It ended, as all birthings do, with a cry. But not the lively cry of a newborn greeting the world for the first time. No, it was the voice-ruining scream of the mother. A cry so full of misery that it brought tears to eight-year-old Renalia’s eyes.

Mama lay in the center of the straw bed, where Renalia usually slept, nestled between her parents. But Mama had no time for sharing warmth with her right now. Papa rushed to Mama’s side, leaving his discussion with the midwife. His sudden stop caused straw to sprawl all over the dirt floor of the hut.

He said something to Mama, but Renalia could only hear Mama’s heartrending screams. Mama squirmed, clutching her distended belly.

To her guilty relief, Renalia's tears blurred her vision. She normally loved tracing her mother’s laugh lines, but the distorted face now made her fingers tremble. She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking it out.

But Mama’s primal howl resonated with her heart. It triggered their horrible duet of wailing. She wanted to stop. She wanted Mama to stop. But she didn’t know how.

“Hang in there, Eiry,” Papa said as he extracted his hand from Mama’s unfettered grasp. “I’m going to get the Healer.”

He patted Renalia’s head while passing her by. “Renya, be a good girl and listen to Myfanwy.”

Myfanwy nodded. “Hurry.”

He rushed out the door, his haste causing a few embers from the central fire pit to dance briefly in the air before dying out.

“Renalia,” Myfanwy said, “we need more water to boil.” The midwife approached and cradled Mama’s hand, giving encouragement. “Eireanne, you can do this, you’ve done this before. God gave you the strength to get through this.”

“Fanny,” Mama gasped between breaths, “save the baby.”

“I know, we’ll try.”

Myfanwy turned, wiping her glistening eyes out of Mama’s sight. “Renalia, go!”

The sharp tone interrupted her blubbering. She latched onto the order. Yes, something she could do. Wiping her eyes, she grabbed the water bucket and fled the hut. Her refuge had turned into a battlefield of agony and heartache. She was a little girl, unready to join this war.

Renalia regained her senses at the brook, in the unexpected stillness of the night. The echoes of screams faded, replaced with more familiar sounds: frogs croaking, grasshoppers chirping, and mosquitoes buzzing. Life continued, undisturbed by the events within one home.

It’s nice here, she thought. Peaceful.

If she could just stay here for a bit… But Myfanwy had told her to fetch water, and the midwife knew what Mama needed. She had to go back, no matter how much it pained her to see Mama suffer.

Renalia prayed as the bucket filled up. While always pious, she now prayed with a fervor unbeknownst to her. “God, please save Mama! I'm not ready to let her go.”

She wiped her tears away. “She doesn't deserve it! She’s-she's a good person. Please, I need her!”

Renalia knew she rambled, but she compensated for it with conviction. “Please! I’ll do anything!”

She struggled trying to lift the bucket. “Please, God,” Renalia cried. It dragged against the mud. “Please. Anything.” The mud held firm, uncaring.

“Oh ho. What this? What a girl doing?” A misshapen shadow fell over Renalia. Even backlit with moonlight, the many wrinkles on the woman’s face were apparent. The speaker stood, bent over with age, with satchels piled high on her hunchback.

Renalia had never seen the old woman before, not in the village or among the Manor staff. Not even as part of the few merchant wagons that came to the village. An unfamiliar outsider. Anything, thought Renalia. “Please, help me. Help Mama. She needs water.”

“Ho. Granny helping bucket girl.” Side by side, they lifted the bucket between them. To Renalia’s relief, it was much easier to handle. They marched well together, Renalia’s quick, short steps keeping pace with Granny’s jerky, longer ones.

“Hum. Helping Mama?”

“The baby. The baby’s not right. Mama’s in pain.”

“Hm. Bad.” This simple summary of the situation acknowledged Renalia’s fear, which threatened to cause a flood of tears. But she forced it back. Even though the path back was familiar, she refused to risk it by crying. She had to make it back with the water.

The smell hit her as they approached the hut. A coppery tang, sharp and distinct. Crouched between Mama’s legs, Myfanwy turned her head towards them. “Good, you’re back. Wash these and boil them for a minute.” The midwife held out the red-soaked towels to Renalia.

There was blood. So much blood.

Renalia gasped and dropped the bucket. Luckily, Granny let go at the same moment so the bucket did not tip over. The emotional dam that Renalia had built up with each step home shattered. Her vision clouded up again, but she took a few steps into the hut and grabbed the towels with shaking hands.

Anything, she told herself.

“Bad,” Granny said, as she surveyed the situation. Myfanwy shifted, inviting the unexpected visitor to Mama’s side. Granny checked Mama’s heartbeat with one hand and patted her belly with the other. With a weary shake of her head, she concluded, “Outing baby.”

“The father will be back soon with a Healer. Then we can–”

“No. Outing baby. Now.” She reached backward, opening one of the pouches sewn into the knapsack on her back.

“That’s…” Myfanwy recognized the herbs in the old woman’s pouch. “Dangerous.”

“Yes.” Granny gently placed her hand back on Mama’s spasming belly. “Now.”

Myfanwy glanced at the old woman, then faced Mama, clenching her fists.

“No, I can wait!” Mama cried, as she read the look on her friend’s face. She lifted a hand to push them away, but did not even have the strength to reach them.

Renalia did not know what was going on, but she trusted the two older women to help her mother. She focused on her tasks at the washbasin. Soak the towels, wring the towels, and dump the water. Repeat. She concentrated on the actions, not on the color of the towels or how fast they dirtied the water.

“Good job, Renalia,” Myfanwy said, as she scooped some of the boiling water into a mug. “Now boil the towels for a minute.”

Myfanwy held the mug out to Granny, who took it and placed a handful of herbs into the hot water. Myfanwy opened one of her own pouches. “Numbingweed powder,” she said in response to Granny’s raised eyebrow.

“Good.” Granny nodded.

Myfanwy knelt next to Mama and moved Mama’s sweat-soaked, red curls back. She held Mama’s face and touched foreheads with her, whispering softly all the while. She then kissed Mama’s forehead and turned around. Granny handed her the mug.

“Renalia, honey, why don’t you go fetch some more water?”

“Ho. Little water,” Granny added. “I no helping lifting.”

“Okay.” Renalia fished out the boiling towels with a long wooden spoon and grabbed the bucket again. She glimpsed Mama sipping from the mug as she turned and went out of the hut. She had never seen anyone so heartbroken before. And it pained her to see it on her Mama.

***

In the far future, Renalia would write this in her memoirs:

That night, I learned of the beauty and horror of motherhood. I learned how it bonded women, transcending cultures and bridging generations. I learned how it coerced and scarred women, breaking them physically and emotionally.

Life and death, death and life: two sides of the same coin called birth. Unremarkable, for how commonplace it was. And absurd, for how it caused either incredible joy or devastating anguish based on a flip.

God chose a biased coin for my mother. That night, her eighth miscarriage, changed the course of my life forever.

DataNerdX

As a first-time writer, I’m learning as I go. I’m going to use the footnote sections to reflect on my writing journey and ask for feedback. Feel free to skip if you are only interested in Renalia’s journey to adulthood.

I have not stopped thinking about one perplexing question, even after uploading: how to write correctly from a third person limited POV filtered through a child’s perspective. In earlier drafts, I found myself head-hopping into Myfanwy’s thoughts a lot because there is so much Renalia could not know.

In one case, I demonstrated Myfanwy’s thoughts about Mama through dialogue and actions. She referenced their shared history and showed her love through her tenderness. That was a win for both “head-hopping” and “show, don’t tell”. I felt a lot of pride for that.

But I still do not know the best way to fix Myfanwy’s thoughts about Granny. How could Renalia see that Myfanwy could read Granny’s confident gaze and posture, understanding instantly that the latter had gone through difficult births before? Or that in medieval times, with widespread illiteracy and no formal education system, a lot of knowledge is passed on verbally, from the old to the young? And with a life expectancy of just around thirty-five, old people have had the chance to accumulate more knowledge than most. Or that with high birth mortality, women were the traumatized foot soldiers on the front lines, ill-equipped for battle?

And the most difficult one: how do I convey that Myfanwy would have already reached the same conclusion as Granny if the patient was not Mama? That she let Mama’s desire and her love for Mama cloud her judgment?

I loathed to use the same solution. The scene focused on Mama’s pain, with other characters reacting to it. It made no sense for Myfanwy and Granny to have an isolated discussion about midwifery and historical context. And I didn’t want to pull back and use third person omniscient and lose the urgency of the scene.

I guess I could have established a lot of the historical background before the birth scene. But I wanted to drop the readers head first into the harsh reality of the world instead of doing exposition.

In the end, I employed the gimmick of future Renalia offering her perspective. Even though it doesn’t hit all the ideas, I think it kinda works. It also was a way to mention the history of miscarriages, something young Renalia would not know and which I cannot see happening in conversation between characters. It’s very much “tell, not show” but I liked that it allowed me to stay in third person limited instead of omniscient.

Anyways, how did y’all like the chapter? Did it work to establish the characters and setting? Was it interesting? Should I have done something different? Is the idea of using a memoir at the end cringey and weak?

P.S. I also worked a lot on the tone of the story but it was easy to tell when to stop. That moment happened when I was at a cafe during an edit session, surreptitiously wiping my eyes, pretending I’m not full blown moved to tears.