Touching distance [antikvár]

JanuaryThe hobnails on Alexander Gordon's boots strike sparks the length of the Spittal as he makes his way down the hill towards the New Town. The bold bright tattoo of his feet on the stone cobbles matches step for step, beat for beat, the bold, bright hue of his satisfaction. It could be gauzy high summer, so airborne are Alec Gordon's spirits, but in reality the winter's night shrouding the way is black as pitch, the air spiked with needle-sharp shards of ice. The cobbles beneath his feet are barely visible, nor his boots, nor the Gallowgate gibbet swinging slackly in the wind, nor the hulking mass of the Gallow Hills themselves. There's no moon tonight, nothing but the different densities of darkness and the road itself, shouldering forwards like a nervous heifer. From out beyond the Links, where the blackness is so solid it is more a physical presence than a mere absence of light, comes the drone of the waves crashing on to the beach. Alec's pace never falters.A good birth. Nothing compares with it.Past the ruins of the lepers' house. Past old Mallie's tomb (long since robbed of its contents, the boulders which once secured it all awry now, like a mouthful of crooked teeth). Past the waymarker. Stonehaven. Dundee. Edinburgh. Sensing rather than seeing the familiar landmarks. Following the spine of the hill towards home. Making notes in his head as he goes.Six hours from first contraction to delivery. An excellent duration. Not so slow as to tire the mother, nor so fast as to hinder the natural dilatatory processes. Two touchings - the first to ascertain the positioning of the head, the second to determine that of the os uteri. Both entirely necessary. No unwarranted bleeding. No damage to the perinceum. The wombcake5