And I do love the baby. I love him very much.

He is born into the world screaming and full of life. He is born with tufts of light hair on his head and the most striking blue eyes I have ever seen. He has pink lips and a little button nose and long, curved eyelashes. He is born with little frog-like legs and tiny little fingers and tiny little toes, and like all babies, he is infinitely ineffable, he is infinitely precious.

Amy is able to push. Despite all of our doubts and fears, she is perfectly able to push. And she is able to do all that she must in order to get the baby out of the protection of her body and into the dangers of the world. She is sitting on the bedroll, propped up by all the pillows that we have, soaked with sweat and panting. Still, there is a faraway look in her eyes. But she's closer to this moment than she has been to any other moment.

Aliya, the midwife, helps him into the world with her skilled hands and knowledgeable mind and kind words. She makes us all feel at ease, despite all the tragedy surrounding us. She makes us all feel at ease despite the danger surrounding the birthing process. I am grateful to her. I am infinitely grateful. And I wish I could express how much I appreciate her presence.

"Do you want to hold the baby?" Aliya asks me.

"Yes. Thank you so much. Thank you for everything."

She passes the tiny little bundle of life to me, wrapped in a thin blanket that is really more of a sheet.

"Think nothing of it," Aliya tells me.

"But it's not nothing. It's everything. I ... I have no words." I feel the baby against my chest as I speak.

"A new life is beyond words," she replies.

I look at the baby in my arms. He's so sweet. So incredibly sweet. So inctedibly precious and amazing. I have no words to describe him. All I know is that he's perfect. He's perfect. And he's our own. He's so very much our own. He belongs in this family and this community and this village. He is one of the common people, no matter how high born his father was. And he is one of the common people. And we will keep him as safe as we can. We will take care of him as much as we can.

Amy reaches out to me. She doesn't speak any words but I see the longing in her eyes. I see the love. It is love that reflects my own love, and longing that reflects my own longing. I understand what she is asking of me.

"Do you want to hold the baby?" I ask her.

She reaches another hand out. I smile. I carefully transfer the baby over to her. And she holds him tenderly. She holds him oh so incredibly tenderly. And she looks down at his round little face. And she cries. The tears fall from her face down onto the cheeks of the little one. The little one she holds softly and carefully close to her chest.

"I think you should feed him, if you can," Aliya speaks to Amy softly.

I help Amy get her breast out and guide it to the child. He hungrily takes the nipple into his mouth and begins sucking in earnest, his rosy cheeks filling up before every gulp. Amy keeps holding him. And he's healthy. He's as healthy as a commoners’ child can be. This is a blessing. It's such an incredible blessing.

"What should we name him?" I ask.

"He looks like a Jake," Aliya suggests. At this, Amy smiles. And I think it's the first time I've seen her smile since she came back.

"So Jake you are, then," I sing-song to the baby.

———

Baby Jake is four months old. I am holding him as he coos and giggles in my arms. Baby Cleo is six months old. She's in the arms of her father Fred. We are walking to the clinic with our children, hoping to pick up some herbs for their various health issues. Jake has trouble sleeping and Clementine suffers from frequent stomach aches.

The sun is dipping low behind the horizon, painting the sky a brilliant orange. In this light, both of our babies look ethereal, cherubic. Though of course, they look this way all the time no matter what, too.

"It's so much work, taking care of a baby on top of all the other work that we have to do," Fred complains.

"Oh, don't tell me about it," I agree, "there is way too much pressure on young parents." Our babies reach out to each other and giggle as they pat each other.

"It would be better if we could take a break from working the fields while our children were young," Fred suggests.

"As if that's possible," I retort. "There are so many young chilldren. Do you think that the nobles will let us just take time off?"

"You're right, but it's the nobles that are the problem. If they just weren't so very demanding, I'm sure we all could live much better lives."

"We could, but they need their tithes. They always need their tithes."

"Damn that and damn them."

"You're right. But focus on the positive." I pause to get a lock of my hair out of Jake's little mouth. Jake gurgles in protest and I lightly press a finger to his nose. "Anyways," I continue, "we still have time with our babies. We get to watch them grow up. That's such a blessing."

"You're right," Fred agrees.

We switch babies, Fred taking Jake and myself taking Cleo. Cleo is sweet. She's soft. She's a little bit heavier than Jake. She raises her hand to cup my cheek and to trace along my face. I smile at the adorableness of it all. She smiles too, a bright, gummy-mouthed smile. It's so saccharinely sweet and brilliantly bright.

"Are you enjoying being in Auntie Thea's arms?" I ask her in a baby-sweet voice. She giggles and I giggle back.

We keep playing with our babies and talking to each other as we make our way through the huts all around us and towards the healing hut. It's sweet. It's so very sweet. Even through all the sadness, through all the worry, it's so very sweet.

"Jake seems to like me." Fred smiles at the baby in his arms.

"Of course he likes you. You're his Uncle Fred." There is a note of mirth in my voice.

Cleo claps her hands together and I coo at her.

———

I work the fields from sunup to sundown with my husband Davie and all of our neighbours. Amy doesn't work with us. She doesn't do anything except stare listlessly off into the distance. And honestly, I can't blame her. If I was in a similar situation, lord knows I would do the same.

I keep baby Jake in a sling of cloth on my back. There he plays and giggles and gabbles while I focus on the gruelling work in front of me. I go back to the hut and change him when he needs to be changed. And I go back to the fields after that. It's annoying, sure, to take care of a baby and work at the same time. But the king will be expecting his taxes and everyone who can work had to.

Amy stays near me though, and I pass her baby Jake whenever he needs to eat. Amy then holds him, softly, strongly, tenderly. And she holds the baby in her arms and, not saying anything, she cries. She just simply cries. And baby Jake sucks on her breast, and I don't know whether he knows how very deeply his mother loves him, though she is unable to say it.

The sun beats down on us and I worry about baby Jake getting a sun fever. The wind blows, giving us some much-needed respite from the heat. And the summer glares on as we do what we all must, which is work, work, work. All day long.

I wonder what baby Jake thinks of all this. I wonder what all the other babies in their own cloth slings on the backs of their own parents or friends think. Do they know that this toiling, trembling existence is all that awaits them? Do they know that they will soon have to take our places, will have to keep taking our places until death envelopes them as well?

Part of me thinks that there might be something else in store for the children. But I push that part down. It does not make any sense.

———

Jake is a year old. He is playing in the street with three thirteen-year-olds, Karlle, April, and Daniel. They adore him and dote on him so much.

"Up!" Jake calls out, lifting his arms to Daniel. And Daniel obliges, taking Jake into his arms and holding him up high in the air.

"You're so lucky to have a baby," Karlle tells me, something furtive in their words, "babies are so cute."

"They are cute," I agree. “So cute and precious. You will probably have your own babies too, when you're just a little bit older."

"We're getting some good practice, taking care of baby Jake," April comments brightly. There is something deeply tired deep down in her eyes. In all of their eyes.

"Yes, you are," I agree with her. "And you guys are all so good at it already."

"Jake makes it easy," Daniel comments, passing baby Jake to April. "He's so easy to handle."

"Oh you say that now," I assert, "but you haven't seen him when he is at his most naughty. He can be quite a handful."

Jake picks up a stick on the ground and starts thumping the grass with it, smiling in that sweet, bright way of his.

———

"I love Mama!" Jake exclaims, two years old and bright-eyed. How he manages to be so happy despite everything is beyond me. At two years old, the boy has already seen death multiple times. We all see death all around us. Everyone is taken too fast, too young, some younger than others.

"Mama loves you too," I sing-song to him. We are all huddled together by the fire in our hut. Me and Davie and Amy and Jake. It's the middle of winter. That at least means that there is less work for us to do. But it also means that everything is dead cold.

Amy looks at Jake and, silently, she smiles.

"Why Mama no talk?" Jake asks.

"Because, sweetheart, a bad man took Mama's talking away from her."

"Meanie."

"Yes, he is indeed."

"Story time?"

"Sure, Jake." I begin to tell him a story, about how a raven stole the sun from a bad man and restored light to the world. [Author’s note: This is a real story from the Haida people. Check it out.]

———