It made a kind of sense to her, it sure did. “How can that be, Oldpappy?”
“Oh, that's just in the nature of it. The whole universe is made of only four kinds of stuff, little Peggy, and each one wants to have its own way.” Peggy thought of the four colors that she saw when the heartfires glowed, and she knew what all four were even as Oldpappy named them. “Fire makes things hot and bright and uses them up. Air makes things cool and sneaks in everywhere. Earth makes things solid and sturdy, so they'll last. But water, it tears things down, it falls from the sky and carries off everything it can, carries it off and down to the sea. If the water had its way, the whole world would be smooth, just a big ocean with nothing out of the water's reach. All dead and smooth. That's why you slept. The water wants to tear down these strangers, whoever they are, tear them down and kill them. It's a miracle you woke up at all.”
“The blacksmith's hammer woke me,” said little Peggy.
“That's it, then, you see? The blacksmith was working with iron, the hardest earth, and with a fierce blast of air from the bellows, and with a fire so hot it burns the grass outside the chimney. The water couldn't touch him to keep him still.”
Little Peggy could hardly believe it, but it must be so. The blacksmith had drawn her from a watery sleep. The smith had helped her. Why, it was enough to make you laugh, to know the blacksmith was her friend this time.
There was shouting on the porch downstairs, and doors opened and closed. “Some folks is here already,” said Oldpappy.
Little Peggy saw the heartfires downstairs, and found the one with the strongest fear and pain. “It's their mama,” said little Peggy. “She's got a baby coming.”
“Well, if that ain't the luck of it. Lose one, and here already is a baby to replace death with life.” Oldpappy shambled on out to go downstairs and help.
Little Peggy, though, she just stood there, looking at what she saw in the distance. That lost heartfire wasn't lost at all, and that was sure. She could see it burning away far off, despite how the darkness of the river tried to cover it. He wasn't dead, just carried off, and maybe somebody could help him. She ran out then, passed Oldpappy all in a rush, clattered down the stairs.
Mama caught her by the arm as she was running into the great room. “There's a birthing,” Mama said, “and we need you.”
“But Mama, the one that went downriver, he's still alive!”
“Peggy, we got no time for–”
Two boys with the same face pushed their way into the conversation. “The one downriver!” cried one.
“Still alive!” cried the other.
“How do you know!”
“He can't be!”
They spoke so all on top of each other that Mama had to hush them up just to hear them. “It was Vigor, our big brother, he got swept away–”
“Well he's alive,” said little Peggy, “but the river's got him.”
The twins looked to Mama for confirmation. “She know what she's talking about, Goody Guester?”
Mama nodded, and the boys raced for the door, shouting, “He's alive! He's still alive!”
“Are you sure?” asked Mama fiercely. “It's a cruel thing, to put hope in their hearts like that, if it ain't so.”
Mama's flashing eyes made little Peggy afraid, and she couldn't think what to say.
By then, though, Oldpappy had come up from behind. “Now Peg,” he said, “how would she know one was taken by the river, lessun she saw?”
“I know,” said Mama. “But this woman's been holding off birth too long, and I got a care for the baby, so come on now, little Peggy, I need you to tell me what you see.”
She led little Peggy into the bedroom off the kitchen, the place where Papa and Mama slept whenever there were visitors. The woman lay on the bed, holding tight to the hand of a tall girl with deep and solemn eyes. Little Peggy didn't know their faces, but she recognized their fires, especially the mother's pain and fear.
“Someone was shouting,” whispered the mother.
“Hush now,” said Mama.
“About him still alive.”
The solemn girl raised her eyebrows, looked at Mama. “Is that so, Goody Guester?”
“My daughter is a torch. That's why I brung her here in this room. To see the baby.”
“Did she see my boy? Is he alive?”
“I thought you didn't tell her, Eleanor,” said Mama.
The solemn girl shook her head.
“Saw from the wagon. Is he alive?”
“Tell her, Margaret,” said Mama.
Little Peggy turned and looked for his heartfire. There were no walls when it came to this kind of seeing. His flame was still there, though she knew it was afar off. This time, though, she drew near in the way she had, took a close look. “He's in the water. He's all tangled in the roots.”
“Vigor!” cried the mother on the bed.
“The river wants him. The river says, Die, die.”
Mama touched the woman's arm. “The twins have gone off to tell the others. There'll be a search party.”
“In the dark!” whispered the woman scornfully.
Little Peggy spoke again. “He's saying a prayer, I think. He's saying– seventh son.”
“Seventh son,” whispered Eleanor.
“What does that mean?” asked Mama.
“If this baby's a boy,” said Eleanor, “and he's born while Vigor's still alive, then he's the seventh son of a seventh son, and all of them alive.”
Mama gasped. “No wonder the river–” she said. No need to finish the thought. Instead she took little Peggy's hands and led her to the woman on the bed. “Look at this baby, and see what you see.”
Little Peggy had done this before, of course. It was the chief use they had for torches, to have them look at an unborn baby just at the birthing time. Partly to see how it lay in the womb, but also because sometimes a torch could see who the baby was, what it would be, could tell stories of times to come. Even before she touched the woman's belly, she could see the baby's heartfire. It was the one that she had seen before, that burned so hot and bright that it was like the sun and the moon, to compare it to the mother's fire. “It's a boy,” she said.
“Then let me bear this baby,” said the mother. “Let him breathe while Vigor still breathes!”
“How's the baby set?” asked Mama.
“Just right,” said little Peggy.
“Head first? Face down?”
Little Peggy nodded.
“Then why won't it come?” demanded Mama.
“She's been telling him not to,” said little Peggy, looking at the mother.
“In the wagon,” the mother said. “He was coming, and I did a beseeching.”
“Well you should have told me right off,” said Mama sharply. “Speck me to help you and you don't even tell me he's got a beseeching on him. You, girl!”
Several young ones were standing near the wall, wide-eyed, and they didn't know which one she meant.
“Any of you, I need that iron key from the ring on the wall.”
The biggest of them took it clumsily from the hook and brought it, ring and all.
Mama dangled the large ring and the key over the mother's belly, chanting softly:
"Here's the circle, open wide, Here's the key to get outside, Earth be iron, flame befair, Fall from water into air. "
The mother cried out in sudden agony. Mama tossed away the key, cast back the sheet, lifted the woman's knees, and ordered little Peggy fiercely to see.
Little Peggy touched the woman's womb. The boy's mind was empty, except for a feeling of pressure and gathering cold as he emerged into the air. But the very emptiness of his mind let her see things that would never be plainly visible again. The billion billion paths of his life lay open before him, waiting for his first choices, for the first changes in the world around him to eliminate a million futures every second. The future was there in everyone, a flickering shadow that she could only sometimes see, and never clearly, looking through the thoughts of the present moment; but here, for a few precious moments, little Peggy could see them sharp.