The Girl Who Woke the Moon Zach Bennett Lisabeth Iowa State University
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Iowa State University Capstones, Theses and Graduate Theses and Dissertations Dissertations 2019 Shattered: The girl who woke the moon Zach Bennett Lisabeth Iowa State University Follow this and additional works at: https://lib.dr.iastate.edu/etd Part of the Creative Writing Commons Recommended Citation Lisabeth, Zach Bennett, "Shattered: The girl who woke the moon" (2019). Graduate Theses and Dissertations. 17245. https://lib.dr.iastate.edu/etd/17245 This Thesis is brought to you for free and open access by the Iowa State University Capstones, Theses and Dissertations at Iowa State University Digital Repository. It has been accepted for inclusion in Graduate Theses and Dissertations by an authorized administrator of Iowa State University Digital Repository. For more information, please contact [email protected]. Shattered: The girl who woke the moon by Zach Lisabeth A thesis submitted to the graduate faculty in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of MASTER OF FINE ARTS Major: Creative Writing and Environment Program of Study Committee: David Zimmerman, Major Professor Kenneth L. Cook Margaret Holmgren Jeremy Withers The student author, whose presentation of the scholarship herein was approved by the program of study committee, is solely responsible for the content of this thesis the Graduate College will ensure this thesis is globally accessible and will not permit alterations after a degree is conferred Iowa State University Ames, Iowa 2019 Copyright © Zach Lisabeth, 2019. All rights reserved. TABLE OF CONTENTS CHAPTER 1: THE GIRL WHO WOKE THE MOON 1 CHAPTER 2: FLYSWATTER 18 CHAPTER 3: NYAMURA VILLAGE 33 CHAPTER 4: FULL MOON RITES 55 CHAPTER 5: CETACEAN 77 CHAPTER 6: INCARNATION 100 CHAPTER 7: ANOTHER LIFE 117 CHAPTER 8: THE FUTURE 139 CHAPTER 9: GITA’S PROMISE 153 REFERENCES 178 1 CHAPTER 1: THE GIRL WHO WOKE THE MOON Gita screamed loud enough to wake the Nereids from their millennial sleep at the bottom of the sea. The other women warned her that the pain would be unimaginable, but in a good way, they swore. This wasn’t good. This was wrong. “It’s a terrible thing to bring a child into the world on a moonless night,” muttered one of the midwives. “Hush, Veda,” said her attendant, Navilo. “Now is not the time.” Gita’s cries drowned out the argument. Her azure eyes rolled up to the spirals of the Granta that whirled and twined in endless folds of porcelain symmetry. What a beautiful home for this child, she thought. Then the pain returned in great oceanic waves and she screamed until her throat went raw. Outside, storm winds swirled around the contours of the Granta, whistling and howling like spirits risen to call upon Copyright © Zach Lisabeth, 2019. All rights reserved. 2 the birthing chamber. The roar of the surf warred with Gita’s delivery, but she refused to be outdone. “We’re almost there, Gita,” said Navilo, her voice possessed of a compassionate determination. “I can see the child’s head. One more push.” “Fetch me the pure water,” Veda barked. “No…” Gita protested too weakly to be heard. The delivery stole her breath, hid it away and only doled it out in drips and drabs with each pained contraction. As Navilo turned her back to retrieve the water, Veda leaned over Gita so that the frayed ends of her thin, white braids fell against Gita’s chin and tickled her nose. Veda was scowling, flashing two crooked rows of tinted, rotting teeth. “This child will be cursed,” she hissed. “Harlots always reap what they sew.” Gita clenched her jaw and pushed. She pushed with every muscle in her body, every ounce of her waning will. Giving birth had become an act of open defiance. She strained and whimpered and then suddenly—like a dam breaking against a storm surge—the pain passed and relief enveloped her body. The angry sounds of the storm abated and the whole world fell terribly still. Silence, then. Gita breathed in through her mouth, felt her lungs expand in her chest unencumbered by her swollen womb. After nine uncomfortable months spent fleeing across the sea followed by weeks enduring the snickers and curses of Veda and her ilk, she had at last given birth. And something wasn’t right. Too weak to lift her head, Gita watched Veda and Navilo flutter about the chamber. The older woman cradled a limp bundle in her arms. Copyright © Zach Lisabeth, 2019. All rights reserved. 3 “She should be crying,” Gita realized out loud. “Why isn’t she crying?” Navilo came to her side and pressed a moist cloth to her forehead. “Make her cry, Navi.” Gita was begging now. “Veda is doing what she can,” said Navilo. “She’s not!” said Gita. “She’s a witch.” “She would never hurt a child,” Navilo insisted. “I give you my word as a Maiden of Haiyan.” Her efforts to soothe Gita were having the opposite effect. “Keep your word and give me my baby.” Gita started to cry. “I just want to hold her. I can fix her. I know I can.” “If you want this child to live you’ll pipe down and let me work.” Veda’s voice, bellowing from an unseen corner of the chamber. Gita began to protest, but Navilo quieted her. “She’s right,” the midwife assured her. “Gather your strength. Your daughter is frail. She’ll need to nurse.” Daughter. Gita’s lips moved without forming any words. She lost herself again in the spirals of the Granta. Shadows danced on the walls of the birthing chamber, coaxed to life by blue flames flickering in their braziers. Gita had the sense of objects in motion around her even though she had lost the ability to track them. Navilo and Veda each stepped in and out of her field of vision, mumbling orders and responses to each other that Gita could not decode. All she wanted was a simple whimper, a whine, a tear. Nothing. Copyright © Zach Lisabeth, 2019. All rights reserved. 4 The two midwives disappeared from the chamber. Gita strained to hear the muffled voices coming from the other side of the door. “The child is still,” Veda said. “There’s time,” Navilo said. “Her humors are warm. Her heartbeat is faint, but I can feel it.” “She won’t survive the night. There’s nothing more we can do. I told you no good would come from a moonless birth.” “Give the child to her mother.” Gita recognized a third voice—a man’s voice, smooth in some places and rough in others like broken coral dropped by the sea. It belonged to Lama Shenu, the elder of the Granta. “Do as the lama says, Navi.” Veda again. A moment later, Navilo returned to the birthing chamber cradling the silent infant in one arm. The bundle was so small, so still. The younger midwife tried to smile for Gita’s sake, but the expression sat uncomfortably on the plump ridges of her cheeks. It looked wrong. Everything was wrong. “Come and meet your mother.” She spoke to the child in a delicate, sing-song voice as if anything more abrasive might break her. Gita reached out with both hands, sobs catching in her throat. Navilo placed the baby gently against Gita’s breast. The little girl felt lighter than a melon—too frail to move, yet pink and warm and buoyed by shallow, inconsistent Copyright © Zach Lisabeth, 2019. All rights reserved. 5 breaths. Wisps of seafoam hair clung to her tiny scalp and beneath them, her eyelids— perfect pink folds firmly shut. “She’s sleeping,” Gita said. “Only sleeping.” “Yes,” Navilo said in the same gentle cadence she had used to address the child. “She’ll wake up,” Gita continued, half asking; half insisting. “We’ll all pray to Haiyan that she does.” The midwife left Gita alone to rock and coo at her infant girl. Time passed as the braziers burned down, and so too did the light in Gita’s daughter. Her breathing slowed until the movement in the child’s little chest reduced to an inconsistent shudder. Gita felt her daughter slipping away from her, retreating from the Granta with the storm clouds and the turbulent surf. She didn’t like feeling so helpless. Her daughter had survived nine months of gestation and emerged into the world fully formed. She had fought the entire way, to survive, to be born. She had done her part. Now it was Gita’s turn to help her—to return even a fraction of her daughter’s effort. The delivery drained her, but Gita found the strength to lift herself out of bed— for her daughter’s sake. She unfurled her swollen toes and placed her bare feet on the cold white floor of the Granta. Cupping her daughter’s head, she tightened the soft swaddling cloth around the infant. Gita’s knees threatened to buckle as she worked her way up and out of the birthing chamber, placing one trembling foot in front of the other. Again. And then again. Copyright © Zach Lisabeth, 2019. All rights reserved. 6 The Granta’s spiral hallways followed the natural lines of the great conch shell from which the structure had been built. The monks and maidens of Haiyan treated their temple home with a level of care and regard that preserved the natural chamber throughout the ages. Gita tiptoed away from the birthing wing, jumping at every trickle of storm water, every aberrant trick of the light. She was sure that if the midwives found her up and about they would take her daughter away from her, force her back to her bed.