Iftikhar
mare . arabian . chestnut . 15.0hh . 11
Moonrise heralded the first of the birth pains, bringing with it a familiar ache at the base of Iftikhar’s tail that no amount of swatting and flipping could alleviate. There was that peculiar fullness, too, that feeling of utter satiation that, even as she experienced it for the third time in her life, she had never grown used to. She made her way to the lowlands —it was not raining, this night, and hadn’t for several; the ground beneath the wide-leafed trees was dry— as the first ripples built in her gut, and by the time she selected a suitable hiding place in which to lie down and expel the parasite from her body (just inside the forest at the edge of the beach, in some far off corner of the territory where she did not expect the breeder would find her, and where sand sprinkled among the short grass from the highest tides cushioned her red body as she prepared her body for birth) they had grown to a nigh-unbearable level.
Iftikhar is no kurtçuk. She exhales deep, silent breaths and slits her eyes. She does not cry out. Her eyes close completely only once, as if vulnerability to the world around her will somehow negate the discomfort, and they flicker open as she begins the first push. Ears back, dished head still high in defiance of this most natural process, Iftikhar labors until the moon tips toward the far side of the earth and starts its slow descent across the other half of the sky. The whole process has taken hours, though the act itself could not have been more than minutes, and as soon as Iftikhar feels the slick birth sac pass completely she heaves herself to all four feet.
The red mare turns, hooves kicking up soft sand, and dips her head to tear back the sac and reveal the foal. Her first two pregnancies ended in disappointment —Leil will pay for siring a traitorous son, she fumes as the wet foal struggles into the dry, balmy air— and she stands stiff with anticipation to check the sex of the third. She does not help the foal beyond allowing it to breathe, and in an amount of time she judges takes too long it finally frees itself completely and wobbles to its feet. The foal noses her flank and edges its muzzle under her body to reach for a teat and the mare swings away, ignoring its mewled protest to verify whether or not she will leave this foal, too, for the earth to consume.
“Kız,” she breathes, and allows the filly to nuzzle under her belly. She latches on and feeds, and Iftikhar allows herself a moment to revel in the new sensation. A daughter. She has borne a daughter.
The stink of afterbirth wrinkles her nostrils, and she steps away from the foal after only minutes of suckling. She protests again, her voice stronger this time, and follows Iftikhar away from the site of the birth and further along the edge of the forest. There is plenty of light to see by— the moon is full, and bright, and as they move the filly dries so by the time Iftikhar stops and allows her daughter to feed again she can see the true color of the filly’s coat. She will be black as Uzay’s mouth, unmarred by any white, a perfect starless sky personified. And when the filly steps out from under her and lifts her small dished head to look toward the ocean growling just out of sight, Iftikhar sees the light of the moon reflecting like sparks in her dark, dark eyes.
“Shararat,” Iftikhar says, and her daughter’s head swivels to meet her gaze. The red mare arches her neck, tail flagged despite the lingering soreness, and exhales a deeply satisfied breath. “Kızı güneşin,” she says, and feels the small heat of the filly beside her. “Daughter of Iç, ashes alight. The world will burn where you walk,” Iftikhar promises, and dips her head to press her nose tenderly against the girl’s forehead.
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