I Believe In

All midwives are prophets in our tribe. They do not just ease the mother’s work to birth us, they do not just protect her from harm, they also speak the words of the Gods at the moment of our first breath.
We believe that breath is given to us by the Gods, and for some of us, those destined to achieve great or terrible things, they speak before they exhale. The midwife who delivered me said nothing.
My mother, the daughter of the tribe’s leader, was more intent on watching the midwife than on catching her first glimpse of me. She says the strain of listening for the words made the midwife freeze, her eyes popping from her head like a frog in mid-croak. My ancestors were all prophesied; I was such a disappointment.
Once I slithered, blood red and bawling from my mother’s womb, the midwife lay me on her belly leaving a knife to cut the cord when it had stopped its pulse, then walked from the room, from the village, from our lives. She never returned.
I think the Gods were busy that night, you see I happened to have been delivered on the same night as the saviour of us all. That’s what the Gods promised, as they gave her breath. Here was our warrior, our champion, our leader. The one who would save us in our darkest hour. No need for her midwife to disappear with the shame of having nothing to say.
I don’t envy the saviour. I have nothing to live up to, nothing great is expected of me, so I can hunt, train, learn and there are no eyes watching me. She is observed everywhere, in everything; when you know someone is your last hope, you don’t want to leave things to chance.
She looks the part. She is strong and quick, and the war paint she wears makes her look truly intimidating. It’s her gentle nature that makes her an unlikely leader, she is quiet of voice and if the frustration of her tutors is any indicator, slow of wit.
My mother is leader now, her mother handed on the title when she felt herself beginning to slow, as is our custom. At night, when I am supposed to be sleeping, I listen to the whispers from her tent. I hear their worries, that our enemies are preparing for war. That our saviour is not ready, that she lacks the qualities of a leader. I heard my mother say ‘The Gods are never wrong.’
The sun burns brightly in the sky as we ready to hunt, dancing off the sharp blades of weapons as the young of the tribe gather. Tonight we will feast, to honour our Gods and hope for our future. The Saviour is here, we all are. We spread out into the surrounding forest, moving silently in search of deer or boar that will make the feast.
I am happiest out here, alone, feeling the warmth of the sun on my back and inhaling the green scents of nature. It is the only time that I don’t feel out of place, anxious, as though others know something I do not. I have three juicy spiders tied to my back but no sign of any larger game; then a death cry splits the air like lightning.
My blade sings as I pull it from its sheath and run towards the sound, I leap over bushes, I zig zag around trunks, my heart and lungs shriek at the effort but I am not the first to the scene. I push my way between two of our finest warriors who stand, slack limbed and dull eyed, trying to understand what they see. Our saviour, her throat cut like a boar, her life’s blood seeping into the ground with our last hope.
We carry her into the village and lay her in the centre. The air is filled with the wailing and sobbing of our grief. Our feast becomes a funeral. I sit at my mother’s side, she tells me to keep my back straight, to look strong. People are looking to me, now. Her daughter, with the saviour gone the right to lead becomes mine. My mind is reeling.
How have our enemies become so bold? How would they dishonour themselves by meeting us, not in open combat but to murder our saviour while she was still a girl? It isn’t that I don’t understand why, they have wanted our lands for as long as anyone can remember, but to abandon the will of the Gods, to cast aside all that they believe in, and murder against prophecy? It is madness.
My mind is still racing when I hear a commotion on the outskirts of the gathering, people part to admit the figure of an old woman, crooked with age. She pulls back her hood, and there is a collective gasp from the older generation, but I have no idea who she might be.
‘May I speak?’ she asks of my mother.
I glance at my mother’s profile; her expression is hard to read. She nods.
‘I come first to honour this girl,’ a hand, dried up like an autumn twig, gestures to the corpse of the saviour. ‘The Gods asked much of her, of her family, and of her midwife and yet they never faltered. Her prophecy was just this; she must play the part of saviour, give her very life to ensure that she was believed, because the darkest day was coming and this was the only way to keep the truth from our enemy.’
‘The truth?’ I’m startled to find it was my voice which shattered the silence that followed the midwife’s speech.
‘You sense it,’ she says, her lips curling into a smile. ‘Don’t you?’
I don’t. I can only lift my shoulders in a shrug, my mind is confusion.
‘Why have you returned?’ my mother asks.
‘To speak the words that were whispered at her birth,’ the midwife said, ‘the words that the Gods forbade me to speak. The words I have carried with me, kept close and secret, until this day.’
‘What words?’ my voice again.
‘The Gods spoke, and these were their words; listen, midwife, but do not speak. This child will perish if you do. The old ways are ending, soon there will come a time when your enemy turns aside from all that is right, to get what they need. The only way to save your people is to hide your hero. Another will play her part, and when the time is right, this child will lead her people to victory. Until then, speak nothing.’
My mother lets out a strange sound, part laugh, part sob.
I am humbled. Humbled at the sacrifice this girl’s family agreed to make for me, for us. Humbled that the Gods asked such a thing, to preserve my life. I glance at my mother and find that she is looking at me, eyes shining without any of the disappointment that has been present since my birth.
‘Mother?’ a world of uncertainty is held in that question.
‘You are our saviour.’
‘Am I?’
‘The Gods are never wrong. I believe in you.’
I turn to face our tribe and see all their faces are turned to me in hope and expectation. The weight of their belief settles on me, and for a moment I think I will suffocate; then it begins to seep into my bones and turn me to iron. I lift my chin, I rise and turn to bow in a gesture of respect to the dead girl. The decoy.
I realise, in that moment, that I believe in myself.