Walks the Fire by Stephanie Grace Whitson

Author:Stephanie Grace Whitson [Whitson, Stephanie Grace]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Historical, Fiction
ISBN: 9780785279815
Amazon: B00GX0PWA4
Goodreads: 279394
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 1994-12-20T00:00:00+00:00

Nineteen

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven… A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.—Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4

They came to her in the night. For the first couple of hours, she slept fitfully, wondering in semi-consciousness why the sounds of a blizzard should cause her such alarm. The stomach cramps did not subside, and Jesse awoke in misery. Her breathing came in short gasps as she struggled to rise from her pallet. Groping about in the darkness she reached to light the lamp she had left on the floor. A gush of warm liquid revealed the cause of her discomfort.

“Oh, my Lord,” she whispered aloud, “my Lord—not tonight—not here—please, Lord.”

The answer to her prayer came in a new wave of contractions. Yes, my child—tonight. Jesse breathed deeply and readied herself for the next onslaught.

Yes, Jesse—here. The answers were not audible, and yet her heart heard, and I will be with you, just as I was with you when you walked the fire, just as I was there in the valley of death, just so, I will be here.

Jesse’s mind grew calmer. The contractions lessened and she thought clearly. She would need clean water, a knife, something to wrap the child in.

The child, she thought in wonder. Tonight she would hold Rides the Wind’s child in her arms! A particularly strong contraction came and Jesse cried out—a low whimper that grew as the contraction intensified and ended in a shrill “oh.”

She bit her lips to silence herself, but it was too late. Canard had heard. He was standing uncertainly just on the other side of the ragged quilt he had hung for her privacy.

“Madame, what is it?” he asked anxiously. “You need help?” His voice was warm with concern.

Jesse took a deep breath. “I am fine,” she gasped. “I am to have my baby tonight, it seems.”

Canard stood on the other side of the partition, unwilling to move it without her permission.

“Do you know how to do this thing?”

Jesse waited through another contraction before answering. “This is not my first; years ago I had a son. He died—a baby—fell off the wagon. I have helped among the Lakota. I will be all right.” Another contraction cut short her reply. She moaned softly.

Canard asked again, “What can I do?”

Jesse silently called to the Lord for help. To Canard, she replied, “Water, a knife, paper, and s-s-s-some-thing-to-wrap-the-ba-by.” The last words came out in short gasps. She had expected a long labor. It was not to be.

Canard moved quickly. Beneath the hanging quilt she saw shadows dance as he, too, lit a lamp. The soddy door opened and closed. Two contractions later a pail of fresh water was slid under the quilt. Something was moved on a shelf, and neatly folded brown paper and a knife appeared. Finally, a bar of lye soap and a soft cloth were added to the row of things on the floor.

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