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kararuthmilton · 8 months

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Scapegoat

Part 1

The Bishop’s hands linger on my skin. They linger on my arms and neck and the small of my back and ankles and calves from the day he hitched my heavy skirt up my thighs and touched me. I watched as he lifted his cassock and fondled at the black slacks he wore and pulled his erection free and… now he stands in front of me as I crouch half-naked before him, swollen belly tight as another contraction pushes my baby down the birth canal and I still feel the Bishop’s hands, hands that now hold fresh towels rushed over by Swiss guards and I want to scream, to scream and lash out, to lash out and swipe a wing at the Bishop's throat and slash it with a sharpened feather for what he did to me.

“Breathe,” says Andrea, “you’re doing so well.”

He rubs a hand between my wings which are spread for balance and to cool my aching body. I rest my head against Andrea’s white cassock, distracted by the red leather of his shoes, symbolic of spilt blood of Catholic martyrs, and the bloodied feet of a dear, dead friend. I never intended to give birth in this chapel, but in the room made up for me in the Papal Palace. Had I gone into labour there, I would have had a private birth either in or beside my double bed, with Andrea and sister Bernadette as my only companions. Now I am surrounded by people, some with smartphones and hand-held cameras, others with crucifixes of wood and silver praying in Italian and German, English and Latin, Amharic and Mandarin. I do not want them here. I want them to leave.

Another contraction, another wave of pain, worse and closer than the last, wracks my body and travels up my back, across my stomach and down my legs. I grasp a handful of Andrea’s cassock, spoiling the pristine fabric with filthy hands and pull him down. Kneeling so we are face to face, he sweeps my long white hair back from my cheeks, cups them and kisses my head. My heart pounds in my ears and I lift my arms to cradle my bump, swallowing past the rising bile in my throat. Andrea breathes and I breathe with him. Once my breathing calms, he smiles. When the Bishop smiles, his eyes are cold and distant, as if they hold a secret, but when Andrea smiles, his eyes smile with him, framed by crows feet which crease his olive skin.

I look around at the awe-filled faces of the visitors to the Vatican who edge closer, shoulder to shoulder to get a better look at me and my rounded belly, hoping to catch a glimpse of a child conceived of angel and man who is yet to be born, far more interested in me than the several-century old artwork hand painted on the walls and ceiling of the Sistine chapel, which they all had originally come to see.

Anxious that they are getting too close to Andrea, the plain-clothes Swiss guards move closer to their young Pope, blocking the visitors from getting too close to him, leaving me open to hands of different colours and sizes reaching out like the living dead to touch me. I fold my wings and pull them in tight across my back. The long flight feathers are trampled and pulled at the sensitive roots beneath uncaring feet. I hiss at the visitors and a few retreat, but a few move closer still, spurred on by their curiosity. Andrea runs his thumbs over my cheeks to calm me and raises his voice, telling them to stop, but his words are lost in the din of prayers and blessings spoken in a wild cacophony of languages.

I resist the urge to push as my baby’s head sinks deeper still. The flash of a camera to my left startles me, and I snarl, shaking my wings until each white, iridescent feather sharpens into a narrow blade of crystal, raised at the shaft, a clear warning I am unable to hold for long in my weakened state. The feathers fall back into their soft, harmless form, doing nothing to drive them back. They move closer and lay their hands on my wings and shoulders, stroking, squeezing, patting, teasing, wrenching, grasping, arms over arms, hands over hands, voice after voice after voice, a mixture of words of wonder and prayer. I catch words here and there of bless, child, angel, God and fallen, devil, forgiven.

The Bishop turns to a plain-clothes Swiss guard who then looks to Andrea for permission which he grants. I do not hear what they say to one another, but the guard soon turns to the visitors and calls two more guards who follow suit. A wave of nausea sweeps my stomach and chest. Andrea takes a towel from the Bishop- who pulls the visitor's hands from me- and dabs at my cheeks and forehead with care. I drop my head forward and rest it on Andrea’s shoulder, groaning low, waiting for the nausea to pass. The visitors disperse a few at a time, disappointed that they do not get to witness the birth of my child.

I breathe through another wave, shorter and more intense than the last, and turn my head. The guards stand at the entrance with several other plain-clothes guards who create a line, blocking the view, discarding smartphones until the people they belong to agree to leave.

I press my head into Andrea’s shoulder and lean forward with a moan, willing my body and mind to relax to welcome my child into a world that has proven time and time again to be unwelcoming to my young.

The Bishop massages my shoulders, and for a brief moment, I wish the visitors were still there clawing at me. I shrug his hands away and pray that his touch will linger no longer than it already has.

#chapter 1

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