The Miracle

I will be five the first time I see the Miracle. The fall equinox will bring with it the annual festival and the first harvest of early crops. Wagons will be piled high with corn and wheat and squash, and the hunters will drag in fresh game. Tired men and women will come in from the fields along with them, carrying heavy smiles. The air will fill with the scent of sizzling fat and freshly cracked open vegetables.

            Before the first bonfire is lit at dusk, the whole city will gather around a woman in an orange dress. Her black braids will be woven with fallen leaves and berries and to my little eyes the golden paint on her dark skin will look like stars on a night sky. A hush will fall over the crowd as she raises her arms. Then, from her fingertips, small orbs of light will emerge, floating out of her skin. She will spin and the orbs will grow in size and number, all the colours of autumn leaves. They will fill the sky. Stars brought down to Earth for our festival. She will then send bursts of colours exploding into the night sky, crackling and shimmering while we cheer.

            I will watch her, transfixed, the rest of the night. Even as the bonfires are lit and food is served, my eyes remain sewn to her like a patch on a shirt.

            “Was that the Miracle?” I will ask Mama as she adds more logs to a bonfire, but I will already know the answer. “And I’ll be able to do it, too?”

            She won’t look at me as she says, “One day.”

            “And all the women can do it? Can you do it? How come you’ve never shown me?”

            “Not all of us. Some chose not to keep their Miracle. I didn’t.”

            This revelation will confound my tiny mind and I will tear my stitches to gape at Mama. “Why?” But before she answers, I will shake her arm as the woman graces me with a smile and I will whisper, breathless, to Mama, “I want to do what she did.”

            She will give me a smile I won’t understand and say, “Perhaps when you’re older.”

            Mama will send me out of the house that night. Gently push me out the door and say, “Go enjoy the bonfires. Just be home after sunrise.”

            I will feel like a big girl, give her a gleeful hug and scamper out the door to spend the night running wild with the other children. We will spend it pretending to make lights emerge from our hands, arms held out to the sides and spinning in the chill night air as if we could already feel the Miracle within us. We won’t notice the absence of the women from the fields.

~~~

            I will be eleven the first time my Miracle makes itself known. It will be the first day after a long winter storm when the wind will subside and the sun will come out to cast the world in glimmering snow. Like the other children, Mama will send me out on a run to the nearest storehouse to restock our dwindling pantries.

            Bundled up in a thick coat and gloves, I will plow through the snow, waving to friends I won’t have seen in weeks since the blizzard demanded we all remain indoors.  One of them will move through the snowdrifts much easier, her Miracle melting a path with each step. Oohing and Ahhing, we will rush to following behind her in the path to get supplies. She will carry herself taller and smile like she’s much older than ten.

            Halfway to the storehouse, I will notice my gloves are soaking wet, soggy wool scratching at my skin. Frowning, I will pull my gloves off. Water will pour from my skin, running in rivulets over my knuckles and the thin bones in my hands, showing from a harsh winter of not eating enough. I will hold my hands up in front of my eyes, close enough I will almost go cross-eyed, water dripping onto the snow at my feet.

            I will shed more layers of clothes, coat and sweater and long-sleeved shirt until I stand in the middle of a snowdrift in an undershirt and my winter skirt and leggings. Mesmerized I will watch the miniature streams run down my arms. The other girls will crowd around me, taking off their own gloves to touch the water.

            Only when I start shivering will I snap out of the trance and take off back home, beaming. I will burst through the door – frostbite forming on my hands and arms – shouting, “Mama, look, look, look!”

            “The visit to the storehouse that good—” Mama will look up from stoking the fire and run her hands through her hair, wide-eyed, before pulling me towards the fireplace. “You’re going to freeze!”

            I will leave a trail of droplets behind me like a tiny raincloud. The water will leak down my skirt. I will smile ear-to-ear. Mama will vigorously rub feeling and warmth back into my limbs and fingers. “It’s amazing.” Giggling, I will ask, “How do I make it stop?”

            “It will stop on its own.” Mama will run her thumb over my cheek. “Looks like you’re becoming a proper woman now. Wait here, I’ll find something for you to sit in.”

            Until then, I won’t notice the puddle under me. Mama will sit me in our metal tub near the fire in a nightgown. Soon, it will cling to me.

            Mama will mix tinctures and medicinal teas like she does for work. But there will be no patients so I will ask, “What are those for?” My body will answer before she does.

            It will start as a deep ache that rises and falls. It will originate in my arms and spread. It will bring with it dizziness until I have to brace my hands on the edges of the tub and put my head on my knees. And still the water will flow.

            “Here.” Mama will place a few drops of tincture under my tongue – it will taste of oil and herbs – and help me bring the mug of tea to my mouth until both take effect enough for me to do it myself.

            Mama will sit down next to me, rub my back and explain, “The Miracle is like a pot of water on a stove. Every now and then it… boils over for a few days, like this.”

            “But why does it hurt?”

            “The Miracle isn’t easy on the body. We’re built to handle it, but not… comfortably.”

            “Can’t you just turn to ‘stove’ off?”

            Mama will shake her head. “Not if you want to turn it back on.”

            “Then,” I will try in vain to massage the ache out of my arms, “this will just happen?”

            “Unless you decide to Release your Miracle instead of Binding it to you.”

            Through the ache, the water will hold my attention and the thought of damming it will leave me queasy. “But then I wouldn’t have the Miracle at all.”

            “No, you wouldn’t.” Mama will put a hand on my shoulder and pass me a bowl of stew. “Don’t worry about that yet. You don’t have to make your choice for years. You’ll get used to it.”

            And I will get used to it. But I will look at the everyday glimpses of Miracles – a girl with plants growing uncontrollably around her ankles; the cluster of women who hide under a waterfall and smell of doused fires that Mama brings remedies to; golden orbs, white moonbeams, blue-black mist spilling out of windows – differently. The other girl or woman and I will share a knowing, sympathetic smile and I will feel grown up. We will not talk about how it hurts.

~~~

            I will be thirteen the first time Mama needs help with her work. The other Midwife she usually works with will be visiting a farm outside the city.

            By then, I will already have learned to mix tinctures and herbs into medicine. Spring herbs freshly picked, I will be measuring out doses – amber liquid flowing into glass vials – when the door opens downstairs.

            “Pheone!”

            A man hovering in the house’s entryway will bite his nails. Mama will be helping a woman walk to a room in the back of the house, Mama’s work room. Mama will turn to me. “Pheone, can you fetch the jar of evergrass tea and two doses of each tincture?”

            The woman – close to Mam’s age – will cry out and curl in on herself until Mama will be the only thing keeping her upright.

            I will stare. And stare.

            “Pheone?” Mama will wait until I meet her gaze. She will give me a steady look. “The medicine?”

            Nodding, I will rush to retrieve the supplies and hurry back down. The man will be outside again, door shut, when I return.

            The door to Mam’s work room will be open. Medicine in hand, I will hover in the doorway as Mama eases the woman onto a worn wooden table. “Not your first time, I assume—Phone, just on the counter over there.”

            This will be my first time in this room. I will feel like I’ve broken a barrier by crossing this threshold. I will line the medicines carefully on the counter.

            “No, no not my first time. Ah—” The woman will wince again and continue through her teeth, “Doesn’t get any easier, though. The price we pay for our Miracle, eh?”

            Materials delivered, I will try to leave.

            “Don’t forget to bring some cloths when you come back with the water,” Mama will say.

            My eyes will stick on the woman – grabbing the edge of the table and eyes squeezed shut – before darting between her and Mama.

            Mama will give me that steady look again, but with a question. Asking me to be steady, too.

            I will square my shoulders and do my best to mimic her look. “Right.”

            “Alright, Aydel,” Mama will continue as I leave, “are you comfortable sitting up still?”

            Aydel will be changed into a muslin chemise and have beads of sweat on her forehead when I return. Mama will gently place her hands on Aydel’s torso, wait a moment, then move her hands. She will repeat this until she’s covered nearly Aydel’s whole body.

            I will offer Aydel ladles of water and wipe the sweat from her brow.

            “What form does your Miracle usually take?” Mama will ask.

            “Ah, plants.” Despite the pain, Aydel will chuckle. “Between growing crops and this, I’ll be sick of plants by the time I’m dead.”

            Mama will nod. “Pheone, grab a mortar and pestle and muddle together the evergrass tea with half a dose of lityew. Then mix the rest of the tinctures together and soak cloths with them.”

            A strange energy will overtake me, but not an entirely unpleasant one. There is a certain calm in working for a purpose, but the laboured breathing and cries will tinge it with a kind of buzzing. Like a swarm of bees in the back of my mind.

            While I mix medicines, Mama will keep placing her hands, checking for something I will not know yet.

            When I pass Mama the evergrass-lityew mixture, Mama will spoon a dollop of it under Aydel’s tongue. “Nothing to do for now but wait until your body’s ready. But this will make it easier.”

            Aydel will grow worse until the sun sets, then she will lie down, alternating between face being contorted in pain and her whole body sagging with exhaustion.

            Mama will feel Aydel’s abdomen and her brow will crease. “Easy, Aydel. Don’t force it.”

            I will look at the space Mam’s hands leave. Something under the chemise will move, squirming like an eel. It will make my toes curl.

            After another fit of pain, Aydel will groan, “I just want it to be over…”

            Mama’s hands will dance across Aydel’s body. “It’s almost time. Just ease it up to the surface gently. Otherwise you’ll—”

            A root will burst out of Aydel’s arm, ripping open the skin along with it.

            With practiced calm, Mama will grab one of the soaked cloths and press it over the wound. “Pheone, come put pressure on this.”

            My body will move seemingly of its own accord to replace Mama’s hands. Something will writhe under the skin. I will stifle a scream that will come out as squeak in the back of my throat.

            Mama will give Aydel more paste and gather the remaining soaked cloths. “Gently. Like you do when you help plants grow.”

            This will be something Aydel understands. She will strain with the effort, parts of her seizing and relaxing. But slowly, vines, stems and even flowers will grow out of her skin. The petals and leaves will be flecked with blood like morning dew. Mama will gather the plants as they eventually fall from Aydel’s skin and shrivel up.

            Mama and I will wrap the sores the plants leave behind with the soaked cloths. My palms will be bloody. The whole room will smell a mix of blood, sweat, and herbs.

            Once the plants are out, Aydel will at last relax, still panting.

            I will again offer her water while Mama comforts her. “You did very well. I’ll send Pheone to fetch your partner.”

            After it’s only Mama and I in our home again, whatever energy possessed me will leave. I will collapse into the nearest chair.

            Mama will pull me into a hug, stroking my hair. “You did wonderfully. So, so wonderfully.”

            Her dress will still smell of herbs and blood, as will mine. I will still have blood on my hands.

~~~

            I will be fifteen the first time go inside the temple. A friend will have made her choice to bind her Miracle. She will need to work to help her family and wants the opportunities the full range of power will give. She will ask me to come with her. I will agree.

            Summer heat will be on the breeze and radiate from the stone pillars at the temple’s entrance. The temple – a towering grey stone pyramid with steps up the side – will make us both shiver despite the heat. At the base of the steps, I will put a hand on Chayrse’s shoulder when she pauses. “You don’t have to—”

            “No.” She will square her shoulders. “No, I want to. I’m ready.”

            We will ascend the steps and a priestess will greet us warmly at the top, thin wrinkles etched into her skin. She will be dressed in long, sheer robes, a tighter orange dress covering her torso. Faint scars – burn marks just under the skin – will decorate her arms and legs and I will now know them to be from an episode of her Miracle. “And how may I help you today?”

            “I’m here for my Binding.”

            The priestess’ face will brighten like a sunray and she will take Chayrse’s face in her hands. Her warmth will thaw any remaining hesitation. “How marvelous! What an exciting day for you.” The priestess will step back and take Chayrse’s hands, then she will turn to me. “Would you like to join her?”

            I will surprise myself and say, “No. No, I’m alright. I’m still thinking.”

            “Wouldn’t you like to see what the Miracle can really do once it’s fully yours? The true gift you’ve been given?”

            The only response I will be able to give as an explanation will be one even I won’t fully understand. “I… I work with my mother. She’s a Midwife, for Miracles.”

            The priestess will elegantly brush the thought away with a sway of her hand. “Oh don’t let that scare you off. It always feels worse in the moment than it is, you barely remember it afterwards.”

            I will nod along, but say, “I’ve still not decided.”

            “You’re still young,” the priestess will say. “In a few years I’m sure you’ll come around.”

            As we are led inside, another pair of girls will be coming out, another priestess in tow who looks at the pair with concentrated distain. One of the girls will be holding back tears. The other, arm around the first, will glare at the priestess like she would shoot flames out of her eyes.

            “Don’t mind them,” the priestess will assure Chayrse after noting her worried stare. The priestess’ warmth with evaporate like water on the sidewalk as she follows the pair with her gaze. “A selfish thing she’s done. To spurn the gift she’s been given.”

            “She was here for her Release, then?” I will ask.

            The priestess will scoff. “A terrible practice. Women were given the Miracle because we were meant to use it. She’s robbed all the world of her power.” Lip curling, the priestess will shake her head. “Shameful.”

            I will wait inside the temple for Chayrse to complete her Binding. She will emerge flushed but… glowing. Eyes bright. She will walk taller as we descend the temple stairs. “Oh, Pheone, it… it feels incredible. You wouldn’t believe it. There’s… there’s so much. It’s like… like I could lift this whole temple into the sky if I wanted. Light every torch in the city. Grow a whole forest from seeds.”

            On the walk home, I will congratulate her and let her excitement blossom. I will secretly wonder how long it will be before she finds herself on Mama’s table.

            We will see each other next at that year’s summer festival, her and her Miracle the center of attention, Mama and I watching from the crowd. We will see each other next a few days later when has her first episode.

~~~

            I will be nineteen the first time I see a woman die. She will not be much older than me.

            Another woman will bring her to our house mid-morning on the day of the autumn festival. She will be more distressed than the woman hanging off her side who will already be in too much pian to be panicked. Her hair and clothes will be soaked with water.

            I will know this is different than other women who will have crossed Mama’s table. Mama will not betray any worry other than her face losing some of its colour. Still, she will put on her steady face and take the woman to her workroom and I will gather supplies.

            The woman will wheeze when she breathes.

            “What’s your name, hun?” Mama will ask her as she lies her down.

            “Ai-Airus.”

            Mama and I will mix tinctures and tea and herbs to ease her pain as much as we can, but soon I will realize that something is not different, something is wrong.

            Mama and I will take one side each, placing our hands to feel what’s going on inside. Her skin will depress when I place my hands on it, like a leather canteen.

            “Airus,” Mama will say as I do my best to soak up the water pouring from Airus’ skin, “is this your first time?”

            She will nod. “I-I thought I would be okay, to, to handle it on my own. It happens to everyone, right?” She will seize up, coughing. “I d-didn’t think it would be this bad. They said it wouldn’t be this bad.”

            The words will flick against my stomach like a moth against a lantern; squirming and desperate to get in.

            Mama will press her lips together, but turn to me. “Pheone, can you mix something help bring the magic to the surface? We need to get the water out of her. It should be two—”

            “Two doses of lilygum,” I will already be mixing, “and a third dose of umberweed for water.” As I work, hands familiar with the motions, I will watch Arius out of the corner of my eyes.  She will push herself up on her elbows, gulping air down.

            “Easy, easy,” Mama will murmur.

            Tinctures mixed, I will soak cloths with them and pass them to Mama, who will wrap them around Arius’ extremities to draw the water there and out of her. The flow of water will slow, and eventually stop. I will know that’s not a good thing.

            Mama will scan her body and move closer to Airus’ head. “Airus, hun, what are you doing with the water?”

            Only gurgles will come out of her mouth.

            Mama will flinch like she was struck and press her ear to Airus’ chest. It will be the first time I hear Mama curse. “Pheone, help me roll her onto her side.”

            Cloths abandoned, we will roll her onto her side. Touching Airus will feel like putting my hand on a floating lily pad. Water will leak out of her mouth. I will keep her steady as Mama takes her face in her hands. “Arius, listen. I need you to bring the water out of you, okay? Imagine guiding it out of you through your fingertips.”

            The only water to come out of her is tears.

            Then she will begin choking and shaking violently. I will hold her steady, not knowing what else to do. I will find myself saying softly, “Shush… Shush, it’s alright.” I will look to Mama. “I—My Miracle is water. Can, can I help her?”

            Mama’s hands will move and grab at nothing, searching for a solution she doesn’t have. Eventually, she will motion for me to roll Airus onto her back. I will lay her down gently. We will each take one of her Arius’ bloated hands. “It’s alright,” Mama will coo, brushing hair out of Arius’ face. “It’s alright.”

            Arius will at last stop chocking and go still. She won’t move again.

            Mama will have to say my name four times before I hear her. I will blink and tear my gaze away from Arius’ empty eyes. “Did… Did I do something wrong?”

            “Oh, oh no, no, no sweetheart.” Mama will circle the table to take me in her arms. I will stare at Arius, body bloating from the water inside her. It will stretch her skin and discolour it, distorting her face. “No, we did all we could. She… She wasn’t as experienced with her Miracle. It’s… harder for them to control it, especially when they’re in the midst of it, they just… Just because her body was ready to use her Miracle doesn’t mean she was.”

            “Could I have helped her? If… If one of us had a Miracle…”

            “No, no. Using your Miracle one another’s body… you’d do more damage than good.”

            I will walk the streets in my mind to the temple. “Could the priestesses have helped?”

            Mama will stiffen, but she won’t speak for a long time. When she does, she will choose her words carefully and lower her voice. “I’ve… long suspected they could. But they won’t.”

            “Are we supposed to give her back like this?”

            Before Mama answers, the first shouts and laughter from the autumn festival will reach us. “No, she’ll have to be drained.” Mama will wipe tears away from herself and then from me. I won’t notice I was crying until then. “But I will deal with that. It’s not very pretty.” Mama will run her thumb over my cheek. “Why don’t you go to the festival? Try and enjoy yourself or at least take your mind of things.”

            I will not feel like listening, but I will anyways. I will change, my dress soaked with Airus’ water, and make my way with other revelers to the bonfires. I will sit on the outskirts of the celebration, numb. I will take the food offered to me but I won’t eat it. I won’t eat for a week.

            As the rest of the city dances around me, I will think back to other nights. Not common, but far from infrequent, when I heard Mama crying. I will wonder if this is why. I will wonder if she has nightmares where it’s me on her table. I will wonder how many women have died in our house.

            But the festival will carry on, unaware. Everyone will dance and eat and talk. They will admire the woman in golden robes who lights the festival with her Miracle.

            Airus’ death was not pretty. Draining her will not be pretty. The grief of the woman who brought her to us will not be pretty.

            The pain of women will not be pretty.

            And yet, even numb and silently crying, I will not be able to deny that the lights like stolen stars are beautiful. And because of that… We will keep praising girls who choose to use their Miracle. We will keep pretending the women who died from it never existed.

~~~

            I will be twenty-one the first time I tell someone my decision. It will be Mama. She will cry. She will hold me in her arms, rocking us back and forth. She will ask me over and over and over again if I’m sure. I will be.

            Mama will offer to come to the temple with me. I will go alone.

            I will take a long walk to the temple. Snowflakes will land in my hair and melt into dewdrops.

            In an empty square, I will pause. Buildings will raise up around me, fingers reaching up to catch the falling snow. I will take my gloves off and hold my arms out to the sides. From my fingertips, drops of water will bead. They will lift off my fingers and float into the air, like raindrops falling upwards. As they raise, they will freeze, frost coating each one until it shimmers. For a long time, I will stand there, neck craned up to watch the snow fall and my raindrops fly.

            Maybe I will never make stars. I will be okay with that.

            An elderly priestess will greet me with a smile and open arms at the temple’s entrance. “Ah, we’ve been wondering when we would see you. Finally time for your Binding?”

            I will smile back and a weight will lift off my shoulders. “My Release.”

            Her smile will crumple like paper burning and her arms will close. “Oh.” Distaste on her tongue, she will lead me inside regardless.

            The priestess who will perform the procedure will judge me. Her helper won’t. They will dress me in a loose dress, too thin for the winter outside. The alter will be cold against my back as they lie me down.

            The priestess will ask, “Are you certain in your choice?”

            “Completely.”

            Regretfully, she will nod. “Are you ready?”

            I will hold my arms out to the sides, fingertips reaching for stars that aren’t there, and I will say, “Set me free.”