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I. Homo merquatis
"Look on the bright side," Helen says, stripping off her jacket and pulling her shirt free of her skirt. "Being in the water means very little mess."
James studies the surf in front of them. The dawn is still far from grey on the horizon and even the full moon doesn't illuminate much. The Caribbean sea stretches out in front of them, mysteriously quiet. It took them days by sea to get here from London, a tiny caye in the middle of nowhere off the coast of British Honduras. Helen was asked, and here they are.
He shrugs out of his shirt and waistcoat, pulling off his boots and folding his clothes neatly nearby. It's just the two of them in a little camp up the shore. Mermaids come here to give birth, safe in the shallow water inside the reef, far from the predators of the open sea. He's been reading Helen's diagrams, making sure he's well prepared for the night's work, but it still makes him stop in wonder as he pauses, nude as the Emperor of children's tales.
Helen glances over, grinning at him. "Just think, only two more weeks before we're back in rainy England."
He chuckles, stretching his hands in the warm air. The sea is as pleasant as bathwater and Helen's bare back is a delightful view. She hasn't changed a day, and may never again, a perfectly preserved living artwork, with a mind that dims her physical beauty.
She waves him over. "They're over here. See the fins?"
She shifts the mask and snorkel around her neck, making sure it's secure if she needs it. He checks his own. He carries a watertight version of his doctor's kit on his back, but he shouldn't have to use it. Most mermaid births, like humans, are uncomplicated. They're there to witness a blessed event, not to hasten or rush. He follows Helen out and the water creeps up his chest. He's barely realised the mermaid is there until she touches his mind. Anticipation runs over him, like the roar of the crowd at Wimbledon. A hand bushes his arm, then finds his hand, winding cool fingers into his.
She feels him out, rifling through his thoughts as if they were paper. Trust laps over him as warm as the water. She guides his hand to her swollen belly. Her stomach is smooth, delicate like human skin. He examines her with both hands, feeling the familiar hard knot of a baby's head, low and forward, as it should be.
Helen nods to him, smiling as she takes a step away to greet another mermaid. This one has chosen him to share her experience.
Helen's warnings about their telepathy did not prepare him for the depth of the exchange. He is as deep in the emotions of his charge as he is in the sea. He shares the joy in her heart as her contractions quicken. It's much like a human birth, the muscles of the uterus are similar and though normally covered in scales, a vaginal opening is present. He has to find it with his hands, but this delivery is one where no question needs to be asked. He's vaguely aware of the other mermaids in the water, the father of the child and possibly a sister.
James is entirely enthralled in the shared sensations of birth, he can't say he shares pain because it's not as he imagined. He'll have to asked Helen later, when his wits are more his own. This is a joyful event. He's soon wrapping his head around the back of a baby's skull, then holding the hips of the mermaid steady as the baby emerges next to his chest. With his mask on, he can just see the baby's first swish of his or her tail, he has no idea how to tell the sex of a baby mermaid.
The father informs him that he's a boy and the baby's tiny hand, as well as the brand new mind behind it, stroke his hand. Tears mix with seawater inside his mask. To be born into such love and acceptance is a rare gift, and James is part of it tonight.
The sun shines soft over the trees when he crawls up onto the sand behind Helen. Three normal births and a breech where he learned how to guide the soft tail fin of a baby girl out of her mother. The sand clings to his wet skin, getting everywhere. Helen's just as nude and she lies back, smiling up at the sky. He throws himself on the sand next to her, looking at her with wider eyes.
She smiles and all he can do is laugh as she takes his hand. There are true wonders in the world and tonight, he was part of them. It is the pinnacle of luck, and the work of the woman beside him, that he can count on the same or better tomorrow.
II. Titanoboa sullimopteris.
After two, he sends Helen to bed. She fights him, she always does, but her exhaustion leaves little resolve. She's been with the Titanoboa sullimopteris for the last two days, stroking the creature's head as her huge offspring enter the world. Snakes usually give birth with little difficulty, but this one was caught in an improperly built trap before word made it to Helen's people. They followed the blood and the broken underbrush to the cave and found her dying. Lacking the proper anaesthesia for the sixty-foot creature, Helen decided against a caesarean while the mother still lives.
He's never felt much empathy for reptiles, their eyes are so cold. James spent most of the first day supporting Helen as she mourned the magnificent creature. The first few babies are stillborn, their bodies mangled while still inside their mother. By dinner on the second day, a precious six have lived long enough for Helen to save them. James quietly buries the rest, digging a ever-greater grave in the jungle in front of the cave. They'll have to leave the mother where she is.
He knows Helen will cry in the tent, the last thirty years have been harder on her than most, and losing another of the creatures she cherishes is never easy. With her gone, he takes her position next to the head of the sullimopteris. He rests his hand on the smooth scales of the snake's head. The giant yellow eyes are half-shut, and the snake's dark tongue barely moves. Down her body, her abdomen still contracts with some rhythm, and Helen believes a few more of the babies may be alive.
James sits in silence for a moment or two, then he realises that were this a woman, he'd talk to her. However removed from him on an evolutionary scale, this creature will still understand that she's not alone. He can do that for her, at least, if he cannot save her from the demons who masquerade as his own kind.
He recites poetry, some Tennyson that he's always loved. He memorised Ulysses, back in his youth, and he knows most of Idylls of the King. He speaks of Arthur and Guinevere, of tragedy and betrayal while the creature's eyes, the size of dinner plates, watch him. He recites what he can remember of the dying Arthur as he collects more of the snakes who died before they knew life. Two more are uninjured and can be brought back to safety, but he buries dozens. When the movement of the mother's tongue ceases completely, he closes the yellow eyes, leaving his hands over them for a moment.
He needs a machete and hunting knife for this caesarean, and the blood of the snake stains his hands dark as he searches through the bodies of the dead for any with life. Three more still live, though he fears for one. He removes each baby, lying them out on the tarp so he's certain, absolutely certain, that all are dead.
James lights his pipe with dried blood on his hands and sits beside the mass grave. When Helen finds him with breakfast, she keeps the silence.
III. Homo sapien
Oddly enough, he came for the qilin and after a few awkward bouts of translation because he never has been able to grasp too much of Mandarin and the hundreds of dialects in the rural mountains of China, James ends up with a very human woman, desperately in need of help. He's worked in blizzards, on seashores and halfway down volcanoes. The tiny hut he's ushered into at the word 'doctor', is barely more than a shack. Blood stains the water in the bowl on the floor, more rags are soaked in it and turning brown.
He rolls up his sleeves, rubs his hands in betadine, opens his old leather bag and reaches for the hand of the frightened, gasping woman.
"I'm a doctor, I'm here to help you. May I-?" He mimes touching her belly and she nods, eyes white with fear. Her lips are cracked, even parched. She could have been here for days. He feels as gently as he can. The hard body of the baby is low, the head should be engaged because he can feel a foot.
James looks up at her again, radiating all the calm he can muster. In a British hospital, this would have been caught earlier and be over quickly with a good prognosis for all. Here, in the halfway to Mongolia, it's just him and the contents of his bag.
"I'm going to need to check between your legs." He mimes to the older woman in the corner, hoping she can translate. Words are exchanged and the older woman nods to him, her face stiff with grief.
The head's nearly out, but as the contraction ends it recedes back into the birth canal. He feels carefully, exceeding gentle to avoid causing more trauma. Shoulder dystocia, they need a bigger pelvic outlet. He'll need help.
He meets the eyes of the oldest woman, counting on the elder to mobilise the rest. He gestures at the labouring mother, then drops to all fours, then gestures back to her. He cleans his hands again as the elder woman recognises what he wants.
More helping hands appear and they roll over the mother. She's weak, and what he can see of the baby's head in the dim light is flushed. If the infant's been trapped too long, there's nothing he can do. He won't give up yet. Everyone's going to live tonight.
He eases his fingers around the slick head of the baby, trying to feel for the shoulders. A contraction puts them within his fingertips and he positions the baby in his head. If he can free the left shoulder, he may be able free him. When the uterine muscles soften, he presses through the flesh of the mother's belly, trying to turn the baby oblique. One hand pushes, the other pulls and slowly, the baby's head begins to turn. By the next contraction, he thinks he has it. He can feel the baby start to shift. He doesn't know if the mother has any strength left, and he asks her to push in English as a long shot. It becomes a chant, something the women around him repeat without knowing what he means.
He may be pulling a dead baby, but he won't let himself think that. Centimetres at a time, he eases the baby's chin further, then the shoulder, flesh and bone strain against muscle, then the baby slips free. The mother's bleeding slightly, but the grey silent infant worries him more. James grabs a towel, rubbing the baby vigorously as he blows on the little one's face. He keeps rubbing, holding the infant against his chest as he whispers for him to live, to see this world his mother fought so hard to bring him into.
The baby's first sound is a gasp, made stronger by a cough, then, after eternity: a proper wail of indignation. He passes the baby to waiting hands and stitches the tears his emergence left in his mother. He injects her with antibiotics, hoping for the best. He dries his hands on his already bloody and mucus smeared shirt and smiles as the grandmother, aunts and mother babble joyfully over the new arrival.
He's nearly a day late to the camp and Helen's smile of welcome has a tinge of worry.
"Rough roads?"
"A human child that needed a helping hand into the world."
She pats his shoulder. "Doctor is universally understood, isn't it?"
"We stopped for water and I found a little boy who needed a hand getting out. I am a doctor, not a veterinarian, my dear."
Helen rests her hand on his arm, meeting his eyes. "One of the best I know."
He allows himself the luxury of a kiss of her cheek. "Well then, bring on the exotic beastie now, I'm all warmed up."
"Only false labour so far, I'm afraid, but there's a glass of my best whiskey in my tent for you."
"Only a glass?"
"I might be able to spare more." Helen leads him into her tent, opening the bottle and her cot to him as they talk of old memories. Neither of them will ever forget the magic of the mermaids.
IV. Helioterus equestra
"Can you see through the face shield?" Helen's voice has to be transmitted over a radio inside his stuffy helmet.
James nods, but the gesture is lost. He activates his own radio. "I can see, but it's a tad dark."
"Don't worry, the heliopath is very bright." Helen leads the way in her silver protective suit. He follows, lifting his feet one at a time in their awkward boots. The heliopath can produce temperatures of well above boiling and he has no desire to be parbroiled tonight. The heliopath has backed herself into a corner of the pen, and even through his suit, the air reeks of sulphur.
"Her physiology most resembles horses."
James checks his gloves and the coil of braided metal rope. They need something that won't melt if they need to tug the foal free. "It's been a few years since I delivered a foal."
"Over a decade for me," Helen replies. "Let's hope for the best, shall we?"
She holds up her hands to the creature, trying to inspire calm. Between the two of them, and the very small pen, they manage to get the poor animal trapped, so they can check the foal. James' gloves could reach into a volcano, according to Helen's scruffy technician. Reaching into the uterus of a heliopath is possibly similar. He can't feel the smooth walls of muscle or the slick skin of the baby, but he can find a hoof. He ties that off as Helen calms the creature at her head. James reaches in again, nearly up to his shoulder as he finds the second hoof. He can find the head between the two and he begins the arduous task of pulling them down and out. He doesn't have a hand free to speak to Helen, but she murmurs a steady set of encouragements to him and the heliopath.
Down and out. Flames snap around his head and flaming ooze runs over his gloves. The sulphur scent is rank inside his helmet, but he focuses. Down and out. Down and out--
The weight of the foal nearly knocks him over when the little one finally slips free. He rips the membranes surrounding its head, letting the little one find the air.
When it does, it ignites with a whoosh, burning the remains of the membrane sac. James sits on the floor, staring at the burning little foal as it fights to stand on wobbly legs.
When he's finally out of protective suit, he can sympathise. Helen's hair is plastered to her head as she removes her helmet.
"A cold breakfast then?"
V. Homo sapien, altered.
After all the discussions they had, debating the merits of a water birth, either in her bathtub or one of the larger tanks, or the medical bay to have better access, James isn't surprised when they end up in Helen's room. In all her Sanctuary, her bedroom is the last place that's hers alone. He's an occasional guest, but this is her space.
It isn't a bad room for a birth: plenty of space, a private bathroom, and four tall posts on the bed. He's never doubted Helen's strength, but he's never appreciated it in a more intimate way. They pass the early hours of her labour reading and talking. Helen has her names all chosen and he delights in guessing more outlandish things each time she refuses to tell him. She eats a little, mostly fruit and their world begins to shrink.
He'd suspected back at Oxford that he might never experience the wonder of his own children. James was never bothered by this. He has their work, and he's held more babies, human and abnormal alike, than any man could ever wish for. Birth is a miracle that he never tires of witnessing.
Helen's hands on his shoulders, her damp forehead pressed against his chest and the hiss of her breathing is a miracle that surpasses the rest. Like the mermaids, he's utterly engrossed in every breath, every contraction of her uterus that brings her baby closer to the world. An uncomplicated birth, such as this one, requires little of his medical skills. He is the hands that help her balance, the voice that reassures her that she is the most powerful woman in the universe, and the body that rocks with her as contractions come and go.
Standing with the post in her hands, with his hands on her back, starts as something comfortable, then becomes the only position she can tolerate. He provides pressure on her spine, his sweat mingling with hers on her back. Even in labour, she's careful to avoid damaging his suit, but he's relieved when she's not as careful with his skin. Tonight, his body is hers, and he surrenders it utterly.
Helen sinks through layers of herself, leaving the scientist and the explorer behind as she slips into the depths of herself. Her genius can't birth this child, nor can her stubbornness or her inability to admit defeat. This requires her, the parts of her that are nameless and dark. She asks for nothing and he murmurs inconsequential things, half-thoughts, half-truths. He has to remind himself to keep track of her progress, which he'll have to confess later he's only vaguely aware.
He feels his way through, following her as he's done for more than a century. She turns from the post, reaching for him. Her breath, her hands on his arm and the slow shuffle of her feet is his world. James squares his feet, turning them both so the post is against his back.
"Not long."
Helen pants against him, holding him with iron in her hands. "Better with you here."
"You've never needed anyone. You're so strong, Helen."
He catches her between contractions and gets half a smile.
"Wanted you here."
"I will always be with you when you ask." He kisses the back of her neck. "You know that."
Her reply is a sharp breath and low, steady groan. Her contractions are slowing, letting her body pool her reserves to push. She's more lucid than she was when he murmured how much he loves her.
"You're ready?"
He nods, trying to find her eyes. "Ready." His hands are clean, everything's laid out on the table. The Big Guy is just inside the doorway in case the baby needs oxygen or anything more than James can immediate provide.
"I wasn't sure if I was." Helen leans against him a moment longer, dragging his hand down below her belly to feel the hard head just beyond her parted labia.
"You'll be an amazing mother. You know that."
"Knowledge," she ceases speaking, consumed by the contraction and something that puts fire in her eyes. "Theory." Helen pants for breath, fingers clenched around his arm again. "Practice. All--"
"Separate, I know." He steers her to the edge of the bed, letting her sit while he gives her something to balance against. She still has his hand, and the baby's head emerges further as she groans with effort before it retreats back. There's a joy back in her face, that look she gets when she's conquered something.
She slows her breathing as the contraction ends, looking him directly in the eye. "You're the first thing she'll see."
James thinks that's a slight exaggeration, but he knows when his opinion is best kept to himself. He brushes hair from the sweat on her forehead, letting her finish.
"I'm sorry." Helen struggles to continue but her body has other ideas. She pushes, bending into him and using her breath to move her baby ever closer.
He rests his hand and the hot, wet cloth against her labia, hoping to deter any tearing while the baby crowns. He's known few women to have a conversation of any sort at this stage of labour, but Helen is not any woman.
"I'm sorry- not- yours."
"Helen."
"You--"
He rests his forehead against hers, letting the thrill of the birth fill him. "In every way that matters, you and this baby are my family. You will always be."
She smiles at that, a fleeting gesture. He breathes with her, watching as if for the first time in his very long life as the head emerges from her body. This time he guides her hand, finding the baby's face while tears threaten his control.
"Slowly." He'd rather she didn't tear. "You're doing fine. You've right here."
Helen shuts her eyes. Another push and he has the shoulders, the chest follows and the legs slide out with the remaining fluid. His hands and Helen's guide the baby up to her chest.
An infinite eternities have existed in the moment between birth and independent breath. James notices the baby is a girl, that the sky is grey and pink with dawn, that Helen's eyes are dry while his own weep with joy: all of that fades into the glory of that little girl's gasp and the pinking of her flesh.
The three of them are one as that breath is followed by a second, and a third, and a mewling sound becomes a wail soon hushed.
"I'm here." Helen stares up at him, radiant. "We're here."
She kisses him twice, soaring on the high of birth. The afterbirth follows while she coaxes the little girl into nursing. James washes his hands and her legs while the Big Guy comes in to take a look.
He grunts his approval.
"Ashley." Helen leans back against the mound of pillows. "She's Ashley."
"I still think you've made a mistake passing up Mergitrude. There will be several Ashleys in her class--"
"James--"
"She's beautiful."
Helen lifts her eyes to him. "Thank you."
He sits on the bed beside her, studying the tiny red face for signs of the great woman she will surely be. He beams down at her, utterly consumed by her tiny searching eyes. Then he has to chuckle, imagining an old friend telling the story of the evening.
"I can't help thinking of our dear friend, Arthur and the stories he'd pen of Sherlock Holmes the midwife."
The skin around her eyes crinkles with mirth. "You are a very excellent one."
"I shall remember that if I ever require a reference."
Ashley bats a tiny fist his way, and he remembers with wonder how many times she did the same through Helen's body.
"She's a fighter."
Helen nods, leaving a kiss on his cheek. "She is."
Neither of them voices that Ashley may well need to be, or that the life she's entered is far from certain. For the moment, both of them revel in Ashley's presence and spend the day in bed. He watches Ashley take to nursing, home at Helen's breast. Motherhood suits her, filling her with a peace he hasn't seen in a very long time.
He could watch this, always.