First Born : Excerpt : Chapter One

First Born
By Astra Crompton

Chapter One : The Test of Pain

“Ey kalla!”

Ruenne cursed through clenched teeth, and in the next gasp countered with a prayer, “Isham protect me!” Her midwife sat on a wooden stool beside her, a hand on her back. Ruenne had both elbows hooked around the armrests of the birthing brace. The towels blanketing the supports were soaked through with sweat and her knees were chafed by the frame every time she pushed.

“Keep breathing, Ruenne,” the midwife chided, leaning forward to check her dilation and measuring the time between contractions by the steady ticking of a metronome. “You are doing well; we are nearing the moment…”

“Why will he not come?” Ruenne huffed, letting her head hang forward as far as the brace would allow. She was exhausted, and these brief reprieves from the pain gnawing at her bones never lasted long enough.

“He will come. Your Test nears its fulfillment. Embrace this moment, child. Soon you will pass forever from the arms of the Maiden to the bosom of the Mother.” The midwife’s voice was low and soothing. “This is a great experience. All you have worked for, all you have built up in your life... This is your moment to claim it, to solidify your worth as a woman to your people, your husband, your Goddess. Now, push!” She gripped Ruenne’s arm, careful to avoid her clenching hands in case the pregnant woman’s strength crushed her fingers. Taking a shallow, stabbing breath, Ruenne pushed. Her muscles tightened into straining cords, her flushed face reddening with the effort. She tensed again and let out a hoarse cry.

Her husband, Zatos, could do nothing now but wait. He stood motionless and watchful, his back to the fireplace, eyes riveted on Ruenne’s suffering. Across his upturned palms lay the unsheathed ceremonial blade. He was calm, observant, expression blank while the firelight flickered over the scene.

Ruenne pushed once more, another cry rising into the hot night. Her feet strained against the wood of the floor. Her flesh tore as the babe’s head began to push into the world, blood dripping onto the damp boards. The midwife deftly wiped the mess up with a cloth, watching the first born of Ruenne and Zatos enter the world. An auspicious occasion: the Test of Pain, through which Ruenne would become a full woman. Her choice to have a child; her trial to give it up; only by sheer strength of will, control of emotions, rationale over hormones would she come through this.

This was the lot of the Muzina woman – to be the strong heart, the guiding force for her people. It was the man’s way to become impassioned by the experiences he faced, emboldened by his physical strength to be fierce in conflict, to defend his family, his homeland, his life. It was the woman’s role to remain cool, collected and sensible, to offer wisdom when it was most needed, to show temperance that could steady man’s direction, to have prudence so that conflict was avoided. This was the world: duality and function. The beauty of two halves joining, as earth and sky, day and night. Ruenne knew this – had known it since she was a little girl.

The babe’s crown pressed free, and the midwife stretched out her cloth, ceremonial ash green as used for the First Born. Ruenne pushed again, screaming until she thought her lungs would burst and her throat would bleed, and with that push, her babe fell slippery and wet into life. In that moment, the hormones flooded her system: the primal need to protect, to covet, to defend her child from all forces the world might summon against her. The feeling flew through her veins as if she were on fire, steadied her shaking limbs, narrowed her vision until all she could see was her baby boy, wrapped in his swaddling cloth, newborn legs kicking unsteadily. She pushed herself up from the brace and slipped to her knees, heedless of the bloody pulp that followed the child from her womb.

“Give him to me…” she snarled, snatching him from the midwife’s hands. She bared her fangs at the old woman, growled at her husband when he stepped forward. She heard the sounds she’d uttered as if from far away – twitched in response to them – and clutched the newborn to her breast. The midwife gestured for Zatos to step back. His brow creased in momentary confusion, but he obeyed, though one hand closed over the hilt of the dagger.

In Ruenne’s bestial state, she sensed the flicker of firelight on an unsheathed blade as danger. Her glance snapped to the weapon and she snarled aloud, scrambling back, slipping in the mess on the floor, the umbilical still flapping from between her legs. “Stay back! Stay away…” She was seething, hardly able to order her thoughts. The adrenalin had taken hold. She felt as though she could tear through the wall and run if needed, that she could breathe fire if it meant saving the life of her child.

The midwife watched on, a passive, calculating expression on her wizened features. “He is born under the Auspice of Meshura, the Crone.” She murmured lowly, but was clearly heard in the silence of the room. The burners flickered as if feeding off the tension in the air. For the first time, Ruenne looked down at her baby. He was of Meshura; it was as obvious as his sex. Hideous, like every Muzina child, he was marked with all the signs of the Crone: long, gangly limbs; swollen, oversized joints; mouth stretched wide across his face like a gash. Another surge of the mother’s hormones pumped through her bloodstream, and she let out a cry, coughing on her tears.

“My baby! My boy…” She whispered, fully consumed by her passion. The midwife stepped forward, and instantly Ruenne was on edge again, hunched like a beast, snarling, fangs bared. The midwife had both hands forward and open, palms up in greeting, in supplication, in peace.

“We must cut the umbilical, mother. We must name the filth of your womb.” Ruenne choked on the lump in her throat and vaguely sensed something at the edges of thought, something half-understood, but just barely beyond her grasp.

Zatos came forward then, with his usual crisp, efficient strides. He bore the sickle blade: the crescent representing the Brother’s Moon, the smaller of the two, red for life. In a single swift motion he folded the umbilical over the edge of the blade and severed it. The baby writhed in his mother’s arms, skinny fingers reaching, the first two toes on each foot splayed long and pointed as the shorter remaining digits curled up against the balls of his feet. Ruenne was weeping, smiling, proud and full of love for this little thing in her arms. This living being she had grown inside her, that had matured off the food she had eaten for both of them, now had a beating heart and grasping hands. This hideous, writhing thing in her arms, made that way so that no other mother would want him or steal him, that no creature would try to harm him or eat him, was beloved only to the mother, by whose bond they would always be connected.

“Kathiz…” she whispered. “His name is Kathiz, for strength. Look how he reaches! As if he would take the world into his arms…” She smiled, ignoring the tears on her cheeks and leaned her face down to this babe. She kissed his wet head gently; indifferent to the milk and blood that still filmed his skin. Zatos made a grunt but still did not speak. The midwife stepped forward and placed a hand on the child’s brow.

“Kathiz T’Akosh, First Born to Ruenne and Zatos T’Akosh, be witness to the purification of your mother’s body. You are sent from the Great Mother to cleanse the filth of the womb. You are sent with the love of the Maiden to bless all children to follow. You are sent with the wisdom of the Crone into such a brief life so that your mother may succeed her Test of Pain. We thank you for your sacrifice. We use your blood to bless the womb. We mark your soul and send it back to Isham so that it may be cleansed of this duty.” The midwife’s words resonated in the hot, close room.

As they were spoken, Ruenne knew them to be true, knew this ritual to be the very moment all that pain was leading to. Because the woman’s Test of Pain was not to endure the agony of birth; the strength of the body lay in the man’s domain. The woman’s Test of Pain was to master the emotions of the heart. The sentient part of her mind, so silenced and numbed by the raging, primal instincts that had taken over, coughed up a fragment of memory. With dawning horror, she looked up. Zatos held out his empty hand to take Kathiz from her.

Ruenne’s golden eyes stretched wide in her face. She gulped at the lump in her throat. Rage rose in her heart, an animal need to protect this squirming thing in her arms. Kathiz. Not a thing anymore, but a Muzina, as much flesh and blood as Ruenne herself. This boy, her First Born, in being named had been assigned a soul by the Great Mother. This Kathiz, named after a hero, born under the Auspice of the Crone would be clever someday. As he grew into a boy and then, with the shield of the Auspice melting away when puberty came, he would become a man of thought and intelligence, of curiosity and understanding, of acceptance and temperance. This was the life he had been granted, born under the Auspice of Meshura, and named for the virtue of strength. They would have her offer him up…as a sacrifice?

She snarled and pushed back from them, but the room was not so large as her fear wanted it to be. She came up hard against the bedroom wall, felt the baby jostle in her arms. Logic was present, but restrained, pushed away. Could they not see that this life in her arms was sacred? That Kathiz mattered? That he had a life to live? Yet, a memory, knowledge of the Test of Pain flickered in the depths of thought. There was a reason – more than the honour, more than the duty – there was a reason it had been practised for thousands of years. There was a reason… If only she could recall what it was.

Zatos stepped forward, strong and looming over her. His face was distorted by a deep scowl. He was angry, and a little afraid, a little impatient. “Ruenne, give me the filth.” His voice was low, warning. This was the voice he used in work: that stern, demanding tone that commanded respect, obedience. But this was no apprentice he addressed, nor was it a maiden wife. This was a mother, with all the power and strength that came with the creation of a child. “Ruenne!” He barked, hand out, dagger ready.

“You cannot let him live, Ruenne.” The midwife – the very voice of Meshura Herself, calm, rational – stepped forward. There was understanding in the lines of her face. She had once passed through this Test of Pain. She had slain her First Born, as all Muzina women must. She had since had other children – eight, over the years. To let this one go…it did not mean that Ruenne could not bear another. She was young yet. She could bear many more in her years. She could let this one go. It was needed. It must be done. Not only to succeed the Test, but for the child’s sake. What kind of world was she opening up for him, letting live one who embodied the very Curse he was born to wipe away?

She looked down into Kathiz’s face and felt a shuddering breath rattle through her. His limbs were limp, his eyes still closed, the blind face swaying against her breast, as if listening to the words spoken over his head. The desire to keep him welled strong in her heart. The reason why he must die faded away in her consciousness.

“Ruenne.” The midwife’s voice was hard, steady as iron. “It must be this way. You cannot subject him to the cruelty of the Curse. He will never break free of it, Ruenne. It will track his steps from this moment until the day it finally consumes him. If you do not end it now, with him, none of your children will be free of it. You will bear nothing but black seeds. You must not allow that, Ruenne… The Goddess wills that you learn strength. She has entrusted this task to you. Only you can make this decision. You must give him up. The time has come.” Zatos’ hand came forward again, open, waiting.

She heard the sound of her own wailing before she realized she was weeping. As if fired by his mother’s cries, Kathiz opened up his lungs and let free his first cry. The feeble, unsteady wail of it mixed with his mother’s in that fire-lit house; the moment was upon them. Ruenne, squeezing her eyes shut, slowly lifted the babe. It was as though she fought against her own muscles, her movements sluggish and strained. The midwife steadied Zatos’ knife-hand, to ensure the choice was truly the mother’s and no one else’s.

Kathiz squirmed in his mother’s arms and the movement drew her glance up to him, suspended in the air before her. Bleary blue eyes looked back at her. Light, clear blue, like his father’s. The babe’s sight wavered as he tried to bring his mother’s face into focus and failed. He let out a half-hearted cry and fell silent. Behind his head, the firelight danced along the blade that would send him back to Isham. Such a long journey – for both mother and child – all for this. A sudden ending. A ritual in blood. Her soul railed against it, pulled at her sinews. Zatos took the child from her, and she felt Kathiz’s small weight lifted from her. The baby pushed out his wail with strong lungs, and the sound cut into Ruenne like the blade intended for her child.

“No!!” She howled the word and lurched to her feet. “You cannot take him!” She lashed out at Zatos, slapping her hand into his startled face, sinking her canine fangs into his forearm. He let out a dismayed sound – not a cry, really, but wordless disappointment. He let her snatch the babe away and watched as she retreated behind the birthing brace. She sat hunched and rocked the Cursed babe in her arms. She had failed her Test of Pain. She could not overcome the hormones of birth. She would never be a fulfilled woman. He had been certain she would face this easily. She had always been so hard-working, so practical, so serene in the face of everything. So, why not for this? Why not this?

He watched her, palpable sadness in his expression, the blue eyes he had given to their son searching her face. Ruenne would not meet her husband’s gaze; merely looked down at Kathiz, this baby she had chosen to save, even though it meant a life of torment.

“She has failed.” The midwife’s voice was low and flat. The old woman let out a deep breath and turned towards one of the braziers.

“I know that!” Zatos spat, angry and irritated. The old woman lifted her gaze to him reprovingly and he fell silent, abashed. She poked the handle of an iron rod through the coals and calmly lifted the brand from the flames.

“Ah…” Zatos grunted, realizing that if his duty to slay the First Born could not be fulfilled, he had one other mark to make tonight. The midwife passed him the handle and he took it, his grip trembling. It was one thing to brand flesh for work, but to mar his own love’s face?

No, after today she was no longer his love. She had failed her Test. He was entitled to abandon her as wife and partner. He squared his shoulders and turned to her, the brand before him glowing red.

Ruenne sat in her place, did not run, did not hunch, merely wrapped both arms around the swaddled bundle and held Kathiz close. Zatos stood over her, the brand glowing hot in his hand. He faltered, feeling his heart object. If she could face this punishment so calmly, why could she not simply give up the child? How could she throw away her life in this moment, sit there awaiting the mark that would forever tell the world of her breakdown? His vision blurred.

“Ruenne…please…give up the child…” He begged of her, the last concession he could give. She looked up against the light of the lamps, her love haloed by firelight, feeling the heat of the iron already. Slowly she rocked the Cursed child in her arms. She was silent, but a small smile flitted over her lips. Then, she shook her head. Only that. Zatos felt his heart break. He dropped the ceremonial dagger and lifted a hand to his ear. Unconsciously he fingered the band of gold in his earlobe, the rings of marriage that symbolized their devotion to each other. The scars of life…
He set a firm expression despite the tears in his vision and took his wife’s shoulder in his hand. She tucked the babe away from him, shielding Kathiz with her body and turned her face up to her husband. They were still for a moment, then he lowered the brand and pressed it into her left cheek.

The stink of searing flesh was not new to him. Nor was the hiss as the moisture in the skin boiled. But the shriek she let out as she thrashed, trying to get away was still a voice he knew and one that had whispered intimate words in his ear. He pulled away in horror. But the iron had done its work. A swollen, red mark marred the skin beneath her watering eye. She slapped at her eyelid, trying to stop salty tears from stinging the fresh burn, rubbing off the eyelashes that had melted in the heat.

His wife, his love, his beautiful Ruenne. He dropped the brand. It hissed and skittered across the floor, marking the wood where it touched. He stood over her, mute and helpless. He could not offer comfort now. He could not take her into his arms as once he had. He wished there was something he could say, but there were not words for this moment. Or, perhaps, none that belonged to him. Behind him, the midwife collected the brand and grunted as she straightened up to full height again.

“Ruenne T’Akosh. Since the first days of our people, there has been a Curse upon the First Born. Through the rituals passed down from our forebears, it has been our duty to end the cycle of the Curse by ending the life of the first child – the babe that bears the filth of the womb as his destiny. In his sacrifice lies the liberation of our seed. Only when his life is ended does the Curse die with him. The womb is cleansed, the cycle broken, and there will be peace and prosperity for all the children to follow in your line.”

The midwife paused, sighed. There seemed power to her words, as if the strained air in the room was twisting with each syllable she spoke, coming to some final judgment. “As of this night, you have failed your Test of Pain. You have been branded with the mark of Ey, emptiness, the incomplete.” Then she turned to the babe’s father. “You forsake this woman?”

Zatos flinched. His hands balled into fists, but it did nothing to steady their shaking. He opened his mouth to speak and instead let out a half-choked cry. Not trusting himself to use words he simply lowered his face and nodded.

“Very well.” The midwife continued, unsurprised. “Ruenne, you are stripped of the name of T’Akosh. You will again be Ruenne T’Kazan as you were born, and as you were born, your standing returns to nothing. You will have two weeks to take the Cursed child and run. It does not matter where you go or what you do, so long as you leave this city, this life, this man behind. If you are allowed to build yourself up from nothing in whatever land that accepts you, it is by hard labour alone that you might redeem yourself in the eyes of Isham. May she have mercy on your soul, as undeserving as that may be.” There was silence in the room. The fires still burned high. The Third Season night was hot and stifling. The shadows cast upon Ruenne by the birthing brace were sharp and angry. The swollen welt of Ey on her cheek shone in the light like a puckered mouth. The Cursed child in her arms was silent.

Zatos fingered the golden hoops in his ears that marked him married. He would not be allowed to remove them. He would always bear this stage in his life, no matter how it might shame him. She would be gone, but he would still be here, in this house he had built for her, with his job in the city and his circle of friends. They would know that his wife had failed – her shame, not his. But how could it not be shared? How could he not be marred by her failure as she was marred by the brand? These were his last moments with the woman he had devoted six years of his life to. He had to say something, some parting words to she who had shared his bed, balanced his accounts, mothered his child.

“Get out.” The words belied the anger, the hurt and the shame in his heart. Ruenne did not argue. She gathered Kathiz up in her arms. She snatched a robe from the bed and awkwardly donned it. She was still stained and filthy from the birth beneath the cloth, but there would be time to tend to that when she was away from this house and this life. When Kathiz was safe, only then could she allow herself to grieve for all that he had cost her. She stumbled from the room, snatched a blanket and a cloak from the atrium. Wrapping the cloak around herself and the babe, she slid open the front door and unsteadily took the steps down to the gravel path in bare feet.

No one followed her to the door; no one said words of farewell. She did not expect them. Above, the larger moon was full and swollen as her belly had been; the smaller, the Brother’s Moon, was barely a sliver, nearly non-existent in the dark. She made it a few steps from the house, uncaring for the rough road beneath her feet. Kathiz was hot in her arms, small against her breast. Softly, she directed his mouth to her nipple, wincing as he started to suckle. And with her babe at her breast she began her way down the road in the dark of night, knowing not where life would take them, and fearful of what her son’s Curse would bring. There was foreboding in her heart, but it was tempered with love.

As she made her way down the path, the light from the house no longer lit her way. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to adjust to the gloom, and took a deep breath. She looked back only once.

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Astra Crompton lives in Victoria with her husband, two cats and leopard gecko. She is an artist, illustrator, graphics and game designer, hand-crafted seamstress and author. You can follow her work at: www.astracrompton.com, tarorae.deviantart.com and UlZaorith.etsy.com

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