It overpowered her, and she awoke to find it was snowing outside.
Coming events cast their shadows before them.
—Dawanjir proverb
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In the Stillness, in the Snow
Seven months later
Bingmei awoke from a tenuous sleep to the sensation of water gushing from her body. It felt like a clay jug had burst, and in the delirium of her half-awake state, she imagined she was the jug. Blinking rapidly, she stared, her body and clothes glowing red in the light cast by the Immortal Word for “heat”—Re—which had been drawn on all four walls of the interior of the phoenix shrine. Without that simple word, drawn four times with her finger, they would have frozen to death that winter.
Her back ached, and her legs felt as if worms were writhing beneath her skin. She’d been lying on her side, the swollen hump of her abdomen keeping her in place. But her clothes were wet, soaked with hot fluid that had erupted from inside her. And then the first pang hit. Or maybe it wasn’t the first. Maybe she’d been dreaming about it half the long, never-ending night. When the sharp pang subsided, she tried sitting up. Her pants were totally soaked. Something had burst inside her. Was the fluid that protected the baby gone?
The baby squirmed and kicked inside her, as if the womb were a quonsuun, and she were in training.
“Patience, Daughter,” Bingmei grunted, rubbing the swollenness. “Is it time? The winter hasn’t ended yet. You are early—nnngghh!” Another gout of pain shot through her abdomen, making her moan.
Fear jolted through her as she struggled to sit up. Bingmei had experienced all sorts of physical pain before, but nothing compared to this. It made it worse that she didn’t know what to expect. She’d never seen a child born before. Didn’t know much about the process.
“Quion,” she said, calling out to him. He was fast asleep on his mat, breathing gently, a picture of relaxation. “Quion!”
He startled awake, lifting his head. The ink of night spread over the sky. There wasn’t even a blush of dawn. Outside the shrine, the trees were all laden with heavy snow. During the daylight hours, the valley was impossibly beautiful with its jagged pillars and snow-capped trees. Isolated from the rest of the world, they lived on food brought by stark black ravens or fish dropped down to them by eagles. She was hungry for real food, and even the thought of the spicy dishes of Sihui made her mouth water in anticipation.
“What’s wrong?” Quion said with a confused look. “Do you need me to rub your back? Can’t you sleep?”
“It’s time, Quion.” Another jab of pain made her gasp and hunch forward.
“Time for what?” he asked, looking at her with growing concern.
After the next round of pain subsided, she could think clearly again. It amazed her how much it hurt. “The baby is coming,” she said.
“Now?”
“Yes, now!”
Quion scrambled to his feet, looking confused and smelling of fear. He glanced around the shrine as if hoping to find something useful from his pack.
“My . . . my water broke,” she said, panting. “I think the pangs . . . have been going on for a while. I’m all wet, Quion.”
He stood before her, staring down at her helplessly. They’d both been dreading this moment. Each had known it was coming, and yet there was no way to prepare for it. Quion had been an only child, and as a fisherman’s son, he’d never been around domestic animals. The only births he’d witnessed were the spawning of fish. That was the extent of his knowledge on the subject. Bingmei knew even less. She stared out at the night. There was no moon, just a myriad of stars as silent witnesses to the event. Her heart longed for Rowen. She’d thought to check on him, many times, but most of the birds had gone to warmer climates. Those that remained were eagles, ravens, a few breeds of owl, as well as some tiny birds like pine siskins. But they did not venture very far in the storms, and so Bingmei felt she was blinded, unable to see beyond the Death Wall.
She felt the connection with Rowen, so at least she knew he was still alive. That he was in Fusang. How she wished he were here with her to see their child come into the world. Her loneliness and desperation made an ache that wouldn’t fade as the pangs of childbirth did.
She looked up at Quion and felt grateful that she wouldn’t be alone.
Suddenly Quion blanched, rushed to the doorframe of the shrine, and proceeded to vomit into the snow.
Bingmei stared at him in disbelief as another awful round of clenching pain gripped her. The young man gutted fish every day! He’d never shown squeamishness before.
He leaned against the edge of the doorway, sinking down to his knees.
Bingmei tried to stand to go over and help him, but then another pang struck her before she could reach him and made her knees knock. She had to prop herself up on the edge of the sarcophagus. Stabs went down her spine and her legs. This was horrible! She couldn’t understand why women endured such torture.
Knowing the baby would need to come out, she pulled off her fur-lined boots and undid her belt and removed the soaked pants. The smell was unpleasant but not disgusting. Not the same as fish guts. Her tunic covered her, but her legs became cold immediately, even with the heat glyphs burning steadily. She staggered around the sarcophagus, holding on to the lip of stone to keep herself upright. She was so thirsty. Another round of pain doubled her over.
It took a while before Quion could offer any help.
“I’m sorry, Bingmei!” he said with embarrassment.
She pressed her back with one hand and leaned against the sarcophagus with the other. “Get me some snow. I’m thirsty.”
He hurried and scooped
