“T-than- Aah!!!” she began, but a scream of pain tore from her mouth instead. 

A hot stream burst and coursed down her legs. Her water broke-Rukhel realized. 

A new terror seized her- unlogical, for childbirth is not the realm of logic for a mother. Yet she feared she might die, as many before her, in the strange act of issuing another life. 

The pain shocked her. The same cries and screams she heard from other women now she cried and screamed. It pounded and tore through her, she thought she might break apart like a clay jar on the stone floor. 

Her legs buckled, slipping on her broken water upon the stone slab the god set her upon. She slipped and fell flat on her side. 

“Hel-help m-me!” she wailed, a stutter of sobs choked her. The fury growing, the pain dug into her. 

Fever rose in her, and the strain of pain flushed her and a sheen of sweat came over her grimacing face. She turned to her god- Please help me!

With his power, the god could deliver her child with simply a breath of his word. But in wisdom, he knew it would bode unwell. The child was not a god, nor the child of a god, and to birth Rukhel’s child would be a trespass. 

He looked to his people. They feared approaching Rukhel because of him. Had they forgotten him so long that they feared him? Or his reproach? Their fear-born stillness angered him. No one moved or called out. His anger grew like water brought to boil. 

“Will no one come forth to aid your sister? Do you fear birthing your queen’s child?” the old god upbraided the people, a show of his teeth emerged from the furious snarl that twisted his divine features.  

A rain erupted from the skies. It fell as a light spray. The god stretched out one wing, shielding Rukhel under the canopy of his wing’s bend. Rukhel was grateful for the shelter and the amber glow underneath. 

“Rukhel! Rukhel! Wait!” called out a woman’s voice. Rukhel blinked. She heard her friend Chanak. 

Being the village’s seamstress, Chana knew Rukhel well. Friends since childhood, Rukhel lived with Chana and Chana’s mother when Rukhel lost her own mother and sister. Chana also served as the village’s midwife, for few took the courage of taking on the art. 

Chana feared approaching the old god, for she spoke meanly of him, demeaning him as a “tired old tale in books” as she scolded Rukhel before when her friend declared on finding their god. 

But her regard for her old (and only true) friend overrode her fear, and Chana sprinted to Rukhel’s side. 

No time for preparation, Chana only brought a clean apron-cloth and a full wineskin for her friend. 

In her burning shame, Chana averted her eyes with the god, and ducked under the cover of his wing.

She focused on her friend, equally terrified of the birth happening now. 

“Rukhel- you were not due for two months’ yet! This child isn’t ready!” Chana gasped. 

Uncorking the wineskin, Chana lifted Rukhel’s head and tilted the wineskin’s mouth to Rukhel’s lips, giving the mother a much-needed drink. 

“Gods! Did you really climb the mountain, Rukhel? How?” Chana asked, stunned as she looked over her friend’s bruises and scrapes. 

“I had to- look at what’s happened.” Rukhel managed to gasp out between the pangs.

“You might have died- along with the baby! Oh, Rukhel!” Chana brushed back the wet strands of hair clinging to Rukhel’s cheek and forehead, sleek with sweat and rain. Quickly, Chana drew Rukhel close to her, holding the expectant mother, readying for the birth.

“You strained yourself too much- you strained yourself so hard, it’s made the baby birth, far before its time!” Chana cried. She waited for the moment. She cradled Rukhel’s legs, parting the way open of her tatters that served as a thin skirt. 

“Please help me, Chanek-” Rukhel called her friend by her nickname, wrenching her friend’s hand in her own. Chana felt her hand wrenched in Rukhel’s grip- a sign of her friend’s agony.

“My baby has to live! I promised him! I promised him right on the mountain! Our god told me I’m having a son! He has to live! Help me, Chanek!” sobbed Rukhel in shaking gasps. 

Chana held one hand over the peak of Rukhel’s stirring belly- the other, she held under to catch the baby. 

In all her births, Chana had not lost a mother yet. Babies, however, life was a harder battle to win. She lost a few. 

“That is a promise between you and your son- if your child is indeed a son, Rukhel-” here, Chana spoke firmly in her consolation, not wanting Rukhel to succumb to panic or give up from the pain. “But I promise you, Rukhel- you will live! Now keep your promise to your child and push!”

“I am!” shrieked Rukhel, her back arched in the pain, as the contracts grew closer.

“Push! Push!” urged Chana, now holding both hands under, clean apron-cloth laid over to catch the emerging peak of the babe’s head. 

Another moment passed of screams and exhortations. 

Finally, the baby’s crown emerged. Chana eased the head from the parting, while Rukhel pushed as her body command her. 

The baby slid out, a weak, raspy cry was his first greeting to life. 

Quickly, Chana wiped the baby clean with the cloth. She realized she had no swaddling cloth to wrap the tiny babe in. Her clothes were smeared with Rukhel’s water, and Rukhel’s rags were hardly fitting to wrap a new, tender babe in. 

“Wrap him in the shawl,” the old god ordered. 

Chana still did not dare look upon the god, but obeyed, taking the shawl from Rukhel’s shoulders. With a careful and practiced hand, Chana swaddled the baby snugly. Chana marveled at the shawl itself- its light and feel were like sunlight woven. 

As she did with all births, she placed the swaddled baby- a boy, as the god predicted-, right on top of Rukhel’s chest. 

Rukhel smiled through her tears. Her pain lifted, and joy engrossed her. 

Exhaustion ached every muscle, every bone in her body, but Rukhel kept her eyes open long enough to look upon her son’s tiny face. It was reddish-pink and scrunched with a cry written on his face. But it brought her joy.  Rukhel cupped her hands over her child as he settled on her chest. 

“He’s alive-and so are you. It looks like we both kept our promises.” Chana breathed in relief. She held Rukhel in her arms and lap as a prop against the hard stone slab. 

“Rukhel- he’s so tiny. He was born far too early. He will have to fight to live and grow- he is so weak, poor thing.” warned Chana, trying to console and advise her friend. 

But Rukhel took one last peek at her son before exhaustion dragged her to sleep. 

She saw many babes before, too. She knew he was too small for his size. Yet Rukhel knew the god’s forecast.

“He’s small, yes. But he has fight. He told me to fight and live as I climbed the mountain. When I wanted to give up, he urged me on. I shall do the same for him.” Rukhel now whispered to her son, “Grow, my son- each day, grow stronger, just as we all are now. Keep fighting- you have a fire in you, my son.” 

“He shall need a name, Rukhel,” mentioned the old god, his voice rumbling softly like the trailing thunder in the distance. 

Chana trembled, being so close to his voice. She hid further into his wing. But Rukhel chuckled softly. 

“Yes, a name. What name?” Rukhel wondered aloud.