much.

My baby is coming.

There is something wrong.

“Get the midwife,” I cry. “I’m begging you
.
”

My hair lies in wet strings around my head. I beg. I plead.

The pain is as hot and splitting as the Blacksmith’s iron.

Something is wrong.

I’m on my knees, bent over on the floor.

“Get the midwife!”

My husband’s mother watches in enjoyment as I gasp and
groan, tortured.

“Husband, I am begging you!”

“This is your baby, too!”

Does my husband realize?

“Don’t do it, son,” she hisses.

She points her cane at me.

“But they could both die!”

She turns to me—and smiles.

“Good. Let them.”

Disgusted, he turns to leave.

“I’m not letting them die.”

I’m fading in and out of consciousness.

I hear my husband prepare the wagon and take off with the
horses into the night.

The old woman comes close to me.

”Still trying to convince him, eh? You might have him
fooled, but not me. I hope you both die.”

Outside, there is a silhouette listening, watching. I cannot
see him, but I can feel him. I draw from his cast-iron strength.

Help me.

I whisper.

She leaves me on the floor as I fight through agonizing
labor pains.

The silhouette clenches his fists, powerful yet powerless.
Waiting and listening. If he could save us, he would. But he knows there is
nothing he can do for us now but watch. And wait.

After what feels like hours, my husband returns, finally. He
is with the midwife.

She rushes into the house and begins to try and save our
lives.

“Why did you wait so long?”

She lays me on my back and mops my brow with a cold cloth.

“The baby is in the wrong place. This is going to be
painful. You have to be strong,” she says.

My screams echo over the hills and through the dark woods.

“Hold her hand!” she says.

In the darkness, another hand reaches for mine.

At long last, I hear the blessed sound I have been waiting
for:

The cry of my child.

I sense myself fading into blackness and take the midwife’s
hand.

“Don’t leave him alone with them!” I plead with her through
my tears. I don’t need to tell her why. She knows.

“I won’t, but sleep now. Or he’ll be alone with them for the
rest of his life,” she says.

So I sleep.

Although I can’t see, I know a shadow remains in the
darkness. Standing. Watching.

At the sound of the baby’s cry, the quiet figure finally
falls to his knees and prays, thanking God for the safe passage of his son.

Whichever God that may be.

Chapter 12

My baby is six weeks old now.

He is happy and healthy—much healthier than I. My
recovery has been slow. So slow that the Blacksmith has not yet been able to
meet his son.

Our son’s name is Matthew.

He has his father’s eyes: striking and steel blue.

This has not gone unnoticed by my husband, but so far my
frail health has prevented a confrontation.

I am just beginning to be able to walk some distances.

I sing to my baby in my rocking chair to comfort us both.

Outside, spring is in full bloom, and my hope of escape
grows.

Despite my poor health, I can nourish my child with an
abundance of milk. I am as laden and full as the trees that are returning to
their vibrant green.

I love to feed my baby. I look out the window and see his
father in the distance.

Our separation makes my heart ache.

While my baby sleeps, I walk outside to breath the New
England air, hesitant to leave him for longer than is necessary.

One more day — and I should finally have the strength
to walk up the hill to see the Blacksmith — so he can meet his son.

* * *

We must go, Matthew.

He is nestled safely in my arms as we delicately make our
way in the dark.

I see the fire ahead. He is waiting for me.

Softly, he reaches to touch my face. It’s been so long.

Our lips meet.

At last, I present him with his son.

Eyes to identical eyes.

Much like his father, Matthew is a quiet child.

The moment is breathtaking.

They regard one another: one so small and vulnerable, and
one made of steel, towering and robust.

He holds the baby in his arms. I step back in respect and
amazement.

This is my one hope: what I have waited for my whole life.

It is quickly dashed into a thousand shards by a single
gunshot.

I did not hear my husband follow us.

The Blacksmith falls, stunned. His blood stains his son’s
blankets red. I stumble to the ground with both of them, reluctant to take the
child from his father in his dying moments.

I wrap my body around them and stare into the Blacksmith’s
eyes.

He touches my face, his still wet with the joyful tears he
shed for his son. With his last breath, I finally hear him speak, a faint smile
lingering on his lips:

Patience, Jessie.

Then, the Blacksmith is dead.

I scream.

And scream.

And scream.

Scream to wake the dead.

And for the first time since the night of his birth, Matthew
cries.

He has been baptized in his father’s blood.