The Mapmaker's War (23 page)

FOR ALMOST A YEAR, THE DECISION TO HAVE A CHILD WAS A MATTER OF discussion. Not so had it been with Wyl. This had been a given in your life before, not an option. The awakening to bear another was a mystery. You were fully aware of it but confused. Your body seemed to want one thing, your mind another.

Yet one thing you did know. You had to tell him the secret.

I gave birth to two children. Twins, a girl and a boy. I left them in my exile, you said.

This was the truth, beyond the facts. You weren't overcome by the admission. This was a matter to settle. No tears came to your eyes. No lump swelled in your throat. Whatever guilt you felt for your lack of guilt kept itself hidden away.

His eyes flashed with surprise, then understanding. You realized he had long sensed a secret in you and thought you now revealed it. Leit took your hands.

Do you wish to speak of them? asked he.

You had anticipated no such response. You had practiced for

shock, dismay, and sympathy. Even anger. Instead he broke you open with the unexpected. A brief summary was what you had prepared to share, but that wasn't what you said.

He listened as you told of the unintended result of your ardor. The pregnancy prompted the wedding, although Wyl | yes, you spoke his name | was intended for another. Their birth was long and painful, but the children were healthy and strong. Short of forbidding, Wyl denied your intent to return to mapping the kingdom. So you cared for the infants with the help of a nursemaid. They were sweet children, no more fussy than expected. The girl had an eagerness about her. The boy, a watchfulness. You took them into the forest often. They liked to explore and share what they found with one another. They preferred to sleep face-to-face. When separated, they became distressed.

You paused. The thought that formed didn't escape your mouth. They had each other. All those dark months in your womb, the girl and the boy weren't alone. You felt comfort. You felt sorrow. You acknowledged what a barren place your body had been. Only after Wei could you understand.

Leit clutched your hands.

What are their names? asked he.

Then tears came. You didn't know why. His thumbs stroked the water away from your cheeks.

The invocation of their names in your native tongue made you quiver. Then you told him.

Does their father love them? asked he.

I think he does. Yes, you said.

They are fortunate, said he.

You thought of Wyl with the newborn twins, their hands in his. Then of how he had grabbed them when you returned from warning the settlement. They are mine, said he. Was his love pure or possession? you wondered. You had neither for them. You'd left them without a struggle, protest, or plea.

Your ambivalence is clearer now, said Leit.

You nodded. I've told no one else except the midwife. Please keep this between us. It's too complicated to share. You are my witness, Leit. Help me carry it, you said.

YOU WEREN'T ALONE IN YOUR RETICENCE. LEIT, TOO, QUESTIONED whether to sire a child.

He was the one to speak to you of the forces the parents bring to bear. These were patterns that determined hair, eyes, skin, shape, and voice. Still more mysterious were tendencies, aptitudes, and afflictions. There were behaviors learned, rote from one generation to the next. Yet he thought other matters, unseen, transferred as well.

My scar is external proof of a greater disfigurement within, said Leit. I felt my body fibers warp. What I witnessed isn't only on my flesh and in my memory.

You thought he exaggerated.

Notice how few warriors have children who resemble them. Some among us feel our patterns have been twisted and fear the damage this could do, said he.

Edik told me a child can endure much if it feels beloved, you said.

That depends on the child's nature and the conditions into which he's born, doesn't it? asked he.

Under and aside from his fear, Leit wanted a child of his flesh. He acknowledged the primal urge. He wished to know the swell of a woman's body was due to his part. To love a child didn't require biological paternity. He loved the children he tended in the nurseries. But he admitted that he wanted to experience the blood mystery of fatherhood, his connection to a child as both root and branch.

And you? What was your reason to bear, again?

Tell the truth.

You questioned whether you could be a loving mother. You wondered whether circumstances had impinged upon your feelings for the twins. This was a terrible risk to take. Your decision was selfish at its source. If you were flawed, incapable, the child would suffer. There was little consolation that the babe would be in a community based on love.

It was also a repeated pattern of your own. What you gave to Wyl, you could give to Leit. The difference? Wyl wanted an heir. Leit wanted a child.

You both chose to have Wei. In spite of it all.

THERE, IT WAS DONE.

No concoctions taken before, or after you moved away from him. A beginning in the womb, alone in the dark.

You went to the midwife again. You told her you were pregnant. She asked what you wanted. Her question's ambiguity shocked you. You complained of nausea and dizziness. She asked when you last bled. When you told her, she grasped a knife and gouged one of thirteen sticks that hung on the wall. She told you to expect a winter birth.

What have you shared with the little one? asked she.

Shared? you asked.

What have you told the babe of your stories and wishes?

You thought of Leit. He placed his hands on your belly every night and talked through your skin. You thought his actions silly but didn't discourage him.

I've told it nothing, you said.

Why not?

Why indeed? What grows is a dumb thing.

She turned to a wall of shelves with ceramic jars painted various colors. On each were small symbols that had meaning to her. She peered among them and then said:

A seed has its own map of being.

Its simple shape holds within a design greater than its size would suggest.

But will it become what it could be? Will it find its way to sandy soil when it requires loam? Will it find itself in the dark when it needs sun? If it sprouts, will something haplessly crush it? If it begins to grow, will it live where the roots can grow wide and deep, the stem strong and straight, the leaves broad and open? In what ground will it begin its life? Where it is planted makes a difference.

No matter what, it will continue to live, to try to live, no matter how inhospitable its environment, no matter how deformed it may become, how sick it is.

And here is a greater mystery. It may be deformed and propagate. The new plants may bear no obvious evidence, but somewhere in its memory, it carries the wound, one that takes long to heal.

The new seed is set. You are the soil now.

No warning. You burst into tears. The old woman sat across from you in silence. You wept a confused grief, utterly sourceless, it seemed. A grief you didn't know was there and could not name.

Your babe feels your sadness. She feels what you feel. You cannot hide the truth from her. Place yourself within the child. What would you wish to feel and know? Begin there, Aoife.

YOU WERE BETTER PREPARED FOR WEI'S BIRTH. THAT YOU HAD GIVEN birth before was not the reason. Your friends and the midwife who cared for you embraced the dark secrecy of new life. Of course, without the man, the being could not begin. However, without the woman, it could never take form. It would never be. The Guardians honored this mystery as a sacred act of giving.

They acknowledged but didn't dwell on the dangers to the mothers' bodies and babies. They trusted an innate intelligence that began the moment two forces conjoined to bring forth a new being. Your body, said they, understands what your mind cannot.

The midwife chose herbs to give you strength. She visited you and Leit to teach you how to breathe. You laughed at the absurdity. You remembered the endless brutal bellow of your lungs before.

Holding of breath is common to block pain. Think for a moment. Do you remember an instance when you were hurt or frightened and stopped your breath? asked the midwife.

You looked at Leit when he suddenly took your hand. He held you in his eyes. You felt afraid, then steeled yourself against it. His other hand went to your back. You had no clear images, but you clearly had the memories.

I'll teach you to move through pain. Leit will learn with you to help, said the midwife.

No such care was given to you before the twins. You remembered nothing but stories of horror, of endless screaming, of membranes ripped, of blood, so much blood. Oh, but when you see the babe, the pain will be worth it, said the women. You wondered if that was a lie or a consolation.

Pregnant with Wei, you felt loved as you had never been before. Your friends embraced you with tenderness you felt in your physical body. Their love for the unborn child flowed through their hands when they touched your belly. You know Wei sensed this. She seemed to reach through your flesh to return the affection. The babe's joy spilled into you. Leit, although not stingy before, kissed and caressed you more often. He rubbed your aches away and weathered your moods with sweet patience. For several cycles of the moon, you knew bliss.

You never knew this was possible.

Leit's turn to go back on the trails came, but he didn't leave. No warrior left the side of the woman who carried his child. Every morning and night, Leit spoke to the babe. | still he did not sing | Wei kicked at the sound of his voice, then became still as she settled to listen. He told her the myths, and fanciful tales, and stories of his life before the war. He repeated the names of ancestors and relatives, with titles or descriptions of what they had done. His mother had served as a smith. His father was had been a fletcher. There were his grandparents, maternal and paternal, and their parents, and their parents. He named cousins, aunts, and uncles. He named the people of seven generations, each one connected to Wei through Leit.

Before you, child, your mother was Aoife, a mapmaker, who braved the curve of the world to find her home. What might she call herself now? asked Leit.