TITLE: A Worthy Task (1/1) AUTHOR: mountainphile EMAIL: mountainphile@yahoo.com URL: http://thebasementoffice.com/Musea/mountainphile/index.html CATEGORY: V RATING: G SPOILERS: Season 8 with a nod to "All Souls" and "Emily" DISTRIBUTION: With pleasure! Just tell me where, so I can visit. SUMMARY: Sacrifices made in the name of love... are often worthy of the greater reward. DICLAIMER: All things XF belong to Carter and 1013 WEBSITE: http://www.museaxf.net/mountainphile AUTHOR'S NOTES: Grateful thanks to betas Angel Blackwood, Forte, Diana Battis, Audrey Roget and Mish. A collective hug to Musea for continued inspiration and encouragement. Thank you so much, ladies! And for the Muse, a very odd look... or two. A Worthy Task by mountainphile ******************** Soft red hair. Silken across my nose, my cheek... A hint of lemon and talcum powder sweetness. Baby shampoo. My soul craves it and I sniff her round little head repeatedly. Velvet eyebrows, like fuzz on a peach, tickling the edge of my nose. Her eyes are dark blue agates. Round fists unfurl; soft tremulous fingers test the air. A perfect flower, her tiny lips pulse and twitch. I've had her for nearly a week. My finger slips into her grasp and she clings, breathless, her head straining against my front. Such a smart baby. Mouth open, tongue already curling and undulating, aching to drink and swallow. To nurse... If only... I wish... No, little girl, there's nothing there now. I'm so sorry. Here... And I place the broad, soft nub end of the bottle between her lips. She takes it and draws hard, the plush skin of her forehead puckering with the effort. Ashamed, I feel my own nipples respond. The words of a forgotten verse leach into the mists of my subconscious, mocking me. "... Blessed is the womb that bore thee, and the paps which thou hast sucked... " My womb has borne life, though I feel no blessing in the fact. Its fruit, my fruit, was plucked and I let it be taken away. All for the best, I was told. Think of the child instead of yourself... My breasts have not given suck, not to an infant, and the deprivation now is almost too painful to bear. My vision swims. I gloat over this baby in my arms and marvel at her intensity, at the steady, earnest intake of nourishment as she feeds. It's to be our final meal together. ******************** The summons came last week. I hurried to the room where the Mother Superior waited. Heart pounding, clueless, skirt smoothed over my thighs with nervous hands. Making certain every stubborn lock of hair was brushed back before entering the unknown. Through the drape of evening shadow, I recognized the old priest called Father McCue. He stood apart, tense and somber. Obscured within the folds of his dark robes he held a bundle of cloth. His jaw squared when I approached; his eyes seemed gentle, grandfatherly. They sought those of the nun and she nodded. "I have a task for you," he whispered to me, "if you are willing. The timing is very... awkward, I know." He hesitated. I blinked, waiting. Grateful that his eyes held mine and chose not to acknowledge my silhouette, slimmer than when I first arrived here two months before. "I have a parishioner -- a good friend -- who needs our help. She's been selfless and generous in assisting me in the past. Even... " He swallows, his emotions raw and surfacing. "... Despite great inconvenience to herself, and following a deep personal loss." No names would be divulged, I realized. At his next pause, the bundle in his arms twitched and emitted a muffled, mewling sound. I'd already guessed what was expected of me. "This little one is not yet a week old and her life is in danger. I offered sanctuary for her until other arrangements could be made. My friend, you see, is a proud woman in dangerous circumstances... and she finds it difficult to ask for help. I was honored that she would entrust me with the life of her new daughter... " The priest struggled for words. He looked down at the shifting bundle he held with inexpert arms and seemed dazed, as if replaying an older, equally troubling scene in his mind. All at once the movements grew unwieldy and he faltered -- and I came to his aid. Lightning-swift with a mother's instincts, I extended my hands to receive his precious burden. "It will be a worthy task," I assured him. "Please tell your friend not to worry. I'll take very good care of her baby... " I did not lie to this kind-hearted man. ******************** Sequestered within this small windowless bedroom, I took my place in the drama. Supplies appeared as needed; disposable diapers, bottles and baby formula, a porta-crib, a plastic tub for infant bathing. My meals were brought to me during this seclusion. Everything delivered with surreptitious care by one of the nuns sworn to secrecy. After months adrift, I have purpose. I am the principal, I realize, in this mute and desperate scenario. A script in which the life of a red-haired infant hangs in the balance... Perhaps redemption will be a just reward for succoring another woman's baby. I've wondered about her mother, Father McCue's friend. Awake and anguished in the quiet hours of the night. Pumping swollen breasts to encourage the supply. I, in the meantime, am like the formula substitute I provide. Temporary and second-best, but vital to ensure the survival of this infant. Feeding her this last bottle, brushing my lips on her tender, peach-fuzz head, I know I would protect her with my life. Tonight, I am told, the woman will come. A diaper bag waits, packed beforehand for the event because her visit must be covert and swift. So little is said. Danger still threatens, but she's found ways to elude it. Too soon, the rasping creak of the heavy door... "Prepare the child. It's almost time," whispers Mother Superior's calm, familiar voice. She leaves, just as abruptly, to attend to other matters. I have little to do in the way of preparation. The baby's diaper is still dry. I've just checked again, pushing a finger within the leg fold of her sleeper, to the disposable, where it rests against warm fragile skin. It's a temptation to undress her one more time, to sniff her soft feet and spreading toes, to nip her tiny chest with farewell tickles. Still in the rocking chair, I lift her to my shoulder. My hand cups the warm melon of her head as I pat her on the back, coaxing air from her little frog-like middle. Her baby tummy bulges against me. She resents the nipple's loss and whimpers, bobbing and searching against my neck. Lips poised like a bird. Nothing there, little one. I'm so sorry... Outside, a door opens. Hushed anxious tones in the distance. Our time is so short and each moment a treasure. Closing my eyes, I hold her tiny, swaddled self to me, hugging, bonding, imprinting. I'll never forget you, sweetheart. Good baby. My fleeting gift... Footsteps approach, heels sharp on the hardwood floor. They echo down the night-dim hall, ticking off seconds like a clock. Time segues to slow-motion and the door swings open, bringing with it a gust of scented air and a presence. A woman. From the corner of my eye, petite, striking, lost in the loose dark raincoat she wears. She approaches and hovers over us in breathless hesitation. Then she bends forward and her shaking hands encircle the baby in my arms. She lifts her away from me, a lock of hair brushing my face as she rises. Soft, red hair. Silken across my nose and my cheek, like her daughter's. I smell lemon soap and love as she molds the child to her suited chest, rocking from side to side and whispering into the tiny ear. Long, long moments held tightly to her breasts, the ones that will nourish this baby. Hers, not mine. She opens her eyes and I see the watery blue of her gaze regard me. Beautiful, distressed... the pained eyes of a mother who's been fearful and denied until now. Her full lips work soundlessly, small grief-lines framing them as her eyes fill. A moment more, a long shuddering sigh, a deep swallow -- and she's able to speak with precision, strength, control. "Thank you," she says softly, in a clear low voice. "I'm -- we're very grateful -- " I shake my head and try to smile or reply, unable to do either. "Things moved so quickly," she explains in a rush. "I had no recourse until Father McCue stepped forward. He's an old friend of the family... " She tapers off, biting her lip. She looks uncomfortable, flushed after revealing so much in the initial surge of relief. Her fine brows arch, bringing worry lines to her forehead. "I'm sorry. The less said the better. Forgive me." Her eyes reflect the horror of unnamed events now past and the uncertainty of what lies ahead. "I was glad to do it," I hear myself say, ignoring the blunder. "Really. She's no trouble at all." I do not lie to this strong-but-shaken woman. Her strained, resolute face demands truth. "In fact, I should be the one thanking you... " Her eyes flicker down to my hand resting on my flattened stomach, can surmise the reason for my presence here. I am younger than she and wear no habit or cap, no jewelry. "How long has it been?" As mothers we speak the same language. Her words and face reflect comprehension and a new gentleness. "Only a few months," I answer and the baby gives a sudden little burp and sigh that brings a sweet ache to my heart. My voice sounds different to my ears, decisive. "And I'll be going soon. There's no longer any reason for me to stay here." Head resting against her baby's, she ponders me, and then extends her hand. Manicured, capable, confident. She also wears no wedding ring. Her fingers speak of courage and lend me strength as they clasp mine. When I hand her the diaper bag, her grateful smile is both blessing and release. Intruding, Mother Superior beckons to her and the red-haired woman steps back, slipping the handles of the bag over one arm. She halts at the shadowed doorway, tilting her baby's face toward me for a last glimpse before disappearing with her precious armful. Tall heels click and fade along the dim, polished hallway. Distant murmurs, a door closing... then silence. I'm alone, but not bereft. Though my arms are empty, I feel full, renewed. Life goes on. Memories of this week surround me as I kneel to pack up the remnants of the makeshift nursery. My hands roam from diaper to bottle to blanket and I picture the baby's tiny shape. I savor the satiny tenderness of her skin and remember her murmurings. I've tasted motherhood. Closing my eyes I can still feel red hair in a soft caress on my face... and in the air around me the clean, healing scent of lemon. **************** The End A Worthy Task 11/14/00