Mine

Mine

Ewa stumbled in the slick mud, clutching little Tomasz to her chest. He was so small, so perfect, one tiny hand curled around the edge of his blanket. Yet within minutes even his negligible weight made her arms burn. Already her breath came raggedly, the icy air drying her throat and stinging her lungs. The footing was treacherous—Ewa was never certain if the next step would end with firm ground or knee-deep sludge. But she had to keep going.

Tomasz’s ribbon—the red one, tied to his wrist to keep the Dziwożony away from her precious boy—was gone. A sign of how close she’d come to losing him.

She clung tight to Tomasz, trying to pat, rock, and soothe him as much as she could while she staggered on. Her poor boy screamed and wailed, as if her embrace no longer held any comfort for him. When she paused, crouching at the base of a tree, to nurse him, he wouldn’t latch. Even though her breasts were swollen with milk, Tomasz just screwed up his face and turned away.

“It’s alright,” she gasped between panted breaths, “Mama’s here. I’ve got you. You’re safe now. Safe.”

But Tomasz cried all the harder, as if to refute her words. 

The woods tangled, dark and never-ending around her, its paths hidden. If only she could remember how she got here, she might be able to find her way back. She’d been feeding Tomasz, his mouth at her breast as she rocked him by the warmth of their fire. Then she’d been in the cold and dark, knowing she had to protect Tomasz. To find her way before the Dziwożona found him.

She ran, lurching and skidding, until she lost a shoe to some boggy reeds. Then she hobbled, on and on until the sky turned pink with morning. Until chicken bones and eggshells crunched under her remaining boot. 

Ewa sobbed in relief. The sound echoed, jagged and animal. The midden. She relished the stabbing cuts of the town’s detritus in the sole of her bare foot. Home. She was almost home. 

“We’ll be safe soon, Tomek. Safe and warm.”

Ewa strode straight through the stinking mound of scrap and waste, not wanting to spend the time it would take to circle around. 

A figure—a woman with a bundle in her arms—stood at the edge of the dump. Her hair was half-slipped from its bun, her shirt untucked from her skirt. She wailed, a sound less rough and wild than Ewa’s own cries, but just as distraught. 

The woman laid her bundle on the ground. A woollen blanket wrapped tight. It didn’t fuss or squirm. It didn’t move at all. She snapped a branch from a birch and struck the bundle with it. Ewa shifted forwards; she should stop her. But the woman dropped her stick and plucked an eggshell from the midden, and filled it with puddle water. She tipped it onto the tiny form at her feet. And still, it didn’t move.

Ewa knew this ritual—this woman’s child had been lost to a Dziwożona, just as her Tomasz nearly had. She should help—pray with her if it was too late.

“Take yours,” the woman screamed. “Give mine back!”

Ewa waded through the refuse toward her. They locked eyes.

Seeing Ewa, the other woman’s face twisted—horror, fury, fear.

“You!” She pointed an accusing finger. “Give back my girl.”

Ewa’s heart broke. I don’t have your girl, she tried to say. Just my Tomek. But only a strange, gasping hiss escaped her. 

Look, she tried again, lowering her baby from her chest to unwind his blankets, he is mine, my Tomasz. A boy.

“Give her back.” The woman spat the words. She stepped closer, fists raised. The fear had disappeared from her bloodshot eyes.

No. He’s mine. My boy. Mine.

But, Ewa saw now, the naked babe in her arms was not a boy, but a girl. Eyes dark where Tomasz’s were blue. 

Ewa held the baby in front of her. Not mine. 

The woman lunged and seized the babe from her arms. Ewa let her take the girl. Not mine.

The unmoving bundle still lay on the edge of the midden. Ewa bent over it. His eyes were closed—he could have been asleep if not for the blueness of his skin. She untucked the corner of the blanket, and uncovered a chubby arm. Red ribbon tied around his wrist.