The Birth of Rhiannon

chapter 1



Rhiannon was born on a balmy summer day, her small blue eyes gazing in surprise upon a strange world that no one fully understood, least of all the tender little babe that was placed into the arms of her maternal aunt, a young woman named Delyth who had long, soft fingers and a somber smile. The wry smile washed over the baby as the child was gently cleaned by the slender, elegant hands. There was a soft murmur from below, from the cracked lips of the mother. Delyth leaned down and the ghostly smile upon her lips was shifted from flesh to plaster.

“Sister, look,” said Delyth, “she is alive. She is alive, Cadwyn.”

“A girl?” whispered Cadwyn. “Is it really a little girl?”

“It is.”

“May the gods spare her from the fate she was born into.”

And Cadwyn turned her face to the dirty straw mat beneath her and she wept. Delyth’s mask fell once she saw that the fickle sister was silently sleeping away the pain. There was no soothing the heartache in the girl’s mind. There was no deleting the sad facts of their miserable existence. There was no way to erase the damp, filthy little room they had been allotted, no way to forget the duties meted out to them every morning, no way to forget the orders—here, no! there, maybe not there either; I do not care to think, won’t you do it for me? You, who I bought, you who I feed, you who I strike without reason or fear or reprisal. You who I know and you who I loath. Master of you.

Delyth tossed the dirty cloths into the fire, then found clean swaddling and wrapped up the baby tight. It was a quiet, patient little thing. Delyth could not help but stare at the little pink bauble, so precious and beautiful was it. It was soft and smelled sweet from the little bit of lithe that Delyth had used. The skin was so full of vibrancy, the nose so pink at its tiny rounded tip. The eyebrows, arching delicately, were peppery already. A sure sign of her lineage, to be sure. Cadwyn, silent on the mat, had a head of fire.

The tiny baby calmed itself—she was an obedient child from the very beginning—and allowed itself to be placed on the ground without cavils or protestations. Delyth moved quickly and deftly, cleaning up what had been a messy birth. Oh, so messy, dirty, filthy. Delyth paused in her chore, glancing every so often at the little baby. Peculiar. So golden and soft. From such a black and pitiless act had that perfect thing sprung! It smacked of paradox to Delyth. It smacked of absurdity.

Night fell. The child was given the name Rhiannon in a whisper by her mother, who never fully recovered consciousness. Delyth sat patiently upon a stool by her sister’s side, holding the baby close and tight, never allowing those alluring little eyes to move from her own face. And as Delyth watched, powerless to do anything more, a fever stole over Cadwyn. Delyth bounced Rhiannon upon her hip as she hurried about, gathering whatever herbs could be had from the kitchens and the gardens. But it was autumn—late—and there was little to be found. Very little. A bit of rosemary had lingered in the cupboards, and a hint of mint wafted to her nose from deep in a cistern only to disappoint her when she found it unusable.

No tears, no whimpers, barely even a movement from the baby Rhiannon. Rhiannon simply accepted the peculiarity of her aunt with all-seeing and all-knowing eyes that stayed wide open. Other people flittered around. Too busy to notice that two of their companions had gone missing for the day. Only a few noticed the woman and the baby, and they gasped with horror.

“Why, by the gods!” said one.

“Where is she?” whispered another, too afraid to show too much kinship with Delyth or the baby. “Is she dead?”

Delyth had whirled on this concerned matron of a slave, a woman who came to from far away. Delyth had jabbed a free finger in the dark-skinned lady’s face.

“Not dead!” hissed Delyth. “Not dead!”

The dark slave backed away and looked away, completely ignoring the inhuman note in Delyth’s voice. There was a mania in Delyth’s demeanor, to be sure, a certain forgetfulness of the proper niceties. It was, almost, intriguing to see what human nature could be when panicked and when stripped of everything: pride, love, companionship, hope . . . but mostly it was the pride that had gone. Pride that had left. Pride that had sustained for so long where nothing else had. Gone. And now, now the hope was flying, too.

Delyth stirred and boiled and pinched and ground until her hands were soar and her arms stiff with the misery of carrying the baby upon her hip for all of the day. But no one bothered her. She didn’t realize that someone had made up a lie, that someone else had shed a few tears, that another person yet had attempted to go for help only to be dissuaded by a more practical mind. There was no help to be had, no help to be given.

When light had come stealing again through the high window of the little hut, illuminating the dirt floor and blazing red in the kettle of water, Delyth was on her knees with the quiet baby balanced upon her thigh. One of those long, tender fingers wiped the sweat from Cadwyn’s forehead with a cloth. The other arm, part of which propped up the baby’s head, was dabbing away tears. Tiny Rhiannon gazed upon her dying mother indifferently, seeing it all and declaring it invalid.

Slowly, slowly, the breaths shortened and the poor girl on the dirty mat ceased to live. Her last few halting breaths were filled with tears, with murmured half-words and castigations. Be careful! Be kind! Never forget. Never allow the baby to forget. Peace stole softly, deftly over the girl on the bed; stillness sank uncontrollably, sickeningly, into Delyth’s flesh. She could feel it; it burnt, it was eating her, devouring every ounce of her flesh! There is came again, making her body quiver with the pain, making the tears quiver on the edge of her eyes. But no weeping, no, she wasn’t weak! Just a few tears at the corner of her eyes. But as the acid spread over her skin, the tears were unleashed.

Everyone thought that perhaps an animal had been slaughtered for the breaking of the master’s fast. The cry was guttural, from so far inside a creature that the source was indiscernible: the pain of the cry was universal. Dog, cat, rabbit, fox, pig . . . human? But only a few frightened souls realized or thought that it might be human, because they--without a doubt--knew who the one was who cried out and why she had cried out.

Silence reigned again in the death room. Cadwyn’s glassy eyes were locked upon her daughter.

“Shush, child!” cried Delyth suddenly though the baby was silent. “You’ll wake her!”

And Delyth buried her face into the clean wrappings around the baby and she wept and wept and wept until she was too exhausted to move. She lay down. Her chiton, always perfectly clean and tidy, was dirtied and crumpled under her. The baby wiggled itself up against Delyth’s chest and fell comfortably asleep.

It was nearing noon when someone came knocking at the door. It was the steward, a kind, middle-aged eunuch with a stylus in his hand. He knocked three times, calling gently through the door. Delyth glanced up but cringed from the thought of humanity.

The door swung open. The eunuch’s quick blue eyes passed over the sight. A breath was drawn in slowly, deliberately. He stepped into the room, then crinkled his nose at the smell of death. He backed against the wall. Then he finally noticed that Delyth was eyeing him uncertainly from beneath the hood of her cloak, peaking out like a child at a game.

“Delyth?” he said tentatively.

She cringed.

The eunuch backed away, then found himself face to face with the saddened matron. This lady gently took him aside and whispered into his ear. As she listened from beneath the concealment of the cloak, Delyth could hear snatches.

“Monstrous . . . all of those men and only two children . . . a travesty, no, tragedy . . . not her fault at all . . . no, not hers either. Hard to say . . . I knew, yes, for almost as long as she knew . . . but I didn’t think It my place to say . . . not her fault . . . dead anyway . . . “

Summer birds flitted through the trees in the courtyard. The lady of the house was passing through, her lively chatter slicing through the thick overpowering scent of flowers and decay and death and lithe soap and baby skin. It all pressed in on Delyth’s cave, it all poked and prodded at the thin cloth barrier that tried so desperately to keep the world at bay. A loud and merry word from the lady of the palace; it cut deep to Delyth’s heart. Latin. Oh, if only she could never hear Latin again! If only she could hide forever in that stifling, damnable little spot with the cloth so tight around her, with the climbing vines just outside the door ready to strangle anyone who came near . . .

“ . . . I don’t think we can do anything . . . she’s already dead, I think . . . “

The eunuch gave a frightened, pointless
response. The dark woman growled slightly and hissed her words through her teeth:

“Well, clearly you have never been raped.”