Wading in Waters

She wiped sweat from her brow, her trembling hands betraying her struggle to stay calm as she added the next ingredient to the pot. The voice in her mind urged her to focus—she had to perform the spell perfectly. No room for doubt, no room for guilt.

No, this wasn’t Lyra’s fault. Marina reminded herself bitterly that she was the one who had begged Lyra to help. She was the one who had introduced Lyra to her husband, convinced him to lay with the widow in hopes of a child. Months of trying. No—years. Marina had endured bitter potions, painful treatments, and the humiliation of being poked and prodded, even during her menses.

But Lyra? Lyra had done nothing. She lay there once and conceived.

Marina’s mouth twisted. The midwife’s smirk. The whispers of the villagers. “Half a woman,” they called me. She gritted her teeth. And now Lyra dares to give birth before me? No, I won’t have it.

The foul stench of the slimy object she held turned her stomach. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, her pulse quickening. The babe in her belly kicked hard, as if protesting. The sudden force threw her off balance, and she stumbled, narrowly avoiding the cauldron. Pain seared her palm as her hand grazed the hot metal.

She hissed, pulling back sharply—and the slimy object flew from her grasp. Time seemed to slow as it tumbled end over end before landing in the cauldron with a sickening splash. Droplets of boiling liquid struck her face, burning her cheek and eye.

She screamed in agony, clutching her face as light exploded from the cauldron. It engulfed the room, blinding her, and the force of it knocked her backward. Marina’s head struck the ground, pain flaring briefly before darkness claimed her.

How long had she been unconscious? Marina didn’t know. A sharp pain in her abdomen jolted her awake, bending her forward unnaturally for someone with a belly so swollen. Pressure between her legs made her heart race. The baby?

Panic gripped her. No, not now. The baby isn’t supposed to come yet. She cupped herself, squeezing her legs together as if she could push the child back inside. Not yet. Hot tears streamed down her face as her body betrayed her. Her legs parted on their own, and with a pitiful scream, the baby made its violent entrance into the world.

Exhausted, Marina lay panting on the dirt floor, her body trembling. Her relief was short-lived. The room was eerily silent—no cries, no wails. Fear prickled through her. She peered between her legs, and a scream tore from her throat.

What lay before her was not the child she had imagined, not a perfect blend of herself and her husband. But a thing, a creature. Her punishment.

The creature was hairy, its face grotesque and unrecognizable. Worse still, its body was misshapen. The thing sat up unnaturally, gnawing at its own umbilical cord with small, sharp teeth.

Meanwhile, in another part of the quiet village, Lyra cradled her swollen belly, her breathing labored but steady. The room was warm, lit softly by flickering lanterns. Her time had come.

Her eldest son stood against the wall, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. He had said little since the labor began, his watchful eyes darting between his mother and the midwife.

The father of the babe stood nearby, his hands trembling as he adjusted his tunic. He had waited years for this moment, for the child he believed would save everything. Lyra’s calm demeanor reassured him, though guilt gnawed at the edges of his mind. She was here because of Marina, because of the deal they had made.

Lyra let out a sharp cry, snapping his thoughts back to the present. The midwife moved quickly, leaning over her with practiced precision. Moments later, the air filled with the high-pitched wail of a newborn. Relief flooded the father’s face as the midwife placed the child—a boy, healthy and strong—into his arms.

“You did it,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “He’s perfect.” The father cradled the newborn boy, his heart swelling with pride as he admired the perfect child in his arms. “He’s beautiful,” he murmured, glancing at Lyra, who offered a weak but satisfied smile.

Her face was pale and damp with sweat. “Take care of him,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

But the joy in the room shifted abruptly as the midwife’s face paled. She pressed a cloth against Lyra, her hands moving quickly.

“The bleeding, sah,” the midwife said, panic creeping into her voice. “It won’t stop.”

His stomach sank. “What do you mean? Isn’t this normal?”

The midwife shook her head grimly. “No, sah. I’ve never seen bleeding like this.” She gave a strange look to Lyra’s son and he stepped forward.

The father’s chest tightened. “Fix it!” he barked, clutching the baby protectively.

“I’m trying,” the midwife said, her hands working frantically, but her expression told him all he needed to know.

Lyra’s breaths grew shallower, her gaze unfocused as she stared at the ceiling. The father stepped closer, clutching the baby as if the small life in his arms could ground him. Lyra’s breathing grew shallow, and her skin turned waxy. He knelt beside her, reaching out to take her hand.

Before he could, Lyra’s eldest son grabbed his shoulder, stopping him from getting closer. “Take your babe and go,” he said firmly, his voice low and controlled.

The father hesitated, stunned by the interruption. “What? No—I need to—”

“You can’t help her now,” the son snapped, his tone sharp but steady. He placed himself between the father and the bed. “Take the child and leave.”

There was something in the young man’s eyes—an intensity, almost as if he knew more than he let on. The father faltered, unsure whether to fight him or heed his words. Lyra’s son reached for his mother’s hand instead, gripping it tightly.

“She’s my mother,” he said softly, though his words carried weight. “Let me be with her.”

She tried to smile, her eyes soft despite the pain. The father froze, his heart heavy with a grief he couldn’t fully process. The midwife stepped back, bowing her head, and the room fell into an oppressive silence.

Reluctantly, the father stepped back, his hands trembling as he turned toward the door. He paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder one last time.

Lyra’s eyes met his, and she gave him a faint smile. “Take care of him,” she whispered again, her voice a faint breath. Her breath hitched. Her chest rose and fell one final time.

The father’s heart twisted, panic rising in his throat. Without another word, he fled into the cold night, clutching the baby tightly to his chest. His steps were hurried, uneven, as if he could outrun the grief pressing down on him.

Inside, Lyra’s son remained by her side. His gaze didn’t waver as he held her lifeless hand, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

“I wish you were wrong, Mother.”

The ride home was slow and silent, the baby stirring occasionally in its wrappings. But as he neared the house, dread crept into his chest. Smoke rose in thick plumes from the hut next to the main house.

Panic surged. He jumped from the wagon before it fully stopped, clutching the baby tightly, and ran toward the hut. The acrid stench of smoke stung his nose as he forced the door open. The room was suffocating, filled with black clouds pouring from a cauldron. With one hand shielding his face and the other cradling the baby’s head, he staggered forward.

“Marina?” he called, his voice hoarse. “Marina!”

The cauldron hissed, its contents bubbling ominously. He didn’t dare look inside, the foul odor telling him all he needed to know. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the pot to the ground, its contents spilling across the dirt floor. The smoke began to thin, but his lungs burned with every breath.

He stumbled back toward the door, unwrapping the baby from his chest. Wrapping the child snugly in his cloak, he placed him gently on the ground outside, away from the choking smoke. His fingers lingered on the baby’s soft cheek before he turned back, covering his mouth with his arm as he plunged into the clearing haze.

“Marina?” he called again, his eyes watering. The silence unnerved him. Not even a cough or whimper answered him. He moved deeper into the hut, his nerves tingling as he spotted a slumped figure against the far wall.

Her neck was bent at an unnatural angle, her body limp and still. He rushed to her side, his heart pounding. She was alive—just barely. But when he tried to lift her, his hand came away wet with blood. His stomach turned as he realized its source. Her belly was soft and empty.

“No,” he whispered, his voice trembling. His thoughts spiraled. She gave birth? So soon? She made the child—and she killed her. My daughter. His hopes shattered—the dreams of a daughter as beautiful as her mother, gone. Marina had always promised she would kill it if it was a girl.

“Why, Marina?” he choked, clutching his head as his thoughts twisted. After all these years of trying, after your plan with Lyra finally succeeded, even spiraling you to finally get pregnant—how could you?

The newborn’s shrill cries pierced the night, snapping him from his thoughts. He jumped up, ready to run to his son, but something caught his eye. A trail of blood.

Torn between the cries of his child and the heavy curiosity that pulled him toward the bloodied path, he hesitated. Slowly, he followed the crimson trail, his steps faltering as it led to a heap of what looked like discarded guts and gore. Hot tears blurred his vision as his heart broke.

The night was eerily quiet except for the wind howling through the trees. His confusion deepened as he realized the trail—one that hadn’t been there moments before—continued toward the door.

Panic gripped him as he approached the front, where he had left his son. If she killed the child, then what…?

His breath caught as he stepped outside. There, lying cheek to cheek with his son, was a small, misshapen creature. Its bloody, hairy body shifted slightly, and it turned to look at him. Its face was calm, unnervingly so.

Time seemed to slow as their eyes met. His heart stopped. The creature’s eyes—his own eyes—stared back at him.

“What have you done, Marina?” he whispered, his voice breaking.