Until they sleep, p.7
Until They Sleep, page 7
Frona had never been happier than she was at that time—with her son growing inside of her, the days with Astero, and a kind, gentle husband with whom to spend her evenings. Frona spoke to her son, an ever-steady stream of thought or words spoken aloud. The villagers talked about Frona, because they thought she was talking to the goat, or to herself, but Frona did not care what they thought.
* * *
The child continued to grow, with Frona feeling every movement and accomplishment: a submarine heartbeat, paper-thin fingernails, soft hair like the down on his mother’s face. He grew and grew, and soon he was sucking his thumb while floating in her waters, poking and prodding at his enclosure. She could feel him drift to sleep, lulled by the gentle sway of the womb as she walked. When awake, he played with the cord and explored the space that disappeared as he grew, Frona chatting away the whole time. And when the pregnancy was further along and the great swell of Frona’s belly stretched far beyond its normal grasp, he answered her back.
The first time Frona heard from her son, it was startling. While chewing bites of salted cucumber, the boy asked for more. She picked more and more from the garden, happy to be able to give her baby what he wanted. Giving up on the slicing, she started sprinkling salt straight onto the fruit before each bite. More and more, until he let her know it was quite enough and would make him sick to even think of salted cucumbers again.
Having started, he never stopped. It turned out to be the purest form of comfort. Frona alerted him when an errant elbow pressed into her ribs, or his little body rested too heavily on her bladder. He let her know if he was hungry, or wanted her to rest so he could siphon more of her energy into his growing body, or wanted her to go for a walk; the gentle sway of her gait was his favourite way to fall asleep. They prayed together and took communion together. Giannes—for that is what she had secretly decided he would be named—was a wonderful student, engaged and intelligent, with a knack for asking the most insightful questions.
He did not seem to know anything about her religion but had a surprising innate wisdom in all matters. In those moments, to an outside observer, Frona would appear to be deep in contemplation, but Frona knew it was conversation. There was no other way to describe the new ideas coming into her head, the broadening of her horizons and the opening of her mind. Her son told her she was good—that deep down inside of her, she was good. And sometimes—because that was where he lived, deep down inside of her—she believed him.
Giannes’s calm companionship threw a blanket of tranquility over Frona’s life. She had the benefit of never feeling alone, without the pressure of social interaction. Their conversations drifted through her as seamlessly as her own private thoughts, and she felt her love for him at all times—a radiant warmth that flushed her cheeks. At that time, Frona was somehow separate from the rest of the world; her life continued on in familiar ways, but she was an observer, one step removed from any situation. Her smiles were inward. She and Giannes shared a secret that put them above everyone else.
She basked in it all and floated over the surface of her days, the weeks passing without notice. It was a shock when Frona was peeling vegetables in the garden one sunny afternoon, and Giannes called out in alarm. He let her know it was time; he was going to begin his journey soon. It was as though a hand had reached out of the sky, daintily pinching a sewing needle between thumb and pointer finger, and popped the bubble they had been living in. The waters soaked her skirts.
It would not be long. A shattering power surged through her body, opening her son’s pathway into the world. Each and every one of his heartbeats sang through her, rate increasing with his proximity to freedom. There was an ache—hers, his, shared—for the ending of this space that held them both in comfort, where every need was met. She set down the knife and the carrot in her hands, made the sign of the cross, and began the walk to the village midwife.
* * *
Bright waves of pain crashed through Frona, and Giannes told her it was normal; all she had to do was unfurl her closed fists, relax her jaw, think of the word open. He let her know he would have to move her bones around a little bit, that it was okay, they were meant to shift, to flex, to stretch. They checked in with each other, acknowledging it was difficult for both of them. They had grown accustomed to comforting each other. Frona let him know it was safe for him to come out, that she would make the waiting world a safe place, that on the other side there would be a new kind of breath. And when his head was breaking free of her body, when the midwife told Frona to slow down for the final pushes to avoid tearing flesh, Frona and Giannes heeded her words together. Their connection was held-hands before a leap; they were in it together, counting down.
With one final howl from Frona, Giannes was pulled from his mother’s body into the hands of the midwife. He was alert and did not cry.
“Oh, you’re beautiful. I’m so glad you’re here,” Frona said as her eyes strained to take more of him in, her pupils dilating to four times their normal size. She could feel what the baby was feeling: air, cold, space. She saw and heard and smelled the lights and darks and unfiltered noise and the onslaught of scents filling his nose. The midwife placed the infant on Frona’s chest, and she felt her own love reflected back at her in warmth, and skin, and the reassurance of the familiar.
In this state of overwhelm, the midwife cut the cord, and it was as though a lamp had burned out, without warning, in the black of a cellar. The infant wore a mild expression of shock. Frona felt as though a thought had drifted away before she could articulate it. It was a feeling she was never able to put her finger on when reminiscing about her experiences of being pregnant. I felt like I wasn’t alone was the closest she would ever come, an old woman looking back, to remembering the months of private conversations she had held with her unborn children. The baby looked Frona in the eye—his hand on her breast—before latching on.
* * *
Giannes: God is gracious. His amber eyes followed hands making the sign of the cross, his head turned toward the clicking of prayer beads, and billowing clouds of potent incense made him smile rather than cough and cry like other babies. Frona spent every free moment staring at him, wondering what he was thinking. She looked him in the eye while she prayed, aloud for his benefit, content in her assumption that his proximity meant he was benefiting from the prayer as well as she.
The day Giannes turned six months old, he slept wrapped close against Frona’s chest as she sat in a church pew. It could have been the curtain of incense in the air, or the quality of the light seeping through the two windows, or perhaps it was the cadence and white noise of his mother’s whispered prayers, just loud enough for his ears to take in and his growing brain to absorb like a sponge, or probably a combination of these things, that created the ideal environment for Giannes to take his morning nap.
Without a fuss, without needing a bounce or a rock, his eyes would take on a faraway gaze before slowly closing and drifting into a peaceful sleep. Frona grabbed at the accidental discovery, and she had been taking Giannes to the church to nap for the past month. And so, this began as an unremarkable day. It was a confluence of four things—three very small and one miraculous —that ended up making it one of the most remarkable days of Frona’s life. The three very small things, rendered notable only in hindsight, occurred in the hour leading up to mother and sleeping child together on the pew.
Firstly, it was such a beautiful day that Frona had extended her walk by taking a meandering route to the church, circling through the fields and crisscrossing her usual path up the mountain. Frona’s senses seemed more aware than usual, sharpened by some unseen lens, and her spirits felt so high she praised every chirp of every bird, the treasure that was every smooth stone, the quality of light in the sky, and every December plant, and she was sharing these feelings aloud with Giannes, who stared at his mother’s face with the same brand of adoration and gratitude that beamed from Frona.
It happened to be a morning ripe for embracing miracles. And at the exact moment Frona, intoxicated by the world, had exclaimed, “God is everywhere, Giannes! See how His touch and His love have created perfection all around us? He made all of this. And He made me, and you, and He will make your future brothers and sisters—” Giannes had grabbed a loose tendril of his mother’s hair and pulled with all the strength his little arm could muster, which turned out to be considerable, and as Frona cried out in surprise, her baby boy had laughed with delight. She struggled to unwind her hair from his wet fist.
The second very small thing, as seemingly innocuous as the first, was Frona’s run-in with the priest in the churchyard that followed.
“Good morning, Mrs. Soltanis. Bless you and young Giannes, true servants of Christ.”
“Blessed is God, who has mercy upon us and nourishes us from his bountiful gifts by his grace and love always, now and forever and to the ages of ages. Amen,” Frona said, eyes fluttered closed and head bowed. Frona and the priest both made the sign of the cross, Giannes examining their movements and waving his own arms.
“You are setting a proper example for your son. If every mother in the village was like you, we would be graced. You practise your religion seriously and you are showing your son the true way. It is time for Giannes to have a new brother, or maybe a sister. You’re young and newly married. You have time for many, many more children,” the priest said as he nodded, pleased by his own wisdom and considering this to be a formal demand.
“Yes, Father,” Frona said. The flame of her cheeks to be discussing such matters with a man, let alone the priest, was barely perceptible and could have been attributed to the sun. Kimon was a loving husband but had never again tried to initiate the act they performed on their wedding night. This confused Frona—it wasn’t what she expected based on the stories of other women—but she was so thankful for this mercy granted her, she didn’t dare question it. Frona, still battling with the enjoyment she derived from her vivid dreams, feared the day Kimon would claim what was rightfully his, when she would once again have to fight to maintain control of her body. The thought of she, herself, initiating the conversation with Kimon—even for the purpose of procreation, even as per instructions from the priest—was horrifying.
“Make another child as soon as you can. That is your task in this life: to plant the seed of God into your children and send them forth with your strong wind filling their sails, blowing them across the choppy waters of this life, golden soldiers of the unknown fighting the raging sin of this sad world, reaching for answers and striving for perfection, becoming more and more like Christ, Our Lord.”
The priest considered himself to be a poet and tended to wax on to captive audiences. He watched Frona’s face for confirmation of the beauty of his monologue. He was not disappointed when she raised her solemn, round face and said, “If it be according to His will —I couldn’t have said it better myself, Father. You have a way with words.” And with a slight bow of her head, she had continued into the church.
The third, and final, very small thing—which still did nothing to alert Frona to what was about to happen—occurred as soon as she entered the antechamber of the church and lit a candle. Giannes, tired and ready for his nap, began to fuss, getting louder and louder and waving his fat arms. As Frona bounced and shhhed him, a startled sparrow swept past their faces to alight on a rafter, and mother and the now-silent child watched together as a single feather floated down from above their heads, back and forth, back and forth, and landed with delicate grace on Frona’s breast. The sparrow—as Frona knew well, and reflected on later—was sacred to Aphrodite and symbolized true love and a spiritual connection. Frona considered the ancient Greek gods and goddesses to fall under the umbrella of superstition and did not align herself with the pagans who believed in Hellenism, but she did happen to be superstitious—would be a fool not to be—and would never dare to risk open denial. She plucked the feather from her dress and placed it in the wrap with Giannes.
Now, we can rejoin Frona and her slumbering son on the pew for the last sign of the morning. Impossible to ignore and the key shedding light on the previous occurrences of the morning: the miracle. Frona was reciting a prayer: “Light of Light, true God of true God, begotten, not created, of one essence with the Father through Whom all things were made—” when precisely at that word, made, there came a familiar wave of urgency. Pull, pull. Her egg sensed what Frona had not: another flock of approaching seed.
It all clicked into place at once and she couldn’t believe she hadn’t immediately recognized the signs of the morning for what they were: Giannes’s unusual reaction to her mention of future siblings, then the insistent recommendation of the priest, then the feather, and now this—right as she sat in a church pew praying about God’s creations. Her task had been ordained, and God must be rewarding her piety and efforts against the lust in her dreams. She had been gifted another opportunity for pregnancy without having to commit sin with her husband; she had been gifted another year of abstinence, another year to try to ward off her dreams, another year where the touch of her husband would not risk divulging her secret.
Her most recent egg companion, on its tunneling journey, was penetrated. For the second time in her life, she knew she was pregnant, and as her husband was nowhere near, she knew she must have been chosen.
Frona spent the rest of the day in a barely contained frenzy, waiting for Kimon to return for dinner. The news of another child was thrilling, but how would he receive it? Would he think she had been unfaithful? She prayed Kimon would sense the gravity of the situation and be as honoured as she was. When at last Kimon’s feet shuffled outside of the door, she placed Giannes in the cradle and ran to greet him.
“Kimon,” she said, trying to stifle her excitement, “God is love, and our love is God, and He gave us another child while I was in the church this morning!” Kimon removed his hat, wringing it between his hands as his eyes circled the room to Giannes and back to Frona again, as if expecting to find another baby crawling around on the floor.
“I don’t understand,” he said, searching her face for signs of fever. “You found a baby in the church?”
“Our love has transcended a need for physical love —we’ve truly been united as one in spirit, and God’s love has created a new life.” Her hands came to rest on her stomach. “Our faith and love and oneness have become realized. We’ve been chosen to have another child —it happened right in the church while I was praying today. And the priest had been telling me we should have more children because of my strong faith. I’m pregnant again, Kimon. A daughter this time.” Understanding at last, Kimon laughed with excitement, picking up his wife and spinning her in a circle.
“A daughter.” He set Frona back on the ground and kissed her square on the lips. He ran to the side of the cradle. “A sister.” He raised Giannes up into the air, laughing. Frona smiled, never more thankful for her husband than in this moment.
“We don’t have to tell anyone about the girl’s origins,” Frona said. “We’ve been chosen and will raise her as our own—it’s nobody’s business.” There was no need to create sensation or invite skepticism from prying neighbours.
“A wise approach,” Kimon replied with a wink.
Frona was happy to have worked through the delicacy of the situation, and she stood a little taller in her success as she watched her husband dance around the kitchen with Giannes, who was squealing with laughter. What a committed man she had married; committed to her and to the will of God. She had been praying so hard, repenting for her troubling dreams. God was showing her He recognized her true spirit. She was fighting sin and was on the side of good. She had been tested and had passed
“It’s a miracle, Kimon.”
“It is a miracle, Frona. You are the miracle.” Frona smiled, choosing to forgive her husband a blasphemous statement, just this once.
* * *
“How much did it hurt?” Hekta asked, stroking the soft, black hair on Giannes’s head. He stopped his tired fussing to stare into his aunt’s eyes, lips pursed with curiosity. “When he was born.”
“A lot. And you’ll be fine.” Frona was preparing some mountain tea to share with her sister. “We’ll both be fine.” She rubbed her hand over her own belly, round with her second child. A week earlier, Hekta had sent word she was coming for a visit. She wanted to see Frona before having her first child, one she just discovered she was expecting. The timing worked out perfectly, as Kimon was away in the city, selling the spring lambs. She missed her dear sister, and her company was appreciated.
Frona, as she did every time, expected Hekta to still look like a little girl. The beautiful woman sitting at her table, bouncing Giannes on her knee, was another person entirely. Hekta’s hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back. A river the colour of shadows in honeycomb. The curves of her body, too, were reminiscent of a river, and the grace with which she moved. She had a pleasant voice and strong hips, and she radiated kindness. Frona hoped her new brother-in-law deserved her.
Frona had met Hekta’s husband once, on their wedding day, and she knew better than to fully trust first impressions. Frona had observed the different forms a husband could take—even her despicable neighbour, the Tsoris man, had seemed pleasant enough upon their first meeting, but she had heard the stories about how he treated his wife. Frona counted her blessings that neither she nor her sister had ended up matched with someone like him. She wished the best for her sister.
Giannes began to fuss again, and Frona set the pot of tea on the table before gathering him in her arms and settling into a chair. “It’s hard to believe my baby sister is going to be a mother,” Frona said, cuddling the hungry child to her breast.
“I’m not even two years younger than you.”
“Well, sometimes it’s even hard to believe I’m a mother.”
