The Lake's Heir (Part Two)

The midwife sat bolt upright in her bed. Something was pawing at her arm. When she glanced down to see what it was, her cat, Pip, was licking her skin gently. The sunlight streamed through the cracks of the wooden shutters on the window above her bed, turning Pip's dull brown fur into a spritely amber. The midwife climbed groggily out of bed and threw open the shutters. The half-morning³ sun sprinkled its bright rays through the dark green conifers that provided a thick carpet of needles on the ground and a well-woven wall of trees around the house for about half a mile.

 

The midwife began to cook her breakfast. She thought about her dream. It was strange, and she couldn't figure out why. As she sat down with her oatmeal she noticed it: she had seen the dream from the eyes of an onlooker, the small boy and the nurse -what was her name? - Nireä. What was Nireä? A strange creature for a strange dream, the midwife decided. She couldn't dwell on it. It was odd, yes, but that may have been because of the events yesterday, with the missing baby and Olyhin, his mother. But as she began washing her now-empty bowl, she realized that she didn't really want it to be a strange dream.

 

She went to the village that morning to buy a few special herbs from the apothecary, Ulla, that had been treated for helping with childbirth. As she was there, she told a short summary about the dream, but omitted the part about the portal and the other creatures. That was something that she could not talk easily about for now. It needed some thinking. When she finished, Ulla gave a soft laugh. She was far older than the midwife, well into her hundreds and with only a half of a mouth of teeth. She cracked her knuckles and pulled some herbs from a drawer in the wall behind her.

 

"Take these to child of Lake. Feed him with good food. Clothe him well. Give him Ulla's leaves when ready."

 

The midwife sighed. The old lady was rather frustrating sometimes. Some called her a seer, and heeded her words, but others thought that she was a madwoman who needed some severe help. Most of the help involved hitting her over the head very hard. "I will not see him, Ulla. He was only in a dream."

 

"Aha!" cried Ulla. "You thinks that Ulla is crazy, eh?" She chuckled. "All people thinks that Ulla is crazy," she said, and threw her withered hands in the air. "You wants Ulla to go crazier? Huh? Ulla is fine, fine." Ulla jabbed a finger at the midwife. "You needs to trust Ulla. Trust her. Take the leaves to Lake boy, and then see that Ulla can be trusted."

 

The midwife sighed again. " I will." She reached into her pockets. They were empty except for the packet of herbs that she had already bought. Her face flushed. "I'm sorry, Ulla," she whispered. "I haven't any more money."

 

Ulla snorted and shoved the leaves into the midwife's hand. They were ten of them, small and charred. "Ulla give leaves free to you. She has no use for them." She collapsed into a rocking chair behind her. "Little Ulla, only…" She trailed off and began to count on her fingers. "One, two three," she muttered, and then shouted, "Six! Ha, ha! yes. Little Ulla, six years old." She sank back into her chair.  "She played in a meadow with her brother. Brother says, 'Ulla, you must stay here and I help your mama with things.' Little Ulla says fine, and brother goes off to do work. Then Lady comes to Ulla. Lady holds out leaves to her, and they are greener than they are now. Even a bit blue. 'Take care,' says Lady, 'and give to who I tells you too. Do not loose. They be burnt, but that will help.' Little Ulla says fine." Ulla shook her head. "Little Ulla do not know that talking to unknown Lady is bad. But Little Ulla keeps her promises, oh yes. She give to who Lady tells to give to." Her eyes took on a faraway sort of stare. With a shiver, the midwife saw how very alike she and Olyhin looked. "Lady come to Ulla last night. Dressed in blue, feet not seen. Webbed fingers. Lovely green eyes, crown of coral. Beautiful, beautiful. Had a pearl necklace. Gave it to Ulla. Said it was time. Said to give pearls and leaves to the person. Ulla ask her who it was. She says to me that Ulla knows. And she does."

 

Ulla stood pulled a string of five pearls, all a pale blue, from the folds of her cloak. They were upon a white ribbon, which complimented their hue. "Ulla gives to Rhoda. Rhoda takes the leaves and pearls. And uses them." She put the pearls into the midwife's hand.

 

The midwife drew in a sharp breath. No one had used her name for years. To the people on the village, she ceased to be Rhoda. She simply was The Midwife.

 

But now she knew that she would have to become more than either of them. The father of the child in her dream said that a messenger would come to the house of the person that his son would be going to. But who was that? Was it her? She certainly didn't think that she would qualify: she was old, cut off, not exactly rich. Her husband had died long ago, and she had no children of her own. Why choose her?

 

"Ulla," she murmured, "are you sure that I am the right one?" Rhoda pulled the herbs back out of her bag. "I do not think that I am the correct person. These belong to someone else."

 

For a moment, Rhoda thought that Ulla would slap her. Her face was hard and rather angry. "Ulla have been alive for longer than your mother, and her mother, and…" She paused and put up her fingers again, counting. "And her mother! Three generations! And you knows that you are no young lady no more. But Ulla know, oh, yes she does. Ulla been taught to tell good from bad!" She lifted a handful of herbs. "Apothecary's job, oh yes it is! Tell right leaf from wrong one. You see this?" She took two leaves  that were seemingly identical and held them up. "Which one do you give to little girl with tummy ache? Eh?"

 

The midwife bit her lip. This was not her strong point: she helped with childbirth, not sickness or everyday pain. "The one on the right?"

 

Ulla turned so that she was facing the leaves. "This one?" She shook the leaf on Rhoda's right. Rhoda nodded. Ulla cackled.

 

"You give this one to little girl, her insides turn to mush. Rhoda should not give little girl this leaf." Ulla relaxed, as though satisfied. "Ulla know which leaf is right, which one is wrong. Ulla also know which person is right, which one is not. And Ulla has only made one mistake, only one, giving leaves to wrong person. But Ulla learned, oh yes. She learned well. And Ulla has not made mistake like that since." She waved her hand, indicating that Rhoda leave. "Go. Ulla fulfilled her position. She is ready…" Her eyes clouded over, and she murmured, "Ready, oh, yes, she is…" Ulla sat in her rocking chair. For a moment,  Her eyes, once old and colorless, were alive, flecks of green appearing where there was once a mottled grey. Her cheeks grew pink, and the wrinkles in her face didn't seem to be so deep anymore. Her hair grew darker. She looked young, Rhoda realized.  Not like the old Ulla who was the joke of the village. But when Rhoda blinked, the old lady appeared to be old again, but more weary this time. "Go, little one. Go and fulfill your position."

 

"I… I will." Rhoda turned to leave, mostly to humor the old lady. She had no doubt that Ulla was dead serious about this matter, but she wasn't sure if it could be possible. Besides, she added to herself, it was only a dream. It couldn't be real. It just couldn't be. But Rhoda didn't add that to her sentence. Ulla may explode again. But before she reached the doorpost, a thought occurred to her.

 

"Ulla," said Rhoda, "what exactly happened to the person that you chose first?"

 

Ulla's eyes locked with Rhoda's. They were sad, ancient. "She died," whispered Ulla. "In fire. Ulla go to save her, but no more lady. Just ashes, and leaves." Ulla looked away and out the window. "Go, child. Go and do what you were meant to do."

 

Rhoda could barely refrain from gulping. As she closed the door behind her, she could feel Ulla's eyes on her back. The herbs in her pocket seemed heavier than usual, and when she reached in and felt them, ten leaves, all on one thin branch, thin and papery, warmed her fingers, as thought they had just been pulled from a fire.