In the winter of her birth, the omens told the pestilence would come. All the signs foretold the coming of a plague, and so on the fourth day of her life, her father tried to drown her. He held the limp, chubby body under the flowing river till his hands grew numb. Then longer, till he could no longer feel the rolls of baby fat pinched in his palms. Her mother was not there to cry or stop him. She had been taken by this child under the cold stars, bleeding to death as the birthwitch cried the infant’s foretelling. The baby, he had not named her, but had only waited till the set day to kill her, did not squirm or cry as he held her under the current. The rippling swirls blurred her slightly but he could see her clearly. Her mouth did not open; her silver-blue eyes only silently watched him, with long slow blinks.
When the numbness was prickling up to his shoulders, he lifted her out, still alive, still staring at him. He wanted to throw her against the rocks, bash her head into the sharp stones, watch her soft infant skull slice open. He wanted her to cry, scream, do anything but stare at him. She had rarely sobbed since birth and simply watched everything with her large eyes. But she had survived this prescribed test so he was not allowed to attempt again now. So he laid her gently on the grass, not in the sun but in the shade. If a cold killed her incidentally, the birthwitch would not grudge him would she? She lay in the dry, crunchy, dead, grass, occasionally blinking drops of water out of her eyes and still did not cry.
He sagged onto the muddy bank a few feet from her, and thought about drowning himself. Would that anger the fates? But then who would look after the horses, Annaliese and Jasper? They had been the last gift from his wife; two slender, lithe horses she had spent closed to five years saving for. No, he couldn’t let them wither; their long, bony spines protruding out like stones. He rubbed his face with two calloused hands and sighed. There was nothing to do but take the child home and wait. His next time would not come for another year. He began to stand up, but sagged backed down when a thought occurred to him. He would have to name the damn child. He signed again; maybe he would name her after the aunt both he and his wife had hated.
This aunt, his mother’s sister, had belched a half-curse over their handfasting. Mostly, it had been mumbled, a drunk rambling no one completely heard. But it had enough cantation in it their bread had refused to rise for a year. They had so many pixies clamor for sex magic in their bedroom they had to hire a hedgewitch to bag them up. This aunt had loudly objected to their union for no logical reason, maybe out of spite because of her own miserly spinsterhood. Or maybe, a small hoarse whisper at the back of his mind suggested, she had seen what kind of child they would bear. She had been name Ilcsen, ugly, rash, rude; her mother had named and so she had been.
He slowly stood up and grudgingly picked up the child, still dripping wet, her lips tinted slightly blue, almost a shade lighter than her eyes. She was shivering now, but still did not cry. Despite himself, he held her under his wool cloak on the walk home, and whispered to her about his wife and his horses.
The birthwitch had hired a wetnurse for him. They had both known their duty to the child until the appointed times. For the next year, Ilcsen grew pale and tall. She wasn’t overly thin, just not chubby and round as other children. She rarely cried and hardly made any other baby sounds. She looked modified the first time she hiccuped; so surprised and horrified he had laughed at her. Then, his boisterous laugh startled her to tears. She then cried, long and loud wails, at the sound of her father’s laugh she had never heard. Then, hating himself, because she looked most like his wife as she bawled, he held her and sobbed with her.
The wetnurse knew of the foretelling; the whole village did. It was not something to keep secret, the coming death. So she made no comments on the child’s lack of noise or even lack of words. When Ilscen turned one, the wetnurse declared her job was done and did not wean the child. He even saw her draw the glyph of separation and warding in the dirt outside the door frame, stepping over it as she left.
The first full moon after Ilscen turned a year, her father tried to roast her. It was the assigned way, the next step to end her fortune. He laid her in the large pot-bellied cauldron, inherited from his mother-in-law, usually used for boiling linen. The moons were bright and cast an ethereal white glow through the window. Outside, the pines nestled softly and the frost settled into the stone cracks. It was quiet and crisp, just like the night Ilesen was born.
He sat her in the pot and lit the fire underneath. He slowly backed away, as she watched him with those large eyes, blinking slowly just like when he had held her underwater. She pulled herself up by reaching to the cauldron lip. He backed away further so she could not see him. She peered barely over the top of the cauldron, stretching her head up and leaning onto her toes. Her pale blue eyes glinted like blue snow in the moonlight. He gasped harshly and ran out the house, knowing he could not stand there and watch her bake. Drowning was one thing; it should have been fast; cooking her, though, he could not stomach it. But if he took her out and held her and loved her, the plague would come.
He fled, swallowing gulps of vomit back down, and cursing himself as a coward, into the barn. He buried himself in the hay and covered his ears, waiting for the screams to come, not caring if the whole house burned down. The next morning, he woke with a jolt, not even realizing he had fallen asleep. Slowly, licking his dry lips, he crept into the house and peered into the cauldron.
She lay, curled in a ball at the bottom, snoring and sucking her thumb. He almost flung her up in relief but instead frowned. He gingerly touched the metal side, and brought his finger back with a snap and a low hiss. She should be dead, or at least severely burned. But there she lay, not even pinked by the heat. Eventually, he did pick her up and gently carried her to her bed. He would have to speak to the birthwitch. How was he supposed to end this fortune if it would not be killed?
When he went to the birthwitch, she eyed the child, turning the child around and lifting her arms over her head. At one point, during this inspection, Ilscen put a slender hand on the witch's pockmarked face. The witch held still and the child's eyes stared long into the black eyes of the witch, one of them cloudy with disease. After this long stare, the witch sighed and placed Ilscen down. She toddled towards her father and laid her small, still fuzzy head, on his knee.
Afraid the witch would think him weak, he did not reach down to stroke the child's soft head, as he would have at home.
The witch heaved a sigh. "You have done the prescribed things at the right time?” She sipped slowly from her steaming mug, and eyed the girl over the top, through the steam.
He gripped his own blue speckled mug tightly. "Yes."
"The next time is not till her third birthday.”
He nodded.
“I have only had one ill-fortuned child like her. The rest all drowned.” The witch whispered. "The fortunes are strong with this child. There is nothing else for you to do but wait till the next time." She put down her mug and leaned forward towards him. Her one clear eye glinted. "Do not try before the set times. If you do, the child will live and you will die."
He nodded, picked Ilscen up and slowly walked out the door. He placed an iron penny on the witch's doorstep.
Ilscen was born a month before the winter festival. So the first full moon after her third birthday, he took her naked and tied her to a stake in the snow.