Labored breathing rings heavy in the room, nearly overwritten by a sudden onslaught of voices sounding.

Indiscriminate words jumble together as the woman herself begins to call out in a high, clear voice, gripping the hand of the one next to her so hard the bones creak. Finally, it is almost over. With a last, panting moan, it is finished. Silence. Too long. It has been too long and the woman knows it. She wipes sweaty hair off of her forehead and peers up at the man next to her as lines of grief begin to appear on his face. He is trying to hide it, not to upset her yet, but she already knows. Shes known it for weeks, has known since the morning she woke up with a sudden, sick feeling that she knew had nothing to do with morning sickness. She hadnt told anyone. She knew that telling someone would make it true. The midwife cuts the cord, cocoons the little one up in a cloth and the man takes it from her, cradling the tiny bundle against his chest as tears begin to flow. The midwife wipes the woman off and she rises, unsteadily. It is much too early to rise, and her knees give out. The midwife vacillates between helping her up and forcing her back into bed, finally takes the womans arm and props her up against a small side table. The husband, wrapped up in his own private grief, does not notice. The woman finds her feet again and reaches for the bundle. She sees a brief struggle in the mans eyes as he lifts them to gaze into hers, but, after a moment, they shift away and he passes her the little cocoon. The woman holds the cocoon delicately, fingertips barely touching. So small, she thinks. As if it will crumble away to nothing. She turns and walks out the door. No one follows her. Out in the yard, she is immediately assailed by rays of sun that blind her after hours in the dim birthing room. The woman leans her head down over the bundle, waiting for her eyes to adjust. When she raises her head, her eyes are slightly teary. The woman walks with the bundle out to the center of the yard. Crickets chirp and a bumblebee lazily hums by, but otherwise, she is alone. She kneels by the azaleas, still holding her precious burden. The woman takes a moment to steady herself, to find some inner determination, closing her eyes, breathing in. When she breathes out, the world changes. The little thing in her hands, just beginning to cool slightly, stirs. A twitch. The woman breathes in, then out again. Another twitch. Then, no movement. It is not enough. The woman closes her eyes, trying to shut out the distractions of the day. She must give this everything she can it will not work. What she is attempting to do is difficult, maybe impossible. But she has to try. Her breath quickens as she begins pouring everything she has to give into the little bundle.

There is a faint crackling noise as the air comes alive around her, whistling and popping with a low vengeance. A low humming begins, but the woman cannot tell if it is from her throat. All she knows is the breath. In and out. Weaving in life where there was none. The woman begins to feels a terrible draining within her, as if she is dragging something up from some eternal abyss. She pushes on anyway, breathing life into the cocoon in her hands. The wind picks up around her, and the low hum becomes a dull roar, building and building into a terrifying crescendo. The woman is losing it, teetering on the edge of blackness as she falls into exhaustion. Please, she thinks. Please. Her nails are biting into the palms of her left hand and she has bitten her lips raw. PLEASE! The wind stops. Slowly, the woman opens her eyes.

Ch. 1 THE BOY WHO SAW GHOSTS