Sethe was looking at one mile of dark water, which would have to be split with one oar in a uselessboat against a current dedicated to the Mississippi hundreds of miles away. It looked like home toher, and the baby (not dead in the least) must have thought so too. As soon as Sethe got close to theriver her own water broke loose to join it. The break, followed by the redundant announcement oflabor, arched her back.
"What you doing that for?" asked Amy. "Ain't you got a brain in your head? Stop that right now. Isaid stop it, Lu. You the dumbest thing on this here earth. Lu! Lu!"
Sethe couldn't think of anywhere to go but in. She waited for the sweet beat that followed the blastof pain. On her knees again, she crawled into the boat. It waddled under her and she had justenough time to brace her leaf-bag feet on the bench when another rip took her breath away.Panting under four summer stars, she threw her legs over the sides, because here come the head, asAmy informed her as though she did not know it — as though the rip was a breakup of walnut logsin the brace, or of lightning's jagged tear through a leather sky.
It was stuck. Face up and drowning in its mother's blood. Amy stopped begging Jesus and began tocurse His daddy.
"Push!" screamed Amy.
"Pull," whispered Sethe.
And the strong hands went to work a fourth time, none too soon, for river water, seeping throughany hole it chose, was spreading over Sethe's hips. She reached one arm back and grabbed the ropewhile Amy fairly clawed at the head. When a foot rose from the river bed and kicked the bottom ofthe boat and Sethe's behind, she knew it was done and permitted herself a short faint. Coming to,she heard no cries, just Amy's encouraging coos. Nothing happened for so long they both believedthey had lost it. Sethe arched suddenly and the afterbirth shot out. Then the baby whimpered andSethe looked. Twenty inches of cord hung from its belly and it trembled in the cooling evening air. Amy wrapped her skirt around it and the wet sticky women clambered ashore to see what, indeed,God had in mind.
Spores of bluefern growing in the hollows along the riverbank float toward the water in silver-bluelines hard to see unless you are in or near them, lying right at the river's edge when the sunshotsare low and drained. Often they are mistook for insects — but they are seeds in which the wholegeneration sleeps confident of a future. And for a moment it is easy to believe each one has one —will become all of what is contained in the spore: will live out its days as planned. This moment ofcertainty lasts no longer than that; longer, perhaps, than the spore itself.