The stars hung low over the night in a smear of uncountable colors, a soiree of purple and blue and pink and yellow amidst a pale moon, watching the land. On any other evening it would have demanded stillness as all things slumbered. But of course, this was not any other evening - instead of silence, there was this:

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-“

These were the sounds of relief in a way - though, when N̄ūmepe’s husband offered this as consolation, she’d bitten him. In truth though, N̄ūmepe was entering her second night of labor after a particularly painful pregnancy, marred with cramps and soreness no matter how much fevi-leaf N̄ūmepe chewed on. She’d started having the Mekhe make a soup from the fevi, and later she’d exchanged it for clamping her jaw down on a rope.

She had bitten clean through the rope by nightfall.

Now, all she could do is scream, and it’d been incredibly difficult for anyone near the Mekhe’s cave to sleep in that previous night. When the Mekhe said that perhaps intercourse would help ease the pain, the husband cowed and fled the village, swearing not to return before he stopped hearing screams. N̄ūmepe was going through childbirth by herself… with two midwives and the village Mekhe, of course.

Every so on, the screaming would subside, and some in the village who still, between bouts of labor, would hope that perhaps this baby would finally be born. Perhaps, just perhaps, the suffering would be over. But then…

“-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-“

…It would turn out that she merely needed to refill her lungs, so N̄ūmepe could resume making such animalistic noises to wake the dotokhu from their eternal, frozen rest. And while the dotokhu and the rest of the villagers may be okay to simply wait for the baby to come out, N̄ūmepe screaming all the while, Fama

“-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-“

Fama, the ma-

“-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-“

Fa-

“-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-“

“-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-“

“-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-“

THE MAN WHO LIVED immediately adjacent to the Mekhe and thus spent the previous forty five hours listening to birthing cries – would not sit so idly by.

Having finally had enough of the frankly rather disturbing noises emanating from the cave, he entered the Mekhe’s den, and after getting lost in tunneled and natural halls of the cave, and Fama came upon a disturbing sight.

N̄ūmepe was bent over a bed in the side of the circular chamber, with an embers in the fire pit in the center of the room. Two midwives, both worried, trying their best to calm down a very manic mother with a splattering of red on the floor behind her. And a very, very jaded Mekhe leaning disapprovingly on his staff. N̄ūmepe’s screamings were punctuated with guttural growls as she attempted to give birth.

“Could you perhaps be quieter?” said Fama.

N̄ūmepe perhaps tried to say something, but it ended up being a growl, an incomprehensible mutter, and a death glare before she screamed again. When it subsided, the old mekhe finally stepped forward, and patted his hand reassuringly (yet condescendingly) on N̄ūmepe’s head. He said,

“It won’t be long now. The babe is being difficult in birth, far too difficult, far too early, and so I believe it to be underweight. As sad as I am to say, N̄ūmepe will die in AGH-“

N̄ūmepe had bitten the Mekhe’s hand while he was pontificating, and when pulling it back saw that the Mekhe was missing the lesser three fingers of his hand. As Fama recoiled, the old man was now also screaming and grasping his poor hand… but in doing so letting go of his walking stick, and stumbling to the floor in tears. Now both the Mekhe and the Mother were screaming, and blood stained both the floor and the Mekhe’s poncho.

“YOU! GO-go get something to stanch it! For the love of the spirits GO DO IT!”

The authority in the Mekhe’s voice forced Fama to sprint out the room and through the halls… but getting turned around again he flew out the exit of the cave – the stars, they were falling from the sky! Streaks of white now shot across the heavens!

With a start, Fama ran back into the cave, stumbling through its winding tunnels until he finally returned to the birthing room.

“WHERE THE FUCK ARE THE BANDAGES!” shouted the Mekhe, still writhing on the ground.

“The Sky! It’s falling! The Stars are falling!” shouted Fama.

The Mekhe stopped squirming, and his eyes widened, forgetting for a moment that he was now missing three fingers. N̄ūmepe, meanwhile, was still in the process of delivering a baby, and while the Mekhe scrambled for his walking stick and ended up scooting along against the wall as he went to go get bandages with renewed energy, the midwives began acting with greater excitement. Fama realized that the birthing screams had entered a deeper register, and the final process had begun…

…but what came out first didn’t look like a baby. In fact, it looked like a bloody lump.

“Spirits! Is that the baby?!” said Fama, cringing.

“No! It’s the placenta! Gods, this isn’t good, no no no…” said one of the midwives. Blood was now trickling out of N̄ūmepe, and if Fama’s eyes were to be believes she was beginning to pale slightly, and quiver slightly more.

“But the baby - it comes now!” said the other midwife, and N̄ūmepe had her eyes shut and mouth open in utter agony. She was slow to crown.

“Move!” said the Mekhe, hobbling in, his hand now bandaged. “Move!” he said again to the midwives, who stood back, and he began to work the magic that only an experienced Mekhe could know.

“Make haste - sprinkle these over her back, you, and you put these onto the embers!” He palmed two handfuls of herbs to the midwives, who scrambled to do as he bid. The Mekhe then began his chant, something Fama could not understand as it was in that secret language of the spirits: “azazazaAAzaazzaza-“

“There is no more herb to burn, Mekhe!” said one of the midwives, and the other gestured the same. The Mekhe abruptly stopped his chant, and shouted, “DO NOT INTERRUPT ME! But go make soup, no, broth! Bone broth, that of a pulukh! The mother must live – the spirits will it! Go!”

The midwives scampered off as the Mekhe resumed his chants, and Fama finally got a glimpse as the baby emerged. It was seemingly in a membrane, but Fama was afraid to ask. Finally, after half an hour, the baby emerged in full, and the Mekhe finished his chant, pulling the membrane off the child with the skill of a master. He gave the baby to the now silent, sweaty, and incredibly pale N̄ūmepe, though the baby now began its first cries. Finally, she looked at peace and at rest, euphoric beyond all belief. And sickly, as if at the gates of the Afterworld. The Mekhe held the see-through sac in his hands.

“…and so the babe, born as the stars dashed ‘cross the sky, would be born in blood in the caul. This was truly a miraculous delivery, as you could see… Fama, I think?” said the Mekhe.

“Yes, mekhe.”

“Ah. Correct on the first guess. Excellent.”

The Midwives finally returned from the other chambers, with a clay bowl of bone broth and another of water. They spooned it into N̄ūmepe’s mouth – though she resisted, some – as she attempted to get the baby to feed between its first cries. It looked so red, so frail, its head too large. They both looked like they were dying.

“I’m surprised you didn’t faint, frankly,” said the Mekhe. Fama was too in awe to speak, so the Mekhe went on.

“If you’re so eager to keep your silence, then you won’t object to keeping it until the child is of age, I’m sure.”

“What?”

“This child was touched by the gods,” said the Mekhe, “if you were to talk, she would never have a normal life. She deserves more than that, I believe. She’s meant for great things.”

“But… why?”

“It’s not for you to know, child,” said the Mekhe, “go get some rest. I believe we’ll all need it.”

“But… but…”

“But what, Fama?”

“…What will his name be?”

“Her name, I believe, but it’s reasonable enough that you cannot tell, she is quite small and dear N̄ūmepe’s obscuring her. And I suppose you should know, given that you were here to witness the birth,” said the Mekhe, “but in N̄ūmepe’s own-“

“Avūmi,” said N̄ūmepe, “her name shall be Avūmi.”

A silence hung.

“Well, there you have it child,” said the Mekhe, “now go get some sleep.”