Orson Card - THE CRYSTAL CITY

Alvin's brother Measure was the one in the world most like him. Not in power-though Measure was a good student of makery, within his limits. He was like Alvin in goodness. Perhaps he was Alvin's better in compassion and patience. And far Alvin's better in judgment about other people's character. Let Measure stand beside Alvin, and Alvin would never lack for wisdom. Who could know better than I that foreknowledge is a poor chooser, for it gives too great a weight to fear. While a generous heart will make choices that, at the very worst, do not poison the heart of the chooser.

Perhaps that was why she was sure she had to go to Vigor Church and on to where Alvin was. Because fear told her to stay, but hope told her to go. Her hope of being a good wife to Alvin and a good mother to her baby. A good mother being, at the very least, one that gave birth to a living child. As a woman who had given birth to a child too soon born to live, surely she should be a one fit to make such judgment.

So she spent her day cushioning the carriage while workmen resprung it. Choosing a team of horses that would pull evenly and not run faster than she could bear. Packing her few things, writing her letters. Until at the end of the day she was ready to drop with exhaustion. Which was good, she would sleep without fretting, she would rise early and refreshed and set out to meet her husband and put a baby in his arms.

She was just undressing for bed when the first labor pain came.

"No," she cried softly. "Oh, please, God, no, not yet, not now." She laid her hands upon her own womb and saw that the baby was indeed coming. He faced in the right direction, all was well with him, but she saw no future for him. He was going to be born, like his brother, only to die.

"No," she whispered.

She walked to the door of her room. "Papa," she called.

Horace Guester was serving the last round of drinks to the night's customers. But he had an innkeeper's ears, to hear all needs and wishes, and in a few moments he came.

"The baby is coming," she said.

"I'll fetch the midwife," he said.

"It's too early," said Margaret. "The birth will be easy, but the baby will die."

Tears came to her father's eyes. "Ah, Peggy, I know what it cost your mother, those two tiny graves on the hill behind the house. I never wished for you to have two of your own."

"Nor I," she said.

"But I should fetch her anyway," said Father. "You shouldn't be alone at such a time, and it's not fitting for a father to see his daughter in labor."

"Yes, fetch her," said Margaret.

"But not in here," said Father. "You shouldn't do this in the room where the baby's father was born."

"There's no better place," said Margaret. "It's a room where hope once triumphed over despair."

"Have hope then, my little Peggy." Father kissed her cheek and hastened away.

My little Peggy, he had called her. In this room, that's who I am. Peggy. My mother's name. Where is she now, that fierce, wise, powerful woman? Too strong for me, she was, or anyone else in this place, I see that now. Too strong for her husband, a woman of such will that even fate would not defy her. Perhaps that's why I was able to see the way to save baby Alvin's life-because my mother willed it so.

Perhaps it was losing two babies against her will made her so indomitable.

Or perhaps she simply imprinted her own life on mine so indelibly that I, too, must bury my first two babies before giving birth to a child who might live.

Tears flowed down her cheeks. I can't go through this again. I'm not as strong as Mother. It will not make me stronger. It took all my courage just to let Alvin give this second child to me, and if I lose this one, too, how can I try yet again? It isn't in me. I can't do it.

The midwife found her weeping on the bed. "Aw, Mistress Larner, what have you done? Stained the bedclothes, and your own fine underthings as well, couldn't you have taken them off? What a waste, what a waste."

"What do I care about my clothing," said Margaret savagely. "My baby is going to die."

"What! How can you-" But the midwife knew exactly how Margaret Larner could say such a thing, and so she fell silent.

"Grieving on your own childbed," grumbled the woman, "grieving for the baby before it's had a chance to live, it's not right."

"I wish I didn't know," said Margaret. "Oh, please God, make me wrong!"

And with a single push, the baby, small and thin, slipped out into the midwife's waiting hands.

The emptiness in her own body hurt more than the pains of labor. "No!" cried Margaret. "Don't cut the cord! Don't tie it off, no!" "But the baby needs to-"

"As long as the cord is still connected to my body then he isn't dead!"

They were starting to cross over the river now, but not with any spectacular show. The people might have expected otherwise, but Alvin insisted that they would come by boat, by raft, by canoe, by something that floated by itself.

"That'll take weeks," Verily told him.

"I know," said Alvin.

"Then why-"

"The first to come will fell logs and make shelters. A place for the children when they cross over the river. Six thousand souls, all in a place where there's nothing standing, nothing cleared? It's not too heavy a burden on Tenskwa-Tawa's people, to keep most of them on his side of the river for a while. They can spare the food-and the time. And on our side, well, Verily, you're the man who knows how things should fit together."

"But I should be with Lincoln, working on the charter."

"Who will I put in charge, if not you, Verily? You drew up the plat of the city. Who else knows it the way you do? Arthur Stuart isn't back from Mexico yet and besides, he's too young to be telling folks where to build their houses and where to farm. La Tia's no town-builder. Mike Fink? Rien? Who can I trust?"

"You can trust yourself," said Verily.

"I can't," said Alvin. "It's not my job."

"It's your city."

"Not today," said Alvin. "I have no city today. The baby's making ready to be born."

It took Verily a moment to register what baby he was talking about. "Now?"

"Soon," said Alvin. "Do you think I care about a single one of these six thousand souls, when my baby's going to die?"

Verily looked as if he had been slapped.

"Die," he said. "And you, who've healed so many..."

"Many but not all," said Alvin. "The first one died. This one isn't quite so early, but..."

"But you'll try."

"I'll do what I do," said Alvin. "You get the city started, Verily. It's as much yours as mine. You held onto the plow as much as I did."

The truth of that sank in and Verily nodded gravely. "So I did." He turned and left.

Alvin sat alone on the stone outcropping just above the spring. He reached down and filled his hands with water. He lifted the water to his face and started to drink, but then splashed it onto his skin and wept into his hands.

And then, in the far-off place where his attention really lay, in the very room where he himself had come out of his mother's womb, his wife gave a mighty push and all at once the baby was out in the open air and there was no more time for grief because even though he knew he could not save the baby, he had to try.

This time, at least, there was no fumbling and searching. He knew exactly what was wrong-the lungs, not yet fully formed inside, the tiny structures not yet ready to filter the air through into the blood. The tissue was a little better formed this time; some air was passing. And for some reason the baby's umbilical cord had not yet been tied off. The placenta would soon detach itself from the wall of the womb, but for the moment, there was still air passing into the baby's blood. So there was a little time. Not enough, it would take hours and hours to prepare the lungs, and the placenta could not last that long.