not speak again until it had receded.
'Where is she then?'
Kirsten Pedersdatter did not come until after midnight. There was no sleep in the house save for the apprentice up in the
attic. Hans had kept up in his shop working in a fixed silence that he did not break even when he unlocked the door to her.
He made no acknowledgement that he knew either her or the cause of her coming, but let her pass him and go to Cave who had
descended the stairs at her knock.
'At last,' said Thomas Cave. 'You said you would come when she needed you. What kept you?'
She did not bother to reply. Her lips pursed over her teeth and the look in her eyes was too sharp for him. She told him to
make the women who were watching go. And when they were alone, she had Johanne lie on her back on the floor where she could
handle her most easily and pulled up her nightgown to expose the great pained whale of her belly. She knelt then beside her
and with those pale hands felt her systematically, prodded and pressed, spread her legs wide and folded them up and felt between
them.
'I thought so. I thought it was too soon. It is far sooner than it should be. I do not know why it has started now.'
'What can you do?'
'I? I can do little but wait, like you. And tell her also to wait, to be patient. Have her waters gone?'
'No. Nothing has occurred but the pain.'
'Then there is still a chance that this may settle. The baby is the wrong way up, and too high in her. Perhaps I could give
her belladonna to still the spasms and that would give more time for it to move.'
'Do that then.'
'Wait. Not so urgent. I will watch awhile, I will see how it is going.'
And she told him to sleep and he went to sleep in the room next to that one which was Hans's room, and as he left he saw her
go down on the floor again and press and pummel with her strong white hands, and heard her begin to speak some long spiel
in a rhythmic undertone whose words he could not catch.
He must have gone to sleep still listening to it because when he woke the first thing he noticed was the silence in the house.
There was not a sound from her room, barely a sound from the sleeping city save for the clock chimes and the early cockerels.
Hans slept on the bed beside him: so he had at last put away his work and pulled himself upstairs, and Thomas Cave had been
unconscious of his coming. There was grey light enough to make out his form, scrunched to the side with the blanket pulled
over and one thin leg bent from it, shuddering slighdy with his exhalations ofbreath. When a dog barked somewhere close to
the house he rolled over and began to snore, a soft rattling snore, as another dog took up the call and a wave of barking
spread through the district. Thomas Cave took himself up then, gentle beside the other man, and creaked through to the room
where the women waited.
Kirsten Pedersdatter sat in an upright chair close to the window, arms dangling, body limp as if she slept but her eyes open,
watching. Her patient lay on the bed now, coiled as far as her bulk would allow her. He could not see if she was asleep or
awake, and before he could come closer Kirsten Pedersdatter put a finger to her lips and led him out to the landing and down
the stairs.
In the thin daylight of the parlour below she spoke.
'I have given her something to help her sleep a little. She is going to need all the strength that God can give her.'
It had begun, she said, not as childbirth but as a disturbance of the womb. She could not tell the cause but looked out where
the last star faded and the sun rose between the roofs in a painful streak of pink. She shrugged: God's will; an evil eye.
'Or just luck,' said Thomas Cave. 'Chance? Or the way she is made, some inherited feature like that hair of hers or her blue
eyes, but this a flaw, some flaw in her body passed down from her mother? Did you know that her mother died at her birth?'
'I know because I was there. But be reassured, it was not like this, it
'Where is she then?'
Kirsten Pedersdatter did not come until after midnight. There was no sleep in the house save for the apprentice up in the
attic. Hans had kept up in his shop working in a fixed silence that he did not break even when he unlocked the door to her.
He made no acknowledgement that he knew either her or the cause of her coming, but let her pass him and go to Cave who had
descended the stairs at her knock.
'At last,' said Thomas Cave. 'You said you would come when she needed you. What kept you?'
She did not bother to reply. Her lips pursed over her teeth and the look in her eyes was too sharp for him. She told him to
make the women who were watching go. And when they were alone, she had Johanne lie on her back on the floor where she could
handle her most easily and pulled up her nightgown to expose the great pained whale of her belly. She knelt then beside her
and with those pale hands felt her systematically, prodded and pressed, spread her legs wide and folded them up and felt between
them.
'I thought so. I thought it was too soon. It is far sooner than it should be. I do not know why it has started now.'
'What can you do?'
'I? I can do little but wait, like you. And tell her also to wait, to be patient. Have her waters gone?'
'No. Nothing has occurred but the pain.'
'Then there is still a chance that this may settle. The baby is the wrong way up, and too high in her. Perhaps I could give
her belladonna to still the spasms and that would give more time for it to move.'
'Do that then.'
'Wait. Not so urgent. I will watch awhile, I will see how it is going.'
And she told him to sleep and he went to sleep in the room next to that one which was Hans's room, and as he left he saw her
go down on the floor again and press and pummel with her strong white hands, and heard her begin to speak some long spiel
in a rhythmic undertone whose words he could not catch.
He must have gone to sleep still listening to it because when he woke the first thing he noticed was the silence in the house.
There was not a sound from her room, barely a sound from the sleeping city save for the clock chimes and the early cockerels.
Hans slept on the bed beside him: so he had at last put away his work and pulled himself upstairs, and Thomas Cave had been
unconscious of his coming. There was grey light enough to make out his form, scrunched to the side with the blanket pulled
over and one thin leg bent from it, shuddering slighdy with his exhalations ofbreath. When a dog barked somewhere close to
the house he rolled over and began to snore, a soft rattling snore, as another dog took up the call and a wave of barking
spread through the district. Thomas Cave took himself up then, gentle beside the other man, and creaked through to the room
where the women waited.
Kirsten Pedersdatter sat in an upright chair close to the window, arms dangling, body limp as if she slept but her eyes open,
watching. Her patient lay on the bed now, coiled as far as her bulk would allow her. He could not see if she was asleep or
awake, and before he could come closer Kirsten Pedersdatter put a finger to her lips and led him out to the landing and down
the stairs.
In the thin daylight of the parlour below she spoke.
'I have given her something to help her sleep a little. She is going to need all the strength that God can give her.'
It had begun, she said, not as childbirth but as a disturbance of the womb. She could not tell the cause but looked out where
the last star faded and the sun rose between the roofs in a painful streak of pink. She shrugged: God's will; an evil eye.
'Or just luck,' said Thomas Cave. 'Chance? Or the way she is made, some inherited feature like that hair of hers or her blue
eyes, but this a flaw, some flaw in her body passed down from her mother? Did you know that her mother died at her birth?'
'I know because I was there. But be reassured, it was not like this, it
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