Chapter III

I awoke to the sound of my Sisters’ musing and chittering, muffled beyond the seric fibers of my cocoon. They preened their vulvas and spoke excitedly amongst themselves, hungry for their first meal as prospective neo-Mothers. I peeled back just enough of my cocoon to look into the inky black sky. It was the cusp of luna minora. Her light was just starting to break meekly from the dark sky, as though she cowered before the luster of luna majora. I wondered if the moons had ever envied one another. While majora can hold her luminance for much longer, her pace is as ambling as dripping sap. Minora’s glow wanes every night, but has more freedom to carve her path through the sky. But despite their differences, they always come together in the eclipse and become indistinguishable. When they coalesce, they are equal.

Unfurling the rest of my cocoon, my Sisters’ chattering abated. As I hoisted myself out and descended the webbing, my foot caught on a curled root. I collided with the soil, mist billowing from the impact. With the undulating shriek of my Sisters’ second voices, their laughter was twice as loud. I wobbled upright, gripping the web to stabilize myself. My body ached, my knees screaming, but I hadn’t a moment to lick my wounds. By the time I’d collected myself and swept off the debris, my Sisters had already pivoted to hike back to the Fertile Glade. Even after closing the gap between us, I couldn’t hold stride with them.

But I preferred to walk alone. Their incessant banter would’ve quashed my inner monologue, smothering an eager flame. My thoughts were the last fragments of my life that were still in my control. I had no say over my birth, my body, my purpose, nor my fate. But my thoughts were my own, private and impermeable. My mind was a chamber of refuge where there were no consequences for what I kept clenched between my teeth.

The fog became thicker the further we walked, but we didn’t lose our way. We were guided by the ambrosial musk of Mother. When we finally reached the edge of the Glade, the fog dissipated. It appeared to repel all but pure, clear air. We saw Mother, as pale and rotund as ever, but our entrance seemed to go unnoticed. Her eyes were glazed over as if in a trance, though she stood with her joints locked in place. The Caretaker knelt beneath her, massaging and tugging on her many breasts. It was true only two arms made his task more laborious, but it was still enough to serve his purpose. With every tender squeeze, Mother’s milk spurted into the oblong pods below her: dried husks of the mammarian bulb. Several had already been set aside, each full with moonlit cream. My own breasts began to throb, feeling heavier than before.

Hearing us approach, the Caretaker shot us a glance, but did not break from his task. We knelt in a row once again and waited. At first, my chafed knees stung as I sat, but the dew-laden moss soothed my skin. The pain in my abdomen persisted, but I tried to ignore it. Once the last vessel had been filled to the brim, the Caretaker removed it from beneath Mother’s withered teats. He carried them to a nearby brood tree that had already been cracked open. He tipped each husk into the trunk and it glugged down Mother’s milk. The sharp, impatient clicks of my Sisters insulted my ears, but I couldn’t pry my eyes from the Caretaker. I was awestruck just as the previous lune. Beneath his gossamer skin—blue veins trickling throughout—his muscles flexed and relaxed in a steady rhythm as he lifted the husks, poured the milk, and repeated.

Once each husk was emptied and set aside, he looked over his shoulder to Mother. Despite bearing no maxillae, two clicks popped from inside his mouth, and Mother clicked back in approval. Turning back to the tree, he held out his hand above the lip of the bark. The earth hummed beneath the brood tree, a deep, pulsing thrum growing steadily louder. After a long slurp of suction, a spindly hand—tesselated with clusters of knuckles—popped out to take hold of the Caretaker. It proved to be a task that required both arms, the emerging creature’s many phalanges slick and slippery. It was a worker, its lanky limbs dripping with milk. Anointed, it stepped into the Glade and presented itself before her.

It prostrated silently, only inches away. Closer than I had ever been to her since the Caretaker stole me away to the brood caverns. Mother peered down at her child, blessing it with one last moment of reverie before distending her jaw. It dilated to the width of her own girth, her throat spiraling into darkness where moonlight couldn’t reach. Her mandibles and maxillae splayed out like quivering spider legs. Once her jowls met the ground, tongues unfurling into red carpets, the worker crawled in. After disappearing into the abyss—leaving only a patch of milk-sodden grass in its wake—Mother’s lips sealed around it. She tipped her head towards the sky with a gulp. Within moments, the sloshing of fluids and sizzling of flesh dissolving churned from within her, and her mighty jaw shrank to its original amphibious shape.

While Mother took a moment to gestate, my attention drifted to the Caretaker. When my eyes found him, his own flicked away. He had been looking at me, too. I was sure he was already privy to the root of his own defects, and that he had accepted it. I wondered what had compelled him to keep our Mother alive. Perhaps it was his naivety, a newborn, unaware of the taboos he was enabling. Maybe it was the burning instinct to survive, or the drive to obey his purpose. Fresh out of the womb and wired to serve. Was I a reminder to him of their grievous mistakes? Mother’s weakness, and how he sanctioned it? But I couldn’t pass any blame; he had not asked to be born any more than I had. I wanted nothing more than to assail him with a litany of questions, but his duties were not to speak, only to aid.

With a jolt, Mother stirred from her stupor, a guttural moan reverberating in her throat. Her skin started to roll like waves, each cloaca throbbing with every ebb and flow. They puckered and pulsed, stomatic folds pleating and flowering at a steady tempo. The undulation of her body quickened, black fluid dribbling out with every sphincteric contraction. The Caretaker stood poised beside her, watching carefully. The dull roar gurgling from Mother’s throat climaxed in croaks again and again, vesicles of tar discharging just as last time. However, these looked smaller and more delicate. Cupping his hands, the Caretaker scooped up every sac before they hit the ground, and cradled them in his arms. A rasped sigh declared the end of Mother’s delivery, and she fell into the mist with a meaty thud. In unison, I and my Sisters each held out an appendage awaiting our share. The Caretaker started with the eldest, handing each of us our own black orbicle. When at last it was my turn, he looked upon my hands for a moment too long, before laying the last sac in my palm. Our fingers brushed together in a way that felt deliberate.

As I inspected the new mucilaginous whelp, it felt heavier than I expected. And despite its relative size to the previous litter, its diameter was greater than the length of my hand. Looking closer, its opaque membrane had a gauzy window of translucence. Inside was a curled, tumorous chunk of grizzle, an engorged lump inlaid with shiny black beads. It was a fetal sac. Unborn potential, ideal for pre-birthing. I couldn’t help but admire Mother’s skill to reincarnate just one worker into so many embryos.

The Caretaker returned to Mother’s side, hands behind his back. He pretended to skim his eyes evenly between me and my Sisters. Mother’s gaze had nothing to hide, her many eyes divided equal attention between us. On cue, my Sisters unhinged their jaws. They swallowed their eucharists whole, then poised themselves to meditate. This was my first obstacle. My jaw could not open wide enough to eat mine whole. The pupil Mother had pinned on me constricted to a slit, I didn’t have the time to falter. Bringing the sac to my lips, I squeezed it in hopes of condensing its size, but it only bulged between my fingers. The thin skin of the sac burst, amniotic fluid flowing into my mouth. The sudden squelch broke my Sisters from their torpor. Their eyes shot daggers at me, but I didn’t care. It was their loss to have not savored such a sacred meal.

The ichor of Mother’s womb tasted divine: an unctuous, savory nectar. The juices dribbled from the corners of my mouth and rejoined under my chin in thick droplets. I sucked more into my cheeks, the endometrium soft and syrupy. After a few gulps, the fetus landed on my tongue. I could feel the faintest pulse of blood within it before crushing it with my molars. Its flesh gave way easily between my teeth, grinding into a filmy pulp. I swished the luscious slurry to and fro—savoring every morsel—then slurped the last dregs into my gullet. Licking and suckling the juice from my fingers, I was disappointed there wasn’t any more. But if I were successful, to consummate the ritual, I wouldn’t have to wait much longer for more. It was time to join my Sisters in meditation, so I opened my palms to the sky, relaxed my shoulders, and closed my eyes.

There was no silence.

Moonfeeders snaked through the long grass just beyond the clearing. Aphids skittered in the grooves of the trees. Laceworms carved tunnels beneath the sapwood. They scuttled and scurried, slinking and slithering. Distant echoes, nearby rattling. I could hear breathing, my Mother’s, my Sisters’, the Caretaker’s, my own. Inhale, and the air is sweet. Exhale, and the air is calm. I felt peace and anticipation while basking in the moonlight. I was glowing, shining, resplendent. Feel the natural cycle, the natural rhythm. The soil, the air, it was all singing. Humming. Thrumming. Beating. Pounding. My heart, my blood. Systole, diastole. Chambers beating, vascular pumping, booming in my ears, down my neck, through my arms. Sanguine rivers spilled through my spine, my hips, my legs, my belly, my loins.

Pain. Pain deep inside. Aching. Burning. Twisting.

A flicker of hope, it’s just gestation. Acids frothing, inevitable pain. Guts bubbling. Gestating pain. Expected pain. Roiling, panging, cramping—no, incubating. Rebirthing. Reincarnating. My shoulders unclenching, fists uncurling. Ignore it. Saliva welling, a swallow, a flavour. Succulent, ambrosial. Desire. Hunger. Soon. Soon, more will come. Digest, gestate, rebirth, reincarnate. This is Motherhood. Fertile, fecund, flowing. Mother’s milk, pale as moonlight. A swelling bosom, billowing teats. My breasts, ripening, filling. Plump, buxom, engorged. Tumid, tender, sore. Pain. Aching pain. Seething pain. No. Calm, focus, concentrate. Digest. Gestate. Rebirth. Reincarnate. Pain. Bloating. Throbbing. Knotting organs, raw welts, gouged wounds, wretched agony. Pain. Pain—A sound. A grunt, a burst, a gasp, and the slurp of skin against skin.

My eyes opened. Shaking off the daze, I turned to my Sisters. Everyone was staring at the other end of the line. The eldest had succeeded, the fruit of her labor plucked from the ground and held delicately in her claws. A hushed chorus of swooning and chittering applauded her. I leaned and craned my neck, anxious for a better look. I could see a black, wet streak of fluid that had burst from a pink, winking stoma. She lifted the fetal sac and peered into it as though beholding crystals and pearls. Mother nodded in approval, and within an instant, my Sister popped the sac into her maw and began the cycle anew. She returned to the lotus position, and the rest did in kind. I followed suit, trying to ignore the pain burgeoning within me.

I closed my eyes and listened to the world around me again. Moonfeeders rustling, aphids crawling, laceworms burrowing. I listened to the breeze whispering beneath the drum of my heartbeat. Peaceful, tranquil, placid, limpid. A steady beat, a steady mind. Digest, gestate, rebirth, reincarnate. My stomach bubbled. Was this the beginning? The transmutation, the metamorphosis? Pressure grew inside me. Larger, fuller, a waxing gibbous. Developing, brewing, blossoming—then another sound.

Several wet pops this time. I heard more crooning, trilling, and the thrum of satisfied gulps. Focus, no distractions. Be one with the world, feel the soil, feel the air, feel the life budding inside. Cells dividing, from germinal, to embryonic. Proliferating, amassing, splitting. Splitting like skin torn asunder, coalescing like cauterizing flesh. The pain. The pain was in my womb. Was my fruit growing too fast, ossifying and maturing too soon? The pain raked at my insides, as though it was clawing through muscle and bone.

The agony was too much, and I cried out. Snapping from my trance, I gripped my stomach, digging my nails into the tender skin: an external distraction from the internal torture. My Sisters paused the ritual—some holding their spawn, some straining mid-labour—all staring at me. I doubled over, a sob ripping my throat. The Caretaker rushed to genuflect at my side, his hand upon my shoulder. Through tears, I could see his eyes were dark as moribund. He coaxed me to recline for inspection, and I complied, spasming with pain. His eyes explored me and landed between my hind legs. With apprehension, I looked down.

There was a pool of blood.

The grass was slathered in a deep red, tiny chunks of black diffused throughout. I felt a movement, something thick squeezing through my birth canal. I thought my youngling must’ve been hatching from within me. Without a second thought, I unfurled my longest finger and plunged it into myself. I scraped out the fleshy jelly from within, and lifted my hand. There was no embryo, only black globules engulfed in blood. All stood still; my Sisters, Mother, the Caretaker, myself, suspended in time. We waited for a sign of life, a tremble, a coil, anything. But my spawn didn’t stir. It just sat smeared on my fingers, nothing but clotted viscera.

The tension in the air dissipated, leaving us in silence. I did the only thing I could and brought the coagulum to my lips. The initial scent was sanguine and rich as I sucked it from my fingers. But instantly I recoiled, my face puckering from the flavor. It betrayed its succulent fragrance with the taste of iron: metallic, astringent, and sour. I tried to force it past my uvula, but gagged in revulsion. I purged my meal, black ejecta splattering across the glade. Within the puddle, I could see the molten remains of the fetus I had eaten.

It hadn’t gestated at all.