Child of the Storm
Darkening clouds tumble in across the crystal-blue sky, blocking out the fading light of evening; black ink spilt across paper. The applewood-scented air begins to thicken with electric energy as the faint sound of whinnying horses carries across on the breeze.
Down in the valley a handful of Romany caravans huddle together as if seeking shelter in the growing anticipation of the storm. The grass of the valley floor sweeps in the strengthening wind, bowing in unison before a great emperor.
The first droplets of rain fall to the dusty ground and are quickly absorbed into the earth. Within seconds the velvet sky erupts into a solid sheet of precipitation, soaking plant and animal with the fury of the sea itself. The small caravans rock from side to side, joining the grass in its respect for the storm.
In the distance a crackle of lightning illuminates the sky for a split second before disappearing back into the darkness. A wolf baring its fangs before the attack.
The entire land is filled with an atmosphere of submission, like a wide-eyed child knowing it has done wrong and is about to be dealt a punishment.
Suddenly, a piercing scream cuts through the tamed valley, caught by the wind and sent to every corner of the earth. The door to a caravan is flung open and a huge, rugged gypsy stumbles out, a look of panic set on a face so weathered by time you would have thought it incapable of fear.
Stumbling in the grip of the gale, he breaks into a run and heads towards another caravan at the far end of the group. Even before he reaches it, the door opens and a shawled figure steps out. The two meet, and with a look of urgency the man clasps the hand of the other and hurries her back to his home.
Once inside, the shawl removed, an old but kind-faced gypsy woman sets to work.
“Is the water boiled?” she asks, looking to the pot on the fireplace.
The man nods.
“Then I shall need cloths and briendweed. Be quick about it.”
As the man sets about tearing strips of cloth from an old blanket, the crone removes a handkerchief from her pocket and begins mopping the brow of the young woman in the bed.
“Everything will be all right my dear,” she whispers, placing a carved stick in one of her sweat-streaked palms. “You just hold this, and squeeze it hard when the pain comes. Everything will be all right...”
The man hands the rags to the crone and fetches steaming water from the fire. He pours half of it into one bowl, then produces a bundle of herbs from a draw, places them in another bowl, and pours the rest of the water over.
The old woman draws back the covers of the bed and pushes up the young woman’s nightgown. Quickly soaking a couple of the rags in boiling water, she begins to mop the lady’s thighs.
Within minutes the briendweed has turned the water in the bowl a deep shade of purple. The man stirs it quickly and pours some into a cup, passing it to the crone.
“Drink this my dear, it will help with the pain.”
The young woman retches once more and clasps a trembling hand around the cup. Her thick brown locks are clammy with sweat, her face contorted with agony. She takes a few shaky sips before another wave of pain makes her double up, dropping the cup to the floor. The rugged man falls to his knees by the bed, wrapping his arms around her and rocking gently. Meanwhile, the crone continues to mop the young woman’s thighs before picking up the cup and pouring another dose of the liquid.
As the first light of dawn struggles to break the grey sky, and the rain begins to subside, the other members of the camp start to rise, braving the weather to collect more wood for their fires and round up the distressed horses.
Inside the caravan the man sits on a stool by the bed, cradling his wife’s soaked head in his arms. The crone is perched at the end of the covers with a tired frown on her face.
A roar of thunder heralds the new day and the horses can be heard screaming in fear.
The young lady raises her head and moistens her parched lips with her tongue.
“The gods are welcoming our child, my love.”
At the exact moment she passed away, the cries of a newborn baby could be heard throughout the camp.
The clouds dispersed.
The clouds dispersed.
