Page 10 of The Lustrous Dark
Suddenly, the woman bends over and grips her middle, her already more haunted than human face contorting further. The shaking stops. The baby's wails settle into a string of low whimpers. Shay breathes a sigh of partial relief, still fighting her urge to run to the helpless infant.
“Sayeda.” Ghita moves forward again with careful steps. “You're hemorrhaging; you must let me help you.” She convinces the woman to lie on the table and allow her to massage her stomach before turning back to Shay. “Bring me clover bean leaves to measure the sayeda's blood output.”
As Shay passes Ghita the leaves, the midwife gives her a pointed look.
“Have you noticed the variety of plants growing around us, Lalla Shay? It's quite spectacular. There's even a patch of sepaweed by the back wall. Won't you fetch a pinch for me? To ease the sayeda's pains?”
Shay dons her gloves, almost missing the midwife's quick wink. She picks her way across the room through the rampant growth.
“Watch out for tater sponges,” Ghita calls.
Shay pauses, reevaluating her path, and proceeds with new caution. She learned her lesson about tater sponges at the age of ten and two. While foraging in the early afternoon, she unwittingly stepped on one of the seeds and was rendered unconscious by its toxic fumes. It was to the pitch of night that she awoke, and while Al-Ghaba Mayita is best avoided altogether, this is even truer after dark.
Shay locates the sepaweed, and carefully avoiding its thorns, she harvests the potent leaves. She turns back and spots one of the poisoned pods in her path. It looks innocuous enough, like a small potato with a thin and crunchy outer shell. Only when crushed underfoot will it release its incapacitating cloud.
Understanding washes over her. If one person had need to incapacitate another, the tater sponge could ostensibly be made to release its toxins not so accidentally. Shay stores the sepaweed in her satchel. She bends down, gingerly nudges the seed pod into the cup of her hand, and proceeds with featherlight steps. Her heart beats so hard, she fears the vibration alone may cause the seed to burst.
The touched one has returned to a trancelike state, but Shay has no doubt she'd snap out of it if either woman advanced toward her baby.
“I brought you the sepaweed, Sayeda.” Shay's nerves spark like struck flint. She notes the clover bean leaves held in each of Ghita's hands, and despite adrenaline tunneling her focus to a pinpoint, she has the presence to wonder at the midwife's cleverness. Sometimes calledpuppy earsfor their softness, the leaves’ tight-knit fibers make them perfect for filtering small airborne particles.
Shay breathes in deeply. She positions her fist with the seed held inside near the touched one's face and squeezes, dispersing a black cloud. On the touched one's next inhale, her whitened eyes widen. She quickly caps her nose and mouth, but it's too late. Ghita presses one clover bean leaf over her mouth and hands the other to Shay. The barrier will help only so much. They must hold their breath as long as possible.
“What did you …?” The touched one attempts to push herself upright. She struggles to lift one arm, succeeding only in stretching her fingers. Their tips bleed green smoke. The skin of her palm bulges. A small stick flies from the woman's hand and zips toward Shay's head.
She ducks. Sharp pain bites into her shoulder blade. She waits for an onslaught to follow. When it fails to, she straightens.
The light in the touched one's fingers is dying out. Her eyes roll back in her head, and she slumps to the table, limp.
“Hold still, child,” Ghita mumbles through the leaf. The apprentice winces as the midwife removes a thorny spike that she then shows Shay. It's equal in length to Ghita's longest finger.
The baby fusses, drawing both women's attention to the nest. Shay squints through the black haze at the tree. Its writhing branches have calmed. Fat bees crawl lazily around the flower petals. The midwife tries to speak, but she wobbles on her feet.
Shay quickly shepherds Ghita to the front door and guides her through. She sticks her own head far enough out to gulp a lungful of fresh air.
“Wait here,” she tells the midwife. “I'll go back for the baby.”
“Are you sure?” Ghita coughs. Even as she clears toxins from her throat, concern etches creases onto her face. “The effects of the tater sponge may notlast. If the Snow in the touched one's system counteracts it, she could awaken sooner than expected.”
“I'll be fast.” Shay leaves Ghita no chance to argue. She fills her lungs once more and plunges back inside. Shielding her nose and mouth with the leaf, she stumbles over rife foliage and mows her way to the tree. Her joints will suffer later, but she can't think of that now. She hugs the thick trunk and monkeys her way up as fast as she can with only one arm at her disposal.
At the tree's crest, she stretches her body across the long branch that holds the nest. The baby coos in a contented state of half sleep, all wiggly toes and dimpled arms. Praises to God, the toxic spores haven't floated up this close to the ceiling. Shay steadies her balance and reaches into the nest.
An angry buzz. A bee swoops down and lands on her gloved hand.
Shay halts, a stop so sudden and complete, her bones feel fused.
At this vantage point, what hangs behind the flower is exposed: a hive that doesn't belong to any ordinary bee. It's dented by two hollow sockets, the skull-like shape both fearsome and unmistakable.Of course. Unlike most common bees, ghost bees are nocturnal. And a single sting can prove fatal—even to someone not in the habit of regularly ingesting toxic leaves.
“Hello there, little friend,” she whispers, willing her heart to settle lest her shaking hand provoke the insect. “I mean you no harm. I only wish to take the baby, and then I promise to leave without disturbing your hive or harming your colony.”
While talking to a bee is not the most realistic strategy, Shay doesn't know what else to do. She waits for burning pain to pierce the leather of her glove, spreading numbness up her arm and through her body. Before she can shimmy back down the tree, she'll be completely paralyzed. Cold sweat seeps across her hairline.
The bee walks in a small, agonizing circle before it takes off and returns to the hive. Shay waits a bit longer, fearful the insect is simply seeking reinforcements. Once she's convinced she's been spared the wrath of a murderous bee army, she scoops the child to her chest.
A boy. One who looks quite healthy despite the drugs he's been exposed to. A true miracle.
He blinks at Shay and roots hungrily at the cotton of her dress. Cradling him close, she makes the nonsensical sounds people make when soothing restless babies. Though most of the black particles have dissipated, she continues taking shallow, sparing breaths until she clears the farmhouse. She pauses outside the door with a glance back at the kitchen table. The touched one remains there, still held dormant by the effects of the tater sponge. For now.
