The leaves were turning red, and the air was chill, and Fen was feeling something new.

She had been alive for seventeen colds, and now another one was coming. She should be gathering tree nuts with her village, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Her belly ached in parts it never had. She saw more hair on her body than before, a kind of soft fuzz that she kind of liked. When she brushed against a bush, and it scratched her, she felt a shudder of pleasure. And she became very hungry, leading the women to look at her knowingly as she took second helpings at mealtimes.

She knew what was going on, of course. There could be no secrets in her small tribe. Everyone lived in communal huts and knew everyone else’s business. She was probably going to breed this season. Maybe the next, but most likely this one.

She did her best to work when she could. It kept her mind off her raging feelings: the anticipation; the excitement; and the fear.

Fen’s friend Laya had bred in the last cold, and when the warmth returned, it was Laya’s time to bear the child she carried.

As young ones, Fen and Laya were inseparable and uncontrollable. Once, they walked together to the obsidian flow, up the hills for two suns, taking with them some nut gruel and meat. They came back with a bag full of beautiful blades.

The grandmothers acted like they were shocked, and shunned the girls for many suns after that. What would happen if one of them had been injured, they said? Was Fen big enough to carry Laya home? Or could Laya carry Fen? What if a grizzly bear attacked? They were not just girls; they were part of the tribe, and any loss is a loss to everyone. But secretly, they admired the girls’ courage. The blades they brought back were truly well chosen, and were quickly hafted into work knives. One would not want such good material to go to waste, after all...

With the warmth came light, and clear water, and days swimming under the waterfall, and Laya and her very pregnant friend seemed not to have a care in the world. Until, one day, Laya doubled over suddenly. Fen splashed towards her. “It’s time,” said Laya, motioning Fen towards the village. They walked back together, Fen supporting Laya on her shoulder. “It will be fine,” she reassured her friend. “You will have a lovely child. You will be a grandmother. You will make your own mother proud.” Laya went to the birthing bed she had prepared, and settled on her back. She and Fen had decorated it with willow branches woven into little knots, and added amulets from the river rocks. It was said that a rock with a dimple in it brought good luck in birth, and they had gathered what must have been every dimpled rock within one sun’s walk. The bed was mainly of dried fern, covered with a deer skin. It was comfortable.

By nightfall, when the fires were burning and the villagers were eating their evening meal, Laya’s labor had advanced. She took sips of water, and moaned under her breath through her contractions. And as the food bowls were put away and everyone went off to sleep on their mats, the contractions were almost constant, and she was screaming.