Airel by Aaron Patterson, C.P. White Read Free Book Online Page B

her. 
    “Whoa, hold on, girl—what’s going on? Are you okay?” Kim held me up as I cried. “Airel, it’s okay. I’m here. Everything’s gonna be alright.”
    I was sobbing and shaking uncontrollably. The total panic of what had happened was made complete by the sound of screaming people in the lobby outside.

Chapter IX

    1250 B.C. Arabia
    A tall, cold marble god stood in the snow-driven wind, wrapped in fur and leather. He did not shiver or move as he gazed out from the precipice of a stone cliff that dropped dizzyingly below him. The frozen landscape moaned in protest as the wind pushed stiff tree branches and pulled on strands of long dead grass. It was as if he was not present in that moment—or perhaps he was dead on his feet—frozen in the standing position, only a statue; a carving of someone once strong and brave.
    He inhaled the icy air and let out a cloud of vapor that was quickly carried away. His eyes were dark and sparkling under his thick eyebrows. His face was pale, smooth, almost white. Even in the frigid morning light he seemed to be quite comfortable.
    A feather of smoke hurried from the top of the small hut behind him. Across the wooded hills, through the trees, a thousand more huts sent up their own smudges of smoke, signifying that life was still smoldering in the little village. Even with the long winter only halfway gone, the people took heart in the simple fact that they were not alone in the dead world. They would not suffer through it in miserable solitude. The human heart could endure much in the company of others who shared the same plight. 
    The powerful man cocked his head when he heard a woman’s pathetic cry escape from the hut behind him. He turned, walking toward the rough door, his easy strides giving him an air of self-assurance. He ducked inside and lashed the door shut with a leather strap. 
    The one-room hut was drafty, even with the door shut. Cold air pushed its way through cracks into the room. A makeshift bed sat in the corner and a fire crackled in the center of the room where it jumped and leaped, fighting to displace the cold with its warmth.
    An uncommonly beautiful woman lay in the bed, in labor with child. She was covered with a blanket made of skins. Her face was twisted in pain, but even in her anguish she was stunning. The fire filled the room with an orange light that danced off the walls.
    The man pushed the hood from his head and leaned down, placing a gentle kiss on the beautiful woman’s cheek. His wife forced a smile, then arched her back and bit her lower lip as another contraction wracked her body. The contractions were getting stronger and closer together. The baby would soon arrive. All the pain of labor would be forgotten, if only for a little while. 
    Taking a black pot from the fire, he placed it next to where she lay and let his coat fall to the floor. He wore rough hand-stitched leather pants with a white woven shirt that tied at the chest. His skin was hard and stony. 
    Even in the dim light, faintly visible markings could be seen on his forearms and on the side of his neck, winding their way in and out of his skin. They appeared to be tattoos, but were more like a birthmark. They appeared in the firelight and disappeared with the shadows. 
    The man took a cool piece of cloth, placed it on his wife’s forehead and smiled with concern hidden behind dark eyes.
    He hummed a soft melody and worked with skilled hands, tearing strips of warm cloth with which to wrap the baby when she came. She…he had a feeling the baby would be a girl. Something deep inside told him that she would be special, too. He longed for a daughter, longed for the child to be a girl. His wife cried out again and looked directly into his eyes. He knew: it was time.
    Pulling the blankets back, he waited as she pushed with a shattering scream. The wind answered her with a burst, shaking the room. She was in her second day of labor and the effort and strain on her body was