We have six weeks in the pavilion to heal before we are sent to the Planting again. It is necessary, they say, for the longevity of the Wombs, and other reasons.
"Who would want to plow a furrow in such a mess?" Marken had been surrounded by hangers-on that day and didn't care who heard him. "Bleeding and loosened out like an old shirt."
I have just delivered my fourteenth babe. It is close to a record.
Many do not make it this long, but I was made for birthing.
There is another thing, a defect, I would be destroyed for if it were ever discovered.
I love them.
Each babe is my death and rebirth. I look on each one with wonder, always careful to let no one see me watch their tiny perfect toes, tinged blue at first, their hair, curling, and soft.
For me, each turn in the pavilion is full of grief and fear. If the babes do not survive, we are informed. Mine all have except one, which came early. Marken was my Stud that time. I thought it was because of his cruelty that she died, but they said it was because our blood did not blend well.
I sit, having my legs massaged and try not to wonder about the babe. Almost as much, I try not to wonder who will be sent to me.
****
Zachariah.
I can not contain my smile when I see him. He has been chosen more than any other; eight of my children are his. It is because of my blood. He meets my eyes, surprise showing, his face controlled. We are not supposed to smile. We are not even supposed to look at each other.
I am too unguarded with him. It is dangerous, but it was after the birth of our first babe, a girl with curling dark hair, that I began to feel love.
"I am chosen to serve you for the Planting," he says. Prescribed words.
It is quick and gentle. He is always kind. Just before the end, his eyes dart up and meet mine for a moment before his face dissolves in bliss.
"Thank you," I say after, expected.
He gets up to leave, then stops, and sits back down on the bed. He looks at the floor for a long time.
I am frozen, afraid to breathe.
"I am pleased to serve you, Ava," he says finally, and rises.
I have eight children with him, and we have never spoken beyond the boundaries. I can not help looking at him. Before he leaves, he looks back at me, with a flash of something in his eyes. It is blue, lakes and sky. It is fire, popping sparks and leaping stars. It is running, wildness, cheeks red-chapped from the wind. It is freedom and wishes; what might have been.
