Kompera
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Sacred
🕑 Added 2021-12-30 03:02:04 +0000 UTCNote: This is a story-prompt for Daniel Craft.
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The recent allegations of witchcraft were both terrifying and thrilling, though Margaret remain politely mute whenever the hushed discussion came up around her family’s dining table. Someone had accused their very neighbor. Margaret and her siblings were therefore forbidden from associating with Ann Weaver, whose property bordered her father’s pasture. Despite all the recent controversies in Salem that year, nothing could deter Margaret from her brisk daily walk with her sister, not even the fact that it was her wedding day.
On their way back to the farm, Margaret heard a shriek behind her. Startled, she spun around to see Ann Weaver herself on her knees beside a pile of rocks.
“The sacred cairns!” Ann cried, gripping her face in hysteria. Then she slowly lifted her head and pointed a long, arthritic finger straight at Margaret.
It was only then that Margaret realized that she must have knocked some of the stones down while she was walking by. They had been arranged in an odd pile, presumably by children. She could see two other women hurrying out of Ann’s house, going to Ann’s aid, trying to get the older woman to her feet.
Margaret felt a tug on her sleeve.
“Come,” her sister entreated, and Margaret allowed herself to be tugged back towards her father’s farmhouse.
“You will pay for what you have done!” was the last thing Margaret heard from Ann, before she in her sister ran home.
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Nine months later, Margaret was a married woman and ripe with child. She couldn’t believe how much her life had changed, but it was a true blessing. Arthur positively doted on her at times. Their child was due any day, and she couldn’t have been happier.
Margaret hadn’t heard anything from Ann again, and so she assumed the matter with the stones had long since been forgotten. The allegations against Ann and her friends continued to pile. There were talks of trials and executions. Margaret tried not to worry herself with these things. It was too upsetting. Witchcraft, really?
A fortnight passed.
Margaret’s baby was growing big and strong, always moving around, making a fuss. Both she and Arthur knew he was past due to make his entrance into the world, but the little one seemed to be taking his time, giving his mother a hard time even before he had been born. They laughed about it sometimes, but Margaret was growing quite weary and flustered. She had heard stories of the women who couldn’t push their little ones free, and so she was worried as well.
Another two weeks passed. The baby had not slowed down at all in his growth. Sometimes she joked about how big he was. But lately, Arthur looked worried as well. At night he would rub his hand along her swell, as she slumped against her pillows, breathing heavily. The child was heavy, getting bigger every day, swelling her up. She prayed that labor would come soon.
In another week, the midwife came and gave her some herbal teas and roots to chew on, in hopes to encourage the child to pass. In another week, Arthur called the doctor, who looked worrisomely perplexed, as he looked upon Margaret’s belly that quivered with activity.
“I have never seen a child grow so large, still inside his mother,” the doctor told them. “I’m afraid there just isn’t…any hope to give birth to a child this size. You should say your goodbyes. Neither mother nor child could survive.” Now the doctor’s eyes were downcast. He would not hold Margaret’s gaze.
It was devastating news, but Margaret blinked back her tears. She was still full of life, and so was her child, always writhing inside of her. The following day, Arthur took her to church.
Margaret had not left her home in a while. Her back ached, her hips were sore, and most of her time was spent in bed these days. So she had not anticipated the astonished looks, as people stared and whispered. She realized that she really must have looked quite unusual, a month and a half past term, her belly bulging prominently in her dress skirts. She is 1 looked just massive.
Her dress was tight at the chest, her breasts already swollen with milk for the child she could not release. She had started leaking the week before. She had thought it a good omen, but nothing had come of it, no hints of contractions.
“My dear child,” her mother appeared, taking her hands. “My, oh my, oh my,” the woman seemed at a loss of other words, as she stared at Margaret’s stomach.
“The…the child is strong,” Margaret managed breathlessly.
Her mother opened her mouth, then pressed it closed, and offered a tight nod. “Yes, my dear,” she said weakly, looking rather frail at that moment. “Let us find you a seat.”
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When Margaret was two months past term, she told Arthur about the witch. Because by then, she was absolutely certain that Ann was, indeed, a witch.
Her belly was a large, tight ball, perched on her thighs when she was sitting down. Her navel was sticking out like a very large pebble. The mass was constantly twitching with some movement or the other, or quavering as she rubbed it and panted, urging the child to calm down. She was constantly flushed and sweaty, breasts round and full like honeydews, nipples bulging out and leaking frequently. There was scarcely a gown that could still fit her.
“So she cursed you,” Arthur concluded, his face contorted with indignation. “Where is this witch?” he demanded.
“Executed,” Margaret managed. “A month ago.”
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In another two weeks, she could hardly walk at all. Her abdomen resembled a boulder, her baby constantly squirming, as though seeking out more space. She grunted out and clutched it most of the day, pleading with him to calm down. She knew their days were numbered. If he grew another inch, she was certain he would split her.
Her mother and sister would visit. Often her sister would bring her own child for Margaret to nurse, if to help ease the discomfort of Margaret’s breasts being so swollen, so keen to feed.
“Errrghhhhhh!” Margaret cried out, sitting upright in bed, thighs spread to make way for her massive belly. Her face was red, a vein bulging across her forehead, as she strained. But not in labor. She was at capacity! “The child — is strong!” She huffed out, before descending to another long groan of pain, hugging her heaving abdomen. He would persevere! Somehow, some way.
Her mother fretted, and her sister did her best to comfort, wiping the sweat, rubbing her massive, strained mound. It shuddered forcefully. Margaret arched her throat, screaming out once more.
