Skye Maelstrom Faust
Stumbling, I rise to meet the setting sun. It is very close to the
time of mass. Cold air bites my nose and my eyes blink in the light of
the stars.
Overhead a red moon shines down over a small section of a large city. The streets, now empty of people, seem to have a night life of their own. My feet, scarred and sore, scrape on the stone of the streets. The rats become alert with the smell of warm blood, scurrying behind me as I walk.
Ahead of me is a house, obviously a lodging of some sort. The tavern inside is quiet save for the swishing sound of the bartender's broom. I turn beside the building and I see there is a small alleyway crowded with garbage cans and cardboard boxes.
The occupants of the boxes ignore me as I go by. They have endured their share, and have little feeling of pity for me.
A child, lying in a mess of a cloth looks up at me, his eyes meeting mine. But in fear he turns back to the brick that is his pillow.
I continue walking down this hall of the forgotten until I come upon a girl. Her body is shaking violently as her large stomach heaves. The pains of birth-labour are upon her. In between clenched gasps she looks at me with pain and tears in her eyes. Anybody, even I, could help ease her misery.
So I kneel beside her and hold her hand. She holds mine tight. As she enters the next phase of pains, I decide to help.
Taking off my rag of a coat, I placed it underneath her. It should help to make her more comfortable. I have never had to help before in a situation like this before. But I did my best.
No words were exchanged between either of us. She prompted my movements with her eyes and what little came of her voice.
And after what seemed like an eternity, the cries from a small baby echoed through the silent city. The sobs from the child were joined by mine and the mother's. A beautiful sight it would have been to behold.
But no one cared, save for the people of the streets. Dozens gathered from this alley and others, to pay homage to the newborn. In remembrance of a birth long past, each brought gifts. As poor as they were, the peasants gave what they could.
And I, taken to be the babe's father, stood over the mother and child. With the stars shining down and the fog of my breath, I felt as warm as any man in any mansion in all the world.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead, is entirely coincidental. This story is a copyright of Skye
Maelstrom Faust (Michael Woods), 1998. All rights reserved.