She’d never thought much about motherhood in its concreteness. Abstractly, she’d thought about mothers and motherhood and maybe being a mother one day, but she had rarely considered the actuality of having children of her own. When facing the reality of determining what kind of mother she’d be, she had to hammer out what it meant to be a parent. She was determined not to abandon her eggs; she would tend them carefully, cherish them the way she’d been cherished. They would be good children. Virtuous. Strong. Proud. Wise. Courageous. These were things she wanted for her children; perhaps selfishly, so that these virtues would reflect back on her, or selflessly, so that her young would have the best start she could afford them. Why did one have children, after all? It couldn’t ever really be completely selfless or completely selfish; to her, it was an act of balance.And so she wandered deep into the swamp. There were some kin blessed by the motherfather who in turn could bless a clutch. She didn’t worry for herself, but she did worry for her children. She chose the swamp. They didn’t.
So a blessing she did seek, traveling far outside of her own territory, listening to passers-by about rumors of where she could find such a kin- one who would be willing to give her what she wanted. It was a long sojourn, but she didn’t mind the quiet. It gave her time to reflect. And to talk. Not to herself, but to her unborn children. She wanted badly to know them, to hunt alongside them, to travel with them. She wanted badly, oh so badly, to love them. She told them desert tales, songs of their ancestors, legends of their heritage. She sang to them with wordless, rambling tunes- and she hunted with them in mind. Hunting fed the body and the soul, and it was how she communed with the swamp.
Eventually, she found him. She’d been told his name was Wildflower Breeze, and that he was patient with those who came to him with young in mind. “They say you are blessed by the swamp, and in turn can pass that blessing on. My name is Bloody Tears. You don’t know me, and I apologize for the intrusion. But I come before you to beg your blessing for my children. If you would- I ask neither for beauty nor anything fleeting. I ask only that the swamp helps them to be strong and good and wise and brave. I ask you to help them overcome any challenge that the swamp might throw at them; they will be acha, and we are of the desert. I have no doubt in my heart that they will overcome their challenges, but… I think maybe it would be best for them if they were born already wrapped in the motherfather’s love.”
She paused for breath, unsure if she was saying the right thing. “And isn’t that all a mother- or a father- or a motherfather could… no, should want? That their children are the best they can be and that the world is kind to them? That’s the blessing I seek.” She laid her gift to him at his feet; a shining carp, fat and glistening, wrapped in thick, flat sedge leaves. The fish was intact and large; it had taken skill and time to catch. She’d resisted eating it and had wrapped it carefully to keep it damp so that it would not affront the stag’s senses.
“A tribute. I could not honorably ask for your blessing without a gift, as inadequate as it may be, in return. At the least, take it as a token of my intentions so that you may know that I come before you bared, without arrogance or pretense or ulterior motive.”
She stepped back, looking the stag in the eye. Was it appropriate to bow your head? It might be. But she’d never been one for bowing, so she continued eye contact, letting him see her as she was.
Kitty Sprightt
