In Labor

  

In Labor 

By Kristina Lebedeva

The girl went into convulsions as the summer night threw her darkly shimmering, delicate veil upon her plain castle of a thousand kinds of wood, shades ranging from deep oak and robust red to pale, near-white pink. 

The tall palisade encircled this castle of majestic logs with its earthen force, mingling with the impossibly fine scents of rain-beaten clay, moist soil, and thick, tangled roots. 

The night was unusually luminous, the elaborate dance of the rare silver birds brought to life after the dusk. Some traveled the entire world just to witness the nimble silver in the shifting, breathing darkness, such was its beauty. But some of the common folks felt uneasy this night, without really knowing why, as if they walked over the grave of a man who died an unjust death. They saw splendor, but they sensed a chill of fear and innocence rising. 

As she bit hard into her lip, in a futile effort to contain a scream, a thin thread of scarlet ran down the girl’s strong-featured face, like a sickly worm, together with the shining beads of sweat, but the howl of beastly agony pierced the air all the same. 

It felt like the girl’s chamber kept getting smaller and smaller, until there was nothing, nothing but her narrow bed, with its stained sheets and the young body impaled on it. 

Her short hair of rich copper was still wet after the servants washed it thoroughly with salt, buffalo’s milk, and meticulously crushed herbs. 

The truth took the form of savagery tonight and it was hers. 

Fully, inescapably hers. 

Now she was howling incessantly, halfway between a feral dog and a woman in labor, with a terrible redness to her voice, as her body was shaking so wildly that she could feel the chunk of her own tongue rolling loose inside her mouth, twisting, and thrashing, and twisting, and flailing, and writhing, and twisting, and twisting, and twisting. 

The girl’s eyes were wide open, but she was seeing nooses of bright twine, caravans filled with silks of improbable embroidery and nine new colors no human eye has ever seen, a whirl of corpses, the fool’s bells, a half-open door dripping with honey and amber, along with long-fingered shadows, scratching at her until her trembling body spilled even more hurt-water. 

The others by her side could not bring themselves to meet her gaze, driven by some monstrous power that preceded all languages and all names. 

They were too used to her eyes of calm, almost unbearable lucidity to see it taken away like that. 

The torment reduced the girl’s thoughts to something severe, sharp, and immaculate, like untouched snow, not a thought too many. The holy chastity of pain took hold of her shattered mind, making it whole again. 

How many people have betrayed me? How many men? How many women? How many gods? How many men? How many women? How many people have betrayed me? How many warriors? How many men? How many women? How many commoners? How many lovers? How many men? How many women? How many babes in the cradles? How many neighbors? How many men? How many women? How many friends? How many people have betrayed me? How many men? How many women? How many men? How many strangers? How many men? How many friends? How many women? How many lords? How many men? How many women? How many people have betrayed me? How many, how many, how many, how many, how many? How many people have betrayed me? How many men? How many women? How many babes at the mother’s breast? How many men? How many women? How many lovers? How many strangers? How many, how many, how many, how many, how many, how many, how many, how many?—How many people have betrayed me? 

As the hours passed, haunted by the echoing of a merciless eternity, everyone left, one by one. 

The tiny body grew still, glistening with blood, the towel under the girl’s thighs drowning in urine. 

When she emerged in the morning, exhausted, all but snapped in half, like an idiot-twig, her back was raw, ugly sores, torn muscles, partly exposed bones, and all. 

The girl was staggering, with obvious difficulty, toward the razor-edged point of ascension, her still-bloodied wings opening, probingly and uncertainly, 

in purity and in pride.

*Produced and presented by WildClaw Theater, Chicago, IL

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