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((This is the first part of a series of little tales about Red Earth's background that I've been meaning to write down. I'll add entries as I find the time. Enjoy))
Deep Sky stared into the bonfire. His gaze fell upon the crackling wood, and he watched as the surface of black char slowly turned into grey ash. Much like the changing of the color of his mane, he thought. At that moment his age felt like it had come too fast. He tried his best to let his thoughts float away with the smoke of the flames or simply concentrate on the conversation of his brother and friend who were discussing the finer points of spear fishing. But the muffled voices, the groans and cries, coming from the tent did not make it easy for his mind to leave the present situation. Especially, when those voices in the tent went silent. The flap of the door was swept aside as the midwife stepped out and approached them. All three bulls looked at her in silent anticipation. She gave Deep Sky a gentle smile and slowly shook her head.
“Not yet, Brother. Just a moment’s rest. I just thought I’d take a moment to check on the father to be,” she smiled, laying a reassuring hand upon his shoulder. “How are you fairing? Normally, the fathers go out hunting, sparring outside the village, something away from here. You know, there’s no shame in not wanting to hear your mate’s cries?”
“I’ve done all that, Sister. And many other things. Whitehoof has been in labor a long time.” He looked out at the long shadows creeping across the glowing red plains. An’she sat lightly over the horizon, beginning to settle in for another night’s rest. It was her sister Mu’sha he had seen there when he had been shuffled out of the tent by the midwife into the darkness. “And I grow impatient,” he admitted.
“Soon. It will be soon,” the midwife comforted. “And the signs are all good, my friend. The spirits are with this child.”
“Let us hope so,” Deep Sky’s brother said mirroring his own thoughts. His brother looked at him for further reassurance. The shaman simply nodded, and that seemed to comfort him. He had nothing more to say. The spirits had not told him otherwise. But they had not given him confirmation either aside from the fact that he could feel them swimming around the tent. He had to take that as a good sign. The Blackhides, the whole tribe of the Swifthorns, were eager for this child to be the one. He was getting on in years. The tribe needed a new shaman.
A voice called from inside the tent. With another comforting pat, the midwife returned and the painful groaning and muffled voices of encouragement resumed. The sun was almost fully hidden behind the horizon when the voices within changed and rose up in relief and joy. Deep Sky stood and walked to the tent, stopping short of the door, unsure whether or not he should enter. He heard his wife’s tired voice eagerly ask, “Is it what we hoped for?”
“It’s a girl. And see for yourself,” the midwife replied happily.
Suddenly, it was as if a vortex rose up around the tent. Deep Sky felt the gently floating spirits whip around wildly and rush through the walls into the tent. The women inside let out fearful gasps and the air was cut by the mewling of the newborn calf. He tore away the flap of the door as he rushed in to see what had gone wrong. Before him, the light of the setting sun streaming through the door shone upon the midwife who was hurriedly gathering blankets and babe up from the ground.
“Oh, Earthmother,” the woman exclaimed. She looked at him with eyes screaming in apology. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drop her. I don’t know what came over me. I. . .”
“Is she alright,” Whitehoof pleaded.
“Yes, yes. She’s fine. I think she’s fine.” The midwife hurriedly came to Whitehoof’s side and handed her the child. Deep Sky hurried to his wife’s side, kneeling next to her and reaching over to give her a loving kiss upon her temple. Both looked down and watched as the midwife wiped the child clean of the red earth that coated it’s soft, wet fur. “Yes, she looks fine, she . . .”
“She’s not black,” Whitehoof said, disappointment in her voice.
A look of concern came over the midwife. “No, I. . .I don’t understand.”
“What is it?” Deep Sky asked.
“She was black. Black as the night sky. I swear to you, by the Mother’s mane. I don’t understand. . .”
“A trick of the light, perhaps. It can be hard to see by the light of a single campfire sometimes,” he offered.
“No, Brother, I swear to you. I know what I saw. She was black. And the signs, they always speak true. She was to walk with the spirits.”
“Don’t fret. There is still time. The Blackhides aren’t done yet,” Whitehoof soothed. “And if there is one thing I’ve learned being married as long as I have to this bull, the spirits are not always very clear with their intentions. She may not be a shaman, but perhaps something else. And look at her. She’s a beautiful baby. Look, my love. Our first child.”
She drew the child closer, comforting it into silence. Taking a hold of her mate’s hand, she placed it upon the baby’s little head. Carefully, he ran his thumb across the tiny forehead, sweeping a lick of red fur across it. She smiled at him and sighed, tired but content. “What shall we name her?”
He looked at the midwife and considered her words. Though of the spirits and how they had swept into the tent. Considered the cloth still held in the midwife’s hand, the one she had used to try and clean off the dirt from the child’s body. He looked at the newborn calf. Her hide was not black as they had all hoped, but his little red daughter was certainly the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Deepsky smiled at her.
“Painted.”
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