La Luz de Luna
Chapter 1
In the wee hours of a spring morning, Kira awoke in a cold sweat from a spirit dream. She rubbed her eyes. She lay still and tried to calm herself. It was so cold. She shivered, thinking about getting up to stoke the fire which had burned down. The baby moved within her, kicking hard up under her ribs.
Her mind drifted back to her dream. In the past weeks, she'd had the same dream every night, sometimes more than once. From the spirit realm, her great grandmother, a wise woman, spoke to her, and showed her the future. At the rise of the new moon, she would bear a girl child who would become beloved by all, and whose life would be touched with great sorrow. In the beginning of the spirit dream, Kira saw herself growing great with child, and followed herself laughing and happy, often speaking the old words to her belly and singing the songs of her grandmother to the growing baby inside her. All was carefree, so happy. Until ... She tried not to think about it. She closed her eyes. Soon, it would be time to prepare the women's brews. She had been looking for the right plants, but none of them seemed to grow in this strange, cold, dark country where the people spoke only hard sounds to her, if they spoke at all. She wondered where her Thomas was. He was often gone later and later now, returning well after first light drunk and dirty, and more rowdy than ever. He smelled of strange women and his eyes rolled wildly in his head.
She heard him then, banging the front door closed with a heavy oath. He spun giddily into the room, nearly falling into the wall.
"Ma-Dame!" He sang a few bars of a popular bar tune, hardly taking any notice of her worry.
She heard him then, banging the front door closed with a heavy oath. He spun giddily into the room, nearly falling into the wall.
"Ma-Dame!" He sang a few bars of a popular bar tune, hardly taking any notice of her worry.
"Oh, Thomas. You are come, finally. Come to bed."
"Yes. I am come, aren't I? For here I am. Yours for the price of a sweet nothing, dear lady."
She smiled. It had taken her many months to become used to his wit. There was no wit in the old words she knew, but Thomas was always speaking odd words that meant something different than they said, or meant nothing at all.
"It is so cold, Thomas. This place."
"Cold? Lady art thou mad? It be June! The finest month of Summer."
"Summer it may be. But warm it is not."
"Thou canst not deny the warmth between us, dear lady." There it was again, more wit.
He smiled lasciviously at her, removing his trousers at the foot of bed. He hardly seemed to mind how great she was grown with child.
He slipped into bed beside her and kissed her breasts.
"Thou art cold. Quite cold indeed." He fumbled his flat, slender hands into her bodice and exposed her two breasts. Her nipples stood erect as two blackberries against the candlelight. "I diagnose you dear lady with quite a severe case of melancholy. Thy humors are all wat'ry and cold."
"What is this, Melancholy? A sickness of your world?"
"Indeed, yes. A sickness. Quite a deadly one, I should say." He buried his nose between her breasts and fluttered his tongue, before continuing, "In fact, the more I examine you, the more I see that you are quite sick with it. Quite sick indeed."
The warmth of his flushed cheeks penetrated her, and she drew her breath in sharply. "What is the cure for this Melancholy?"
He took one of her breasts in his hand, cradling his cheek upon it. "The cures are many, dependent upon the cause."
"The cause?"
"Ay, the cause. Melancholy of the body must be vanquished with an excess of passion, to heat and dry the body. It is the only way to cure it."
She felt the warmth of his mouth on her, as he took her breast to suckle. Familiar flutterings rose from deep within her, and she relaxed under his touch, feeling his hand reach under her skirts. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to be rolled onto her back. Images in frightening clarity returned once more to her, and she saw herself screaming in agony. The world around her dark and confused, all that she understood was pain. A pain without beginning and without end. Pain spread across her lower back as it did every time she try to lay upon it now, the weight of the baby's head pressed hard upon her tail bone. She moaned hoarsely, and moved to turn over.
"Yes, my lady. Thy cure comes quick upon thee."
His voice, distant and muffled, came dreamlike to her, and she called his name. Her belly tightened into a belt, and below the great mound of her belly she felt the gentle brush of Thomas's long hair rubbing against her. She panted, fighting to get a deep breath.
"Panting? Do you smell a fault? Methinks, the fault is mine."
She felt her legs spread as he entered her with the full weight of his drunken body, the smell of tobacco and brandy on his breath, and the warmth of his face buried deep in her neck. As he rose and fell upon her, she wrapped her arms about him and found his neck with her mouth. Her belly contracted sharply and she felt the baby within her kick hard, as though to beat off this odd disturbance of her protected world. When he had worn himself out upon her, he collapsed beside her, and laid his head in the deep crevice between her breast and belly. He laid his hand upon her belly gently and whispered words she could not understand, words she knew were intended for his son. A son she did not carry. She stroked his hair, watching him fall asleep.
She closed her eyes, trying to forget her dream, praying sleep would find her again. In the morning, she would look again for the plants she needed to make the traditional brews for healthy childbirth.
To Chapter 2
"Yes. I am come, aren't I? For here I am. Yours for the price of a sweet nothing, dear lady."
She smiled. It had taken her many months to become used to his wit. There was no wit in the old words she knew, but Thomas was always speaking odd words that meant something different than they said, or meant nothing at all.
"It is so cold, Thomas. This place."
"Cold? Lady art thou mad? It be June! The finest month of Summer."
"Summer it may be. But warm it is not."
"Thou canst not deny the warmth between us, dear lady." There it was again, more wit.
He smiled lasciviously at her, removing his trousers at the foot of bed. He hardly seemed to mind how great she was grown with child.
He slipped into bed beside her and kissed her breasts.
"Thou art cold. Quite cold indeed." He fumbled his flat, slender hands into her bodice and exposed her two breasts. Her nipples stood erect as two blackberries against the candlelight. "I diagnose you dear lady with quite a severe case of melancholy. Thy humors are all wat'ry and cold."
"What is this, Melancholy? A sickness of your world?"
"Indeed, yes. A sickness. Quite a deadly one, I should say." He buried his nose between her breasts and fluttered his tongue, before continuing, "In fact, the more I examine you, the more I see that you are quite sick with it. Quite sick indeed."
The warmth of his flushed cheeks penetrated her, and she drew her breath in sharply. "What is the cure for this Melancholy?"
He took one of her breasts in his hand, cradling his cheek upon it. "The cures are many, dependent upon the cause."
"The cause?"
"Ay, the cause. Melancholy of the body must be vanquished with an excess of passion, to heat and dry the body. It is the only way to cure it."
She felt the warmth of his mouth on her, as he took her breast to suckle. Familiar flutterings rose from deep within her, and she relaxed under his touch, feeling his hand reach under her skirts. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to be rolled onto her back. Images in frightening clarity returned once more to her, and she saw herself screaming in agony. The world around her dark and confused, all that she understood was pain. A pain without beginning and without end. Pain spread across her lower back as it did every time she try to lay upon it now, the weight of the baby's head pressed hard upon her tail bone. She moaned hoarsely, and moved to turn over.
"Yes, my lady. Thy cure comes quick upon thee."
His voice, distant and muffled, came dreamlike to her, and she called his name. Her belly tightened into a belt, and below the great mound of her belly she felt the gentle brush of Thomas's long hair rubbing against her. She panted, fighting to get a deep breath.
"Panting? Do you smell a fault? Methinks, the fault is mine."
She felt her legs spread as he entered her with the full weight of his drunken body, the smell of tobacco and brandy on his breath, and the warmth of his face buried deep in her neck. As he rose and fell upon her, she wrapped her arms about him and found his neck with her mouth. Her belly contracted sharply and she felt the baby within her kick hard, as though to beat off this odd disturbance of her protected world. When he had worn himself out upon her, he collapsed beside her, and laid his head in the deep crevice between her breast and belly. He laid his hand upon her belly gently and whispered words she could not understand, words she knew were intended for his son. A son she did not carry. She stroked his hair, watching him fall asleep.
She closed her eyes, trying to forget her dream, praying sleep would find her again. In the morning, she would look again for the plants she needed to make the traditional brews for healthy childbirth.
To Chapter 2