A Vision of Light (41 page)

“No goods, no
goods
? Why, there’s my apparatus—and very precious it is—it would take
years
to duplicate!”

“But no one wants it—and if they took it, what use could they have for it, since no one but you knows what to do with it?”

“An enemy might want to steal my secrets,” grumbled Brother Malachi. “But think of this too.” He brightened up. “Soon enough the house will be piled with gold and silver. What a temptation! And then Margaret, with her bad habits, will leave open a window”—he imitated the sinister creep of a thief rounding a corner and groping in the dark for money—“And then he’ll—creep—and CUT OUR THROATS!” Brother Malachi leapt up dramatically, his hands forming claws, and his eyes rolling like a lunatic’s.

“Oh!” I was startled and jumped back. “Brother Malachi, you should be back with Maistre Robert, you’re too dramatic for me!”

“My drama makes a point, dear child. You should be more careful. This is not the most fashionable of neighborhoods.”

“But suppose we smother before our throats are cut? What then? You’ll never get the Secret. And think, too, that the smell alone ought to frighten away any without business here.”

“Hmm. A thought, a thought. I’ll take it under consideration.”

And that is how I was sitting inside the open door doing the mending, trying at the same time to stay warm by the fire and breathe crisp autumn air, something not really possible under the circumstances. Brother Malachi’s clothes in particular were always in need of attention, for they got holes burned in them by flying sparks, which he had not the wit to notice when he was deep in one of his experiments. When I saw the butcher’s boy I put down my mending.

“What’s wrong, can I help?” I asked.

The butcher’s boy tried hard to catch his breath so that he could speak. I knew him; he was one of my friends from the winter skating.

“Is the midwife inside, Margaret? I’ve—I’ve run all the way. My mistress is overcome with pains. Her time came last night, and she is very bad.”

“Mother Hilde is gone, but I’ll come. Let me get my basket.”

“You? You’re a midwife too? You’re not old enough. Mistress wants the old one who came for her last child.”

“She’s been gone all night, sitting with a woman in labor—but I’ll come. I’m very nearly as good.”

“Oh, I hope she won’t be angry. It would all go well, she said, for she has had eight children already, and buried four, so what worry for another? My master did not want to pay the fee to have someone sit the night. ‘Have your cousin sit,’ he said, ‘and just get someone to cut the cord. That’s women’s work.’ But now it’s all gone wrong. You must hurry, hurry!”

I did hurry, hurry, for the distance to the Shambles was long from where we lived. It had rained the night before, and many of the streets, which were not paved, were deep in mud, which slowed our going.

“Just think how fast we could go if it were frozen, and we had your skates,” I said, as I stumbled along in my wooden pattens. He looked ruefully at his shoes, which were soaked through. He was muddy to the knees.

“I’ll probably get a bawling out for ruining my shoes. Master says I’m the most destructive imp that ever lived.”

“Maybe this time he’ll thank you for your speed and forget about the shoes.”

When we rounded the corner onto the broad street where the butcher had his house, a blast of cold air made us wrap our cloaks tighter.

“Are you sure, really sure, you know enough?”

“I know all my mistress’s secrets,” I told him. And, I thought, what I lack in knowledge I make up for with the Gift. Of course I can save her.

“Why, then, you’re an apprentice, like me!”

“Not really, but in a way. You might put it that way.”

“Merciful Jesus, we’re too late!” The boy slackened his pace. His jaw trembled, for the priest was entering the house by the ground-floor shop, a boy with a candle preceding him. When the apprentice boy showed me upstairs to the bedroom, the father shook his fist at us.

“You’re too late, damn you!” he hissed.

“Quiet!” the priest warned, for he was giving extreme unction to the barely breathing woman. At the head of the bed a woman sat wringing her hands and weeping. Four little girls, in a state of disarray, huddled at the foot of the bed. The father stood by, head now bowed, in his leather apron, his great knife at his waist. He had been hard at work until things had gone bad.

“But, Father, my son—” The woman had stopped breathing.

“It is the will of God. If you require a son, marry again.” The priest’s voice was cold.

“I’ll not give up so easily!” His voice roared, and his eyes looked utterly mad. Sweat poured from his forehead. “Stand aside, you, I know what I’m doing!” He shoved the priest away and kicked aside the little girls. With a harsh gesture he flung back the dead woman’s skirts, which had been laid decently about her for her farewell from earth. His sharp knife glittered above the huge, glistening white belly.

“No, papa, no!” a frantic little voice cried. The apprentice boy shrank into a corner. With a single slash the butcher opened the belly as if gutting a hog. Blood spurted wildly, splattering his apron and sending drops onto the other occupants of the room. But, oh, God, what unspeakable horror! As the knife ripped through the flesh, the dead woman’s limbs gave a ghastly start, and one eye seemed to open and roll hideously at me. She had not yet been completely dead!

“A boy! A boy, by God! Thus was born Julius Caesar!” He had scooped the limp, blue child from the open womb, and held it high in bloody triumph, the cord hanging from it, still connecting it to the dead woman.

“Give it here, give it to me!” I cried, startled into action. With a finger I cleaned from its mouth the foul dark stuff that signifies a bad birth and began to breathe gently into its mouth. The chest rose and fell with my breath, but the body remained blue. The birth had been too hard; I knew it was not living. The priest, who had come near, looked on with interest.

“Keep breathing,” he said. “I see the chest moving; don’t stop now.” And taking his little vial of holy water, he sprinkled the creature three times.

“Child of God, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

I looked up at him. He was crouching over me, where I knelt on the floor by the bed, the child in my arms. His face was expressionless.

“I’ll not lose a soul entrusted to
my
care,” he said, with an air of absolute calm.

“He lives, he lives!” cried the butcher.

“No, my son, he has died,” responded the priest.

Looking at the bloody child in my arms, I could see the reason. The head was much too big. It was, indeed, nearly twice the size of a proper head, and the front of it, the forehead, was swollen as if it had two square corners, or knobs, above the eyebrows. No mortal woman could give birth to that head. Silently I cut the cord and wrapped the child, and then put it in the dead woman’s arms, averting my eyes from the gruesome sight of her butchered belly. The priest was staying for his fee, I supposed. Besides, there was a double funeral to arrange. I left quietly, without speaking. The apprentice boy followed me, his face a mask of grief.

“She was good to me,” he said. “Did you know that she was good to me?”

“Could you show me the way home?” I asked. “I don’t think I know all the turnings.” Silently he took my hand to lead me back.

It was midafternoon when we returned. Brother Malachi’s mending lay right where I had left it, but I heard two merry voices rejoicing in the Room of Stinks.

“Margaret, is that you? Are you quite done? We’re all in need of supper.” Brother Malachi’s voice sounded cheerful.

“I’m done, all right.” I answered.

He caught my dejected tone and asked, “It didn’t go well? Well, don’t worry, we’re all rich, and we’ll sup splendidly tonight.”

“I suppose you’ve finally found the Secret?”

“No, no, not quite as good as that.” Mother Hilde bustled into the room. “The woman I was attending had twins! A boy and a girl, both with black hair. They cried lustily. The husband danced for very joy! ‘Twins!’ he cried, ‘I’ll give you a bonus!’ ‘But mind you,’ said I, ‘get this woman a wet-nurse to assist her if she weakens, for these are fat, lusty babies that will need a lot of feeding!’ And so I have double fee, and that made greater by my sitting up with her all night.
And
he paid in cash! No vegetables, Margaret; no old clothes! We’re certainly doing splendidly here in London!”

My face was still long. Hilde suddenly looked curious and concerned.

“Why, Margaret, what’s wrong? You’re very glum. And there’s blood on your clothes. Who’s this little boy? He’s glum too! What has happened?”

“This is Richard, the butcher’s apprentice, who has brought me home. Oh, Mother Hilde, the butcher’s wife died. The head, the baby’s head was too big.”

“But the blood, my dear. More than that has happened.”

“That’s true. He cut open her belly to save the child. Like Julius Caesar, he said.”

“Hmm. Interesting. Did the child live?”

“No, Mother Hilde. I think it was already dead, although the priest did not, and baptized it.”

“So it goes, so it goes. But it wasn’t such a bad idea, that, if it had worked.”

I was shocked. The boy burst into new tears. Mother Hilde looked at him, her head tilted on one side, like a curious squirrel. Her eyes glittered beneath her white kerchief. Then, impulsively, she grabbed him up and, embracing him, put his head on her ample, gray-clad bosom.

“Little boy, when soldiers go into the field, do they risk their lives?”

“Y-yes,” he blubbered.

“For what do they fight, and risk their lives?” she asked gently.

“F-for God, f-for king, and country.”

“Do you know that we women are soldiers?” He looked at her quizzically. “We risk our lives too,” went on Mother Hilde. “Every day we risk them. Only we fight for God, for life, and for the human race. Isn’t that important?”

The little boy looked at her. What an odd thought!

“We midwives are like generals. We campaign constantly. Here”—she tapped on my basket—“are our mangonels and siege engines. Women are the knights: they fight fiercely to bring life, and sometimes die on the field. Can you see? The fight for life is higher than the fight for death, and your good mistress sups this night in heaven. There she is honored even above those who dealt in death while they lived. The angels sing for her. Fairest Jesus greets her. The Holy Virgin has dried her eyes—and you must dry yours.” She wiped his eyes on the hem of her sleeve, and he made a choking sound.

“And a cough too. Do you know I have a fine cure for coughs? You’d like it—it’s not nasty at all. I make it with horehound and with honey. I form it into little balls. Come with me.” He followed her silently. I knew she was taking a jar from her shelf of remedies, and I heard her counting as she put the sweets into his hand, folding the fingers over them. He followed her silently back into the front room, his hand folded carefully, as if something very unusual were contained in it.

“And now, I must ask you for a favor. We are all much occupied here. Sim’s foolishly out playing, and Peter is too simple to be trusted with something important. I need you to accompany Margaret to that nice little bakeshop in Cheapside—the one that stays open late—Margaret, bring us a meat pie, and whatever good things you can get for this—and then you’ll stay for supper. Won’t you? And whenever you feel coughing, take my remedy.”

“She’s a nice old lady, isn’t she?” he asked me as we threaded our way through the crooked alleys to the bakeshop.

“Very nice. Do you know, she even saved my life?”

“From babies?”

“No, from plague.”

He shuddered. “No one’s saved from that.”

“Not many, but I am one. She’s very clever.”

“Well, no wonder you want to be her apprentice. You’ll be wise, too, someday.”

“I suppose so. But it takes a long time. Longer than I thought.” The butcher’s boy put one of Mother Hilde’s sweets in his mouth and thought about that for a while.

I’ve always liked the bakeshops of London. There’s nothing like them in the country. It is a treat to come home with money in one’s pocket, and buy a meal ready-made. Sometimes people have unexpected guests, and so they can hurry out and get something splendid on short notice. There are several expensive bakeshops on Thames Street that stay open all day and all night as well, for the convenience of their customers. And, too, if you live in a little room and can’t cook much, you don’t have to go without good things. Some people just live at taverns and bakeshops, when they find their homes inadequate. City life is different, that way.

The bakeshop we went to had lately become a favorite of Mother Hilde’s since she had delivered a child for the proprietor’s wife, and always got a good price there. We pushed open the heavy door on the street; the air inside was warm and close and smelled of onions, spices, and meats cooking. The cooking fires provided more illumination than the tallow candles set on the smoke-darkened walls. We could see joints and birds crackling in rows on long spits. There was even a half a sheep being turned languidly above a great fire. There was a pig’s head being roasted, its eyes sunken in. Somehow I didn’t like the eyes. The sheep, too, it had an eye. A horrid eye, like the eye of the dead woman that had rolled at me in the morning. A nasty, cooked eye. Suddenly I knew I would not be able to eat any of the baked meats that were there. I felt as if all those eyes—geese, pigs, capons, swans, sheep—were looking at me and rolling balefully. Mother Hilde’s friend came out and greeted us, a fine, red-faced woman in a kerchief and great, grease-spattered apron. She showed us the very best of the meat pies, and so I bought it, but my stomach felt weak. So I got a green cheese, fresh made, and some other nice things of a more vegetable nature. I could see my little companion’s spirits rising. It’s good, I thought, he’ll be even better when he’s fed.