Sarah Ashwood
Pain. Clenching her jaws to hold back the screams, she panted noisily through her teeth. Her fists clenched and unclenched; her toes curled and uncurled; her back arched and relaxed. The agony surged and receded, surged and receded.
Why must this be so difficult? Why?
Around her, against a backdrop of the green forest where she had come to gather flowers, the midwives fluttered and fussed. They wove in and out, up and down, back and forth. Their gaily colored wings caught the sunlight—reflecting it, absorbing it.
She did not understand, this sweat-soaked maiden with the red-brown hair. But they did. In time, so would she. She would understand that the Life Giver had chosen her for a sacred task; in her womb, as she slept, had been implanted the life-force of an extraordinary being. In order to become beautiful, to live and to thrive, it needed human flesh.
Unlike the girl in the throes of childbirth, the winged midwives understood all this. They understood, because what she struggled to bring forth was like them. It started out life as an ugly thing: slow, creeping, crawling along inch by inch. In its corporeal form, a newly-formed life-force is not much to look at. It needed more. Thus, when the time was right, the Life Giver inserted it carefully into a warm cocoon—in this case, a maiden's womb. There, wrapped in nine months of sleep, rest, growth, feeding, nurturing, darkness, wet, warmth, and dreams, it changed. It grew. It altered. Meanwhile, the Life Giver sent it visions, visions filled with knowledge it would need. The Life Giver also sent it magic, power meant to better the world. At last, when the time was ripe, it would come forth.
It was coming forth now.
The maiden felt it—knew the time had come. The urge to push came from somewhere deep within, somewhere bottomless and primal: a reservoir of pain and strength that only the laboring mother knows. She heeded the call. With a final shove, a final spasm of pain that ripped her body, a final scream that burst from her lips, she pushed. The being burst forth in a shower of blood, mucus, and water. Instantly the midwives descended upon it, fluttering their wings, wielding their magic.
Shortly, the maiden's wounds were healing. As her strength was rapidly restored, the babe was separated from her body and cleaned. Now, its slick, wet skin shining as brightly as a copper coin, slowly—almost painfully—it unfurled its wings. The midwives watched, sending it strength. Gingerly, it tested those wings, fluttering them, beating them, and finally rose to the skies, followed by the midwives.
Joyous, it flew on those wondrous wings, giggling and shrieking with glee. Blonde curls whipping about its cherubic cheeks, it dove towards its mother. She who had given it birth pushed herself aright, laughing, raising her hands in wonder. The baby, excited by its mother's voice, dashed downward on dazzling wings and flew into her arms. It tangled wee fists in her red-brown hair. Aye, it was small now, even for a babe born of human flesh, but in time it would grow. All in good time.
For now, the butterflies, winged midwives, danced merrily around mother and child.
A fairy was born.
© Copyright 2009 Sarah Ashwood