UK-based author Stephen Barnard has been writing and self-publishing both fiction and non-fiction for a number of years. He predominantly writes horror / suspense, and has a number of short story collections and novels available. He has also written the science fantasy trilogy, 'Portentous' and the sports biography 'Calamity Cricket'. His latest release is the novel 'No One Is Leaving' - a contemporary vampire tale in a snow-bound setting. When he's not writing he sometimes teaches, parents, reads and binge-watches horror films.
FIRST BORN
by
Stephen Barnard
Henry Jackson paced nervously in front of his bedroom door. He listened out for tell-tale sounds, and checked it hadn’t opened just a crack, allowing him a glimpse of the labour inside. It was firmly shut; his wife’s cries, and the midwife’s words of encouragement, were stifled by solid oak.
He glanced at the other person in their living room. A brother from the sect was sitting by the largest window of the cabin, peering out across the village as the sun began to illuminate the horizon. He was looking towards a particular property, even though it could not be seen from this vantage point. By his heel was a small bucket of glittering powder. To his left, the fire spat and crackled.
‘Anything?’ Henry asked.
‘Nothing,’ he replied.
Henry turned his attention back to his bedroom. Ruth was yowling and the midwife’s voice rose. ‘Nearly there, dear! A big breath! A focused push!’
Not good. Henry beat a fist against the door. ‘May I enter?’
It wasn’t the midwife who answered, but another brother from the sect. ‘No you cannot, Jackson: you know the rules!’
One watches the birth, another mans the fire. Henry whirled round towards the other. ‘Nothing from the Woodhouse cottage?’
‘I told you,’ he muttered, continuing his vigil.
Daylight brightened the room; Henry’s shadow fell on his bedroom door. He rapped his knuckles again. ‘Hold on, Ruth! Wait a while longer!’
‘Jackson!’ yelled the brother behind the door. ‘You mustn’t interfere!’
The midwife scolded. ‘She’s ready; holding back may harm them both.’ Her attention then returned to Ruth. ‘You must do it, girl: the longer the delay the more blood you’ll lose.’
Ruth didn’t speak, but continued to moan her pain. Henry hammered on the door with both fists. ‘Hold, Ruth! Hold!’
The door opened and Henry nearly fell in, bumping into the stout brother who had wedged himself into the gap. A strong hand pushed him away. ‘One more interruption, Jackson, and you’ll be reported to the sheriff for correction!’
Henry didn’t respond, but jumped up to catch a glimpse of his bed. Ruth lay on blood-soaked sheets, legs spread with the midwife lodged between them. He couldn’t see his wife’s face.
I need to be with her. Damn the sect and the sheriff. He would push his way in. He braced himself, ready to launch.
‘Wait!’ shouted the brother by the window. ‘Something’s happening!’
Henry changed his plan and stumbled over to his living room companion. They looked out across the village. Their world was now fully visible, the morning sun extending its touch to every building. The cabin was followed by others, similar in construction, and then a copse of trees flanking the village green. Through the gaps, glimpses of the church and the great hall. More houses beyond, and a specific, unseen location.
‘There,’ said the brother, directing Henry’s eyes with a point.
A column of smoke rose above the trees and roofs. All the families had been told – no matter the winter morning chill – not to light a fire until they were told it was permissible. The whole village knew what was happening. And what was at stake.
‘It’s been there all morn, same as yours,’ said the brother. ‘But it just got thicker. And brighter.’
‘I can see colour!’
‘Not yet.’ The bucket was in the brother’s hand, swaying slightly.
Then it became obvious in the distant smoke: a little pink at first, followed by billowing shades of crimson. It soon looked like a bloody smear up a length of sky.
The brother called over Henry’s head in the direction of the bedroom. ‘It’s the signal from the Woodhouse property! The first born of the year!’ He placed down the bucket of powder.
From the bedroom the midwife cheered, then announced: ‘Come on, girl: let’s have this baby!’
Henry felt an arm over his shoulder; suddenly the brother was more personable. ‘You’re to be a father, Henry. Have a thought of consolation for Josiah and Annie Woodhouse, but cherish this day.’
‘I will – I’ll pass on condolences. But now… might I?’
‘See your wife? Of course.’
Henry thought about how close they’d come. Since Ruth fell pregnant they feared it. To have the first born of the year was the dread of every family. To have their child not live a day before its still beating heart was removed and deposited in the village well, nourishment for them all for the forthcoming year. That fate would now befall the Woodhouse child. And as for them?
Henry didn’t even reach the bedroom door before an infant cry filled the cabin, followed by Ruth’s ecstatic sobbing. He burst through into the bedroom; this time the stout brother did not stop him. The first thing Henry saw was the midwife placing the bloodied, wriggling babe in Ruth’s arms. ‘A girl,’ she said, beaming.
‘Sarah,’ Ruth replied. A grin took over her wearied face. Henry reciprocated, and hugged them both. The brother left them and entered the living room.
By the main door, the second brother was startled by a sharp knock. He opened it, to reveal another of the sect on the front step. He’d been running and was panting to get his breath. He pushed his blood-streaked hands against his knees.
He was beckoned into the cabin. ‘What is it?’
‘We… we were too hasty. The Woodhouse child…’
‘We saw the signal.’
The man straightened. ‘It was stillborn. No good.’
Meaningful stares were exchanged. Two of them barged their way into the bedroom, ignoring the cries of the new parents.
The remaining brother, the one who had been in charge of the powders, sighed and picked up the bucket. He tossed the contents onto the open fire, and stepped back as the hearth blazed red. Instantly it was thick with scarlet smoke, before it was sucked up inside the chimney breast.
Challenging work, but at least they knew now that they were in for a good year.