am I to do to save both of us?
Mother, he loves us. He loves you and he loves me. He wants to fill the world with our children.
Mother moaned in the silence. “Emaleth, be still,” she said. “I am sick.”
And Mother twisted in pain on the bed, her ankles bound apart, her wrists bound apart, the scent of the flowers sickening her.
Emaleth wept. The sadness of Mother was too terrible for her to bear. She saw Mother as Father had seen her, so wan and worn with the dark circles around her eyes, like an owl in the bed, an owl; and Emaleth saw in the deep dark woods an owl.
Darling, listen to me, you will not be inside me forever. Soon you’ll be born and at that time, Emaleth, I may die. It may be at the very moment of my death that you come.
No, Mother! That was too terrible to think of, Mother dead! Emaleth knew dead. She could smell dead. She saw the owl shot with an arrow and falling to the floor of the forest. Leaves stirred. She knew Death as she knew up and down and all around, and water, and her own skin and her hair which she caught in her fingers, and rubbed to her own lips. Dead was not alive! And the long stories of Father drifted through her head, of the glen, and how they must come together and grow strong.
“Remember,” Father had said to her once, “they show no mercy to those who are not their kind. And you must be just as merciless. You, my daughter, my wife, my little mother.”
Don’t die, Mother. You cannot do this. Do not die.
“I’m trying, my darling, but listen to me. Father is mad. He dreams dreams which are bad, and when you are born you must get away from here. You must get clear of me and of him, and you must seek those who can help you.” Then Mother began to cry again, woebegone and crushed and shaking her head.
Father was coming back. The key in the lock. The smell of Father and food.
“Here, precious darling,” he said, “I have orange juice for you, and milk, and good things.”
He sank down beside Mother on the bed.
“Ah, it won’t be long!” he said. “See how she struggles! And your breasts, they are filling with milk again!”
Mother screamed. He covered Mother’s mouth with his hand, and she tried to bite his fingers!
Emaleth wept. This was terrible, terrible, this darkness and clangor over the entire horizon. What was the world when one suffered so? It was nothing. She wanted to put things in their mouths to stop their mouths so they could not speak hate to each other. She pushed at the roof of the world. She saw herself a woman born running from one to the other, and stuffing their mouths with leaves from the forest floor so they could not say hurtful words to each other.
“You will drink the orange juice, you will drink the milk,” said Father in fury.
“Only if you untie me again, and let me up. Then I’ll eat. If I can sit on the side of the bed, I’ll eat.”
Please, Father, be kind to Mother. Mother’s heart is full of sorrow. Mother must have the food. Mother has been starved. Mother is weak.
Very well, my darling dear. Father was afraid. He could not again leave Mother without food and water.
He cut loose the tape that was tied around Mother’s arms, and around her legs.
At once Mother drew all her limbs together, and turned her feet to the side, and they were walking, she and Mother, back and forth and back and forth. Into the bathroom they went, full of bright light and shining things, and the smell of water, and the chemicals of water.
Mother closed the door, and lifted a large slab of white porcelain from the back of the toilet. These things Emaleth understood because Mother understood, but not entirely. Porcelain was hard and heavy; Mother was afraid. Mother held the porcelain slab up high. It was like a tombstone.
Father pushed open the door, and Mother turned and brought down the big slab of porcelain on Father’s head and Father cried out.
Anguish for Emaleth. Mother, don’t do it.
But Father sank down silent in peace, with no complaint, on the floor, and dreamed, and again Mother struck him with the porcelain slab. The blood ran out of his ears onto the floor. He shut his eyes. He dreamed.