Luminous

77 - Bad Hair Day

"Whatever happens, I'll protect you."

His tender smile lingered, although he wasn't here. His words warmed her heart as they did that day, but now that the novelty had subsided, Meya decided she must hate it.

Old-Meya wouldn't hesitate to protect herself. To save her life like she did in that forest, on that moor.

What have I become? What have you turned me into, Coris? A woman?

Meya's hands trembled. She set down the chamberpot in case she might drop it. After her talk with Philema, she'd wedged a mound of churned earth, horse manure and hay in the nook between three boulders, planted wheat and barley she'd nicked from the supplies wagon, then fed them daily with water from her chamberpot.

Five days later, two clumps of stringy white stalks had poked through the hay, each sprout tapering into two thin, green blades like moldy rabbit ears. The clump on the left was wheat, and the right was barley. Either Meya was expecting a boy and a girl or a babe who was two in one. Meya had no idea how that would play out in reality.

Straddling the chamberpot between her legs, Meya sank to her haunches with a sigh, tugged down her underpants, and answered nature's call. Coris had ordered a water ration, but all the retching and nips to the bushes made Meya constantly thirsty, and she'd been getting the evil eye from members of the entourage.

There was no denying it—she was pregnant. And neither could she deny the unbidden leap in her heart at the sight of those little sprouts, at the thought of carrying the essence of the man she loved inside her, nurturing it to life.

Still, the horror of giving birth, the bleak reality of raising children, the shame of mothering a nobleman's bastard aside, wouldn't that make her one of the countless women she'd scorned?

If Meya gave birth to this thing then settled down to raise it, how was she different from the scores of mediocre women across the three lands whose ultimate dream was to bear children? Like Madam Krulstaff and Madam Gretgorn? Like—Meya shuddered—Mum? She'd turn into the very thing she swore never to become at the age of three.

Oh, Freda. What would Old-Meya think? Would she be able to face her? The damage was done—Old-Meya wouldn't have batted an eyelid when the time came to choose. New-Meya had probably batted dozens in the time it took to empty her bladder.

Should she listen to Old-Meya, though? Old-Meya was bitter, lonely, stuck in a rut. Friendless and loveless. She was New-Meya now. She wanted to make a difference in these three lands, but even New-Meya couldn't do that with a dead weight hanging down her front, nor a squealing, kicking one in her arms.

The choice of ending it also came with its brand of dilemma. The babe had no soul yet, let alone a heartbeat. Still, it was a joint creation of Meya and Coris. Meya couldn't shake the guilt, the fear of possibly coming to regret it someday, knowing there was no return. Not to mention the procedure itself was grisly to picture. Would it be simple, like drinking laxative tea? Or would the healer reach inside her guts with red-hot blacksmith tongs to scrape out the thing?

Meya sensed an oncoming wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the picky-eating squatter in her belly, so she shook the idea out of her head. She emptied her chamberpot over the mound of sprouts as a farewell gift, then trudged back to camp.

It was the fourth morning after the horses' sickness came to light, and the steeds were finally back on their feet. Under Coris's leadership, the entourage thrived on water ferried from the qanats and bread traded with occasional wagons passing by, carrying rapists convicted in Jaise, headed for Hyacinth's man-brothels.