SIRENS’ SONG

The afternoon wears on, my feet and legs heavy like tree trunks from standing through the tedious service. I watch the sun shift from one side of the church to the other, amazed to discover paintings in the dome that I hadn’t seen before because of direction of the light. I share my portion of bread with Ameer, my attention drifting from my churning stomach to the patriarch standing behind the ornate altar. Once the service concludes, I try to shuffle close enough to the emperor’s recession hoping to shove Brigida’s letter at Nicolo, but can’t get close enough without being obvious. Father Abbot eventually leads our brethren out into the square teeming with masses of people who weren’t able to fit into the cathedral. Though the temperature has cooled, the mob percolates feverishly, zealously shouting biblical references. As we cleave the undulating crowd, my senses sharpen to perceive angry undertones piercing the air around us. On high alert, I mutter to Ameer ahead of me to step lively and keep up to the older monks ahead of us. No sooner do I issue the warning, then someone brandishing a club breaks upon us screaming something about killing the bearer of icons. My violent past serves me well, and I jump in front of Ameer to intercept a blow that would have crushed the boy. Covering him bodily, I absorb the bludgeoning about my back, feeling no pain as the erstwhile red haze clouds reason with anger. In between beatings, I strike out and catch the offender’s wrist, feeling bones crunch in my viselike grip. I’m about to pummel his exposed ribs, when a hulking figure jerks the club from the villain and pushes me back with a shake of his helmeted head. Nicolo’s calculating assistance rescues me from the fog of rage ere I do something I will live to regret. He easily restrains the zealot, and encourages me to hurry to catch up so no one else gets hurt. I start to follow his advice, when he adds that this is why he wouldn’t allow my sister to attend, and that she’s doing well. Remembering my letter to her, I shove it inside his breastplate, pick up the fallen cross and bustle Ameer forward. By the time we reach the monastery I’m in such agony that I can barely walk upright to the hospital. My whole body is in spasm, the pain radiating from my bruised back to wrench my gut. Constance takes one look at me and immediately pulls me back into her room and lays me down on the pallet. She calls out to her aide for some linens and buckets of cold sea water, then strips off my cowl, coaxes my cassock down my shoulders and cuts away my bindings, exposing my throbbing back. Soaking the towels in the icy water, she gently covers my back, bidding me to lie prone and let the chill take away the sting. “My stomach hurts so,” I gasp, gripped in a cramp that twists my loins. “I’m trying to stay still but the pain…” “Ah my poor dear,” she shakes her head in exaggerated pity. “I’m afraid you may lose this one.” “What do you mean?” I pant between waves of torment ripping through me, each one harder than the last. “I’ve taken worse beatings than this and survived!” “Your baby,” my befuddled brain snaps to attention, “I don’t think we can save the babe growing inside of you. Not to worry, Adila, the pain will pass soon and there will be others.” “Baby?” The word tumbles around my head, refuting my attempts to coral its meaning. I peer dumbly at my distended belly and groan in disbelief, “He told me he couldn’t conceive!” “Good God,” Constance reacts to my startled expression, “you didn’t know? You’re still very slim, but you must be what, five months along?” “How did you know?” I slur incoherently, laboring to follow the conversation. “You forget that I’m a physician,” she pours a syrup into a spoon and holds it to my lips, “just a drop t’will dull the pain. Besides, you haven’t come to pick up any menstrual bindings in many moons. But there would have been other signs too, nausea, tender breasts….” She continues to list the symptoms of my pregnancy that I had attributed to illness. The elixir slides warmly down my throat and eases into my stomach, allowing for a temporary pause to digest the stunning reality of my predicament. My addled thoughts won’t behave long enough to sort out the spinning tale of Majidi’s inability to conceive. Did he trick me? Was it all a sham? Another spasm rips through my innards, etching the agonizing doubt into the backs of my eyeballs until burning tears spring forth and I groan in anguished rage. Shrugging off Constance’s restraining hands, I lunge to my feet, growling in perverse pleasure, welcoming the shards of lightning stabbing my loins. Anything to dull the brand of betrayal searing my brain. My stomach lurches and hardens in effort to evict the tiny life, while my soul screams to hold on to this kernel of love. Keening sobs seep through the bars of my gritted teeth and my body releases its burden in a slippery crimson gush. Unable to look at the bloody remains puddling at my feet, I search for a diversion and find not one, but two dark pools glazed over with moisture, reflecting my own trauma of treachery. Brother Samuel’s tacit shock invades the cell like a wide-eyed gargoyle, yet his form remains frozen in the doorway. His regard encompasses my tunic gaping from my breasts, the gore between my legs, and Constance wrapping what is left of the fetus into a bundle, reciting prayers to speed my child’s passage to heaven. Truth registers coldly on his visage, and he turns his back and departs with a finality that shoves me back onto the pallet. In the span of a few seconds, I’ve lost my love, my baby and my best friend.