Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn (43 page)

My husband wanted nothing to do with the
birthing, and would not come looking. He could not protest that I
dampened the edge of my shirt in a nearby stream to clean her, or
that I held her to my chest with her head pressed close under my
chin and my arms wrapped tenderly around her. I was stealing this
guilty time with my child before returning her to the spirits.

Her wailing stopped and we both slept.

When I awoke, the sun was higher in the sky.
I would have to show myself to my husband, and apologize that I
could not present him with a child.

My poor child was exhausted from the effort
it had taken her to come to me, and still slept. Her mouth made
soft sucking motions and her tiny belly moved up and down with each
breath. She was warm and soft, and possessed, it seemed to me, of
extraordinary beauty. She took in a deep breath and gave out a
little sigh, and at the sound, tears sprang to my eyes. I studied
her ear, the most perfect ear I had ever seen, and ran my finger
over it, staring at it with pride and wonder.

I felt her hair, soft as goose down, then
pressed my nose to it and smelled. She smelled sweet. She had the
smell given by nature to all infants as a safeguard against mothers
who might not be inclined to care for them, as I was not inclined
(or rather, as I was forbidden to do). It triggers something in the
human brain, and stirs something in the heart. It is a smell to
make a mother drunk with instinct, and it filled my nostrils,
saturating my brain. I pulled my face away, and took gulps of air
to clear my head.

I had to leave her now. I placed her upon the
ground and squatted beside her. It was my duty to smother her, or
drown her. I had done this any number of times in my imagination,
preparing myself for just this contingency, bracing myself for an
infant that was female. I had worked carefully to harden the part
of my heart that would want to let her live, and had deliberately
turned that part of me cold. In my mind, it was easy: she died
quickly and I could walk away satisfied that I had performed my
duty to my family. In my imagination, she was merely a lump of
tenuous life, not a person, and no feelings welled up inside of me
to complicate the scene.

But in reality, she woke and cried.

I could not let her cry. I would hold her for
just one more moment and smother her afterwards, I decided. I
picked her up, and held her to my breast where her tiny, beautiful
mouth rested and suckled contentedly like a little animal’s. I had
no milk yet, having just given birth, and I gave nothing to her at
all, yet she seemed to feel that I had. I wished she did not trust
me so much, and ran my finger down her cheek. I wished I at least
had milk for her.

I softly sang a funeral dirge to her, as a
good-bye. She opened her eyes, yawned, then went back to sleep.

I could easily kill her now, I thought. She
would feel no pain. She would feel a greater pain in being allowed
to live as a child of the Fire Horse. Deciding to do it now, I
quickly moved to set her back upon the ground, but as I did, her
tiny arms shuddered and threw themselves outward. It was as if she
were afraid to fall. In that single, small, reflexive,
self-preserving motion, she broke my heart.

With uncharacteristic determination, I picked
her up again and rocked her, then lowered her and propped her
against me on the ground so my hands were free. I tore the bottom
of my shirt into rags and stuffed them between my legs to catch the
blood. I pulled on my trousers with one hand, cradled her head with
the other, then fashioned a sling out of my undershirt and tied her
to my chest. I returned slowly, and in pain, to the fields where my
husband looked up approvingly, seeing the child, knowing it could
only be male, if I were carrying it back with me.

“A son!” He said approvingly.

I said nothing and looked down.

“You would not dare bring me a daughter,
yes?” He chuckled at the absurdity of the thought.

I glanced at him for just a split second with
a stubborn jaw, then looked down again. My shoulders were stiff,
and my hands were clenched.

“Let me see the infant.” He reached for
her.

Head down, I stepped backward and did not
offer her to him. Then, seeing my husband was furious with my
insolence, I stepped again to protect myself.

He leaned toward me, and swiftly struck me
across the face. I lifted my head slowly, and stared straight into
his eyes with an expression so enraged and so defiant he was taken
aback. His eyes flickered, much as they did when his mother
shouted. Then, remembering I was his wife, his anger grew twofold.
He struck me again. Rather than face him with my head lowered as I
always did, I stared back at him, unblinking, and raised myself to
my full height. He lifted his fist again to frighten me. I still
stared without flinching, without noticing the fist or the pain
from his blows.

He nervously turned his eyes away from mine
before I had yet to blink. He hesitantly lowered his arm.

“It is a girl,” I said calmly, studying him
with more wild threat in my eyes than I knew. “She will not marry
well, of course, but I will need her to help me with the chores. If
you wish, she will be mine alone.” I would sort out the task of
caring for her as an outcast of the family at a later time.

“Leave her,” my husband ordered.

I caught his eye and stared. “And next time,
I will have a son for you,” I continued as if he had not
spoken.

“Did you hear me, wife? I said
leave
her!” He was outraged and a little frightened. I had never
challenged him before.

“I would now like to show you your little
daughter, Husband.”

He turned away. “I do not want to see
it.”

“She would like to see
you
. She has
your mouth, and your esteemed mother’s eyes.” I did not coax or
placate. I spoke the words pleasantly, without expression, staring
intently at him with eyes of fire that burned a hole into his
thoughts, and disturbed his assuredness.

He stood and did not move.

I pulled the baby out of the sling and held
her out to my husband who looked at her grudgingly then looked away
again.

“She has your honored mother’s eyes,” I
repeated, bowing my head. “See?”

“I will not see.”

“See?” I insisted. “Your honored mother’s
eyes.” I pushed the baby in front of his face, close enough for him
to smell her. His nose twitched. “I could not leave a baby with the
eyes of my esteemed mother-in-law.”

My husband peered down reluctantly, studied
her and shook his head. “Her eyes are my eyes,” he said. “And my
nose as well.” He looked at her with more interest and a little
triumph. “I see nothing of you, in her. She is the image of
me.”

“I could not leave an infant who was the
image of you, my honored husband,” I said humbly, bowing my
head.

We arrived at the house together, and I knelt
before my mother-in-law to present the infant. I was quaking
inside. I did not know what to expect from her fury. She could cast
me out, or burden me with tasks that would kill me, or simply speak
to me with more derision than she already did. Perhaps it would be
the last . . . perhaps she would feel mercy toward the child if she
saw it.

The rest of the family stood around us,
watching. Some viewed me with amusement; all viewed me with
contempt.

“I beg you humbly for forgiveness,” I said
with my forehead touching the floor. “It is a daughter.”

The woman stared, and said nothing.

I waited.

“Take the child away,” she said finally.
There was no mercy in her voice, or in her eyes.

“It will be no trouble, my esteemed mother,”
my husband said. “It will be trained to do the chores.” He hung his
head, then knelt beside me on the floor.

“Why is the child not dead?” My mother-in-law
snapped. “You have a duty to obey me. You will take it out and
leave it for the wolves.”

It did not occur to anyone to be appalled at
the suggestion. They looked at me sternly, in agreement, more
inured to the killing of female infants than they were to a woman’s
flagrant disrespect toward her mother-in-law. Vacillating and weak,
my husband swiftly moved into their camp where it was safer, and
looked over at me with an expression that mirrored their
disapproval, even as he knelt in supposed supplication for the same
reason as I.

I was alone in this fight.

“I will leave as well,” I said softly to
myself. There were gasps from those close enough to hear, then
laughter, and my words were repeated more loudly so my
mother-in-law could share in the joke.

“You cannot,” she chortled. “Where would you
go, an ugly, useless, clumsy, big-footed field girl? Who would have
you? You could not even sell yourself, except to blind fishermen,
and even they can do better than you.”

I said nothing.

“Take the child away.”

I stood and bent over in a deep bow and took
my daughter out, presumably to leave her to die. However, I kept
walking. I was shocked and frightened by the intensity of my
determination. It was unlike me to question my elders, or to be
defiant in the face of their commands. I did not know where the
willfulness came from, or what would become of me as a result of
it. I was ashamed of myself, but could do nothing except walk away
from all of them, carrying an infant with no life to look forward
to anyway.

I made a walking stick of a fallen branch,
and leaned on it heavily. It was not easy walking, having given
birth only hours before. Had I been more respected, or perhaps more
loved, another might have volunteered to spare me the pain of this
chore and do it for me. However, the killing of my child was my
task alone. I thought it a fortunate burden, as I walked toward the
sparing of her life.

It was not hard for my husband to catch up to
me. When an hour had passed and I still did not return, he went
looking for me. He took a false turn or two, allowing me to press
on farther than I otherwise might have, but he easily covered the
distance when he spotted me on the road. He said nothing, when he
reached me.

I looked at him, and continued to walk.

“Stop!” He shouted, finally.

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“We must,” he said.

“I cannot,” I answered.

“We must obey.”

“I will not,” I said.

“You are my wife!” he screamed. Spittle shot
from his mouth, and onto my face.

“Not as of this instant,” I whispered,
staring down. I glanced up at him for just long enough to catch his
eye and give him a look that was both dangerous, and oddly,
inappropriately, commanding and powerful. Then I hung my head
again.

He stared at me with disbelief and flew into
a rage.

“This is what I get for taking pity on you!
No one else would marry you, and this is why!
This!
This
is why a Horse woman cannot—and should not—be chosen as
a mate. You are too headstrong for a woman.” He muttered, “Horses
always are. And this girl would be even worse. This girl would be
uncontrollable.” This was the very first indication that I might be
headstrong. This was the very first incident that even suggested
so. I was meek and dutiful, always. From birth, any tendency toward
independent thought or disrespect had been carefully, methodically
and purposely eradicated from my nature.

“Then you are well-rid of us,” I snapped.
“You are now free to find yourself a better wife and to father a
better child,” My tone of voice threw my husband into a state of
frightened confusion, and he blanched.

I did not mention that he had tried for a
better pairing, before settling for me. As the youngest son of a
large peasant family, he had no expectation of inheritance or
fortune, nor could any wife of his expect more than I received.
There were no women queued up to replace me. There had been none
queued up before my parents offered me. I was the best that he
could do.

“I command you.” His words trembled
unsteadily.

“She is mine.”

“
You
are
mine
—and you will do
as I say!”

“I bid you good-bye,” I responded, and
continued to walk.

He grabbed my walking stick and struck me
with it until I fell, bleeding. He kicked me. The infant howled on
the ground, for she had torn loose from her sling and was hurt, how
badly I did not know, but the cries seemed to indicate that it was
serious. My husband aimed his foot at her, then hesitated, and
kicked me again, full force in the stomach. I crawled to my knees
and vomited from the impact, heard the baby cry, and wept myself.
Anger surged through me, and my determination to help her grew to a
panic.

I felt a rush of blood between my legs. Had
he broken something within me?

I tried to move toward the infant, but I was
too weak, and the kick to the stomach had taken away my breath. I
attempted it again, forcing myself. I would do this. I would fight
him. She was just out of reach, and her cries sounded odd. What
could it mean, that they sounded this way? I had to hold her and
see. I stretched my arm toward her with no thought but to make it
longer.

My husband placed his foot upon my arm to
stop me. He pushed his weight down hard enough so that I cried out
in protest.

A sense of resignation suddenly overcame me,
and I collapsed.

Was it worth all this? Was it worth it? In
one instant, I threw away my resolve, and decided it was not. I was
exhausted, in pain, and the effort was proving to be futile. It was
easier to obey. I could not force my husband. I had no power to win
against his mother. I had no strength left to fight. Furthermore,
the infant was damaged–I could tell as much from her cries. She
might not even live. Did it really matter that she live? The
fleeting thought “It is only a female” passed through my mind, and
decided me. The defiance that had overtaken me earlier retreated
behind a veil of obedience, and I shut my eyes with shame for
having challenged my husband and defied his mother: I was not being
dutiful.