Strands of Starlight by Gael Baudino Read Free Book Online Page A

Flecks of black in't, too.”
    The heat stirred a little more. Miriam tried to ignore it. “I'll send Mika over right away.”
    “Thank'ee,” said Robert. He turned away, still wringing his cap, the broad back of his tunic streaked with sweat and dirt. Miriam watched him go, and the heat in her spine faded. Probably no more than the comforter and the sun, she decided.
    But she did not go back to sleep. The water green? Flecks of black? Mika had talked a little about midwifery, and as far as Miriam knew, such symptoms meant trouble. For a moment, she wished that she had accepted Mika's offer of training. She could go and see Clare and maybe bring aid of some sort. . . .
    She stood up, arms folded and pressed to her belly as if to shield her from the thoughts. Training? Aid? Was she some kind of a fool? When Mika's training failed, would she then reach out with preternatural abilities and cure, regardless of the consequences? And when word got back to Cranby, would she then cheerfully climb up on the rack, stick her legs once more into the clamps, skip blithely down the street to the stake?
    You'll have to handle it yourself, Clare. God—or whoever—be with you. I'll tell Mika. It can't last. It never lasts, but I'll hold out as long as I can.
    ***
    Mika returned in the evening. The sun has already dropped below the mountains. Venus glittered in the west.
    The midwife looked tired. The silver in her dark braids seemed more prominent than usual, the lines in her face deeper. Miriam noticed that her hands were shaking as she sliced cheese and smoked meat. “You needn't tell me about Clare,” she said. “I stopped on the way home.”
    “How is she?”
    “It's hard to tell. There's danger anytime the water breaks and the baby doesn't follow after. But Clare's late, too.” She filled a cup with cider and sat down on the padded lid of a clothes chest. “So the labor will be a long one. But the water was green with black in it. It means the baby's not happy there in her belly. And the dropsy. And now she's been with a headache.”
    “What does it mean?” Miriam felt, again, the slightest flash of heat up her spine.
    Mika shrugged. “Can't say for sure. Clare might start tomorrow morning and have no problems at all. Then again, all this might be adding up to . . . I don't know. Anything.” Mika was staring at the shuttered window where the last vestiges of twilight shone through the cracks. A tear trickled down her cheek.
    “Mika?” Miriam was alarmed. “Did—“
    “I lost Petronella's girl. She was breech, and the cord was tangled. I . . . just couldn't get the child out in time. Oh . . . the sweet little thing. A face like her mother's.” Mika put her own face in her hands.
    Miriam was beside her in a moment, ignoring the pain of her joints. “Mika . . .” she stopped, unable to say a word. Eight years of bitterness filled her mouth with sand. Babies died. Of course they did. So did adults. So did healers. What difference did it make?
    But Mika's shoulders were shaking, and Miriam knew that to some, it did indeed make a difference. There were those in the world who, like Aloysius Cranby, took life; and there were those who, like Mika, desired to give it, who reached out to the ill, the old,t he newborn to find at times their hands empty, their grasp not large enough, their reach just short of the goal.
    “It happens, Mika,” she managed.
    “It does,” whispered the midwife. “But I always wonder: if I'd done something different, been wiser, seen more . . . maybe . . .”
    “Don't blame yourself.”
    “Who should I blame? God? The devil?” The midwife raised her head and blinked at the healer. “Times like these, I don't know, Miriam. Times like these, I envy you.”
    “Don't envy me. Just look at my legs. Don't envy me.”
    Mika did not seem to hear. “And now Clare seems to be having difficulty. Mother of God, be with me!”
    Miriam rubbed her shoulders, made her eat and lie down. Clare's husband