The most challenging short story of the series yet: to tell a story by a simple portrait. By “simple” I don’t mean in concept, just in execution. Not having anything else to go by except a face proved a both frustrating and rewarding experience. I can’t say it’s one of my favorites, but I can say I was able to create a coherent narrative. I think.
Thanks for reading.
Artwork by Ausonia
https://www.artstation.com/artwork/8eLGYO
DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.
The Story
Hands, palms up, in the basin. Not too little water. She couldn’t afford to not be clean. Nor too much. She couldn’t afford it to spill over.
A mirror. Polished. She startled herself. How the light shone through the window. To this spot, to catch her, to hold her.
To show her.
Hands, palms up, in the basin. In another time. No mirror. No reflection. A pity, because the midwife’s hands were beautiful then. An unblemished silk cream.
The woman was calm, in the bed in the small room. The midwife was thankful for that. Nearly passed out from the pain, hanging on enough to see her child enter the world in a pain of its own. Drowining to live.
“Rest,” the midwife said. “All will be as it should.”
It would be. Somehow she knew. The baby lay as the mother, in near slumber. No man to welcome the unwelcome. The midwife would welcome him. Yes, a boy. Quiet as one could hope. As breathless as one could hope. The mother wouldn’t want him. Not like this.
Shivering in the heat, the midwife took the child. It was all she could do. It was all she wanted. The village path was clear, except for a man carrying wood. The midwife changed directions as if he were a black cat. Behind her, the wood dropped, feet ran, a door opened, a man shouted.
Deep in the forest, dress in tatters from the trees’ claws, the midwife knelt at the side of a lake. Behind her, the wind. It caressed the water to disturb her beauty. Only a glimpse had been given, and even that was a shadow of a shadow. Besider her, the child, eyes as gray as the sky. As still.
“Rest,” she said. “All will be as it should.”
Her shoulder itched. When she reached to scratch it, the hair draping her back fell to the ground. Must have been the trees, but she felt no pain.
Voices and torchlight soon came while she waited for no one and nothing at the water’s edge. Turn. Give in. She deserved it. She did turn. Flame danced with the forest.
Swimming she used to enjoy. She slipped through the water, slipped from her dress, and arrived at the opposite shore naked but unharmed, arms empty of child. No. She searched the shallows in a sheet of tears, dove as deep as her breath would allow.
She had no words.
The forest allowed her an escape. To where? To a clothesline where she stole a dress. It fit her good enough, though when she went to tie her wet hair back, there wasn’t much to gather. Threads of seaweed through her fingers. She wept, on her knees, in the grass. For her child. She snatched a bonnet from the line and tugged it over her head. It didn’t feel right.
The mirror. Her face was the water’s surface, twisted by her thrashing arms and legs. Her eyes were the mud where the baby slept. She closed them.
She thought of the baby, then. Her skin, curdled cream. The city bustled, passers-by paying her no mind. They didn’t notice what she hid beneath her cloak, under her cap. It would be all right soon.
A home, a family. They welcomed her. Trusted her. They said she had the eyes of an angel, and they wanted the child to see an angel. She blushed at that.
The woman was upstairs, ripe with the beauty of life. And the midwife would cherish that life. More than her, because she already had others. They chased a cat down the hall, sure to trample it by the sound of their haste. The woman had enough. She had enough to share.
The woman smiled at her with blossom cheeks and eyes of spring pastures. The midwife imagined looking into those eyes, being the child’s angel.
“Rest,” she said. “All will be as it should.”
The woman did, breasts plump with milk, rising and falling, rising and falling. The baby came noisily, flailing, gums glistening. The mother held her arms out. The midwife cradled the child.
The woman said something, but the midwife only heard the baby as she, yes, a girl, settled into curve of an angel’s wing. The midwife carried the child out of the room, down the hall where the raucous children masked her light steps.
The woman screamed. Downstairs, the expectant family didn’t notice the baby in the midwife’s cloak. With glee, and her heart full of love, she opened the door to her life as a mother.
The doorway was blocked by a man as large as a door, and he saw the child, saw the family dashing up the stairs in fright, and finally saw the baby.
He grabbed her by the shoulders, relieving her of her cloak, which revealed her shoulders that itched fiercly. The baby was next in his arms, half in hers. Two children fighting over a ragdoll.
The midwife stumbled onto the street wet with blood. She felt no pain, but she felt nothing. Crowds were the trees of the forest, with stronger fingers, sharper claws. Still, she maneuvered through them, and found herself in an abandoned alley where eaves hung low and heavy.
There, on hands and knees, she faced a puddle that showed her an outline that was no angel, but a darkness, the color of blood mixed with shadow.
Her hands, palms up, shriveled and tired, were clean. The midwife did not greet the mirror again. She crossed the room where the child was, straw hair slicked to scalp, eyes the color of the sky outside the window.
The midwife didn’t pick her up. She admired her, breathed in that indescribable scent as the door rattled on its hinges to the beating of fists.
She sat on the stool next to the crib, ignoring the door as it crashed into the room, looked at the child and said, “Rest. All will be as it should.”