The Knowledge Stone Page 7

  ‘Well, I’m going to try my best,’ his wife answered briskly, now busying herself with the preparation of some warm milk. ‘We’ll see if she can be persuaded to have a little of this milk. If I can get her to take some of this, she will have a chance of survival. We don’t want to have to deal with two deaths in the same day.’ The reality of this thought passed a shadow across each of their faces.

  The following hours brought blessed progress. The baby responded well to the care of the merchant’s wife and started to feed with strengthening enthusiasm, moving its tiny limbs with increasing energy. By the end of the day, the family were congratulating each other on their success at saving the baby’s life – an undeniable truth.

  From the start, the children had been fascinated by the baby; they had never seen a child so small and they were amazed by the power and enthusiasm that was displayed when the bottle of warm milk was offered. They pleaded with their mother to be allowed to feed the tiny infant and were delighted when the milk disappeared quickly from the bottle. Now that the child was thriving, the children were informed by their mother that the baby was a girl: ‘Just like you!’ She pointed at her daughter.

  ‘What’s her name?’ The children had cried excitedly.

  ‘She hasn’t got a name but I’m going to give her one,’ their mother replied. ‘I’m going to call her Giana, after my own great-grandmother who lived a long time ago in the Old Country.’

  The slow journey of the heavy wagon continued and it was several days later before the merchant and his family reached the village that was their next destination.

  ‘The first thing we need to do is find the midwife,’ the merchant said to his wife. ‘Obviously the baby will need to be left here, because we cannot travel around the country with such a young child. The midwife will be able to find someone to look after her. Maybe someone who wants a baby but can’t have one … perhaps a family whose baby has died recently.’ His wife was sad about this, for in these few short days she had established a loving bond with the child. Little Giana was now thriving well, despite her traumatic and near-fatal entry into the world.

  Enquiries were made of passers-by and the shack of the midwife pointed out. The merchant pulled up the wagon nearby, climbed down and knocked at the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ An unpleasantly raucous voice was heard from within.

  ‘I’m a stranger, a passing merchant who has important business with the midwife of this village.’ The door was flung open with a crash. The midwife was a stooped old woman who wore a permanently sour expression.

  ‘What is your business with me?’ The midwife spoke angrily.

  ‘I have a baby to discuss with you.’ The merchant smiled his most winning smile, the one he always found effective in difficult commercial transactions. ‘Can my wife and I speak to you?’

  With bad grace, the midwife permitted the man, woman and baby to enter her shack.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ She addressed them sharply, looking aggressively at them both. So the sad story of Giana was told and the midwife’s scowl deepened. ‘What am I supposed to do? How can I find someone?’ The old woman continued to complain bitterly, while stripping and examining the baby with practiced but far from gentle hands. Giana squawked in protest but the examination was soon over. The midwife then thrust the naked baby and its clothes back into the arms of the merchant’s wife.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with this baby though she could do with more flesh on her,’ she stated disagreeably. ‘If you want me to find her a home, you’ll need to pay me. I don’t do all this for nothing, you know. People don’t want to look after stray babies and it can take me months to find someone. Anyway, what’s her name?’

  ‘Giana,’ the merchant’s wife ventured.

  ‘Giana?’ The midwife repeated the name raucously. ‘What sort of a name is that? No-one is called anything like that around here. Why don’t you call her something normal?’

  ‘Giana was my great-grandmother’s name; she lived in another country far away,’ the woman replied uncertainly.

  ‘Well, it’s a stupid name to give a child,’ the midwife grunted, ‘but why should I care?’

  There was silence for a few moments. Then the midwife turned to the merchant: ‘I want fifty Ourtz.’

  The man shook his head: ‘It’s too much,’ he replied, automatically falling into his merchant negotiating mode.

  ‘Really,’ the old woman sneered, ‘then take the baby and go.’ She turned away and made to leave the room. The man was nonplussed. He was not used to such unpleasantness in commercial transactions. To him, this was of course a commercial transaction.

  ‘What about forty?’ This said with decreasing hope.

  The midwife swung round and thrust her face close to his: ‘I said fifty and I meant fifty. Take it or leave it.’ Then she turned away abruptly, muttering curses.

  Shamefacedly, the man counted out the coins and, without another word or a backward glance, left the room.

  His wife was distressed. She did not wish to leave baby Giana with this unpleasant old woman – but she knew she had no choice: ‘Please be kind to her,’ she said quietly, as she turned to leave with tears in her eyes.

  ‘What?’ The midwife spoke so loudly and sharply that the child started violently and began to wail with fright. ‘Now look what you’ve done, you stupid woman,’ the midwife yelled, ‘get out, the baby’s mine now and I’ll do what I like with her.’

  The merchant’s wife left the midwife’s shack with great sadness and rejoined her husband to begin the business of trading cloth in the village. As the wagon trundled slowly along the road, both adults were strangely quiet, part of their introspective selves back with Giana, the little girl that had touched their lives so dramatically.

  ‘Girl!’ The midwife shouted into the back room of her shack.

  ‘Yes, Mistress,’ a small voice instantly replied.

  ‘Get in here. You’ve got another baby to look after until I find it a home. And you had better keep it quiet while I’m sleeping.’

  The girl, a thin, rather clumsy teenager with downcast eyes, sidled into the room: ‘Shall I take it to the nursery room now?’

  ‘Of course,’ snapped the midwife, ‘what do you think I’m calling you for?’

  The girl, a simple kindly soul, immediately felt sorry for the baby, obviously abandoned by its parents – of course she did not dare to ask the midwife what had happened, since this would only elicit anger and even a beating with the stick. The girl had been sold to the midwife as a servant several years before and she knew she had to keep quiet and do exactly as she was told. She did not even dare to ask whether the baby was a boy or a girl but she hoped the midwife would tell her the baby’s name.

  ‘Take it and go,’ the midwife rasped, ‘it’s a girl and the stupid people that brought her in called her Giana. What a stupid name! And I told them that, too. Anyway, it’ll very likely grow up to be a stupid girl, just like you, so she may as well have a stupid name too.’ The midwife cackled unpleasantly at this, greatly enjoying her joke.

  ‘Get on with your work,’ she said, pushing the girl violently towards the baby. The girl picked up the baby gently and left the room.

  ‘It’s not a stupid name,’ she thought. ‘Giana is a nice name but I’ve never heard of anyone else called Giana.’ She held the baby close and spoke gently: ‘Giana is a very nice name. I love it – and I love you, too.’

  In the other room, the midwife sat down to recall her triumph over the cloth merchant.

  ‘Oh, I really handled that well,’ she chortled, ‘making him pay for giving me the baby – and fifty Ourtz is nearly a week’s work for me. I certainly duped these two!’ She was absolutely delighted with her performance. ‘And it’s not over yet. I told them it would take me a long time to find someone to take the baby but
I know exactly where it can be placed. And they will need to pay, as well!’ She almost hugged herself with delight.

  Several days later, the midwife’s mood had changed. She had planned to sell the baby to that rich farmer Malik, the one with the barren wife. She looked forward to making a lot of money out of this transaction. She knew he drank at the tavern on most evenings. Her plan was to go there and complete the transaction. Then he could take the baby home to his wife and everybody would be happy. Especially herself! She planned to sell the baby to Farmer Malik for 100 Ourtz – a very nice amount of money. She felt sure she could talk him into it; she would tell him what a wonderful baby this was and he would be happy to pay that amount – two whole weeks work for her!

  In the event, her carefully worked out plan had been a total failure, a real disaster. She had done her best and applied her finest persuasion but Malik had just said “No.” She could not believe it. No one had ever said “No” to her before in such circumstances – it must have been the fact that he was half-drunk.

  Should she try again, she wondered? She considered this for a while but, remembering Malik’s angry and aggressive attitude, decided that she would not succeed. Anyway, it would look bad for her. She was an important person in this community and could not be seen to be crawling back for a second attempt.

  ‘No,’ she decided, ‘I’ll just have to find someone else to buy the baby.’

  The following weeks showed that this would be no easy task. The midwife had given the matter a great deal of thought and put subtle feelers out among the village community.

  ‘I need to be careful with my reputation,’ she thought. ‘That’s more important than getting rid of any stray baby.’

  On a number of occasions, the midwife skirted around the subject with people who might possibly be amenable to acquiring another member for their family but nothing positive emerged from these approaches. Finally, the midwife was becoming desperate: ‘I really can’t keep this baby for much longer,’ she thought, ‘it isn’t suitable for me to do so and it’s too much trouble.’

  So on the following morning the midwife called to see the village handyman and his wife, taking the baby with her. She would certainly not have chosen this family for the baby since they were known to be stupid and feckless, living from hand to mouth and already with no less than four badly-behaved children, all loutish boys. On the other hand, the midwife thought she would be able to persuade them to solve her problem. At this stage the midwife had long given up any thought of financial reward for herself.

  On arrival at the squalid smallholding occupied by the handyman’s family, the parents received her as an honoured guest – in the past, she had helped with birthing, for suitable recompense, of course. With feigned sadness, she showed them the baby and explained the fabricated circumstances of her orphan status, emphasising her high birth. Of course the baby (her name was Giana – a beautiful name, don’t you think?) now needed a new family. She had considered the matter very carefully and chosen them for this very important task.

  The handyman and his wife were greatly flattered and indicated that they would accept. Just one thing, they asked, was there a financial settlement with the baby, by any chance?

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ the midwife regretted, ‘she has already cost me many Ourtz for clothing, food and other essentials and I have paid for all this from my own income. So you understand…’

  The handyman and his wife “understood” and now accepted the baby with a certain reluctance.

  ‘Fine,’ the midwife concluded briskly, ‘you are good people and I know you will look after her well.’ With that, she left, leaving Giana in the care of this dysfunctional, unpleasant household.

  Giana was brought up with her four elder “siblings”; she was never treated as an equal but rather as a servant. By the time she was old enough to be able to carry out household tasks (she was probably around five years old when this began) these were piled upon her by the adults and their children. So poor Giana found herself allocated to all the most difficult and unpleasant tasks, cleaning the privy, keeping the filthy smallholding clean and tidy, looking after the scrawny animals, fetching the water for the household from the well far away.

  In addition, she was treated cruelly. If any member of the family was displeased with any aspect of her performance, they would slap her hard or even beat her with a stick. As a consequence, Giana’s small body was always covered with blotchy bruises and scratches.

  Their cruelty extended to her sustenance, too. At mealtimes, Giana could only eat and drink when all other members of the family had finished and had their fill; frequently this meant she had only scraps or crumbs to eat and sometimes there was nothing left at all. Her clothing was always poor and inadequate. All she ever had were the worn-out rags passed down from older members of the family. So for many months and years of her young life, Giana had a truly miserable time, always hungry and thirsty, always dirty and treated like a slave.

  As a leading member of the village community, the midwife knew very well what was happening to Giana as she grew up but she had absolutely no interest in the girl. Despite her early involvement with her, she felt absolutely no sense of responsibility for what had happened. In fact any time she met the unfortunate Giana in the village, struggling with heavy water containers or sweeping and cleaning at the smallholding, she either ignored her or exhorted her to work harder. ‘Do your very best,’ she would say to the thin and exhausted child, ‘you owe it to your adopted father and mother who look after you so well.’ This said complacently to the poor dirty, ragged child, grey of face and suffering from malnutrition and dehydration.

  One day, the feckless handyman sought out his wife and said: ‘I think it’s high time we got rid of that girl. The more she grows the more expensive she is to keep.’

  In reply, his wife laughed unpleasantly: ‘Who would have her? Just look at her. She’s disgusting!’ She pointed to Giana, dirty and ragged, brushing the dirt energetically in an attempt to clean the yard.

  ‘Yes, I agree,’ said her husband, ‘but I have an idea. I’ll include her in a deal. Farmers are always looking for manual workers. As she grows up, she’ll become stronger and will be able to do more work. I’ll tell them what a good worker she is. I’ll tell them a convincing lie.’ He smiled artfully. The handyman was very pleased with this strategy; he had worked it all out by himself!

  ‘All right,’ agreed his wife. ‘It’ll be a good thing to be rid of her. She always has been a nuisance.’ Thus, Giana’s fate was sealed.

  Several days later, the girl was told to get into the cart and go with the handyman. When she enquired where they were going, the handyman slapped her face hard.

  ‘Don’t speak until you’re spoken to,’ he said angrily. Giana was silent, rubbing her bruised face. The cart stopped in the centre of the village where a number of farmers and various tradesmen were gathered. This was a market for farm work contracts and it was here that the handyman sometimes managed to obtain work.

  ‘Stay there and don’t move,’ he said to Giana, ‘or I’ll slap you again.’

  The handyman joined a group around several farmers. He recognised a large burly man as Farmer Malik and approached him.

  ‘Good morning, Master,’ he said respectfully, ‘do you have any work for a good handyman?’

  ‘I might need a good fence, 100 pics,’ the farmer growled, regarding him critically.

  ‘Master, my fences are the finest,’ the handyman replied eagerly.

  ‘Really,’ the farmer sneered, ‘I’m not so sure about that; your reputation is not very good.’

  ‘Master, I use good wood and I have a special contract to offer. Thirty-five Ourtz…’

  ‘Too much,’ the farmer bellowed ‘I would not pay over twenty…’

  ‘Master, please let me finish … Thirty-five Ourtz for t
he fence and a free child worker for your farm. A very good worker, very well trained by me and brought up in my own home.’

  ‘Where is this child?’

  ‘Sitting in my cart,’ the handyman answered, ‘come and see …’

  Giana cut a pathetic figure in the cart, dirty and dishevelled. She looked fearfully at the handyman and this large burly man with him.

  ‘Stand up, child,’ Malik snapped and the little girl obeyed immediately. He looked into her eyes and ears and told her to open her mouth, inserting a thick finger to check her tongue and teeth. Then he lifted her clothes with one large hand and explored her limbs and body with the other, examining her critically just as he would any young farm animal he was considering buying.

  ‘Thin as a rake,’ he observed, having noted the prominent ribcage and the spindly limbs, ‘don’t you feed your servants?’ He looked angrily at the handyman, who blenched and was silent, hoping that the farmer’s anger would not prejudice the sale.

  ‘Right,’ said the farmer, ‘I will pay twenty-three Ourtz for the work and the child. Take it or leave it. Take it and you start tomorrow.’ He turned away abruptly and made as if to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ the handyman wailed, ‘I’ll take it.’ The agreement was recorded and the handshake sealed it.

  ‘Be at my farm at first light tomorrow,’ Malik ordered, ‘and don’t be late.’ Then he turned: ‘Child! Waken up and come with me.’ He walked away.

  The girl climbed from the handyman’s cart and ran to follow the farmer through the crowds.

  He pointed to a bench beneath a tree. ‘Sit there, and stay there till I come back.’

  Malik disappeared into the tavern and it was several hours before he returned, by now in a rather drunken state. By this time he had forgotten all about the little girl he had acquired but fortunately had his memory jogged when he saw her sitting quietly on the bench where he had left her. ‘You,’ he shouted. ‘Come here.’ She ran to his side and looked at him fearfully for further instructions. ‘Can you speak?’