Beri thought to herself as steam rose from her naked back, "They didn't say anything about this in the songs."
She lay face down in a pool of nameless muck, her arm deep inside a straining cow, her feet scrabbling for a toe hold between the stones. Outside the circle of flickering light cast by the murky oil lamp that the farmer held over her, she couldn't see anything.
There wasn't a word in the songs about hunting in the dark for your ropes and instruments; about keeping clean in a half bucket of lukewarm water; about the cobbles digging into your chest. Not to mention the gradual numbing of the arms and muscle paralysis as the fingers fought to counteract the cow's expulsive efforts.
There was no mention of the gradual exhaustion, the sense of futility, or the distant voice of panic.
The Beorning's thoughts returned to the rhyme in the birthing song. There was no mention of dirt, blood or sweat anywhere.
That singer had just finished an excellent lunch and had moved next door to do a bit of calving, just for the sheer pleasure of it, as a kind of dessert. She hadn't climbed half a kilometer of green hillside to the doorless barn where her patient lay.
Beri tried to squirm a thumb inside the cow. She moaned, set her teeth, and advanced again.
Sweat beaded on her forehead as she pushed.
There is always a time at a bad calving when you begin to wonder if you will ever win the battle. The Beorning had reached this stage.
Some brief speeches flashed through her mind, like, "In a wide cow I could easily turn its head, but it is almost impossible in this case. "
Of course, Beri could have delivered the calf by leaving its head. There were long songs dedicated to the many ways to cut a calf.
But, at the farthest point, her touched her finger to this calf's mouth and was startled by the twitching of the little creature's tongue. This was unexpected, since the calves in this position are usually dead, suffocated from the sharp bend of the neck and the oppressive powerful contractions of the mother.
The Beorning went over to her bucket of water, cold now and bloody, and silently soaped her arms. She worked her toes between the stones, shook the sweat from her eyes, and for the hundredth time thrust an arm that felt like a noodle into the cow; alongside the little dry legs of the calf, like sandpaper tearing against her flesh, then to the bend in the neck and so to the ear and then, agonizingly, along the side of the face towards the lower jaw which had become her major goal in life.
It was incredible that she had been doing this for nearly two hours; fighting as her strength ebbed to push a little noose round that jaw. She had tried everything else--repelling a leg, gentle tracing with a blunt hook in the eye socket, but she was back to the noose.
It had been a miserable session all through. The farmer, Mr Burrows, was a short, sad, silent Hobbit of few words who always seemed to be expecting the worst to happen.
But worst of all had been Uncle. He was filling his pipe and clearly looking forward to the entertainment.
"Now then, young Woman," he cried in the nasal twang of Bree-land. "I farm over in Combe."
Beri put down her equipment and nodded. "My name is Hindberige."
The old Hobbit looked her over, piercingly. "My healer is Mr Cartwell. Expect you'll have heard of him--everybody knows him, I reckon."
A wan smile graced the Beorning's cinnamon features, but the words set a mournful little bell tolling inside her.
"No, I'm afraid I don't know Mr Cartwell," she said, taking off her bracelet and, more reluctantly, peeling her tunic over her head. "But I haven't been around these parts very long."
Uncle was aghast. "Never seen such muscles on a Man."
A wave of weakness coursed sluggishly over Beri. As she began to lay out her ropes and instruments on a clean towel the old Hobbit spoke again.
"And how long have you been healing, may I ask?"
"Oh, about two days."
"Two days! Give me experience every time."
She tipped some antiseptic into the bucket and lathered her arms carefully. She knelt behind the cow.
"Mr Cartwell always puts some special lubricating oils on his arms first," Uncle said, pulling contentedly on his pipe. "He says you get infection of the womb if you just use soap and water."
The Beorning made her first exploration. Within seconds she would know whether she would be putting on her bracelet in fifteen minutes or whether she had hours of hard labor ahead of her.
She was going to be unlucky this time; it was a nasty presentation. Anyway, it would be a long time before she saw Ris's bed again.
"Well now, what have you found, young Woman? I've seen Mr Cartwell do 'em like that--he turns the calf right round and brings it out back legs first."
Beri had heard this sort of nonsense before. Like now, for instance; Uncle was obviously an accepted sage and the Burrowses listened with deference to everything he said.
"Another way with a job like this," continued Uncle, "is to get a few strong chaps with ropes and pull the thing out, head back and all."
She gasped as she felt her way around. "...to pull it out without bringing the head round would certainly break the moder's pelvis."
The Burrowses narrowed their eyes. Clearly they thought the Beorning was hedging in the face of Uncle's superior knowledge.
And now, two hours later, defeat was just round the corner. Uncle's vitality, however, was undiminished; he had enjoyed every minute.
As she lay there, eyes closed, face stiff with paint, mouth hanging open, Uncle took his pipe in hand and leaned forward on his straw bale. "Mr Cartwell, that's one man you couldn't tire."
Rage flooded through Beri like a draught of strong spirit. The right thing to do, of course, would be to get up, tip the bucket of bloody water over Uncle's head, run down the hill and change her skin; wander away from Bree, from Uncle, from the Burrowses, from this cow.
Instead, she clenched her teeth, braced her legs, and pushed with everything she had; and with a sensation of disbelief she felt her noose slide over the sharp little incisor teeth and into the calf's mouth. She had hold of that lower jaw.
At last the Beorning could start doing something. "Now hold this rope, Mr Burrows, and just keep a gentle tension on it--"
"What if the rope comes off?" asked Uncle hopefully.
Her only answer was, "Oh Blotsma, don't let it slip off."
The head was coming round. Beri guided it till the head was resting where it should be, on the fore limbs.
Quickly she extended the noose till it reached behind the ears. "Now pull on the head as she strains."
"Nay, you should pull on the legs now," cried Uncle.
"Pull on the bloody head rope, I tell you!" the Beorning bellowed at the top of her voice and immediately felt better as Uncle retired, offended, to his bale.
With traction the head was brought out and the rest of the body followed easily. The little animal lay motionless on the cobbles, eyes glassy and unseeing, tongue blue and grossly swollen.
"It'll be dead. Bound to be," grunted Uncle, returning to the attack.
Beri cleared the mucus from the mouth, blew hard down the throat and began artificial respiration. The calf started to inhale and one leg jerked.
Uncle scratched his curly head in disbelief. A lot of the fire had gone out of him and his pipe hung down empty from his lips.
Within a minute the calf was shaking his head and trying to sit up.
Beri grinned. But her mouth was dried out, her lips almost sticking together.
A short, sad figure hovered near. "How about a drink?' asked Mr Burrows.
Her painted face cracked into an incredulous smile. "That's very kind of you, Mr Burrows, I'd love a drink."
"Nay," said Mr Burrows, looking at the Beorning steadily, "I meant for the cow."
She began to babble. "Certainly, certainly, give her a drink."
Beri gathered up her tackle and stumbled out of the barn. As she plodded down the slope, Uncle's voice, strident and undefeated, reached her for the last time.
"Mr Cartwell doesn't believe in giving a drink after calving. Says it chills the stomach."
