Alasa

My sister and I were home-schooled, which is to say our father plopped us in front of the TV and, later, a computer, and we taught ourselves. She got very good at music, including piano and violin. I got very good at drawing, but I needed a model. Jennifer was shy at first when I asked her to sit for me, but I cajoled her into it, especially since she liked dressing up in our mom's old dresses, and I loved drawing her in them.

We lived far away from civilization in a remote corner of Alaska. I fished and hunted and my sister learned to bake and cook from the supplies that were air-dropped every three months like clockwork. Other than satellite internet, we had no contact with the outside world. Our chalet was on the edge of a lake and winters were very long. We had a propane generator that powered everything and our father stockpiled propane in one of our outbuildings.

We realized pretty early on that our father was some kind of survivalist nut. Unfortunately, our mother had died in childbirth with Jennifer and I thought it must have broken our father's mind because after that, he got more and more reclusive, sequestering himself away from us and leaving us to take care of ourselves. Jennifer and I took him food twice a day and left it outside his study door. We never saw him but the food was always gone the next time we came back.

The only companionship my sister and I had other than each other was a pair of Malamutes, gorgeous dogs with blue eyes and thick fur. Their names were Jet and Tags, both male. They liked to sit at my feet while I drew my sister in various old-fashioned dresses and silly poses.

It was late summer one year, after she turned nineteen, and I was drawing her lounging on our settee in the evening sunlight pouring through our window. I was trying to get the gentle curves of her cleavage exactly right when I stopped and looked at what I'd drawn. Then, I looked at my sister. She had long, wild red hair that shone with an inner light. Her eyes were as blue as mine and sparkled like sapphires. It hit me like a piano falling from the sky. I was desperately in love with my sister.

She noticed I'd stopped drawing.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

I opened my mouth to say something but couldn't for the life of me figure out what to say. I put my brush down, got up, and crossed the distance between us as if I was in some kind of trance. She looked up at me.

"What?" she asked again.

I caressed her pale face, bent down, and kissed her on the lips. My heart pounded like crazy. At first, she just let me kiss her without kissing me back, but then she reciprocated. She ran her hand through my hair, then slid her arms around my neck. I kissed her with all the passion in my heart and slid my hands all over her body. I was fully aroused and desperate to make love to her.

We'd both seen porn on the internet, but none of it had prepared us for this moment. Getting undressed was an exercise in awkwardness. We were both hesitant, each of us keen not to inconvenience the other, both of us acutely aware that what we were doing was forbidden and dangerous. Once our clothes were off, I got on top of her and struggled to find where I was supposed to enter her. She finally guided me but she was very tight and I was terrified of hurting her. After a few thrusts, her juices started flowing and I managed to get all the way inside but the sensation was incredible and too much for me. I only got a couple more thrusts off before an orgasm overtook me and I ejaculated in shudders, filling her with my sticky seed. I collapsed on top of her and buried my face in the crook of her neck.

"That's it?" she asked.

"I'm so sorry," I said.

"No, I mean, it's fine. I just thought it would last longer. It was nice."

"I need practice," I said. "Then I can last longer."

"We have all the time in the world," she said.

From then on, we ended every modeling session with sex. I learned to prolong my pleasure and give her a good long session and we found out what she really liked or didn't like. When she had her first orgasm with me inside her, it blew my mind.

We moved into our parents old room and made love every night, sometimes two or three times. We both seemed as horny as rabbits and before long, she started showing and we realized she was pregnant. Both of us were freaked out but we weren't about to stop.

It was a very long, dark winter, as usual, but we kept each other warm and it was the best time of my life. In late February, when the days had started to lengthen and there were already signs of warming, we were together in the solarium and I was painting Jennifer. I'd moved from drawing to painting and was teaching myself how to do it slowly and surely.

Out of nowhere, there was a shot. It was so loud, I ducked involuntarily. Jennifer got up quickly and put her robe on. It had come from upstairs. The dogs jumped up, barked, and whined. We all ran up the stairs and I banged on the door to Dad's quarters.

"Dad?" I yelled. "Dad, are you all right?"

There was no answer. The door was locked and at Jennifer's urging, I slammed it with my shoulder until I broke the lock and it flew open.

We found him in his bedroom with his head blown off and a shotgun beside him. Jennifer screamed and I quickly wrapped myself around her and backed us out of the room so she wouldn't have to see it anymore. I made sure the dogs weren't in the room and closed the door behind us.

"Oh, God," she said. "What's going to happen to us now?"

I was angry at Dad for a lifetime of neglect and now this. "Nothing," I said. "He didn't have anything to do with us anyway, why would that change now?"

"But...his body. What do we do?"

"I'll take it out to one of the outbuildings tomorrow," I said. "It'll freeze and then when it warms up, we can dig a grave for it."

She clung to me and cried. My eyes watered for her, not for Dad. I was sorry she had to see that horrible corpse.

"Make love to me," she said.

"Of course," I said.

We closed the door to his quarters as best we could and went down to our room. I made love to her slowly and tenderly. She was so pregnant, I had to come in from behind, and we did that on our sides so I could wrap myself around her as well as be inside her. She seemed better after our lovemaking. I held her in my arms and thought she was asleep until she spoke.

"James," she said. "What if something happens to you? What will I do?"

"Nothing's going to happen to me," I said. "I'm not like Dad. I won't abandon you. Ever."

"But what if something happens? Like, when you went out and that bear came? If Tags and Jet hadn't scared it away, it could have really hurt you. What do we do when the dogs are gone?"

"I've seen some wolves," I said. "I was thinking we could steal a pup or two and raise them."

"Do you think that would work?" she asked.

"I don't see why not," I said. "We can steal a female and then maybe when she comes of age Tags or Jet can give us hybrid puppies."

"That's an amazing idea," she said.

"It'll be spring soon," I said. "I'm sure we can find a litter at some point."

"That makes me feel better," she said. "You always know what to say to make me feel better. I love you so much, it hurts."

I kissed her. "I know exactly how you feel," I said.

In March, I stumbled over a wolves' den and nearly got ripped apart by their mother. Unfortunately, Tags and Jet ganged up on her and injured her badly defending me. She was hurt so much I ended up having to shoot her, which I hated. She had two little pups, a boy and a girl. I dragged their mom's body to the same outbuilding I had Dad's body in, vowing to bury her alongside him come spring, then brought the pups back to Jennifer, who was totally freaked out because I had blood all over my clothes, some of which was mine.

"Oh, God," she said. "What if their mom had killed you?"

"She didn't," I said. "Don't worry about things that didn't happen."

We named the pups Ginger and Bud. They were too young to eat solid food, so we fed them powdered milk, which was basically all we had that was remotely suitable. Jennifer mixed meat juice into it and the puppies seemed to be doing okay—they grew fast, and by May they were eating meat, mostly venison and rabbit because they didn't seem to like the fish I caught as well.

I buried their mom and our dad on a warm day in May when the snow on a nearby hill had mostly melted and I could dig down beneath the permafrost and find solid dirt. It took me two days to dig their graves, but at least I was sure they'd been set to rest appropriately.

Jennifer was so pregnant, her belly button had gone from an innie to an outie. She came out of the chalet with refreshments on a tray and started walking toward where I was up on the hill. All of a sudden she doubled over and dropped the tray. I barreled down the hill and ran to her.

"Jen," I said. "Jen are you all right? What's wrong?"

She was standing in a puddle of red watery blood, which really freaked me out, until I remembered what we had read about childbirth. It started when her so-called "water" broke and it was often around then that her contractions started.

"Shit," she said. "It's happening."

I picked up everything she'd dropped and helped her back into the house. We'd tried to prepare for this, based on everything we read, but we were absolutely terrified. What if something went wrong and she died like our mother? How would I live without her? What if our child was born with bad problems because we were related? All kinds of doomsday scenarios ran through my head over and over. I tried to act optimistic and unafraid but it was probably clear from my shaking hands and silence that I was scared shitless.

We covered our bed with plastic, then with a clean sheet. I piled up clean towels because we knew we'd need them at some point. I massaged her back and gave her a bath. It wasn't long before she was in terrible pain. We knew she couldn't bear down and push like she wanted to until her cervix was open enough for the baby to have a chance to get through it. I washed my hands thoroughly and felt inside her, reaching with my finger for her cervix. I managed to get to it and figured it wasn't nearly dilated enough, so we waited.

We went for a walk through the woods and watched a movie while I gave her feet a long massage to help keep her mind off what was happening. We took another bath. I paced with her and held her while her contractions made her double over in pain. We made love because we didn't know what else to do and we'd read it might help. It was the longest day of my life.

All night, we were up. I made her hot soup, a ton of tea, and she baked cookies and muffins to distract herself. Her contractions got closer together and more and more painful until she just had to lie in bed and scream when they came. I held her hand and checked her cervix again and again. We knew it had to get all the way to ten centimeters, which was unbelievable to me. I couldn't understand how an entire baby would fit into her vaginal canal and come out her opening without tearing her apart.

We went through all our towels and still there was more and more blood. I didn't know how on earth a woman could bleed that much and yet be alive. I washed towels in hot water and we reused them wet. I gave Jennifer a carved piece of wood to bite down on during her worst contractions. Finally, at dawn the next morning, I felt like I could feel the baby's head—or what must have been it—crowning through her cervix, and she seemed very open, at least the required ten centimeters. I told her to let herself push when she felt like it.

I held my breath every time she bore down and had my hand inside her to feel the baby's progress. Once Jennifer started really pushing, the baby came down her canal quickly, then before I knew it, the head was out of her, and the body followed, nearly slipping through my grasp because of all the blood and mucus. Then I had a baby in my hands. For a moment I thought he wasn't moving and I felt my own heart stop. No. No, it couldn't be a still birth. That would kill us.

Then, all of a sudden, limbs flailed and the child opened his mouth, coughed, and then started screaming. I was so relieved, tears streamed from my eyes. I pressed him against my chest and held him. I had a son. I really, truly had a son. He had two arms, two legs, two eyes and ears, and he was screaming like there was no tomorrow. I was covered in blood, sweat, and mucus.

"James," Jennifer said, and I realized I'd totally forgotten about her for a couple of minutes. "Let me hold him."

He was still attached to the placenta, which came out almost as another birth—it was huge. I cut the baby's umbilical cord and tied it with a clamp like we'd seen to do on the videos we watched. Gently, I got onto the bed beside Jennifer and gave our son to her. He was screaming his head off and his little tiny arms and legs were flailing and grasping for something, anything. I realized I was totally bawling. It wasn't even a question of being a man and not letting myself cry—I was crying, and there was nothing to be done about it. Jennifer was crying, the baby was crying, all three of us were like the soundtrack to the worst tearjerker movie ever.

"Y-You need to feed him," I said through my blubbering.

She nodded. Her hair was soaked with sweat. All of us were covered in blood. The bed was a lake of bodily fluids. I wanted to be disgusted but I was so exhausted I couldn't even contemplate cleaning up.

Jennifer tried to put the baby's mouth on her nipple but it took a few tries and me helping before we managed to get the milk flowing and the infant drinking without hurting Jennifer terribly. I was totally awed by the whole concept of her body feeding him now. We had no baby food, no formula, nothing but her milk and if she couldn't breast feed him, we were all dead. I felt like the whole process of childbirth was nothing but skirting certain death. I was dizzy with incredulity that we'd managed to pull it off in spite of being two ignorant teenagers in the middle of nowhere.

"He's perfect," she said. "He's so precious."

I looked at our son. He was mottled red and purple and his genitals were oddly engorged and his head somehow warped, all of which made him look lopsided and hideous. He was simultaneously the ugliest and the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I broke down again and cried with my sister and our son in my arms. He was quiet now, except for the sucking noises of him hungrily ravaging her nipple with his surprisingly powerful jaws.

After a while, all of us went to the shower and cleaned ourselves. I bundled up our bloody bedding and put it on the porch—I'd have to wash it before long, but for now, I just remade the bed with different plastic and sheets, and got Jennifer her special underwear that absorbed her blood. Once we were all cleaned, we were much more comfortable. The two of us lay on the bed with our son between us. He had drunk his fill from his mother and was sleeping peacefully on his back. I'd cut up a blanket to make tiny diapers for him. I could already tell we were going to go through an excessive amount of laundry during this enterprise.

Jennifer and I held hands over our son's head. I watched his little chest rise and fall with his breaths and tears came to my eyes again. I just let them fall. I didn't have to be macho in front of my family. Neither of them cared that I was a big softie who couldn't look at his son without crying. He was so obviously my son, it was incredible. His toes and fingers were tiny exact copies of mine, down to the crooked big toe on the left foot.

"Why are you crying?" Jennifer asked.

"I'm so blown away," I said. "I can't believe we made a little human being."

She smiled at me and my heart swelled with love for her. I felt such bliss being with my lover and my baby that I wished this moment could last forever. I was overwhelmed with emotions that seemed primal and inevitable. I would have sacrificed myself for either of them in a heartbeat without even thinking about it.

"What should we call him?" Jennifer asked.

I looked at my sleeping son. "Wow," I said. "I have no clue. Any ideas?"

She looked at me, then reached up and caressed my cheek, brushing my tears away with her thumb.

"Maybe Harris?" she said.

Harris was my middle name.

"Do you like that?" I asked. "I like it, but I'm rather biased."

We laughed.

"Sure," she said. "Let's call him Harris. It's a good name."

My mind ran wild then, over all the things we'd have to do. We'd have to home-school him, but not like our father had home-schooled us. No, I was going to be a hands-on dad and do everything—diaper changing, teaching him to walk and talk, how to hunt, and how to draw—everything. Neither my sister nor I could do this alone. It was too momentous and the road ahead too daunting, especially since I knew we'd have other children, if for no other reason than the fact we didn't have any birth control. I knew I, for one, would never be able to resist sex with Jennifer. I wondered how long it would take before she could stand to have me make love to her again. I hoped it wouldn't be too long.

She was watching me closely. "What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"You," I said. "How amazing you are."

She grinned. "You're such a smooth talker. I must look like a monster. I feel so tired I can't even sleep right now."

There were rolls of flesh and stretch marks on her abdomen, and her breasts sagged with the weight of the milk they carried. Her hair was as wild as it ever was and there were huge bags under her red-rimmed eyes. I thought she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I couldn't wait to hold her and make love to her.

"I think you're stunning," I said. "Gorgeous."

"I'm fat," she said.

"So?" I asked. "What's your point? You might have a couple extra pounds but you're still beautiful."

We kissed over top of little Harris.

"I'm gushing blood and I feel like a Mack truck went through my privates," she said. "Otherwise, I'd fuck you right now."

"At least your head's in the right place," I said. "That's a start."

We laughed.

The first six weeks of having a baby were both some of the best and some of the worst weeks of my life. Little Harris screamed practically every hour on the hour. We fed him, walked with him, talked with him, changed his diaper—and often he still cried, for seemingly no reason. What could we do? Sometimes we were so exhausted we just let him cry while we dozed beside him.

We ended up taking care of him in shifts. I'd take him for the night so Jennifer could cook and clean and sleep in between breastfeeding, then she'd take him for the day so I could hunt and fish and sleep when I could. We still had to eat, so did the dogs, so I still had to get my ass out there and catch our food, in spite of being sleep-deprived and worrying that we'd never be able to have sex ever again because of the little tyrant running our lives now.

At six weeks, a miracle happened. Harris managed to get his thumb into his mouth and became self-soothing. It was like we had a new baby. He still woke up twice to breastfeed during the night, but no more of the every-hour-on-the-hour screaming. We fashioned a baby carrier from an old sheet so Jennifer could carry him everywhere with her while she did everything from play her instruments to all the chores she did that made our lives so much better.

By week seven, I was horny as shit for her. She seemed obsessed with little Harris and I was feeling a little left out. For his part, he hardly seemed to notice me, but if she was out of his sight for a moment, he freaked out. I confessed my unease to Jennifer and she kissed me and said we needed a date night. I wondered how this miracle would happen.