Madrigal: Book 1 of the Bel Cantos

Padda: A Bloody Birth

Padda sweated and pulled. Both arms were slathered to the elbows with blood and amnion, and still the foal would not come out. It was breech, and time was running out. Her breath smoked in the chill air and wisps of steam rose from the red kerchief tied haphazardly around her braided hair. The smoky oil-lantern chattered against the barn post as a spasm of howling winter wind shook the barn.

Padda had known that the birth would not go well. On her way to the barn, slopping through the mud, she had seen a raven tapping at a window. Its feathers shone like fish-oil in the rain, and its black and beady eye regarded her as somberly as a hanging judge. A single raven at the window could mean death—possibly for one inside the building, possibly for one who saw it. Then she had passed Cheska and Vasilisa, the Antipova daughters, as they ambled past on their way to some easy chore. Each of them carried two empty buckets. This counted amongst the worst of signs—even one girl carrying an empty bucket toward you could bring down bad luck like a winter storm. The smirking Cossak girls, with their reddish hair and fox-like faces, only grinned at her with their sharp little mouths. The girls made a habit of merciless sport toward Padda's black hair and blue eyes. They would pull at the corners of their eyes with their fingers, to make them tilt at the corners like Padda's, and then spout idiot gibberish to each other, pretending to speak Ruskan. Vasilisa popped out her tongue and crossed her eyes when they passed. Padda held her head up, carefully avoiding eye-contact, and tried to ignore the dark omens.

Padda's mind returned to the present, as the broodmare's rear hooves rattled like thunder on the hay-strewn floor. Her wrapped tail slammed down hard enough to tip over a bucket half-full of water. Mr. Antipova only watched, his sunken, tea-colored eyes betraying nothing but patience. The foal was completely breech presented; even so, Padda was expected to deliver it alive and undamaged. Good horseflesh was always worth more than the skin of an indentured servant like Padda; but at this time of year, it was at a premium.

The Horse Contests would take place in three months' time—genuine Vahr foals sold at the events and races could fetch enough money to last a family the better part of a year. At the least, it would mean that the Antipovas had money to buy enough meat and firewood for the entire winter. Not only would Padda be spared the frightening and sometimes dangerous work of fetching birch wood from the forests, but she might even be spared a few root vegetables or even a bone with some of the meat still attached. With that, she could make an almost endless variety of broths and stews—her gums wouldn't bleed all season, and her hair would stay black and strong, rather than becoming spare and bristly until the spring.

"Come on. Come on," she chanted under her breath in Ruskan. Mr. Antipova nodded, as if to encourage either the mare, or Padda. She suspected the horse.

"You are coming out, because I am going to make you, and you're going to be fine, because I'm going to make you be fine, dammit." Padda growled at the horse. Mr. Antipova smiled and nodded, gumming a cold pipe. He was much older than the Missus, and as far as Padda knew, he barely spoke the common parlance, let alone Ruskan. She wondered if he recognized even one word in eleven in the common tongue. Probably not, she decided. She had never seen him with a book or a writing paper. It was Mrs. Antipova who did the writing and reading required for running a farm.

"Come on, girl. Let's get this done and get out of here; the old man smells like bad pickled eggs," she said in Ruskan, favoring Mr. Antipova with a broad smile. He smiled right back and nodded. "Also, I've seen more teeth in a broken comb." She flashed the smile again, and he responded with all four of his leaning, stumpy teeth.

The mare was suffering. She heaved herself up with a whickered protest, and finding no comfort, lay down again. Padda spoke in soothing tones and whispered nonsense words. The wind battered the building, and sleet began to fall, splatting against the homemade glass. Inside, heat baked off of the mare—sweat ran down Padda's neck and soaked her collar. If this foal died, Mrs. Antipova would beat Padda to within an inch of her life.

The mare's flanks heaved, and Padda could hear her struggling to breathe. Padda had lost count of the number of contractions, and still no nose or mouth. The foal's leg kicked against the velvety red sac of damaged amnion. It would die unless it came within the next two minutes. The mare's water had broken over an hour ago. Any minute now, Mr. Antipova would get up to fetch his wife. She would be furious. If both horses died... well, Padda refused to think about that.

"You need to come out now!" she whispered fiercely. Her pulse was thrumming, and she glanced at Mr. Antipova, sure he could hear the pounding of her heart. He stirred, hauling out his pocket-watch, and then looked mildly back at Padda. The foal stopped moving. The broodmare's stifles trembled, sweat drying to rancid curds along her flanks. Padda didn't bother to smile at Antipova now. A smile would not begin to cover the cost of a stillborn foal.

She looked up at the ceiling, where a lantern rocked back and forth in the wind-heaved barn. It was always storming here in the mountains. Always raining, or snowing, and the wind shrieked all day and all night. Her frustration glowed like a banked fire, and now it flared with sudden heat.

Padda growled, and with sudden ferocity, slapped the broodmare's hindquarters as hard as she could. The sound was like the crack of a green stick; Mr. Antipova sat up, gaping.

The foal's leg kicked, once weakly, then again more strongly. Padda leaned in, and the hoof lashed out and struck her across the face. She felt her lip burst, followed by an agonizing black sunburst of pain as the back of her head struck the floor. Foamy black dots swam in her vision, and she tasted copper as blood flooded her mouth.

Padda scrambled to her knees immediately, groping the foal's waving leg and tail, her vision doubled, panting for breath. She spat blood to the floor, fighting a wave of nausea, and then pushed her other hand into the horse. She groped through her burning hot insides, searching blindly. Finally her hand grazed a hoof, and she locked on to it. Her first pull loosed a hundred pounds of gangly colt into the world, slamming Padda to the floor, knocking the breath out of her. The sac burst, dousing her in hot birthing fluid. The foal's wet brown, mirror-like eyes stared into hers for long seconds, seeming to mark her as the author of his distress. Then he shook his head, sending more amniotic fluid across her face, and his tail began to switch impatiently. Mr. Antipova creaked to his feet, hands on his thighs to push himself up. He reset his cap, and smiled at Padda.

"You do good, Padda," the old man said in rough, accented Ruskan. She gaped like a fish. "Don't know why Missus call you fool." He stopped at the door, and turned to face her. "You go with me, to Vlodn. Next week, on Skalday. Yes?"

He nodded once and tipped her a wink. She let her head flop back on the wooden planks of the barn floor with a clunk. The lantern waved back and forth.