September 24th, 1795 aex

Mak Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

The grueling summer had been worth it for this moment. Mak and his family gathered around the pregnant milk cow. They hadn’t the luxury of things like joy or leisure throughout the dry, toil-heavy season, but with the air now cooler, and the answer to their hardships near at hand, they allowed themselves to smile for what felt like the first time in months.

Mak caught a glance of each familial face in the barn stall. A hanging lantern cast an orange glow upon them as they watched Milli the milk cow with nervous anticipation. Mak rose, leaving the rest of his family to remain kneeling before the labouring animal.

He exited the stall to stretch his limbs. The barn door was wide open, allowing faint moonlight and the cool pre-dawn air to wisp in. He stretched again and moved to inspect the animals. The other four cows slept peacefully in their respective stalls, and at the far end of the barn, Butterhoof, the chestnut mare, stood asleep, her head poking slightly over her gate. Beside her was the empty stall of Henry the gelding who had provided a decade of hard work before dying of old age, leaving Butterhoof as the only horse on the farm.

Again, he stretched his arms. His nerves were overly active, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t extinguish the tingles in his muscles. A lot was riding on this birth.

He’d paid ten dollars to borrow old man Darrow’s bull—enough money to feed Mak’s family for the winter, but he’d taken the chance. The summer had been a dry one. Mak’s crops had produced less than ever before. Their stores were barely filled enough to last the winter, and their money was low, too.

He returned to the stall and knelt between his two youngest. Milli lay on the ground, breathing heavily, though she was still perhaps an hour or two away from the big moment. He’d seen countless animal births in his life, so he wasn’t worried. These things took time.

Daun Greenshore, Mak’s childhood friend and head of a farmstead down the road, had come to Mak with an offer to purchase one of his milk cows for twenty dollars. It was a desperate offer that had given Mak the realization he wasn’t the only farmer affected by the uncharacteristically dry summer. Mak had accepted on the condition that his plan with the bull came to fruition. Mak stretched yet again to alleviate the prickling in his limbs.

Milli’s back legs hovered as she pushed through another contraction. Her laboured breaths shot plumes of steam through the chilly dawn air.

Tiny hooves exited the mother’s backside, followed closely by a shiny, pink muzzle. It happened sooner than Mak had expected. Milli grunted. Mak put his hands on the chests of his two youngest—Net, the boy of only seven, and Skylde, his eleven-year-old daughter—and pulled them back a few steps. Milli was docile like most cows, but birth-giving was serious business.

The calf was squeezed out a few inches farther after another moaning effort by its mother. Fur became visible—a rich colour like good earth—slicked tight against skin. “Can we call it Brownie?” Skylde clutched Mak’s hand against her chest. Her blonde curls bobbed as she hopped excitedly.

“We’ll call it whatever you want, darlin’.” Mak smiled.

“Do baby cows eat parsley?” Net fished a sprig from his pocket, no doubt plucked from his tiny personal garden behind the house.

“It’ll drink its mother’s milk for a while before anything else,” Mak said. He looked across the stall. His wife Konni and oldest daughter Jerri stood hand in hand with beaming smiles catching the gleam of the burning oil above. New life, be it man or beast, was always cause for celebration on the farm. He turned back to Net. “Give it to Milli, she’ll like that.”

The milk cow had a pile of hay before her that she’d been nibbling on throughout the process. The mouthfuls had come in growing intervals and stopped completely once the calf had become visible. Net approached as fearlessly as always with an extended hand. The green sprig bobbed inches from her nostrils. She flared them a few times, inspecting the offering. Her thick lips opened and closed around it. A tired moan escaped her as she took the sprig, leaving an inch of it pinched between Net’s tiny fingers.

Milli chewed the bit of food and swallowed before her eyes widened. Her back legs rose, and her ribs contracted violently. Skylde, Net, and even Jerri, who had seen a cow birth before—Milli’s, in fact—were in shock, their smiles replaced by looks of concern.

“Is she hurt, Pa?” Skylde still clutched his hand.

“It isn’t pleasant, but she’ll pull through,” Mak said.

“It’s always like this, dear.” Mak’s wife’s was the only smile left in the barn.

Milli’s breaths grew heavier. Her strange jerking and the steady stream of smoke puffing from her nose made her look like some sort of futuristic machine in the obscure light of dawn. There was something in her movements that sent a chill up his spine. He pried his hand from his daughter’s clutch and knelt beside the labouring cow. He placed a gentle hand on her oscillating shoulder. She flinched at his touch, then instinctively sniffed his free palm once she recognized him.

“I got nothing for you right now, girl.” He dropped his hand to her swollen abdomen, just above the udders and massaged her. He knew it did nothing to help the process, but there was something about Milli that tugged at his heart. He felt bad for her, but did not know why.

“What are you doing?” Konni arched a thin brow. “She can handle this on her own. God knows I did for the last three.”

“Something’s wrong, I think,” Mak said.

Jerri, his daughter of fifteen, knelt beside him. “I don’t see anything.” Her blue eyes narrowed as she inspected the backside. “Everything looks fine, Pa. We’ll be seeing the baby’s eyes soon.” Her smile returned.

Mak’s daughters took their blue eyes from him. His two sons got their mother’s deep browns. Where is Sherik? His oldest son should have come with blankets an hour ago.

“It’s coming. We’ll have to do it without blankets.” Jerri said, as if reading her father’s mind.

“I’m sure cows have been born onto worse,” Konni said, taking position at the head of the exiting calf. Net and Skylde stepped back a few paces, their jaws dropped.

Jerri bunched up hay where she expected the calf to fall, then stepped back to make way for her mother. Konni took the calf’s hooves in her hands and waited. Whether she pulled to assist Milli, or left it to Milli’s own pushing, Mak couldn’t tell. He kept his hand on the cow’s ribs, which rose and fell with her deep breaths.

Milli pushed hard and let out a deep cry. Her eyes were glazed and round like they’d been when she was a calf. She looked to Mak as if asking for help. He patted her ribs, hoping it was enough to reassure the animal.

A spurt of liquid shot into Jerri’s pile of hay. Konni kept her hands on the slick calf. It slid out past its shoulders after one push, then to its hips with another. Konni pulled and put a hand beneath it, gently letting it fall into the hay.

Milli stood and turned to face her calf. Her face looked indifferent, as if nothing had even happened. She started for her calf and moved her nose in to lick it clean. Konni kept her hand between Milli and her child.

“Let her get to it, Kon,” Mak said. “We can spend time with it later.”

His wife’s dark eyes met his. Tears welled in the corners, and she shook her head. He hadn’t noticed until then that the calf had yet to move. He’d meant to ask for confirmation, but the evidence was there before him. He’d always known that Net and Skylde would have to learn of such things eventually.

“Children must be introduced to death, before it sneaks up on them,” Mak’s pa used to say. Jerri’s hand covered her mouth and she sat back against the stall’s gate. Her head sank back. She stared at the barn’s ceiling and sighed.

Mak huffed a stream of condensation and ran a calloused hand over his face. The ten dollars, and the means to feed his family through the winter, was gone for nothing. Not only that, he’d now have to break the news to Daun and his family.

Net laughed and hopped from joy, the remnants of the parsley sprig still gripped in his fingers. He swung his arms in the brightening air and danced unrhythmically, welcoming what he thought was the farm’s newest member.

Skylde knew. She stared at the still form on the pile of hay with a perplexed look. Her dampening eyes shifted from calf to her father. Mak nodded gravely. “Poor Milli,” she whispered. She stepped past the gate, marched down the row of stalls, and settled at the last one on the left. She brushed her fingers over Butterhoof’s white-striped nose. The chestnut and black mare showed no signs of waking. “But why?” she asked, barely audible from so far with her back turned.

No one knew for sure why such things happened, to man or beast. Many had theories, but none were certain. Some believed it was God’s will, a punishment for leaving the safety of His holy rivers in the old country. Some theorised it had to do with what the mother ingested in terms of food or even water. Other’s blamed a curse from the native folk, the Aquin, who wanted them gone. Most simply blamed luck. Mak did not fall into any of the groups, for he didn’t allow himself the time to dwell on it. There was always something else that needed doing that could get his mind off the problem, so he might as well go on and do it.

“I wonder if it has anything to do with the drought,” Konni suggested.

“I don’t think so, Kon,” Mak said. He was going to point out that her own still-born, what would have been their first child, had not occurred during any drought, but he stopped himself. “These things happen. There’s no use thinking on things no one knows the answers to.”

“Those are the best subjects to think about,” Jerri said. “Why give thought to something that is already known?”

Mak ignored her and faced Skylde. “We don’t know, darlin’. These things just happen sometimes, and it’s nobody’s fault. The calf didn’t feel any pain, and Milli will be fine.”

She nodded but didn’t look back. Butterhoof woke and shifted her weight. The mare usually went straight for her hay pile after waking but instead chose to enjoy Skylde’s attention. Butterhoof was Sherik’s horse, purchased by Mak, but she’d taken to the boy quickly. Where is he?

Konni took the calf’s limp head and shook it gently, hoping for a sign of life while Milli licked its haunches. Nothing happened. Konni pushed her fingers over the calf’s chest, trying to simulate a heart beat or breathing. Nothing happened. Milli’s licks weakened and lessened until she stopped, collapsed onto the hay inches from her calf, and let out a lamenting cry. “It’s not dead,” Konni said, almost fanatically. She continued shaking it, pushing at its chest, even blowing air into its dead mouth. Nothing happened.

Mak rushed to her when she started slapping it. Despite the state of her calf, Milli’s protective instincts drove her to moan and move closer, an uncertain look in her usually docile eyes. Mak wrapped his arms around his wife. “There’s nothing you can do, Kon.” She relaxed, and Milli followed in turn.

Konni wept. Net watched them, and his dancing ceased. “Why is Ma crying?” When no answer came, he stepped forward to offer Milli the last bit of sprig. She sniffed it, then looked away without eating.

Jerri took Net by the hand and escorted him out of the stall to join Skylde. They spoke amongst themselves in their light, familiar voices.

“This can’t happen.” Konni sobbed in her husband’s embrace.

Mak knew why she sounded so heartbroken. He thought four healthy children had been enough to mend Konni’s sorrows, but he saw now that the horrific event had never fully left her mind. Nor had it left his own, but Mak forced himself to appreciate the children they had whenever his mind suggested dwelling on the one they didn’t.

Milli nudged her calf. Nothing happened. She nudged it again, bringing the still creature nearly to its feet. It flopped like a wet fish the moment its mother’s muzzle left it. Mak patted Milli on the cheek. “You did good, girl,” he said. She regarded him with two round eyes, dark as the pre-dawn sky, and blinked her long, slightly curled lashes. The expression was human. She felt the pain, the same sorrow they had felt years ago. “You did good.” He repeated.

Crickets ceased their chirps and the morning birds sang. Pale light entered the stall, lessening the effects of the lantern, but still not bright enough to extinguish it. A crisp wind rustled the hay around them, and the flower-like fragrance of Konni’s brown hair flowed around Mak’s face. He closed his eyes.

The rooster from the coop just on the other side of the wall crowed to greet the morning. Milli settled on her side, a faint cloud of hay dust wisped upward. She grunted and rested her chin on the pillow of hay Jerri had made, just beside her calf’s motionless form. “We should leave her alone,” Mak said. “She needs rest.”

“She needs us here with her,” Konni disagreed. “We have to be here to reassure her.”

“She’s a cow,” Mak said. It was a heartless thing to say, but there was work to be done.

Jerri led the two youngest back into the stall. Skylde looked up at her older sister, asking permission with round blue eyes. Jerri nodded and nudged Skylde forward. The young blonde had the tip of her finger wedged between her lips like a tobacco pipe. She kicked at a straggling ball of hay and avoided her father’s gaze.

“What is it, darlin’?” Mak asked.

Her face reddened. “Can we bury Brownie beside Duke?”

Duke had been the loyal family dog. The sound of his name sent a pang of hurt through Mak’s chest. He’d never had a better friend. Duke died nearly a year ago, just as he had lived, protecting Mak and his family. The hound had scared off many foxes in his life, and other far bigger threats, but the pack of coyotes had proven too much for him. “Of course, we can,” Mak said. “Why’re you so scared to ask?”

Jerri spoke first. “We had a difficult harvest. A lot of our hopes rested on this birth. I thought you might not want to waste time or energy digging a grave for something so unimportant.”

He winced. Did he truly appear so heartless in his family’s eyes? He smiled. “I was hopeful for this calf. That makes it important as far as I’m concerned.”

“You’re not angry that it cost you ten dollars?” Jerri said.

“It’s not the calf’s fault,” Mak said. “I knew the risk when I made the decision.”

Jerri returned the smile and nodded. Skylde and Net shared a “hurray” and danced together before separating in disgust, remembering their obligations to be enemies as brother and sister.

“What do we do now?” Konni asked, her eyes still on the calf.

“I’ll need to make that money back,” Mak said. “It’s our only hope to get through the winter. I’ll have to ride into town to look for work.” He frowned. “I’ll be no better than a vagabond.” His pa had always spoken ill of such folk. “Don’t feel bad for them, boy. Their own choices brought them where they are,” he’d say.

Konni shook her head and smiled. “You’re doing it to provide for your family. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, dear.”

“Thanks, Kon.” Mak regarded his children, who were in the midst of another quiet conversation. “Go and fetch the blankets your brother was supposed to bring,” he said to Jerri. “We have to clean this up.” Jerri nodded and started for the barn door.

The harvest was weak, the granary barely half filled. Not that it ever reached capacity, but they were usually close. Mak worried of the coming winter. They had enough pickled reserves in the cellar and salted meat to last only a few weeks. Sherik had gotten lucky with fishing of late, and they had a nice hoard of smoked fillets, but it wasn’t enough.

Jerri grunted as she bumped into Sherik at the barn door. The brown-eyed boy was short of breath, an odd symptom for one who did not make a habit of rushing to arrive on time. He ignored his sister but extended a hand to keep her from falling.

Mak released Konni from his embrace, rose, and locked eyes with his son. Sherik brushed wild locks of shaggy brown from his brow and stood at attention.

“Where were you?” Mak asked before the boy could speak. He was sixteen, but Mak still considered him a boy. His work ethic was woefully insufficient on the farm, he showed no initiative or interest, and he was late or absent for everything. No matter what punishment Mak placed upon him, the boy refused to change. He tried everything but beatings. “No child ever learned his numbers from a fist,” his pa once said, “they shouldn’t learn their manners that way, either.”

“I’m sorry.” Sherik’s manly voice had arrived; Mak hoped his manly behaviour was close behind. “I know, I say it a lot, but Pa, I was coming with the blankets and I saw movement down by the forest.” His chin dipped to swallow something heavy.

Mak stood a head over his son and meant to use that height advantage to intimidate while he could. Sherik took as long to get to a point as he did getting to an appointment. “And?”

“There’re strangers on our land,” Sherik said.