Airel: The Awakening (Airel Saga Book One)

Chapter IX

Arabia— 1250 B.C.

 A COLD MARBLE GOD stood on a precipice in the snow-driven wind, draped in fur and leather, expectantly awaiting the time. He did not shiver; he did not move. He looked out into the distance from the stone cliff where he stood, its perpendicular face plunging down, embedding its root deep beneath the scattered rocks far below. The frozen landscape moaned in protest as the wind pushed stiffened tree branches and pulled on strands of long-dormant grass.

He inhaled the icy air and breathed out a thin ribbon of vapor that was quickly overcome and carried away. His eyes were dark but sparkling under thick eyebrows, set on a noble face that was pale, smooth, and nearly white. Even in winter’s strangled and frigid morning light, he seemed to be quite unaffected by its seasonal fury.

A feather of smoke was harried by the winds from the peak of the roof of the small hut behind him. And across the deeply wooded convolutions of the mountainside, dotted through diffused ancient stands of conifer, more huts sent up their own smudges of smoke, signifying that life was still smoldering in the little winter-locked village. The human heart, the god knew, could endure much in the company of others who shared the same plight. 

He cocked his head at the sound of the fraught cry of a woman coming from the hut behind him. He turned, walking toward the planked door with easy, self-assured strides. He ducked quickly inside and lashed the door shut with a leather thong. 

The one-room hut smelled of wood smoke and was drafty, even with the door closed. Cold air stroked the cracks with its thin fingers, invading. A low bed, layered in woolen textiles and pelts, was situated behind an iron screen at one side, the fire crackling and spitting at the screen on the stone floor beside it, contending with the cold as light battles darkness. Smoke rose upward into the low cone shape of the roof, where it was immediately taken by the hand of winter.

An uncommonly beautiful woman lay in the bed, in labor with child. She was covered with a thick blanket of mink, many layered and skillfully worked. Her face was twisted in pain, but even in her anguish she was stunning. The fire filled the room with dancing orange light.

The god pushed the hood of his cloak back from his head and knelt, placing a gentle kiss on her cheek.

His wife forced a smile.

She then arched her back and bit her lower lip as another spasm wracked her body. The contractions were getting stronger, coming closer now. The baby would soon arrive. The pain of labor would be forgotten, life would resume, and they would both be forever changed. 

Taking an iron pot of hot water from the tripod that held it over the fire, he placed it on the floor by where she lay, allowing his fur cloak to fall to the floor. He wore a thin leather overgarment, under which his woven linen shirt rested against perfect skin. The linen shirt closed over his broad chest with an interlaced tie. His skin was stretched taut over his musculature, still cold from exposure. 

Even in this light, markings could be seen on his forearms and on the side of his neck, faintly visible, winding their way over and moving with his skin. They had the appearance of being war paint, or like the tattoo skin-piercing ink work of far-off islanders. But these were more like an elaborate birthmark. They glowed in the firelight and disappeared with the shadows. 

The man took a water-soaked piece of cheesecloth that had been allowed to cool, placed it on his wife’s forehead, and smiled with concern that was only mostly hidden behind his piercing eyes. He hummed a soft melody and worked with graceful hands, tearing strips of warm linen with which to wrap the baby when she came.

She …

He had predicted to himself that the baby would be a girl. He couldn’t know for certain, being a slave to time like man. A thing deep within his heart told him, though, that the baby would indeed be a girl and that she would be special. He longed for a daughter.

His wife cried out again and looked directly into his eyes.

He knew—it was time.

He gently pulled the blanket aside, waiting. She pushed with a piercing scream. The wind answered her with a burst, shaking the hut. She was in her second day of labor and the effort and strain on her body was beginning to show; her strength was fading. He wondered how much longer she would have to endure, but he said nothing, praying that this time would finally be the last, for her sake. 

She bore down, pushing as hard as she could, so hard that she could not breathe for a moment. And then… cries. Sweet, soft cries. Their baby’s innocent voice filled the small hut as mother and father looked into each other’s eyes, smiling. The baby was so small in his arms. He gently wrapped her in warm cloths, presenting her to his exhausted wife. 

She was a girl. She was beautiful, with her mother’s black hair and the same piercing eyes as her father. She fed for the very first time, and then the little family gathered together under the warm blankets by the fire to sleep, glowing with the spark and joy of new life. 

For that one night in their little world, everything was perfect.