Anna Hansdatter: Hunger In the Dale

Chapter 8

Mari kept to herself for much of that summer. She spent many long days walking alone in the hills and forests. She usually returned with an armload of medicinal herbs, which she dried and carefully stored in the kitchen-house. When at home, she helped the other women with farm work, choosing the more solitary chores whenever she could. She did still participate in the hymn-singing, which gave some comfort, especially on those occasions when Anders would play his fiddle.

In addition, whenever the singing began, she would open the hymnal and try to find the hymn being sung. This was difficult at first, but she soon began marking pages with colored yarns to help her find the favorites more quickly. As she sang, she would try her best to follow the words on the page. In the Bible, she marked passages she knew by heart with the same colors her mother had used. As she rehearsed the verses, moving her lips silently, she traced the lines with her finger, watching the text closely and trying to recognize each word, as she had done in her youth.

But Mari’s health gradually began to falter. She suffered from intense headaches, while her energy and stamina lessened. Sometimes she found it nearly impossible to rise in the morning; other times a deep fatigue came over her in mid-day, forcing her into bed before supper.

On an evening in early autumn, Peder Skurdal arrived at Flaate driving a horse and buggy. He rushed to the kitchen-house where the women were working, and asked for Mari. “In the dwelling-house,” said Syne. “She is not feeling well.”

Skurdal ran to the dwelling-house, knocked at the door, and entered without waiting for an answer. Mari sat up in her bed. “Mari Nelsdatter, please come quickly. My wife is giving birth, and Berit Simonsdatter needs your help. She asked for you to to bring mountain yarrow, and to please hurry.”

Mari hesitated. She had not attended a birthing since her injury almost five years earlier. She felt tired and nauseous, and her head was pounding. She rose from her bed and walked to the kitchen-house, with Skurdal close behind. She took down a bundle of yarrow stems, and some other herbs, handed them to Skurdal, and pointed toward his carriage, shaking her head while pointing back at herself.

“No, no, please,” pleaded the farmer. “Mari, you must come along. Berit said you might resist, but she needs you very badly. And I need you, my wife needs you. Please.”

Mari looked at the other women. They looked back at her but offered no advice. She thought of Berit, and her great kindness in Mari’s own hour of need. “Please,” repeated Skurdal.

Mari looked into his pleading eyes and nodded her head. She gestured toward the dwelling-house. “C … c … cloak.” she said. While he ran to fetch it, Mari put some lavender and St. Johns wort in the teapot to steep. When Skurdal returned with her cloak, she put it on slowly and deliberately.

“Please, Mari, we must hurry,” he said. She nodded and held up a finger to ask for just a moment. She pointed to the teapot, then held her hands to her aching head. She shook the pot gently, and poured the contents, leaves and all, into a large cup. She drank the bitter tea as fast as she could, then took some more of the dried herbs from their peg, and walked to the buggy with Peder Skurdal.

The tea helped to ease Mari’s headache and body pains, but her nausea continued throughout the buggy ride. Peder thanked her over and over. “I’m so grateful to you, Mari. Silve has been bedridden for over a month. I can’t bear to see her in such pain. And since the contractions started this morning, well, her misery is all the worse. Berit told me you could help, that both Sylve and the baby could be in danger. I just had to come for you.” Mari nodded quietly, fighting off her nausea.

As they approached the dwelling house, Mari heard Silve Skurdal moaning inside. Berit ran from the house to meet the buggy. As Mari climbed down, Berit took her in her arms. The women embraced warmly. “Oh, thank you, dear Mari, thank you for coming!” She looked into her friends eyes. “How are you? Are your pains worse since I last saw you?” Mari nodded. “I’m so sorry,” said Berit. “I wouldn’t have asked for you, but lives may depend on it. It is almost Silve’s time. Please come inside.” Peder handed Berit the herbs and drove off toward the stables. Before the women reached the door, Berit whispered in Mari’s ear. “I think Silve’s birthing will be fine. But my dear friend Embjor is due any day, and it’s her life I’m afraid for. She has already had some bleeding, and the baby is very large”

Mari knew of Embjor Karlsdatter and her husband Hans Davidsen. They were very poor huusmen on the hill above the South Skurdal compound, nicknamed “Skurdalshaugen.” Hanshad cleared rocks from their plot for years before it produced a decent crop of potatoes. He built a small but sturdy hut with the rocks, but by the time the land was cleared, Hans’ back was in constant pain. They had two healthy children, but a third had died, and Embjor had several miscarriages and two stillbirths since they were born.

Silve moaned again. The women entered the house. “What … Who … Oooh!” shouted Sylve when she saw them.

Berit ran to her side. “Dear Madam, this is Mari Nelsdatter, don’t you remember?”

“No …” the mistress moaned.

“Oh … of course not,” Berit replied. “I’m sorry. You didn’t know that at your birth in Opsahl, Mari attended you and your mother!”

“No … Ohh! OOOHH!”

The time was at hand. The baby came quickly; there was little blood, despite violent and painful convulsions of the mother. Berit tried in vain to calm her. “Dear Madam, You are doing well. Ready? Push … push!”

“NO! … OOOHH!”

As Berit held the mother’s clenched hand, Mari eased the baby into the world. The midwife’s every movement was firm and sure. Even her left hand, though not fully under her control, seemed to know what to do. When he had fully emerged, Mari turned the baby toward his mother and pointed discreetly toward his genitals, Silve gasped, and screamed once again. “NOOOO!”

“Beautiful!” cried Berit, “It’s a ruddy baby boy. He’ll be at your breast in a second.”

Working with all her old mastery, Mari cleared the baby’s mouth, held him upside-down by his feet, and instead of swatting his buttocks, gently patted his back. The baby took an abrupt breath, and began dutifully to cry. Mari maneuvered the baby to his mother’s breast. Within seconds, he found the nipple and began to suckle. “There,” said Berit soothingly, “your son.”

Syne, still delirious with pain, thought to herself, “Oh, I prayed so hard for a girl …” But then, catching herself, and feeling the baby at her breast, she smiled faintly, and said to the women, “Oh, thank you, thank you.” A final contraction seized her. “Oh .. Nooo!”

Once the excitement of the birthing had passed, Mari was overwhelmed by fatigue and aching pain. She collapsed into a chair, burying her face in her hands. As Berit tended the afterbirth, she cast concerned glances at her friend. “Dear Mari,” she said, “you must be so exhausted. I know you have not been well lately. I’ll brew some Johnswort for you.

Mari looked up and nodded, gesturing toward the herbs she had brought, signaling that there was something more.

Berit understood. “Johnswort and lavender, all right,”she said. “I’ll be finished here in a moment.”

When the tea was ready, Berit sat down beside Mari. “Here you are, dear. Tell me, do you know what is making you ill?”

Mari nodded, and pulled down her frock, exposing her right breast. Near the nipple was a hard lump about the size of a finger.

“Dear God! Oh Mari, Mari!” As the baby suckled, and his mother slept, the two midwives embraced each other and wept. Little was known in those days about the stages of cancer, or of malignancy and metastasis. But it was known by most women, and especially by midwives, that such a tumor on the breast is soon followed by a slow, painful death.

After a while, Mari gestured for more tea. Berit added leaves to the pot and steeped them. “I’d best steep some yarrow stems too, for Embjør.” she said.” I’m afraid she is quite a bleeder.” Mari sank back in the chair without responding.

“They’ve made a bed for me right here near Sylve,” said Berit, gesturing toward it. “I’ll share it with you. As soon as you finish your tea, lie down and relax. I’ll be to bed soon.” Without waiting for her tea, Mari slipped into bed, and held herself up with considerable effort on one elbow. Again with effort, she nearly finished her tea, before collapsing into a fitful sleep.

As Mari slept, Berit fetched Peder Skurdal for the first visit with his newborn son. “A beautiful healthy boy,” she told him, “and Syne is doing all right too. It was very hard on her, but thanks to Mari, she made it fine. I’m so glad you went for her.”

“Oh thank you, thank you for insisting. Mari does not look at all well. Thank God she came.”

Syne awoke and smiled when Peder came in. She handed him the sleeping baby. “Your firstborn,” she said proudly. “Shall we name him Amund, after your father?”

“Of course,” he replied. “Amund Pedersen Skurdal, heir to the great South Skurdal farm!” Peder admired the baby for a few moments, then handed him back to his mother and kissed her. “Take your rest, my dear, and praise God that all is well.”

Mari’s sleep was interrupted twice by fierce bouts of pain. Each time, she arose and brewed herself more of the pain-relieving tea. The second time, around two o’clock, the morning twilight was breaking. She had drunk only a little when Hans Davidsen came running across the courtyard shouting, “Berit! Berit Simonsdatter! It is time, come quickly!”

Berit stirred from her sleep as Mari opened the door. “Oh, Mari Nelsdatter,” said Hans,” thank God you are here too. Please, both of you, she is bleeding already!”

Berit put on her cloak, handed Hans the teapot with the steeped yarrow stems, and gathered the rest of the herbs in her arm. She caught Mari’s eye. “Oh, dear Mari, I’m sorry it is coming so soon! Can you come?”

Mari nodded slowly. She refilled her teacup, and gestured for her friend to go ahead, and that she would follow shortly.

Hans misunderstood her gestures, and said, “But Mari, please, we need you both!”

“She will come in a moment,” assured Berit. “Let’s hurry.”

Mari gulped down the bitter tea and took a deep breath. The pain was subsiding, and her head was beginning to clear. There was still some nausea, but most of all, she felt so very tired. She forced herself to her feet, put on her cloak, and followed after the others, taking along the kettle of pain-tea.

When Mari reached Skurdalshougen, Hans was pacing back and forth outside the hut, smoking his pipe. “Oh God, oh God,” he was murmuring, “please don’t let her die.” He barely noticed Mari.

Mari entered, and Berit said, “Her contractions are very strong, and coming every few minutes. It shouldn’t be too much longer.” Mari looked under the covers. The bleeding was significant, but not dangerous.

Berit was sitting beside the bed, holding the mother’s hand, encouraging her to push through the contractions, and relax in between. “Breathe, dear, breathe.” Embjør panted and groaned. The next contraction struck, and she screamed.

“Push, Embjør, push!” said Berit.

“Ohh!” shouted the mother, “Oh, God!”

“That’s it, dear, good job!” Berit looked at Mari. Her shoulders were stooped, here face drawn. Suddenly she looked very, very old. “Oh, Mari, here, let’s trade places.” She stood up and offered Mari her seat.

Mari smiled faintly as she sat down, grasping Embjør’s hand. She glanced at the pot of pain-tea she had brought along, then at Berit, who quickly filled a cup and set it beside her. Using her free hand, Mari sipped at the tea.

Looking under the covers, Berit saw an increased flow of blood. “Oh-oh,” she said, and began preparing a poultice with the yarrow. Before it was ready, Embjør screamed higher and louder than before.

Berit saw that the baby’s head had begun to emerge, but the bleeding was still increasing. “Push, push! It’s coming!” she shouted, then whispered to Mari, “With more blood.” Mari stood up and finished preparing two poultices. Berit held one under the heel of her hand as she struggled to grasp the baby’s head with all her fingers. Mari squeezed both of Embjør’s hands as Berit shouted again, “I have it! Push, push!”

The baby emerged slowly, followed by a river of blood. The first poultice was saturated. Mari reached inside, feeling for the pulse. She soon found it, and pressed her finger close behind it, carefully working in the second poultice while maintaining pressure. Gradually, the bleeding slowed.

“It’s a live girl,” said Berit, “but a little pale,” as she wiped the baby and cleared its mouth. “How are you doing?”

Mari nodded without looking up. The bleeding was nearly under control.

Berit held up the baby by the feet and patted her back. No response. She tried again, then swatted her sharply on the buttocks. Still no breath. She held her upright, cleared her mouth again, and repeated the maneuver. “Mari,” she whispered, “she won’t breathe!”

The umbilical cord had collapsed during birthing, so the baby could not survive long without air. With her free hand, Mari gestured to Berit. She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger, held them to her mouth, and puffed through them.

Berit gasped. She remembered seeing Mari perform mouth-to-mouth breathing once long ago, but had never tried it herself, nor seen anyone else do it. She laid the baby on the table and pressed her own lips to hers. But the baby’s mouth would not stay open. When she finally managed to blow in a little air, it came out through the baby’s nose. “I can’t do it,” she whispered.

Mari motioned her friend toward her, slipped the poultice further over the wound, and guided Berit’s hand firmly onto it. The bleeding increased, but only for a moment. As Berit gently applied more pressure, it nearly stopped.

Mari quickly wiped her hands and went to the table. In less time that it takes to tell it, she recalled her failure to rescue her own daughter just months earlier, and her similar attempts at past birthings. Even among those, there were more failures than successes. She grasped the baby’s jaw, and put her lips over both the nose and mouth. After three gentle puffs, the baby took it’s own breath, and began to cry weakly.

Hearing the cry, Embjør opened her eyes and blinked. The room was spinning before her, but she smiled and sighed with relief that they were both alive. With what little strength she could muster, she reached out her arms. Mari handed her the child, helped it to her breast, and smiled in return.

“You lost a lot of blood,” said Berit. “It looks like you’ll be fine, but you will need to stay in bed for some time. Just relax now, we’ll be right back.” She took Mari’s hand and led her outside. Mari resisted at first, but at a look from Berit, she went along.

Hans Davidsen, still smoking, started to attention. “I heard the cry,” he exclaimed. “Is it all right?”

“A big healthy baby girl,” smiled Berit. Hans hurried toward the door. “No, no, not yet! She, uh, they … need a few minutes alone together. Please, wait until we tell you.” She did not want the father to be alarmed by the large amount of blood. But she could not wait to ask Mari how she had performed this miracle. One might almost say, dual miracles. She led Mari around the hut, out of Hans’ sight.

“Dear Mari, where did you learn to breathe life into a dying child? I have seen nothing like it before, ever, except once from you, when I was very young.” Only then did she remember that Mari could not speak. “Oh … oh dear, I forgot, … I’m sorry.”

Mari smiled wryly, and took a deep breath. She would gladly tell her old friend, in any way she could, if only she could remember it herself. As best she could recall, no one had taught her. She had tried it the first time out of intuition and sheer desperation. She shrugged and stammered, “J … just … c … came … me …”

Berit embraced her and said, “Dear Mari, I promise you I will never forget it. I will teach it to anyone and everyone I can. I will call it ‘Mari’s breath,’ and your name will live on with it!”

Mari shuddered, and shook her head vigorously. “N … no! T … take … care,” she stammered. “N … not … r … ready …”

“What do you mean?” Berit protested. “Who can not be ready to save lives?”

“P … pe … peo … ple … P … priest …”

A flood of memories came to Berit. The suspicious glances and cool platitudes of people when a birthing had been saved, and their silence and hostility when her efforts had failed. Her confrontation with Father Magnussen over Mari’s eviction. The same priest’s own suicide. She understood.

“All right. It will be our secret, dear Mari. I will use it when I can, and teach it with discretion.”

Mari nodded slowly, and the women returned to the hut.

As soon as the blood was cleaned up, they welcomed the father inside. “Oh, my God, she’s beautiful,” he exclaimed, taking her into his arms. “What shall we name her?”

“Name her for the woman who saved her life, both of our lives,” replied Embjør, “Mari.”

Mari smiled and blushed, then shook her head and stammered, “N … no … p … please … A … an … An … na.”

“Well, then, Anna Maria,” said the mother.

Hans beamed, and kissed the baby. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” He kissed his wife and handed her the child, “Anna Maria Hansdatter.”