Faceless

            She lay on the platinum birthing altar alone in the birthing room.  Golden statues of the most powerful animals of the land offered her only protection.  The lion, the tiger, the elephant, and the wolf stood in each of the four corners of the room.  The osprey sat on a perch hanging from the ceiling over the altar as protection from any evil that should chance coming in from above.  Hidden in the soil beneath the altar was the spider, protecting from evil of the underworld.

            Surrounding her, the white brick walls absorbed her guttural yells as she entered the last stages of childbirth.  Witnesses were not allowed to such a sacred event.  It was her solitary task to birth and prepare the child for viewing.

            Time passed her unnoticed until the child did come forth followed by waves of blood and after birth, most of which was absorbed into the altar she lay on.  Without giving herself the chance to catch her breath, she picked up the boy-child by his feet and laid a firm slap across his tiny back.  He coughed and sputtered then began to wail the song of all newborns. 

            She took the newly made silver knife from the obsidian table nearby the altar and carefully cut free the cord that had bound him to her, destroying the only connection she was allowed to have.  She cleaned him with a soft moist cloth from the same table and placed his trembling, crying mouth to her breast.  She wrapped him to her with a long swath of linen, blocking her view of him and allowing him to suckle in quiet peace.

            The child secure, she went about the careful task of removing all blood from the room and herself.  There was not to be a trace of it when the priests came to offer the altar to the gods. She disposed of her bloody rags in a stone hearth, which she would set alight when she left the birthing room. The smoke from the fire would purify the air, releasing it of the scent of birth.

            When this was done, she brushed out her long black hair with a golden brush and separated her breast from the sleeping child.  Carefully, meticulously, as she had practiced from a young age, she wrapped herself and her son—the child—in a light white woven cloth. The child did not stir, staying deeply asleep as was proper.

            She held him close to her as she walked over and set the hearth alight. Then she walked up the white stone steps that led out of the front of the room and blinked as she reached the sun outside. Two guards flanked the opening in the sandy ground but did not acknowledge her as she walked past. They took up their place behind her and without a word followed her to the palace.

            The palace doors opened before her.  Dust blew in from the outside along with the hot moist air that blanketed the land.  The child’s father sat in his gilded throne, resplendent in his long black robes, and only she could see how truly anxious he had become.

            She walked toward him down the long white fur carpet.  As she neared, he stood to his full height, the tallest male in the land—as it should be.  She reached him and knelt before him.  Her head lowered as her arms raised, presenting his child to him.  She uttered two words:

            “Your son.”

            The slight weight of the life she had carried within her left her body wholly and entirely as he took his son from her hands.  She remain knelt, her head bowed as he strode toward the balcony which hung over the many waiting peoples of his kingdom. He raised the now crying baby over his head in display and spoke in a booming voice.

            “My people of Sharain! I give you your future King! From this day forward all will know and all will fear the name of Charac.”

            She heard the crowd cheer and she allowed herself to fill with pride for the briefest of moments.  Her hands felt cold, her body empty.  She remained kneeling, her head down, her arms at her sides.  The corners of her vision showed her many royal nannies coming and snatching the wailing baby from his father’s raised hands.  They would take him to the nursery.  He would not know a mother except for them.

            Her hands start to curl into fists, but she stops them.  If a guard saw this, she would lose her head.  She thinks of how she was trained for this moment from birth.  When she was too young to understand, it was a game to her.  How to swaddle a cute baby ape.  How to make the pretty white stone gleam.  As she aged, the game faded into something else.  She learned how to best please the King so that he would give her a son.  The pretty white stone was stained with the blood of sacrificial calves instead of the juice of vukka berries.  Calves whose throats she had to slit herself.

            She thinks of the others.  The others who had their heads removed in this very spot as they presented their King a daughter instead of a son, but not before they saw their squalling babes cast over the balcony into the wretched crowd below.

            More anger fills her.  If she had birthed a daughter, she already planned on running.  It had happened in the past.  They tried to hide those stories from her, but she found them and she listened to them.  She understood what they had done, how they had gotten away.

            But, she did not birth a daughter.  She birthed a son.

            Charac.

            A slight smile tries to creep up on her.  That was the name she had wanted for him.

         She had heard other stories.  Faceless women were able to move about more freely than they realized.  Her son would know her.  He would know her, respect her, come to her for guidance and wisdom.  As the Birther of the first son to be seen in this kingdom since the King himself was born, she would be given status.  She would be given a choice of activities to while away her time.  Already, she had chosen the library.  Charac’s studies would be dictated by an overseer, but carried out by her.  The secrecy of the Kingdom will be its downfall as the overseer will not know who she truly is.  Even the King himself would not recognize her in a hall despite the son they had made together.

           He was a fool, the King, but he was correct about one detail: All will know and fear the name Charac.