The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane(9)

“Your son is giving you a hard time,” A-ma says.

I don’t know if it’s A-ma’s words—your son—or the pleasant way she’s spoken them, as though Deh-ja’s situation is no different from that of any woman who gives birth on Nannuo Mountain, but Deh-ja responds with a smile.

A-ma spreads a piece of embroidered indigo cloth on the birthing mat. On this she places her knife, a length of string, and an egg.

“Deh-ja, I want you to try a different position,” A-ma says. “Move onto your hands and knees. Yes, like that. This time when the pain comes, I want you to take a breath then let it out slowly. No pushing.”

Three hours later, nothing much has happened. A-ma sits back on her haunches and twists the dragon bracelet on her wrist as she considers.

“I think we need to call the spirit priest and the shaman.”

Ci-do’s mother and aunt freeze like they’re barking deer spotted in the forest.

“The ruma and the nima?” There’s no mistaking the panic in Ci-do’s mother’s voice.

“Now. Please,” A-ma orders.

Ten minutes later, Ci-do’s a-ma returns with the two men. No time is wasted. The nima goes into a trance, but Deh-ja’s pains not only don’t ease, they intensify. Her eyes remain closed. I can’t imagine what horrors she must be seeing on the backs of her eyelids. Red agony. Part of me is relieved to know that not every woman goes through this.

Finally, the nima returns to our plane. “Wrong cannot be hidden. An outside spirit is insulted because Deh-ja made a mistake in one of her ancestor offerings.”

The nima doesn’t specify the injustice, but it could have been anything. We make offerings to the mountains, rivers, dragons, heaven. We also make offerings every cycle to our ancestors. All of them involve food, so maybe an offering wasn’t divided properly or a dog grabbed some of it and ate it under the house.

The ruma takes over. He asks for an egg—not the one on the birthing mat, but a new one. “Uncooked,” he demands. The egg is brought, and he passes it over Deh-ja’s body three times as he addresses the spirit. “Don’t eat or drink in this house any longer. Go back to your own place.” He puts the egg in his pocket, then speaks directly to Deh-ja. “You’ve been in labor so long, we’re now on Buffalo Day. Buffalo help humans in their work. Now the spirit of the day will help you sweep the room clean of malevolence.”

Deh-ja groans as her mother-in-law and A-ma help her to her feet. She cannot stand upright. Deh-ja is dragged across the room to the broom. I open my mouth, words of objection forming. A-ma catches sight of me and gives me such a stern look that my mouth snaps shut. I stand there helpless as the nima and the ruma make sure Deh-ja sweeps every corner. She’s naked under her tunic, and bloody liquid snakes down her legs.

When the nima and ruma are satisfied the room is free from the bad spirit, they leave, taking gifts of money, rice, and the egg in the pocket. “Do you have the strength to squat?” A-ma asks as Deh-ja sinks to the birthing mat. Deh-ja whimpers as she gets into position. “Think of your baby slipping out of your body as wet and slick as a fish.”

The sounds that come from Deh-ja are awful—like a dog being strangled. A-ma keeps encouraging her and massaging the opening where the baby will come out. Everything is too red for me, but I don’t look away. I can’t, not after already disappointing A-ma. She’s given me this gift, and I must try to show her my worthiness. Deh-ja’s entire body contracts, pushing hard. Then, just like A-ma said it would, the baby slides out and flops onto the mat. Deh-ja collapses on her side. The older women stare at the baby. It’s a boy, but no one moves to touch or pick him up.

“A baby is not truly born until it has cried three times,” A-ma recites.

He’s much smaller than I expected given how big Deh-ja was when he was inside her. We all count: ten toes, ten fingers; his limbs match—two legs, two arms, equal sizes; no harelip; no cleft palate. He’s perfect. I’ve heard whispered what would happen if he were a human reject. Ci-do would have to . . .

Finally, the little thing cries. He sounds like a jungle bird.

“The first cry is for blessing.” A-ma speaks the ritual words.

He pulls air into his new lungs. This time his cry is even stronger.

“The second cry is for the soul.”

Then comes an ear-piercing wail.

“The third cry is for his life span.” A-ma smiles as she picks him up and hands him to his grandmother. A-ma ties the string around the baby’s cord and cuts it with the knife. Deh-ja pushes a couple of times and what A-ma calls the friend-living-with-child—a gooey red blob—squeezes onto the birthing mat. This is put aside for Ci-do to bury under his parents’ house right below the ancestor altar.

A-ma takes a breath—ready to give the baby his temporary name so that no bad spirits will claim him before he’s awarded his proper name by his father—when Deh-ja suddenly moans. The expressions on the older women’s faces tell me something is terribly wrong. Deh-ja draws her knees to her chest, curling into a ball. A-ma feels Deh-ja’s stomach then quickly draws back her hands as though they’ve been scorched.

“Tsaw caw,” she utters. “Twins. Human rejects.”

Ci-do’s aunt covers her mouth in shock. Ci-do’s a-ma drops the first baby on the floor. The way he sucks in the smoky air sounds frantic, and his little arms jab into space as though he’s searching for his mother. And Deh-ja? She’s in so much pain, she’s unaware that the worst thing that could happen has happened. Ci-do’s mother and aunt leave to give Ci-do the dreadful news. I shift on the mat, getting ready to bolt, but A-ma grabs my arm. “Stay!”