The Weight of the First Arrow

It is now the ninth month. My belly has become so taut and heavy that every movement is an effort. Walking is difficult for me, and my ankles are often swollen, but Adam is satisfied. He frequently strokes the stretched leather of my stomach, speaking of how soon the first warrior for his army or the first handmaid for his house will be born.

Yesterday was my last time at the "First Arrow Club." Rachel has already had her baby—a boy. Manuel is as proud as a peacock. Luise is now in her sixth month and, as I had suspected, has become quite round. The three of us sat there listening to Rachel as she reported on the birth. It sounded painful and bloody, but here in the Quiver clan, pain is viewed as part of the divine destiny for us women.

Today is a particularly hot day. I am wearing only a loose, thin linen chemise when Cynthia visits me. She appears more mature, but in her eyes, there still burns a small spark that the whip could not entirely extinguish.

"How does it feel, Amalia?" she asks, staring in fascination at the fetal movements tracing themselves beneath the fabric.

"It is a constant pulling and pressure. Sometimes I feel like I’m going to burst," I reply, sitting down carefully on the veranda. "But Adam is impatient. He wants me to finally hand over the first arrow to him."

Cynthia lowers her voice. "I heard that Eliah is already making plans for our house. He’s talking to Father about how large the addition needs to be. He expects at least twelve children from me."

I take her hand. "That is our way, Cynthia. Once the baby is here, you will see that everything revolves around that."

At that moment, I feel a piercing pain in my lower back radiating forward into my abdomen. It is different from the practice contractions of the last few days. It is deeper, more rhythmic. I grip Cynthia’s hand tightly.

"What’s wrong?" she asks, startled.

"I think... the first arrow is getting ready for launch," I squeeze out. A warm gush of fluid runs down my legs, wetting the floorboards of the veranda. My water has broken.

Cynthia reacts immediately. "I’ll get the midwife! And Adam!"

I am left alone; I breathe in deeply and know that in the coming hours, my life as a Quiver woman must face its decisive trial.