Amanda Leduc - The Centaur's Wife

But the jealous bird would not be swayed, for he knew a secret his mother had told him long ago: the birds themselves had come from the sun.

When he was a fumbling chick in the nest, his mother had said, “You have sunlight in your wings. All that we are comes from the sun. We are the same. Before the world was born, when we all spun round in the sky together, the sun’s fire was also your own.”

And so the bird gathered all those who were set on fire by his words and told them they would fly to the sun and reclaim their place in the sky. “We have the sun in our feathers,” he said. As one, they spread their wings and lifted from the trees.

The birds flew high, and then higher still. They flew so high the air became thin; some birds gasped, but kept on struggling; other birds gave up and dropped back, far down to the ground. The jealous bird and a few close friends kept flying.

They flew so high the air was hard to breathe; they flew so high the sun began to burn their wings. One by one, the birds burst into flame and fell, screaming. When they hit the ground, the earth went black with mourning.

The jealous bird’s wings burned too, but he held his mother’s words deep inside and pushed on. He flew until the sky curved, until the great dark belly of the universe came into view.

The sun, the bird saw to his surprise, was still so far away. But the sun saw him, and knew who he was instantly.

“I have been waiting for you,” the sun said. “I have been waiting for so long.”

“I’m here to take my rightful place!” the bird cried. He puffed out his chest and waited for the sun to come at him, full of anger.

But the sun only smiled. “You know your rightful place,” it said. “And your rightful place is far from here.”

The bird opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was air; surprised, he stopped beating his wings, and in a moment, he began to tumble, head over tail over feathers, back to the ground.

But I flew, he thought, dizzily, as he fell. I flew all the way up to the sun.

You are not meant to fly as high as me, the sun said, the words ringing deep in the jealous bird’s chest. Even if you can. For some, the world must not extend beyond the trees. I have seen this desire burn and grow in you and others. I have waited all this time to show you that you are wrong.

But can’t you help me? the bird said, still tumbling.

Why would I help you? said the sun. You should have been content with how beautiful your trees are. That is your lesson, bird: your trees should have been enough.

The bird heard this, and burned. And when the jealous bird hit the ground, all that was left of him were specks of soot.

“You shouldn’t come here anymore,” Estajfan tells Heather one day when the snow has almost overwhelmed her as she trudged to the greenhouse. “Let me bring you food in town.”

He seems extra hard, somehow—all wiry dark-brown arms and body, blackened legs against the snow—but his eyes are the brightest thing in the forest.

He is not the centaur she remembers. When they meet under cover of the trees around the greenhouse, he is all business. Handing her the food he has managed to find. Standing ever so slightly away.

She is probably not the Heather he remembers either. She doesn’t bring him drawings anymore and the only story she has left to tell is this one: they will survive today. Maybe they’ll survive tomorrow.

Please, let them survive tomorrow.

“What happens when the food runs out?”

“There are still things that grow on the mountain,” Estajfan says. He lets Greta pinch his arm, then makes a face. Her laughter flies higher than the trees.

“The mountain won’t feed the whole city,” Heather says.

Estajfan makes another face at Greta. “No,” he says. “It won’t.”

“How many?”

Now he looks at her, only her. “You,” he says. “I will try to save you.”

She closes her eyes, takes a step back, a hand on each of their bright-red heads. “Greta,” she says. “And Jilly.” She swallows. “And B.”

He doesn’t speak for a long time. When she looks up at him, he only nods. “We’ll go as far as we need to go to find you food,” he says again. “I can run for years.” Then he turns from her and goes back to the mountain.

At night, Heather dreams about killing the baby. She dreams about drinking poison tea, she dreams about climbing the mountain, about feeling the wind in her face as Estajfan lifts her into the air and throws her off the mountain’s edge. She imagines surviving the fall, she imagines the pain. Crawling back into the city with broken bones and a belly that’s bled empty.

No more, she tells B in the dream. I won’t have any more children. I won’t. Don’t ever touch me again.

Awake, she says nothing. They are rationing so carefully it is a surprise to see her belly grow, but grow it does; the rest of her is so thin that the curve, though small, seems almost grotesque. Only one, this time. A boy.

(“How do you know it’s a boy?” B asks her, late one night as they lie on the bed.

“I just do.”)

In another dream she’s on the mountain, the baby in her arms. The wind blasts pellets of ice through her hair. Estajfan is there with her, shouting.

What do you want?

I don’t know what I want . She holds out the baby, whose dark eyes watch her, unafraid.

Estajfan raises a hand and for an instant she thinks he’s going to hit her. The ground wobbles beneath her feet and Estajfan is reaching for her. His fingertips brush hers. He pauses. It’s only a fraction of a second, but long enough. She falls, the baby’s scream loud in her ear.

She wakes up slick with sweat, curled over her belly. When she gets up, there is blood on the sheets.

B wants her to go see Tasha, right away. “The girls and I can come with you,” he says. “We’ll go together.”

“No,” Heather says. “I can go on my own. It’s all right.”

He’s hurt. He’s always hurt now, and she is trying not to think about it. She is trying not to think about anything. She cleans herself up as best she can and then sits with the girls while they eat wizened apples for breakfast. When B comes into the kitchen, he smiles at the twins. “You look so pretty,” he says. It’s true. They are beautiful and tiny, like little ruffled sparrows. Then he looks at her. “You’re beautiful too,” he says. “I don’t say that enough.”

Heather swallows the lump in her throat. “Thank you,” she says. She crosses to kiss him on the cheek. The baby kicks as she straightens, and she takes B’s hand and presses it hard against her abdomen. Another kick and a smile touches his face.

She blinks and it’s Estajfan standing before her instead. His hand on her belly, his hand against her face. In his eyes she sees the mountain.

“Heather, are you all right?” B is frowning at her now.

She steps back and cups her abdomen, trying to quell the shaking of her hands. She manages to kiss him on the cheek again, and then turns on her heel and leaves without saying goodbye to the girls.

At the clinic, Annie is harried. Tasha, as usual, is unflappable and calm. Heather sits in the makeshift waiting room and listens to Tasha speak gently with a father and his children. Annie, at the front counter, takes inventory. She is always taking inventory now, watching their supplies dwindle day after day