Whatever decision is made, not everyone will agree.
A child is sick.
Some will want to go for help, for a doctor. For medicine we can’t make ourselves.
Some… will want to go past the boundary.
* * *
The members of Pastoral are seated in the half-circle facing the stage—the wind gusting from the north, shaking the oak leaves of the Mabon tree, rain threatening to fill the skies. But the group does not sit quietly or talk in hushed tones as is usual—they are speaking in a fervor, some are even arguing, red-faced, talking with their hands to punctuate a point.
Theo and I sit at the back, my own hands working together, my body strangely uncomfortable. I feel fidgety and nervous. This gathering won’t be like the others, and I have the sense—a tiny imperceptible itch—that nothing will be the same after today.
I look for Bee perched beside a nearby tree—she doesn’t like to sit among us, she prefers to be separate, where she can listen from afar and avoid the messy noise of too many voices, too many heartbeats. When there’s too much sound, she told me once, I can’t pick out a single voice, because the crush of them all becomes like mud.
But she’s not standing at the tree line or at the corner of the kitchen building where I usually see her. She must be somewhere else.
Levi appears from the fence line that borders the crop fields—as if he’s been wandering the rows, thinking—and he climbs the short steps and walks to the center of the stage, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, head bowed slightly, like he’s carefully considering the words he will speak, sensing the restless state of his people.
I do not envy what he must do—decide the fate of Colette’s child.
A hush sinks over the group, faces tilted upward and bodies leaned forward, anxious to hear about the baby—the too-small newborn with a too-small heart. It’s been years since one of our members was this gravely ill, aside from the few elders whose time it was to pass on anyway.
I lean forward, hands in my lap.
“I know everyone has their own opinions about what should be done,” Levi begins, eyes cast down at the stage, a sign of his humility, a show of his reverence for his people. His eyebrows are sloped together, and he has the look of a man burdened with something none of us could imagine. “But we have more than one life to consider here. We have an entire community.” He finally looks up, his soft gaze passing over the crowd, and any lingering side conversations fall quiet. A wind stirs over the group, brushing through our hair, chilling our skin, and I catch Levi’s eyes straying on me, then flicking out beyond the circle—he’s searching for Bee, for the comfort and assurance she provides. He needs her, but she has slipped away somewhere out of sight.
“As most of you know,” he continues, eyes clicking back to the front row of the gathering circle, “our newest arrival was born into Pastoral last night. But she was born early, too early, and she is unwell.”
Someone coughs, shifting in their seat, and the wood bench creaks beneath them.
Someone else, seated near the front, speaks up—her voice like a sharp stab in the air. “We can’t let the child die.” It looks like Birdie, her nest of curly gray hair pinned at the nape of her neck. She asked me for yarrow at the last gathering, her nerves on edge, fearful that her son Arwen might be sick. But she never came to the house for a bit of fresh ginger from the garden. Perhaps she was afraid the others might see her—and they might wonder if something had happened. Or maybe she realized it was a worthless remedy anyway. I only offered it as comfort.
Several heads in the group nod, but others grumble their dissent.
Levi’s posture changes, but it doesn’t stiffen, he seems to relax, settle in. “I know some of you believe we should go into town, get medicine or help. But I assure you that Faye is working tirelessly to save the child.”
The group slips into low conversations, questions that congeal in the air, becoming thick and suffocating. I twirl my wedding band around my finger, a nervousness I can’t shake, then look across the crowd, searching again for my sister, just as Levi did moments ago.
But a voice rises above the group, cutting through the chatter. “The baby needs a doctor.”
I know the voice, could pick it out anywhere: Bee. And when I turn, this time I do find her, leaning against one of the skinny aspen trees just outside the circle. Her arms are crossed and she doesn’t make a move to step closer to the group. Instead, her gray eyes are focused solely on Levi, even if she can’t see him.