Delilah

Chapter 3

The day I celebrated the 15th anniversary of my birth was to change my life yet again. For one day each year, my birthing day, father allowed me to be a child. He would not make me perform favors for his friends or him. He would usually bring me a treat from the market. That year, though, was different. My father began drinking early in the morning. By noon he was drunk. While the rest of the city rested in the midday heat, my father told me to disrobe in the courtyard. I dared not disobey, for fear of the violent temper that often surfaced when he was under the influence of too much wine.

When I stood nude, he staggered up to me. Then standing unsteadily before me, he began to appraise my body. He traced a finger down my nose and across my full lips. He lifted a lock of the midnight ringlets that cascaded across my shoulders and halfway down my back.

Commanding me to flex my arms, he felt them for any excess fat. He then turned me around and ran his fingers slowly down my spine. Cupping one hand under each cheek of my high, firm buttocks, he lifted them and then grunted with approval when they did not wrinkle with fat. Turning me back to face him, he cupped in his hands the breasts that had grown dramatically over the last few months, squeezing the nipples between thumb and forefinger.

When a small drop of liquid wet his fingers, his eyes darkened and a scowl replaced the smile of approval. Turning my body, he rubbed his hand up and down over my belly. Going behind me, he placed one hand on each side of my stomach and pushed them inward, squeezing my waist between exploring hands. Finally, he exploded, "You are with child! How long since you bled last?"

Turning to face him, I replied, "I have been notching the sticks like you told me father. But the time between bleeds is not yet even. You told me that as my body became a woman's, the bleeding would happen when there were about 25-30 marks. Sometimes I bleed after that few, but often there are 40 or more marks on the stick before the blood comes."

"How long?" he growled.

"There are 66 marks," I admitted.

Grabbing my hair, he yanked me behind him as he stumbled to my room. Throwing me on my bed, he said, "Do not move."

As I cowered naked and afraid, I considered trying to dress and flee to the house of the woman where I had been told I could get herbs to rid myself of an unwanted child. Thinking that my father was not yet beyond reason, I decided to talk to him rather than fleeing and incurring his wrath.

When he returned to my room, I was sitting on my sleeping pallet.

Glaring at me, he barked, "Lie down Delilah. I cannot remove the fetus with you sitting."

"But father," I protested, "there are herbs I can get to stop the growth of a child."

"Do as I say," he spat out. "I will not have my daughter the talk of the town when some old crone shares that she provided you with herbs designed to cause an abortion. The men who seek your favors might be less inclined to come if they knew you had conceived. No, Delilah, I will do what is necessary. Then I will tell the others that the womanly curse is upon you and you are unclean."

With that, he emptied his laden arms onto my floor. He had brought a couple of blankets. He said they had been my mother's birthing blankets. He had also brought a wine skin, plump with liquid. There was a container of some kind of medicinal balm. Finally, he had an old walking stick.

Handing me the wine skin, he told me to drink. "If you drink enough, it will dull the pain," he informed me. "While you get yourself merrily drunk, I will carve down the end of the stick so it is narrow and pointed."

When I hesitated, he snapped, "Drink, girl. I will remove the fetus whether you are drunk or sober. This is not a procedure you want to be conscious for. Drink yourself into a stupor."