The Curse

Ignoring the ache in his hands, the constant barrage against his face, the incessant howling in his ears, which at any moment threatened to bite, he maintained his observance. Incanting over and over the protections that would ensure that nobody would come to harm.

Sitting at the open window, in the full force of the blizzard, he knew that he couldn’t hold out forever. He continued anyway. If nothing else, the ritual distracted him from the pain, from the fear and from the screaming of his mate as she worked in the other room to deliver their first child.

He would not give in. For her, he would not give in.

The hours were probably passing as they always did, but he could not help but feel that it had already been too long. His thoughts were drifting back to the room, where he was, as faith dictated, forbidden to enter, lest the opening of the door allow something in that would taint the birth and lead to the death of his mate or offspring. The lies religion tell you are all too often covers for the failings of its keepers.

As he intoned the rite he understood that there was nothing that could be done by him, by the midwife or the priests. It was all down to his wife and child. That was a little unfair. The midwives did have skill; crafted and sharpened by painful experience, passed on in jealously guarded secrets from mistress to apprentice, and envied by the priesthood who had little good to say about these essential servitors of the birthing mother. They never asked for anything in return for their service, yet they never wanted for anything. A strong, healthy midwife was essential to any tribe.

The cries of his mate and the encouragement of the midwife and her apprentice were becoming more urgent. He tried to put it out of his mind, tried not to think about the edge of unbearable pain in his mate’s renewed wailings, tried to ignore the monotonous intonation of the worthless priest, tried to hide his mind behind the ritual that was his to perform while others saw to the matters of real import. This was his task, his only contribution to this moment, and he was not going to fail in that task.

Finally, the wailing gave way to crying. The child’s cries mingling with those of its mother as the priest began the song of deliverance...

...and stopped.

He could just make out the whispers of the midwife and her charge as his mate’s questions became more urgent. The priest had left the room, unable to raise his head, unable to look his chieftain in the eye, unable to say the words.

“What?” he asked not turning away from the window, refusing to give the priest the satisfaction of seeing his tear-stained face. His mate’s crying had turned to more wailing, desperate wailing, pained, confused, defiant wailing. The child cried all the louder, presumably aware of its mother’s anguish.

“WHAT?” he growled, daring the priest to remain silent.

The man looked up, finally meeting the eyes of Gurgei, the chieftain of the Urdamane clan, and had the courtesy to look saddened as he said the word: “La’un.”

Cursed.

The wind drove the snow against him, trying to make him give up. Gurgei had been walking for almost an hour, north, ever north, deeper into the freezing turmoil as it clawed at his skin. Wading through the deep snow was sapping him of his strength, and the memory of his mate’s desperate pleas to keep this child, this one alone. He was chieftain. He could make an exception, an excuse, something, anything.

Of course, the priest had overruled. The will of Damarg was absolute. The La’un were hers, always, without exception. The demon would be merciless in her retribution should any exception be made.

But then the priest had said something that made too much sense, and he realised there was no choice. “The chieftain cannot show weakness in this.”

As the snow broke around his waist, Gurgei hated the priest for being right.

The only mercy was that the cold would be quick in dispatching this one. There was no demon waiting on the edge of the Shade to take away his daughter’s body. He knew that the people feared the difference of the Lu’an. So few were born and none would be tolerated. The banishment ritual, pompously named the Conscription in the Army of Damarg, was simply a way to kill these dirty children so their seed could not taint the blood of the Urdamane.

Of course, he might not survive the ritual. That would be a mercy. Then he would not have to face his mate again. He did not know if their love could survive this. He would, he knew, have the choice upon his return to cast her out, a barbaric finality that could only lead to the suicide of a grieving mother, as though somehow this cruel joke of nature was her fault. But he would not do it.

Instinctively, he pulled the child closer to his chest to protect her from the wind, a futile gesture considering that he would shortly be preparing to leave her out here in the storm, to freeze to death, for the good of the tribe, but he was still her father, and he would make sure she suffered no more than was necessary.

It had taken most of the day and night to reach the burial site. All around he saw the tall mounds of the tharok chambers which housed the bodies of previous generations’ unwanted children. He had built a cruch of ice in which to house the child while he put together the cairn in which he would place her for the last time. His heart was heavy with the task. As he tried to ignore the grief that threatened to engulf him, he realised that this was a sin he could never forget and no absolution from the priest would ever remove the scar and stain of it from his heart.

His task was not helped by the cries of the infant, weak though they were. She had only eaten once, healthily and greedily from her mother’s breast before being taken out into the wild. She would now be in starvation and dehydration. He was astounded that the child was still alive. 

Just as he finished the cairn he heard the sound of heavy breathing coming from the edge of the gravesite. It was only then he realised that in his haste to be gone, he had forgotten to bring any weapons with him. He had dressed for the weather, but not prepared to defend himself should the need arise.

Nonetheless, he turned to face whatever creature it might be. Had he been prepared it might be better not to know the cause of your death, but he could not enter heaven if he didn’t face his destiny. 

There was no need to fear. It was a caribou and already injured. He could see the trail of blood running behind her. She was bleeding out, possibly attacked by wolves. The wound wasn’t big enough for a bear. But most importantly, she had obviously given birth recently, a little late in the season, but her udder was bloated and large. If the child wasn’t with her, then he knew why the wolves had not followed. This was the sad reality of nature.

He would have to take the milk before she died. It wouldn’t last long after. She might struggle. Her fear was still palpable, despite being out of the hunt. Perhaps she understood her impending doom and feared the darkness.

As he approached, her eyes rolled. She tried to kick out, tried to drive him away, but she didn’t have the strength. Blood loss was taking her. He took off his helmet and held it under one of the teats, draining out as much as he could. A short time later she died.

He said a brief prayer of thanks and brought the milk into the cruch to his child. It wasn’t easy to get her to drink, but the milk still had some warmth from the caribou in it, and eventually, he was able to get some into her.

She finished, she regurgitated, and a short while later she rested. He sat for a moment looking at her, then shook himself out of it and went to get back to work, but it was too late. His conscience was mocking him, reminding him of the hateful task he was completing to please gods he didn’t even believe in.

No! This was for the good of the tribe, and what about non-belief? Had he not just prayed thanks to the mother of nature moments before?

A reflexive outpouring in thanks for deliverance. This child didn’t have to die. This child had a destiny that should be honoured, like any other child in the world. This child could be perfect, beyond perfect, if he allowed it.

He wanted to listen to the voices, but he knew that this would cost him too much. Tradition existed to protect us from chaos. Without it we would be animals, chasing whim and selfish regard with no care or recourse to the others around us who shared our path. Our world would become a string of insubstantial islands of introspection and self-interest, contributing nothing to a better world, isolated families, afraid of their neighbours whom they don’t even know. No, sometimes it was right to make the greater sacrifice for the good of the whole.

Laying her tiny body in through the door of the cairn, he hated himself. Every muscle ached from every action, as his instinct told him that what he was doing was wrong. Again, he justified this to himself, saying it was only wrong on the personal level. That for his people, it was the right thing to do.

Stepping back from the small column of rock, with a small dome above where his child now lay, he said the final prayer, the Call to Damarg, prostrating himself before the mound, beseeching the Commander of the Cursed to come and take up his child to fight by her side. The ritual kept him focused, attending only to the details of the work, not its consequences.

He moved to the side of the burial ground, destroying the cruch, as was required and prepared to set off, trying to block out the cries of his child. He must now face his people. They would not ask. He would not tell. The village entire would carry on as though his mate had never been pregnant. They would fuss over her next pregnancy as though it were her first, and she would be a mother again. He would never cast his beloved out, he thought, as he started the trek back in the snow. He loved her too much.

And that was when the enormity of this truly hit him. His child. His beautiful, precious daughter was lying in a cairn, a cairn built for the living, in an ancient burial ground, surrounded by the bones of others who had been tossed aside for a difference as simple as the colour of her hair, but he could not go back for her. Heaving in deep breaths, trying desperately not to sob, he fell to his knees, feeling the thundering of his heart in his chest. How could he leave her? How could he even consider putting her mother through this? How could...

The crack, like a great whip, filled the air for a brief moment, its echo disappearing into the snowfall, and he stopped. He was standing on the lake. This could be it. He could be free of his pain and guilt. He would never have to face the pain he would carry, the pain of his mate. He could simply take another step, and another, and another…