The carriage jolted, probably from hitting a rock on the road, and Hecama was shaken awake. She sat up on the cushioned seat and rubbed her eyes. They hurt from crying so much the day before.

Things have changed so fast…

Hecama placed a hand on her stomach, wondering if all of this was worth it. But then she pictured her love, and how sad his life made him.

Fermia is right. You are not meant for that kind of life, little one. I will keep you safe. I promise.

The carriage stopped in the next town, and after Hecama paid the driver he left without another word.

She wandered the streets until she came upon an inn that had an open spot on the group room. She’d never slept on the floor amidst strangers, but Fermia had warned her that her life would be much less glamorous now that she was on the run.

I can do this. Sleeping on the floor is no big deal. Tomorrow I’ll walk to the next town, and find some work. This bag of coins won’t last forever.

I can do this.

Hecama struggled down the dirt road with a bucket full of water. Her bulging stomach made it hard to do anything, let alone lift the bucket any higher than her knees. Townspeople got out of her way just fine, but none of them offered to help. Of course not. Who would want to associate themselves with an unwed pregnant woman?

Hecama made it to the door of the washhouse and went inside, careful not to let the wash slosh out of the bucket as she stepped over the threshold. Her washing setup was the farthest from the door, but she didn’t mind it. It kept her hands from getting too cold from the breeze coming in through the doorway.

Hecama brought the bucket over to her washing bin, and poured the water in. That was the last bucket she needed. Grateful to finally get to work, she sat down heavily at her stool, and grabbed a soaked men’s shirt. She churned the cloth in the water, making bubbles from the soap appear on the water’s surface. Then she scrubbed the shirt against the washboard, as firm as she could.

The high part of her stomach bumped against the lip of the basin, but she had to work through the discomfort and get her alotted basket of clothes done.

Ten shirts later, she sat back and tried to stretch out her aching shoulders. But nothing worked for that pain anymore. She had been in perpetual discomfort for the last 3 months. Any day now, the baby will be born. Any day now… Anxiety bubbled up into Hecama’s throat. Any day now… I’ll have to find somewhere to give birth all on my own. 

Finishing up the last of the shirts in her basin, Hecama stood and gathered the damp pile of cloth to take to the clotheslines to dry. She felt the eyes of the other washwomen following her out the door. She walked up to the clothesline and set the pile of clothes in an empty wooden basin, then bent down to gather some clothespins. At that moment, she felt a sharp kick to her ribs from the baby, and then a wave of ghostly pain shivered through her womb.

No, it can’t be time yet! I should have a few more weeks at least! Hecama straightened and rubbed her stomach, holding her breath as the pain slipped away. She stood there for a minute more. She shook her head, reaching for those clothespins again and began hanging the shirts to dry.

It’s nothing. Just phantom labor. I heard some women have that before actually giving birth.

But telling herself that didn’t dispel the sense of foreboding that settled in her heart. It was going to happen sooner than she thought. She just knew it. Of course the birth of her child wouldn’t happen smoothly. Nothing has gone smoothly ever since she found out that she was pregnant.

Hecama finished hanging the shirts and went back inside, deciding not to do another load that day to give herself some rest.

“I’ll do a third load tomorrow,” she promised the lead washwoman, who nodded curtly and went back to her own washing. No one seemed to deem her worthy of a conversation. Which was fine by her, actually. Then nobody would be asking questions once the child was born.

Hecama walked to her lodging house, but changed her mind and walked past the door.

I need to find somewhere away from town. So they can’t hear me or the baby.

Hecama walked down the road, and was surprised to find an abandoned cottage on the outskirts of town. As she gazed around inside, she tried to supress a grimace. It looked like nobody had been there in years. Layers on layers of dust and dirt, as well as cobwebs covered every surface.

This will be perfect.

“Gahh!!!” Hecama exclaimed as another contraction ripped through her stomach. She took a deep breath, and bore down, pushing with all her might. The pain wracked her trembling body, but she could not stop now. The sun had gone down long ago as she had labored in the dilapidated cottage. She had managed to clean a spot in the far corner, farthest away from the front door. The pile of blankets she had smuggled there were now soaked in bloody fluid, and the candle she had lit hours before was beginning to dim.

Another contraction began to build, and she held her breath and she pushed at the height of the pressure.

I can do this!!!

“AAAHHHH!” One last push and she felt the baby slip out onto the blankets below her. The child squealed and bawled immediately. Hecama grabbed a clean blanket and laid the child on it. She then cut the cord with an old kitchen knife. Her hands trembled as she tied a knot in the cord, and confirmed that it was a little girl. I did it, I did it…

As if she was possessed, one hand grasped the knife again while the other extraced a tiny arm from the folds of the blanket. She had to be sure that all of this hadn't been for nothing.

"I'm sorry, little one," she whispered, then quickly ran the knife along the skin of the child's wrist, creating the shallowest of cuts she dared to do. The baby squealed loudly in pain, and a bead of blood welled up where the knife had marked her. Hecama dared not blink. As she watched, the skin knit together, leaving the bead of blood behind, but no other evidence of a wound. Hecama realized she had been holding her breath, and let it out with a sob as her duaghter continued to wail.

Cradling the baby close to her chest, Hecama felt wave after wave of emotion crash through her. A memory of her child’s father flashed before her eyes. My love… you will never know how beautiful she is… In between sobs Hecama gently shushed her crying child and tried to croon a lullaby.

As she had predicted, no one batted an eye when Hecama returned to her lodging house with the newborn baby, or when she returned to her work at the washhouse with her daughter strapped to her chest. But Hecama was grateful for their indifference. 

A bloody bandage was wrapped frimly around the baby's wrist to suggest she had been marked at birth just as all children are. Hecama looked at her own mark, the raised flesh of the scar just above the wrist, marring her otherwise unblemished skin. All of the other washwomen around her had identical marks. But her little one never would. 

And she would ensure that no one ever found out why. 

I will keep you safe, my little one. I promise you that. I will keep you safe.

~The End~