The room is filled with neighbours. People from all around. I lean against the pillows on the low cot of the birthing hut, against the wall, breathing hard due to the contractions starting. Beside me, my wife Malati is holding my hand. She's trying to be brave. I can tell that she's trying to hold her emotions in. But I can also tell that she's absolutely terrified. 

Everyone is, from midwife Clara with her dark eyes checking the pulse on my wrist, to old lady Amana holding onto my shoulders. If only the only thing they were all afraid of was the birthing process. If only the only thing to fear was whether the baby would come out okay. 

"Focus on your breathing," Clara speaks to me solemnly. "Try to relax. All that stress is bad for you. Bad for your baby."

"Okay, Clara. I'll try." I take a few deep breaths, in slowly through my nose and out slowly through my mouth, just like I've been taught. But it barely does anything to calm my nerves. 

"There you go," my next door neighbour Yenata whispers to me soothingly. "Just focus on your breathing. Don't focus on the pain. Let it go through you, but just focus on us."

The contractions are coming in harder now. I moan in pain. I grasp tightly to Malati's hand and she grasps back, lifting my hand to her mouth to give me a soft kiss. Clara looks for any signs of my water breaking. Amana murmurs out a string of soothing words in my direction. 

I'm so grateful for all of them. So grateful. 

I focus on the pain ripping and tearing through my insides. It's warm pain. It's pressing pain. It's nice pain. And, for this moment, it's all that I think about. All that I allow myself to think about. I focus my thoughts so that they do not go astray. And I hurt. 

I feel my waters breaking, warm and swift, and I hear the cheers that envelop the crowd. 

"Good job," Amana encourages. "You're doing so well." 

"Thank you," I get out between pants before groaning in pain. 

Everyone's here. Everyone's here with me while I give birth because everyone loves me. They love me. And I have them. No matter what it does I have them. And they can get me through this. Whatever happens next, they can get me through it. 

No. I can't let myself think about whatever happens next. No matter how much it weighs down heavy on me. No matter how much it's been weighing down heavy on me all this time.

My Malati's hand is warm and soft and solid and real against my palm and fingers. It's so solid and real and unmistakably there. She's here to support me. She helped me make this baby and now she's helping me birth them. And I can birth them. I'm strong. I'm loved. And all the love packed tightly into this small room is making me strong. I have to birth this baby. 

But then what? Then what? How do I stop my baby from ...

I scream. And I can't tell if it's because of the pain or if it's because of the fear. But for the moment it scratches out of my throat and bursts through my ears as I close my eyes and double over. 

Midwife Clara holds me by the shoulder and gently keeps me held up.

"There, there," she coos gently. "I know it hurts. Of course it hurts. But you can get through this. You can do it."

"We're here," a lady from the village, Amahi, tells me. "We're all here. And we'll protect you."

They'll protect me. They'll protect me. But who will protect the baby? The baby. The baby who I've protected and nurtured and built up and carried inside my own body for these past nine months. The baby who will be so young and fragile and innocent and tiny and helpless and defenceless and ...

I scream again. And it's more overwhelming and horrible than last time. 

"Stara. Stara." Clara's voice is soft but firm, pressing into me like warmth from a fire. "You have to focus on getting your baby out," she continues. "You have to turn your mind to that. I know it's hard. I know it's so very hard. I feel it too. We all feel it. But the only way this baby has even a chance of staying alive is if you get them out of you."

There are tears in my eyes but what she says is absolutely true. I pant for a moment before nodding my head. The contractions start up again in earnest. And I moan sharply and steadily as pain wracks my body. 

"I can see the head!" Clara exclaims to me. Once again there are cheers all around. 

"You're doing beautifully," Amana encourages, "absolutely beautifully. I'm proud of you. So proud." 

I smile, but it's a trepid thing. I don't feel that it's really there. I don't feel that she really sees it. 

I know that everyone is scared. Maybe not as afraid as I am, but everyone is definitely afraid. And yet they're trying to push it down. They're trying to do anything and say anything that would support me, that would lessen my own fear. I can't say that it's really working, but I appreciate it nonetheless. I appreciate it so much. 

"Stop pushing for a bit," Clara tells me.

"Okay," I manage to get out. I breathe hard as I fight against my impulse to push. 

"You can push again." I feel my body let itself loose. 

"Stay strong. Stay corageous. We're all giving you our energy." Amahi's words make something bright flicker inside of me for the briefest moment. They're giving me their energy. They're all giving me their energy. And because of them I can do this. But I don't want to. 

"I want to keep the baby inside me. It's safe to keep the baby inside me. I don't want to let them out it's too dangerous. It's too dangerous out here." I keep babbling frantically as Clara moves to shush me. 

"Stara. Stara," she softly explains, "the baby will die if they stay inside of you. The baby will die. For sure definitely. If they come out into the world then they have a chance. It's literally the only chance they have, in order to have any sort of a chance at life they need to be born."

And she's right. She's so right. I would be sealing the fate of my baby all by my own self if I did not let them be born. I concede this and I keep pushing again. This has to happen. I have no power to stop it. The only thing I have is hope. Hope that things won't go horribly wrong. 

"The head is almost out!" Clara exclaims. 

"You're doing great, /vitasi/, you're doing great." I wish my wife's words could soothe me. But they don't and it hurts and it hurts so much and it keeps hurting until I can't even keep track of time anymore. 

People keep talking around me. Whispers of prayers and incantations. Prayers for protection. Prayers for healing. Prayers for life. 

Finally, finally, after time uncountable, the baby is in my arms. The hurt doesn't stop. This is the worst part yet. 

I cry, holding the child. The child is crying too. He's a boy, most likely, though obviously it's too early to know for certain. He's beautiful. So unimaginably beautiful that I could never describe it no matter how much I tried. 

He has tiny wisps of soft, dark curls scattered in a tiny tuft all over his head. His light golden skin is so soft and sweet. His arms are tiny, his legs are tiny, his little bitty fingers and toes are so overwhelmingly tiny. His nose is a little, stubby button and his eyes are so big and dark. 

My wife kneels beside me, and gently caresses the baby's face. 

"There, there," I soothe him in a quiet voice. "It's all right. Mommy's here. Mama's here. All your aunts are here. We're all here for you."

I get out my breast and let the tiny child latch onto it, with his tiny, deep pink lips and his little gums. Everything about him is so tender. Everything about him is so delicate. Everything about him is so fragile, so breakable, so ...

"What should we name him?" My wife asks reverently. I turn to look at her for a second. Everything in her face is so incredibly amazed. Everything about her face is so incredibly in love. 

I'm in love. I'm in love with this baby who I'm just now seeing for the first time. There is the steady singing hum of quiet prayer all around me as all eyes are turned to this young new life in my arms. This infinitely precious new life. 

"I think we should name him Honano." My voice is breathless. 

"Honano. Miracle. What a beautiful name," Amana breathes. 

"Yes," Yenata agrees. It's a very beautiful name."

There is more talk all around me as all the ladies all around agree to the name. I simply focus on my little baby miracle sucking at my breast. He gazes up at me with those startling large, deep, dark eyes. And he captivates me entirely. 

It's tender, so tender, oh so very tender, being here, surrounded by so many of the people I love, holding this tiny, precious treasure in my arms. I have to treasure this. I have to treasure it with everything that I have, with everything that is inside me. Because Lifemaker knows that I may not have him for much longer. I may not have my baby for much longer. 

My baby. Our baby. My wife wipes the tears from her eyes beside me. 

One by one each woman moves to my side. One by one each woman traces a protective sigil on the cheek of my baby. I pray that it's enough. It may not be enough. Roughly half of the babies are ... ended. Nearly half of the babies don't make it, no matter how much protection they have. 

"I'll get the carving," Yenata states sombrely. 

"Be careful with it," Amahi calls out after her. 

"Of course I will."

Soon enough she returns, holding a little circle of polished, reddish wood, carved into an intricate geometrical design. My wife and I spent years working on it. We hope it's enough. It might not be enough. 

I relish the feeling of holding the baby in my arms for a few minutes longer. 

And then the air all around us shifts. It grows heavier. Harder. Slightly, imperceptibly hotter. Stuffier. The room grows more stark, everything goes seemingly sharper than it was before. My breath freezes in my chest as I keep my eyes fixated on my little miracle. 

I pushed him out. I pushed him out. I birthed him. Will it all be for nothing? Will those nine long months beforehand be for nothing? 

There is a hissing sound punctuated by a bunch of scratching noises. I lean against my wife. I do not dare to look. I don't need to look. I can feel its horrible, twisted presence inside of to the room, as the hissing grows louder and louder. 

I can't breathe. My breath is frozen, my blood is frozen my heart is frozen, my soul is frozen. I clutch baby Honano tighter. As if I can keep him safe by keeping him in my arms. As if I have any power at all. 

Everyone around me is quiet. My wife, the midwife, my neighbours. All their prayers and chants and muted, hopeful pleading to a deity that may or may not care about us have stilled. They are waiting with bated breath. 

I don't think anyone in the room can breathe. 

Malati kisses the top of my forehead, kisses the cheek of the child. 

"A dirty little thing," a voice remarks, twisted and corrupted and so deeply wrong, "covered in birthing fluids. Sucking like a piglet on its mother's teat." It almost sounds like the disunified buzzing of a thousand horrible bees. It's so very unnatural, down to its very core. 

"Your reverence," Amana speaks, voice fearful yet strong, "it's an honour to have you gracing us here."

"So it is, so it is," the corruption answers darkly, heavily.

The room is dead quiet again for what seems like time uncountable. Nobody knows what to say. Nobody knows what to do. The apprehension comes down all around us, thick and smothering. 

I have faced this before. I have faced this so many times before. Not as a mother, of course, but as a friend and a supporter and a community member. No matter how many times I've done it, it doesn't get any easier. 

"So," it starts again, voice grating and difficult to listen to, "do you have my offering?" 

A woman hands Malati the little carved circle. It's about the size of both of her hands put together. We spent hours and hours each day slaving over this peace of work, trying to get everything just exactly right. We tried to get everything right but maybe we didn't succeed. Maybe we couldn't succeed. 

Almost half the offerings are not deemed good enough. 

My wife leaves my side and I hear a sound somewhat akin to a snake striking. My heart jumps into my throat. I tighten my grip on my little baby. Honano starts crying in my arms. This is not a good sign. Not a good sign at all. 

"It's acceptable," it finally declares, voice slightly interested. I feel like the weight of a thousand boulders has been lifted off of me. Finally, I can breathe again. I let out a long sigh of relief as joy floods through me, bright and hot and sparking all-consuming. 

The air clears up, cool and still and light as it is supposed to be. I look around the room. There are faces of relieved women everywhere. There are no other entities, besides the women. The carving that we made is also gone. 

Abruptly, someone starts singing. A joyous, hopeful song of celebration. We all join in, as I hand the baby to my wife and we share a sweet kiss in the midst of all the women. 

This is a good day. This is a beginning. 

My baby is mine. I can keep him.