Wren had always made jokes about women who experience odd pregnancy cravings and earlier tonight, she was one of them. After dinner and two pieces of saskatoon berry pie, she had a craving for spice that wouldn’t go away. Jalapeños were the only things she could find in the fridge so she ate them, even if it was midnight. As she heads to the bathroom, she thinks about the disturbing dream that shook her from sleep. She’s had the dream many times recently. Now awake, she sees the vision again and it bothers her. It is macabre. She cradles her tummy one more time.
*
Wren is walking through the meadow along the coulee outside her home. There’s a pathway that follows the shallow creek and leads toward the shore. That meadow is quiet and fragrant, filled with wild baby’s breath, wolf willow and the deep purple of delicate asters. Purple, she thinks, is a colour that represents the calming stability of blue, along with the fierce energy of red. Wren’s kohkum used to tell her that purple is a colour that combines mystery and magic. But something is off. Wren spots a weathered scarecrow that looks to have horse hair covering its head in place of a cap. The hair flies in the wind. There’s no reasonable explanation why a scarecrow would be placed there—there’s no vegetable garden nearby, only a playground for squirrels and whatever other wildlife happens to wander along. As Wren moves closer, she notices the scarecrow is clad in a dress made of red and white gingham, like the tablecloth she and Lord often use for picnics.
*
She feels another discomfort. Chills and a cold sweat. She figures there’s no point in waking her husband or her sister, but the pain in her lower body is getting worse. If it’s food poisoning, she thinks, why isn’t anyone else awake now too, needing to head for the bathroom like me?
The floorboards make familiar creaking sounds as Wren holds on to the handrail of the old wooden staircase. The sound makes her smile for a moment, reminding her of crickets and the songs they sing to each other at dusk. There’s a night light in the upstairs hall, but this evening, its usefulness is replaced by a bright, full-moon beam of light that illuminates the old farmhouse, giving the impression of first light.
“Grandmother Moon,” she whispers.
Wren can’t help but wonder if her thoughts have caused problems to manifest. Thoughts are powerful, and obsessing about the negative can make the unthinkable happen. Her kohkum told her this years ago: “Be careful of your thoughts.” It occurs to Wren that she’s been preoccupied with worries of a healthy pregnancy. It’s the reason she internalized signs of cramping, earlier tonight, while preparing the meal. She mentioned the slight pain in her lower abdomen to no one. Although she did feel a sense of dread and worry, she couldn’t even bring herself to admit that fear to Raven.
Instead, she turns in for the night, still feeling pain and pressure. It causes her restlessness and sleeplessness. It is just before dawn when Wren feels a wetness between her legs. Spots of blood.
She silently makes her way to the bathroom, all the while praying her fears will be unfounded.
Her moment of calm is replaced with panic once she’s in the bathroom. She notices an extreme bloat in her lower abdominal region where it hurts. She winces, trying her best to let out the gas that might be the problem but nothing happens. The only sound is the distant second-hand on the antique mantel clock, ticking its seconds ever so slowly. Wren decides to stop her efforts and moves to the oversized wicker chair that’s been placed beside the original clawfoot tub. As she sits, she notices drops of blood trailing along the floor toward her chair. Desperate moments of agony follow as she realizes that the staining is also along the bottom of her dressing gown.
The pain increases, forcing Wren to hold the side of the bathtub. She does her best not to let any sound come from her mouth, although what she really wants to do is scream as loud as she’s able, to wake someone up. She’s frightened. Blood begins to gush, staining the entirety of her gown. She grabs a large bath towel and holds it tight between her legs. Wren moves to the floor and continues to breathe heavily. She begins to pray: “Creator, my heart, please spare this child who I promise will be accepted into a home filled with love. Please keep this child safe.” Wren thinks her prayers might have been answered when she feels the intense pain stop. She removes the towel and a grief unlike any other weighs down on her.
There are thick, red stains on the towel and gelatinous blobs the colour of cranberry sauce. Wren stops breathing as she gazes at the towel. In the middle of the mess is a small figure, no bigger than the size of her thumb. Shaking uncontrollably, Wren removes the tiny shape, cupping it in both hands and holding it close to her heart. Again, she prays: “Please carry this child home and keep her safe until we meet again.”
Wren sits there, alone, on the bathroom floor. She sobs. She finds it hard to breathe. She doesn’t move until the morning sun shows its first rays, replacing the cold moonlight. Her unborn fetus is still cupped in one hand as she rises to retrieve a facecloth from the shelf. Placing the baby’s remains inside, she gently folds the corners of the cloth over it. She doesn’t want to shower, even though dried blood covers her legs. The sound of running water would likely wake up her husband and she can’t face him now. Instead, Wren undresses, gathers the soiled bath towel and wraps the bloodied nightgown with it. Then she rifles through the clothes hamper looking for smaller towels and facecloths. She sponges herself clean using water from the sink and throws some on her face to wash away the stain of tears. She cleans the blood off the floor. She dresses in dirty clothing from the hamper.
As she descends the staircase, more tears make their way out. She’s carrying the bloodied cloths with a plan to take them outside. She’ll build a fire. While these items are burning, she’ll go back upstairs and retrieve the facecloth that enshrouds the baby’s remains. She’ll put the bundle in her studio and make a little nest of dried wildflowers and sage until she figures out what to do next.
DAWN OF DREAD
The early morning finds Wren alone and working in her studio, unable to return to bed.
And what will these hills witness this morning? Wren thinks as she, ever so slowly, wraps the tiny being in cloth, into a delicate, two-inch mound that reminds Wren of the tadpoles she used to capture from the slough when she was a girl. She uses a soft piece of red broadcloth to cover the baby she’ll never meet, the baby she’ll never see grow. Wren places these sacred remains in a small cereal bowl she recently fired in her kiln, the first of many baby pieces she’d planned to make. She remembers a story told by her kohkum years ago about how red is the one colour to which the spirit world is attracted. This morning, she hopes it’s her kohkum cradling this never-born soul, her unborn baby, and offering comfort to them both.
Wren decides during these early morning hours that she will incinerate the baby’s remains in the electric kiln in her studio. Her way of remembering. Maybe she will then make a colourful planter so that baby’s remains will be a part of new growth, new life, some type of perennial plant like a lily or a tulip. Or maybe she will plant an aloe vera and use its soothing gel any time she has an inevitable kiln mishap that causes a minor burn. Her unborn baby could help her through that.