Chapter 4: Moonborn Miracle or Escape?

Old Bill lived in the third house at the top of the road. His family had always scraped by as farmhands. Wasn’t until Little Bill became Old Bill that he saved enough to buy himself a slow-witted wife.

The house was a sagging two-story, porch crowded with empty feed sacks, yard overgrown, chickens scratching under the lilacs. The place smelled of earth, sweat, and livestock—a real working man’s home.

Simple wives were cheap and could bear children. Now, finally, the family line had hope.

Old Bill, stingy as a tick, slapped his thigh and declared, "If it’s a boy, everyone gets a deviled egg for luck."

By the time we got there, the yard was packed with men squatting in the shade, puffing on cigarettes.

Boots scuffed the grass, and the air was thick with tobacco and sweat. They eyed us like they were sizing up cattle at the auction.

As soon as they saw Jake dragging me in, they swarmed like flies, jeering:

"Hey, she’s awake and you’re already dragging her out?"

"If she runs off, whoever catches her gets to keep her—don’t expect us to bring her back!"

"Come on, Jake, tell us—how’s a moonborn wife different from one you buy in town?"

The men laughed, elbowing each other, hungry for a show. I held my head high, refusing to let them see me flinch.

…

Jake pulled me closer, grinning like he’d won the lottery:

"My wife’s one of a kind—she can spin cloth with just a wave of her hand…"

He didn’t get to finish. A blood-curdling scream tore out of the shed.

Everyone froze, eyes snapping to the door.

The rough curtain lifted, and the smell of blood rolled out like a wave.

Those near the door recoiled, faces twisting.

"Old Bill!" The midwife, hands slick with blood, stormed out, yelling, "You never said your wife was slow! She don’t know how to push, and we can’t hold her down. Birthing’s already a brush with death—if she can’t deliver, both mother and child could die!"

Her voice shook with exhaustion and fury. The men shuffled, suddenly reminded this was no show. The midwife glared, daring anyone to speak up.

"Save the baby! Whatever it takes, save the child! Aunt Carol, you gotta do something—my family can’t go without a grandson!"

Old Bill, rubbing his bald head, stomped his feet in panic.

"What can I do? Not even the Lord Himself could help now!"

Aunt Carol shot him a look that could curdle milk.

The neighbor who’d called us nudged Jake, whispering:

"Didn’t you say your wife’s moonborn? See if she can help."

Suddenly, all eyes turned to me.

"Yeah, isn’t she a moonborn? Show us some magic."

"Old Bill oughta give you two eggs if you help."

"Yeah, right—moonborn, my foot. You just bought another simple girl and think you’ve got a heavenly wife."

The crowd pressed in, hungry for a miracle or a mess—didn’t matter which. Their eyes burned on me, hot and expectant. The air was thick, itching with anticipation.

…

Jake’s face went beet red, caught in the middle.

"Jake says his moonborn wife can do it!"

Someone hollered, and even Aunt Carol looked over.

Every eye in the yard pinned me in place, their hopes and doubts heavy as a summer thunderstorm. I squared my shoulders, feeling the moon’s pull deep in my bones. Whatever happened next, I’d just become the stuff of another campfire story.

I didn’t come to save them. I came to get free.