The Witch of Tin Mountain(13)

Deirdre took her leave from Ing and trundled up the hill, her head pounding with each footfall. Just as she crested the rise, she saw Ebba by the fence row, sitting on the ground. She was drawing in the dirt with a stick, her scabbed knees akimbo. As Deirdre approached, she raised her turquoise eyes and made a small grunt at the back of her throat.

“Hello, Ebba,” Deirdre said, stopping to catch her breath. “What are you drawing?”

Ebba pointed her finger at one of her drawings—a bird sitting on a fence post. “Kr?ka.”

“Ah. So you do talk. But I don’t speak your language, remember?” Every now and again, Deirdre could parse a Swedish word or phrase that sounded like Pa’s broken German, but this wasn’t a word she was familiar with.

Ebba smiled knowingly. With a rush of wings, a crow lit on the fence post behind Ebba as if it had been summoned. It tilted its black head, beady eyes glinting. Ebba pointed from the crow to her drawing. “Kr?ka.”

“Crow!” Deirdre exclaimed.

Ebba nodded. “Cr . . . ow,” she said slowly, trying out the sounds of the word. She began scribbling again, her movements frantic. A face emerged from the mud, hair frizzing out from its head in an erratic halo. Ebba jabbed with the stick, once, then twice. Two black eyes peered up at Deirdre from the ground. Ebba pointed at a spot over Deirdre’s shoulder. “Trollkona.”

A chill walked over Deirdre’s skin. “What does that mean, Ebba?”

Ebba shook her head, irritated. She pointed at the drawing again. “H?xa.”

Suddenly, a commotion of hoofbeats came from down the road. Somebody was in a god-awful hurry. She turned from Ebba to look. It was Mama, driving Rosy hard. She brought the wagon up short in the middle of the road. “Come quick,” she panted. “Mrs. Bledsoe’s in a bad way with the baby. I need your help.”

“Lands.” Deirdre picked up her skirts and climbed in the back of the wagon as Mama lashed the traces, sending the little mule wheeling into a turn. Deirdre gripped the sideboard to keep from spilling out as they lurched back down the mountain at a breakneck pace.

Mama was scared. Deirdre could see it in her ashen face and in the tense way she held the reins. She had never lost a birthing mother, not in all her years of midwifery. She’d lost babies, sure enough—but that was just nature. Some weren’t ready to be born, and some were born too late. But if she lost a mother, especially Mrs. Bledsoe, it would be a black mark on her name, one from which she might not recover. It was one thing for a hill woman to die in labor, but another thing entirely if it was a rich man’s wife.

When they got to the Bledsoe mansion, it was nearly dark. Golden light radiated from the window with the fancy balcony, its sash thrown wide. A gut-wrenching cry came from within, then a plea for mercy. Deirdre vaulted herself over the side of the wagon. Mama grasped her wrist like a steel trap, her eyes glinting in the dusk. “That baby ain’t turned, Deirdre. I tried to turn it last week, to no help. It’s comin’ feetfirst.” Mama’s voice fell into a hoarse whisper. “We may have to cut it out. Mrs. Bledsoe will likely pass if that happens. Mr. Bledsoe wants me to send for a doctor, but it’s too late. That doctor down in Fayetteville ain’t worth his salt, anyhow. We’ll do our best, hear?”

“Yes, Mama.”

At the sound of their step on the porch, Mr. Bledsoe flung open the door, his eyes red and swollen, his dark hair fanning out in all directions. “Oh, thank God you’ve returned. Mary is with her, but she’s in a terrible way. She says she’s dying.” He turned his head, but not before Deirdre heard the tears in his voice.

William Bledsoe wasn’t the type to cry. He was the type of man who turned every girl’s head when he strode down the street, his silver-topped walking cane swinging. Those eager girls had grown sullen when he brought home a young Charleston bride late last summer. Hateful as some of them were to his pretty Hannah, they’d likely welcome the news if he became a widower tonight.

Deirdre shook her head to push aside her grim thoughts. “It’ll be all right, Mr. Bledsoe. We’ll take every care with your wife. She’ll pull through just fine.”

He sank onto the fancy velvet sofa by the door. “If the worst happens, will you come for me?”

“We will,” Mama soothed. “But I’ve not lost a mother yet, sir, and I don’t plan on your Hannah being the first.”

Deirdre followed Mama up the stairs, her heart beating a shivering cadence. She’d helped Mama at many a birth—seen the joy when a squalling, red-faced baby was laid on its mother’s breast and felt the weight of sadness when one was born blue and still. But she’d never seen a woman die. And a part of her feared death would visit Hannah Bledsoe like a bird flying through an open window, no matter how hard they tried to stop its wings from beating.

When they entered the bedroom, Hannah’s panicked green eyes met Deirdre’s. She drew her knees up and howled. One tiny purple foot emerged from her sex. Deirdre’s gorge rose. She put her hand to her mouth and turned her head for a moment to quell her biliousness. Mary, the Bledsoes’ maid, leaned over Hannah, murmuring placating words. Her pinafore was streaked with blood.

Mama rushed to the bedside, her face like thunder. “Fool girl! I told you she needed to labor flat on her back! We need to slow things down, not hurry them along.”