Chapter Forty-six

 

 

Into Hell’s Jaw

 

 

The first weeks of travel through the Alps provided an unexpected break in the weather as the north winds died and the sun shone brightly from above. The greatest barrier then was the ice that had layered itself upon the mountainous route toward Italy. And though the sure-footed Icelandic ponies worked the road as skillfully as could be expected, the three travelers often found themselves having to assist the ponies by pushing the tiny wagon on inclines, then holding it back with ropes on the sharper declines. This, of course, was tedious work and very much impeded their progress. Mala’s pregnancy and Fernando’s wounds limited their strength tremendously, yet the teamwork of the hope-driven travelers coupled with the valiant efforts of the shaggy ponies inched them further and further into the Alps.

The mood became increasingly hopeful then, as Duxia, Mala, and Fernando worked their way forward. Of all circumstances in life, sharing impossible hardship and facing mutual extinction are the two most salient experiences that humans can share. The struggle to overcome such circum-stances, consequently, creates endearing bonds between the survivors of such misfortune. A glue began to develop within the hearts of the three travelers as they fought the terrain, the ice, and the hunger. And even as they gnawed through their remaining horse-bone to get at the marrow, a spirit of optimism ran through them, especially at the end of day when they paused and were able to discuss the day’s events and progress. They especially found solace, too, in sharing imagined images of the coming spring and their future in Italy.

Things took a sudden turn. To begin, as they reached the midpoint of their Alps crossing, the weather rapidly deteriorated and the snow flurries returned. Next, the wind resumed it merciless sweep southward, howling through the passes and down into the valleys like some uncaged monster released by angry Norse gods wreaking revenge upon the people of southern Europe. Then, as they reached the very mountain pass where months earlier the Germans had ambushed the Tuscany bound wagon train, one of the ponies fell to its knees from sheer exhaustion and hunger.

In the wagon!” cried Duxia, her shawl trailing wildly behind her as the wind nearly swept her tiny frame over the ledge.

Fernando and Mala, too, were struggling against the wind, and catching sight of the fallen pony, knew immediately that it was dead.

We’ll have to wait things out till morning!” Fernando shouted to Mala, trying to be heard above the wind. Then he pulled her up into the rear wagon door.

This was a severe mistake in judgment. They would have been far better off unhitching the dead pony then moving the wagon off the top of the pass. As the wind struck from the north, howling directly into the pass, it gained velocity. The two opposing slopes formed a funnel of sorts, forcing the wind to compress as it squeezed between the two opposing slopes, thereby creating an even more brutal wind chill than at lower or less open sites along the mountain.

Once inside the wagon, the three slumped back against the walls of the wagon, spent. “It’ll be dark soon,” declared Duxia, “best that we all clump in the corner, pile everything in the wagon over us, and huddle together for warmth. Snow’s not going to let up all night, nor is the wind.” Then she looked about the interior of the wagon. “This could well be our grave by morning.”

As she said this, a searing sensation seized Mala’s stomach and sides, and she doubled over in agony. “Ah-hg!” she moaned. Then she felt herself go wet. When the pain subsided, she sat there staring blankly at her ballooned belly, and felt movement. “N-no…” she muttered in panic, then looked helplessly at Duxia.

Duxia’s brows furrowed in puzzlement. “It’s too early, Mala!”

Mala shrugged with wide eyes, too frightened to speak.

What is it?” said Fernando, not comprehending this sudden alarm of the women.

Neither woman replied at first, then Duxia shook her head and in a low voice said, “It’s the baby, Fernando, who has decided to enter life early. Not due for yet another month, but it’s coming tonight, right here on this God forsaken pass in the midst of a blizzard. Light the candles, Fernando. It’s going to be a long night.”

Within hours Mala was in full labor. Duxia sat between her legs, struggling to calm her down, but her comforting words did little to soothe Mala’s agony. Nor did Duxia’s efforts do anything to calm Fernando who knelt behind her, holding a candle high to provide light. He had never witnessed childbirth, and was lost to the horror of it as Mala screamed out helplessly and writhed back and forth convulsively. And watching this, for Fernando, was worse even than the beating he had taken or the agony of recovering from his stab wounds. “O-hh, o-oh…” he mumbled over and over as his grip on the candle trembled incessantly, causing its meager light to shift here and there against the wagon walls.

Be still, dammit!” Duxia shouted. “The baby’s about to come!” And at that moment the baby’s head began to breach as Mala cried out in terror, her thighs lurching upward. Duxia grasped Mala’s hips and drove them back flat onto the wagon bed, then stuffed the remnant of a pony rib into Mala’s mouth, shouting, “Here, bite down on this, Dear, and squeeze, dammit!”

Struggling to the limits of her endurance, Mala squeezed every fiber of muscle she could summon, and managed over the next minutes to expel the infant. Grabbing it, Duxia held it up for examination in Fernando’s quaking light. “It’s a… boy!” she cried. Looking closer, she caught her own reflection staring back at her in the glimmer of the infant’s pallid grey eyes. Shoving the infant away from her onto Mala’s belly, she backed away shuddering, and issued an unintellible burst of profanity in her native Finnish tongue.

What is it, Duxia?” cried Mala, weakly raising her head. “What’s wrong?”

Nothing.” Duxia hissed, closing her eyes, her mind travelling twenty years back in time to the moment she first pulled Tristan from Asta’s womb. Then she issued that long sigh of the defeated. “Oh, but history repeats itself this night and Tristan’s shadow now doubles.” she whispered. Then she turned to Fernando and said, “Give me your knife!”

Watching Fernando hand Duxia his knife, Mala’s eyes flared and she tried to raise up, wailing, “No! Duxia, don’t kill my baby! Have mercy, I beg you!”

Duxia shoved her back down. “Be still, Mala! I shan’t hurt the infant! I cut his cord.”