The Teedle Doll

HOKA
In the frigid embrace of a wintry morn, the veil of sleep was torn asunder, leaving Hoka writhing in the grip of agonizing stomach pains. Her senses jolted to awareness as she discovered herself drenched in a pool of blood, her waters broken, draining away like a life's wellspring running dry. The midwife's heart seized with trepidation, for she knew the depths of Hoka's unpreparedness for the trials of birth and motherhood. In the feeble glow cast by the flickering beeswax candle, battling against the gusts of wind that echoed the girl's mounting anguish, the midwife observed Hoka's gaze fixated upon a hairline crack traversing the ceiling. In that crevice, as she writhed in the clutches of labor, she sought refuge, seeking solace where none could be found. Each convulsion of her body synchronized with the roaring thunder outside, shaking the timeworn walls of their humble abode. The labor was an arduous ordeal, a tempestuous clash of life and nature's fury that persisted for thirty harrowing hours, mirroring the raging storm that raged relentlessly beyond the confines of their sanctuary. The piercing agony tore Hoka from her fitful slumber, only to be confronted by a grotesque tableau of blood-soaked linens. Her amniotic fluid, once a clear elixir of life, had metamorphosed into a macabre kaleidoscope of crimson hues, staining the fabric beneath her. Throughout the day, the midwife, her hands trembling with trepidation, repeatedly ventured beneath the covers, her eyes narrowing as she observed the unyielding cervix that refused to dilate. The realization hung heavy in the air like a specter—Hoka's frail frame was ill-equipped to deliver the unborn child. In this desolate place, devoid of hospital for deliveries and devoid of hope, the hour of reckoning loomed ominously. A decision, a grisly decision, loomed ever nearer. And it came, as darkness swallowed the sky and the relentless downpour drummed upon the roof, drowning out the cries of torment.
They were alone. With an air of desperate resolve, the midwife proffered prickly ash leaves, their medicinal properties capable of alleviating some measure of pain. Yet, Hoka, defiant in her anguish, spat them out, preferring to endure the searing torment, her teeth grinding against the onslaught, her grip upon the covers so fierce that her knuckles turned bone-white. Beads of perspiration clung to her body, a testament to her struggle. Sharpening the solitary, oversized kitchen knife against the worn leather belt used for the butchering of meats, the midwife steeled herself for the grim task at hand. With a resolute plunge, the blade breached Hoka's flesh, carving a deep incision along her side. The initial cry of agony was fleeting as the girl surrendered to the merciful embrace of unconsciousness. Dark tresses, sodden with sweat, splayed across the pillow, a disheveled halo framing her pallid countenance. Swiftly, the midwife deftly maneuvered through the sea of tissue and muscle, grasping hold of a tiny, slimy foot, and with a determined tug, coaxed the infant into the harsh light of the world. Blood trickled down the Indian girl's side, pooling beneath her body, its slow drip echoing the ebbing vitality within. The room hushed as if the very air held its breath, awaiting the outcome. Covered in a veneer of blood and viscera, the newborn drew its first breath, unleashing a cacophony of shrill cries as if instinctively aware of the profound loss it had incurred. Yet, the midwife's astonishment deepened as another minuscule foot emerged into view. She had not anticipated the presence of twins within Hoka's womb. Hastily reaching for a washcloth upon the nearby counter, she delicately swathed the second infant's foot, gently guiding its entrance into the world. Another precious life, just as fragile as the first, emerged, embraced by a world shrouded in scarcity. With limited supplies, the midwife employed every resource at her disposal to stem the flow of crimson from the incision, packing the wound with wooly lambs' ears and binding it tightly. But still, the lifeblood seeped, a harrowing reminder of mortality's relentless pursuit.
Hoka drifted in and out of consciousness, her visage pallid, her lips cracked and ashen. Each time she emerged from the depths of oblivion, she whispered in a voice barely audible, beseeching the midwife to keep her babies connected to the nurturing embrace of Mother Earth. The midwife, uncertain if these entreaties were meant for her, listened intently as Hoka's voice lapsed, cooing a foreign anthem, repeated over and over again. Unbeknownst to Hoka, the weight of her unborn twins burdened her as she spoke of joining her baby in the realm of ancestors. As the first night waned, the midwife, physically and emotionally drained, slumped wearily against the dilapidated wall of her humble abode. Doubt crept into her thoughts, a nagging question of whether she had made the right choice. She had preserved the lives of the infants but at the cost of losing the girl. Hoka, her arms slowly outstretched toward the heavens, uttered incantations that eluded the midwife's comprehension. As her arms fell limply by her sides, a resounding clap of thunder reverberated through the air, striking the ancient oak tree just outside the dwelling. The midwife bore witness to Hoka's final breath, coinciding with the tree's silent descent onto the bed of moss. A chilling draft swept through the room, trailing icy tendrils along the midwife's spine and arms. Only the little ones remained, cradled tightly against the midwife's chest.
The storm had passed. Upon the sister’s return from an arduous double shift at the hospital, the midwife’s sister was greeted by a gruesome tableau. The Midwife, seated near the flickering hearth, cradled two swaddled forms in her arms. Silhouetted against the fiery glow, they falsely portrayed an illusion of tranquility and serenity. Assisting the midwife in the morbid task of cleaning and wrapping the lifeless girl's body, the sister's heart grew heavy with sorrow. It pained her that this unfortunate soul had been denied a chance to truly experience the world. Together, they grappled with the weight of the girl's lifeless frame, navigating treacherous steps, slipping on the muddied ground until they reached the outer edge of the garden, where a wooden fence stood sentinel. Retrieving shovels from the shed, they carved a grave into the sodden earth and gently placed the girl into the abyss. The relentless rain had transformed the bottom of the pit into a mire of mud. The midwife couldn't help but note the parallels between the fallen oak tree and the freshly dug grave. Both lifeless, decaying upon the floor of earth. There were no witnesses to their somber ritual; their heads bowed low as they recited a few solemn lines from the Bible. The nurse rolled a substantial stone into place, serving as a makeshift headstone.
"I'll mark it later and carve her name upon it." Exhausted and besmirched by the mud, the sister cradled the babies in her arms.
"They are beautiful, aren't they?" she whispered, her voice heavy with a mix of awe and sorrow.
"Yes, it's such a shame their momma died," the sister murmured; her voice sorrowful continuing to hide a witnessed event from months past.
"What now?" the bewildered sister inquired, searching for guidance.
"I'm keeping them," the midwife stated firmly, her resolve unwavering.
"Both of them? Let me have one, and you take the other. I've always longed for a child of my own," the sister pleaded, her eyes filled with yearning and desperation. Turning to face her sister, she added, "I would be a good mother."
"I'm not sure if we can keep them. Nobody even knew she was pregnant. But can we? Can we truly make it work?" The midwife's voice trembled with uncertainty, her question hanging in the air, not specifically directed at her sister.
The midwife, who had endured the agony of losing her own child and husband, knew the depths of pain intimately. She longed to have her family restored, to find solace in a home once again. Though too old to bear children of her own, a glimmer of determination flickered in her eyes. "I can make this work," she affirmed, the weight of her words resonating with quiet strength.
"What are you going to name them?" the sister asked, gently rocking one of the twins, extending her finger for the little one to suckle.
"Jane. I've chosen that name for this one, the midwife replied, her voice filled with conviction.
"And what about the other one? Can I decide on a name?" the sister inquired; her curiosity piqued.
"Naming a child is no small matter," the midwife admitted, her thoughts swirling with possibilities.
"Why did you choose Jane?"
"I want her to have a fresh start, a name that signifies both womanhood and the grace of God," the midwife explained, her eyes gazing fondly upon the child in her sister's arms.
"You certainly invest a great deal in a name," the sister remarked, her voice tinged with amusement and regard.