21

The months went by, and Michael and Ruth flourished in their new home. They were happy. Ruth’s visits with her mother, always over the stile, were less frequent. Her mother didn’t come to see her. And in all that time, Ruth had no conversations with her father. She saw him a couple times leaving the house, almost fleeing so that he wouldn’t have to speak to her. It saddened Ruth.

But her love for Michael prevailed. Then, twelve months after they were wed, she discovered she was with child, and she made even fewer walks up over the ridge. The child in her womb grew heavier, and Ruth didn’t walk the trail leading to her parents’ place anymore.

December month was ushered in by snow and bitterly cold winds that kept blowing. It piled the snow in relentless drifts. Wearing snowshoes, made by the old priest, who liked working with wood when he wasn’t reading or preparing litanies, Michael went looking for a Christmas tree.

It was Tibb’s Eve, two days before Christmas. Ruth was firm. She wanted the tree—a well-proportioned balsam fir—carried into the house on Christmas Eve night and not before. It was her family’s tradition, and Michael agreed. But the forest had collected so much snow, making travel difficult, so he decided to cut the tree in advance. Even wearing snowshoes, snow was half a leg high and made for hard going. It took a while, but he found a tree to his liking—he hoped it would be to Ruth’s—in a wooded drung a half-hour’s walk away. With his sharp axe, he cut it down.

Ruth was right, Michael was thinking when he had settled their tree comfortably across his shoulders. They carried a wonderful scent. The thick branches all but hid his view, but with his head down, he following the tracks he had made entering the woods. He was thinking of myrrh, the third Gift of the Magi, and the significance of the birth of the Christ, when he thought he heard someone calling his name.

Stopping and looking all around the forest, he listened but heard nothing. A raven had cawed, he thought. He resumed his walk. But there was no mistaking the sound of his name the next time he heard it. It was a man’s voice, and it was coming from the trail he was heading down. It sounded urgent. Michael shouted back.

Even before he met up with the caller, Michael knew he was being summoned for Ruth. He cast the tree from his back and made long strides out the trail. Rounding a bend, he saw the man running toward him. He wasn’t wearing snowshoes and frequently foundered as he broke through the tracks he was following. He was making slow going. Michael was soon at his side. He recognized him as a close friend who lived next door. The fellow had stood as best man at their wedding. His name was Louis. Michael had known Louis lifelong and had never seen him excited, but Louis was excited now.

“Ruth is in a bad way, Mike b’y. Her water is after lettin’ go. She’s screaming in pain and callin’ yer name. I run fer the midwife before I come runnin’ fer you, though. I t’ought ’twas best, Mike.”

“You did the right thing, Louis.”

Michael rounded his friend and went running down the narrow trail, his snowshoes clattering. Snow dislodged from laden tree branches as he brushed past them, until all Louis could see of his best friend was a ghost-like form, without feet, running frantically out the wintry path.

The midwife was well-known to Michael and, with Ruth’s pending birth, was recently made known to Ruth as well. She was a tall woman of middle age and good proportion. The woman had brownish hair tied in a bun at the back of her long neck. Her lips were thin, and she had a stern face. But her eyes showed compassion, her voice was gentle, and despite her severe looks, she was a good woman. Her name was Katherine. Everybody in the Place called her Aunt Kitty.

When Michael walked into the room where Ruth lay writhing on the bed, Aunt Kitty was holding Ruth’s hand, all sternness gone from her face. She appeared worried. Ruth’s face, racked in pain, brightened when she saw him, and she reached her hand out for him. Michael hurried to the opposite side of the bed. Clasping her hands in his, he kissed her fingers. They felt hot to his lips.

“Did you bring our tree, Michael?”

“Yes, my heart! I have brought out of the woods the best tree you have ever seen.”

“I can smell its Christmas fragrance on your hands,” Ruth said. Smiling up at Michael, she drew his fingers to her nose and inhaled deeply. Her eyes were filling when she said, “I didn’t tell you, Michael, but I have not felt my baby move for two days and a night. She feels as dead as a killick in my womb.” Ruth had been sure she would have a baby girl. She burst into tears.

Months ago, when she had asked Michael if he wanted a boy or girl, Ruth was surprised when he had answered, without hesitation, that he wanted a girl. They had even discussed a name for a girl child. Michael wanted her called Leah, and Ruth was agreeable. “Leah, who had tender eyes, was the daughter of Laban,” Michael had whispered his endearment. “The mother of the twelve tribes of Israel. Our daughter will look just like you, my heart, and your beauty will go on.”

Aunt Kitty, who had heard Ruth’s lament, said quietly to her, “Not to worry, my love. Some come leaping and some come sleeping.” She dabbed her fingers on her lips and made the sign of the Cross over Ruth’s belly.

These were the shortest days of the year, and Michael fitted the lamps as Tibb’s Eve lost its light. The lamp with the short chimney alight in his hand and pushing shadows ahead of him, he climbed the stairs to the room where Ruth laboured. Aunt Kitty sat on the bed by her side. She had not left Ruth’s side all day. Michael placed the lamp on a small dresser covered with a white doily beside the bed on Ruth’s side. He moved to the window facing the bay and was closing the curtains when Ruth spoke to him. Her voice was not strong, but it was steady for all that.

“No, Michael. Last light. First star. Remember?”

Michael drew the curtain again. Turning to her, he said with a quivering chin, “I remember, my heart.”

Aunt Kitty, wise to the ways of young love, moved across the room when Michael cradled his suffering wife in his arms. She picked up the knitting she always brought for the wait of birthing and let them be.

It was Ruth who had come up with the phrase on one of the first nights of their courting. They were nights of discovery for both of them. Some of the mysteries, like those of buttons and hidden flesh, were forbidden and had to be overcome. They were strolling the lane that led inexorably toward the stile in the fence were they must part. The sun had long gone to its westing, and last light was all but gone from the sky when Michael showed her Venus, the first light. And when he told her the star was named for the goddess of love and light, pointing out that it didn’t twinkle like other stars but issued a steady, bright, silvery glow, Ruth was fascinated by it.

“Is it visible every evening?”

“Every evening when the clouds allow it,” Michael explained.

“Then we will look for Lady Venus every night, Michael. And because it immediately follows the last light we can call it . . .” Ruth thought for a second. “Oh! Last light. First star. It sounds romantic and will be our secret. What do you think?”

Michael looked her full in the eyes. “I am already envious of last light. And I think the first star should be called Ruth to honour my Venus.”

“Why, Michael Kelly, the things you do say.” And Michael had hushed her with a kiss.

Ruth looked at the window. “Did you see it tonight, Michael? Last light, first star?”

“Yes, my heart,” he lied.

It was snowing outside. Last light had faded away almost without notice, and no stars could be seen. Suddenly, Ruth’s entire body seemed to clench with a powerful contraction. She cried out in great pain. Michael tried to hold her, but the contraction was so great, Ruth pulled from his arms. Aunt Kitty was by her side in an instant.

The hours of agony went by hard for Ruth. Her body convulsed. Her legs contorted until she collapsed upon the pillow with the strain of it. But no baby came. And when that interminable Tibb’s Eve night melted into the first hours of Christmas Eve, her soft face was draped in sweat as she passed mercifully into a troubled sleep. Aunt Kitty motioned Michael away from the bed.

“There is naught I can do, my son,” she began, anticipating his first question. Michael was crestfallen. He thought Aunt Kitty could heal anything, and he told her so. “Some things are beyond my simple keen, Michael, my love. This birth is one of them. Accordin’ to the records I’ve kept on the Farrells of me Bible, I have helped with the birt’in’ of 207 babies. Two of them on this same blessed day, the eve of the birth of Christ. Only one of them have I seen as severe as this one.”

“Severe? What do you mean, Aunt Kitty?” Michael could barely keep his voice down. Ruth was stirring again, the brief lull from pain all but done.

“What I mean, Michael, is the child is—well, it’s, er—coming stern first. And I cannot turn her.” Aunt Kitty gave him a sobering look. “There is more, my son. I wish to God I did not have to tell ’e sech news. The child in her womb will be stillborn.” She lowered her gaze from Michael’s stricken face.

“Stillborn. You mean . . .” Michael couldn’t say the word.

“Yes, my son, the child is dead. Has been for days, I believe. I cannot turn her. God knows I’ve tried these many hours. She needs a doctor’s skill. There is naught else I can do. I’m sorry, Michael.” Aunt Kitty began to cry.

“Her?”

“Yes, Michael, ’tis a girl.”

“Leah! ’Tis as we hoped! But ’tis still all right. You told her ‘some come leaping and some come sleeping.’ I heard you say it, Aunt Kitty!”

“Aye, Michael, I did say it, but in the womb, a sleeping babe is a dead babe.” She didn’t tell him such a birth was known as a coffin birth. Quietly, her voice low and sorrowful, she went on. “I couldn’t tell her the truth, b’y. ’Twould only add to her misery. She might not fight if she knew the fight was useless. And fight she must, if she is to survive. The child is a dead weight. Dead as a killick. Ruth was right about that. It cannot help with the birth. The strain of it will be hers alone to bear. ’Twill be hard to watch, Michael. ’Tis no place fer a man. You should leave.” Even as she spoke the words, Aunt Kitty saw in Michael’s eyes that he would stay.

“I will never leave her. If Ruth must endure the pain, then I must keep her watch.”