Peace Child, The Prophecy, The Z Zone Four

She held her breath as he latched on to her nipple. There was always a sharp pain as the milk came down and it was matched each time by a sensation of shrinking in her womb. Six weeks now after the birth, she was still bleeding. Every time she fed him, she bled more.

‘It’s  natural,’ said Narisja. ‘Whenever He sucks at your breast, your womb will shrink. He will make you slimmer’

It felt as if he were biting her. She imagined that there were huge teeth inside that tiny mouth. They only came out when he wanted milk. The rest of the time they lay hidden behind the innocent gums.

The pain lasted a few seconds. Then the other pain would start. The dull ache in her womb, which minutes later would be relieved as a fresh spurt of blood trickled into the pad she wore between her legs.

Then she could relax. It made her feel sleepy as the small child sucked slowly at her breasts. Sometimes, she thought of when Gabrizan had touched her there. She had loved that too. Now, though, that seemed wrong.

These are for the baby, she thought. These were never meant for you.

The child patted her breasts as he fed. It felt right. Every now and then, he stopped. Then he would start again. The Mother knew instinctively exactly when to move him from one side to the next.

‘You are doing well,’ Narisja said. ‘The Child is gaining weight rapidly. And look how his cheeks are filling out.’

But the Mother could see the worry in the old woman’s eyes.

The Mother looked at her child. She couldn’t love him. She enjoyed feeding him, but that was all. It was Saratina who patted him afterwards, and cooed at him and made the funny grunting noise, which were her only words and which he seemed to love.

All the Mother could see was blackness. He was a parasite, feeding off her, taking away her life. He had forced her to live here, to abandon the life where everything was right, where everything should have been wonderful.

She was glad, though, that she was still the Mother, the Queen Bee, the most important member of the hive. She allowed Narisja and Saratina to serve her every need. They brought her food and drink. The old woman made her drink gallons of the cave water.

‘You must take in so much fluid,’ she said. ‘The baby is taking most of yours.’

The regime of the nightly porterbeer continued.

‘He needs the iron as much as you,’ said Narisja. ‘You need it still. You must be strong for the sake of the Peace Child.’

The baby always slept well after she had drunk the porterbeer, and that allowed her to sleep for five or six hours at night.

The two other women dressed him and changed his nappies. The Mother watched, glad that she did not have to handle the stinking mess. The baby squirmed and yelled as the women pulled his clothes on to him.

How can anyone love that? the Mother asked herself. It’s not a child. It’s just a demanding lump of flesh, a food processor.

She stopped caring about her own appearance. She would never have washed if Narisja had not made her. The older woman also made her clean her teeth, often having to force her mouth open and brush them herself.

‘You’ll lose your teeth if you don’t take care of them,’ she said to the Mother. ‘The child has taken a lot of your calcium.’

It was Saratina who stroked the Mother’s hair and brushed it a hundred times morning and night.

The Mother just turned her face to the black wall of the cave, and that was all she saw: blackness going on forever. She could not see a future for herself and her child. She could not even recognise that she had a child.

She did see, though, that Narisja and Saratina were becoming more and more concerned about her and the Child.

‘She won’t touch Him unless we make her,’ said the old woman. ‘She almost seems afraid of Him.’

Saratina grunted sympathetically. She bent over the Child’s crib and stroked his cheek.

‘Even the Peace Child needs mother love,’ said Narisja. ‘What can we do?’

Saratina just shook her head and looked sadly at the sleeping baby.

Narisja sighed.

The Mother listened. They were right. The baby did need mother love. But I just can’t move towards him, she thought. I am frozen.

The baby carried on gaining weight and he looked healthy enough. The Mother also seemed to be thriving. Her figure was trim again and she was less pale than she had been straight after the birth. Yet there was something not quite right. She seemed to be in a dream.

Ben-Menriah continued to come every week. He loved to play with the Child.

‘You will be a fine story-teller,’ he said. ‘You carry the stories of the world in your soul.’

He was happy to throw the Child over his shoulder and pat his back after he had been fed. The baby would give a loud burp, often puking the last of his milk over the Wiseman’s shoulder.

Narisja would fetch him a cloth and wipe his tunic.

‘Your clothes will be ruined,’ she said.

But Ben-Mariah would only laugh. ‘What do a few soiled garments matter when I’m holding the fulfilment of a prophecy in my arms? Besides, baby spittle smells sweet and soon washes out.’

Then, when the babe was settled and asleep again, Ben-Mariah would continue with his tales. The Mother listened. There was a little comfort in them, but they lacked the excitement they had brought her earlier. Then always, before he went away, there was the whispered conversation in the entrance to the cave.

‘So there’s no improvement?’ he asked.

‘No, she still does not seem interested in the Boy,’ said Narisja.

Ben-Mariah would shake his head sadly. ‘Her soul is sick,’ he said. ‘We must find the story which will cure it, if the Boy is to grow strongly.’

She heard every word that they said about her, but she did not give anything away. She continued to stare blankly at the cave wall.

The Mother finished the feed, and handed the baby over to Saratina, who burped him, changed his nappy, rubbed noses with him and giggled at him and then laid him in his cot. She bent over and made her cooing, grunting little noises at him, just as she did every time she laid him down. Suddenly she cried out. Even the Mother was alarmed, and wondered whether the Child was hurt.

Saratina rushed over to her and grabbed her arm. She had to follow her to the crib. Saratina was pointing excitedly at the baby, squeaking and clapping her fists together.

‘What is it Saratina?’ asked the Mother. ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’

‘Mmm!’ insisted Saratina.

The Mother looked into the cot. Kaleem was lying on his back, his feet and arms kicking in the air. His deep blue eyes were looking into hers. For a second she saw his father and then she saw something of her own father. The baby smiled and giggled.

Something changed in her.

‘Does the Peace Child have a name now?’ asked Narisja.

‘Yes,’ replied the Mother. ‘He is my Kaleem,’ she said, stroking his cheek. ‘My precious child’

She took him out of his cot and held him close.

The Prophecy The Z Zone Three

The pain came in waves and the waves were getting closer and closer together. She remembered what Narisja had told her: look at the pain; see its shape; give it a name. Make it shrink. Count it through. Remember that each pain is bringing the baby closer to being born.

She wanted to sleep. It had been going on for four hours now. But the pains were too close together to give her that space.

Narisja examined her for the third time. She had insisted that the younger woman should lie on the table.

‘That’s not hygienic,’ said the Mother.

‘How can the Child dirty a place?’ asked Narisja. ‘How can the blood and afterbirth of his Mother harm?’

The Mother held her legs apart, her feet flat on the table. The midwife placed a  metal instrument up inside her. Another wave of pain came over the Mother. Her muscles tightened around the cold steel. The midwife waited for the contraction to stop. The Mother felt the pain fade and her body relax.

‘Good,’  said Narisja. ‘Eight centimetres dilated. Almost time to push, though don’t do it until I say so.’

The Mother returned to her bed. Seconds later, she was up on the ceiling of the cave, looking down at herself. She watched herself writhing and cursing. She was shocked at how brutally she pushed the older woman away.

‘Fuck you, Gabrizan,’ she heard herself shout. ‘Bloody waterfalls. Why couldn’t you control your damned willy - instincts? What sort of Non-Stopes freak are you? How dare you impregnate me? You seduced me. You seduced me and left me.’ She tried to put her hands into her ears and blot out the animal-like scream the woman on the bed was making.  But she couldn’t put her hands into her ears, because her hands and her ears were down there, not up here.

Suddenly she hated him.

The bastard. The absolute bastard.

She had a sudden overwhelming urge to push.

‘Not yet,’ she heard Narisja say. There was someone else in the room. Another  woman, she thought. She felt hot. The cool flannel on her forehead brought her back down from the ceiling.

‘I’m sorry for swearing,’ she murmured.

The older woman nodded. There was a hint of a smile in her eyes. Then she was coming at her with the metal thing again.

If she brings that near me, thought the Mother, I’ll have to push and the baby will split its head open.

She remembered to pant as the cold metal went up inside her again. Narisja nodded.

‘Can you remember what I told you about pushing?’ asked Narisja. ‘Head down and push towards your womb, towards the baby’s exit.’

The urge was so great now. The Mother pushed with the next wave of pain. The pain disappeared as she pushed.

‘Good, good,’ said Narisja ‘But wait a second. Now pant again. The cord is round His neck.’

She must get it off.  She could not lose this baby. He must not die. He was the one connection with the man she had loved - still loved, though he had treated her badly.

The midwife worked inside her, pulling and twisting.  Two more pains came. She just had to breathe through them this time. Then the midwife nodded. The Mother knew that this was going to be the strongest yet. She breathed in deeply and as the air went out again, she pushed as hard as she could.

She felt the ball of the baby’s head in the space between her legs. She felt as if her body was going to explode. She needed help. They must help her. This was a sensation she had never had before. She was about to disintegrate. She would lose herself.

‘I’m going to have to cut the skin,’ she heard Narisja murmur.

Oddly, it was only then that she could really see the other woman. She was small and dark-haired, and had a twisted lump on her left shoulder. As she turned to hand the midwife the knife, the Mother could see that she only had one eye. Where the right one should have been there was just a fold of skin, maybe a distorted eyelid. I don’t want her near my baby, thought the Mother. I don’t want her touching my child.

‘I’m going to be sick,’ cried the Mother.

Narisja handed her a bowl. But she wasn’t going to be sick. She just couldn’t think how else to describe this strange sensation.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the old woman. ‘This may hurt.’

She felt the cool edge of the knife and she felt her flesh tear, but there was no pain. She felt the head slip forward and the strange sensation was gone.

‘Just one more push now, and He’ll be there,’ said the old woman.

The pain came and the Mother pushed with it, so it didn’t hurt any more. She saw the one-eyed woman take up the small human parcel and wipe away  some of the blood and other fluids from its skin. She put her finger in its mouth and forced it open. It began to cry at once.

The midwife cut the twisted mass of blue and red flesh, which joined the baby to the Mother’s body. The little parcel began to cry more fiercely as if it knew it was no longer connected to its mother. The one-eyed woman laid the baby on the now flatter stomach of the woman, whilst the midwife pulled at the cord of which was still coming out of the Mother’s body. The baby became calmer now.

‘Still push with the pains,’ murmured Narisja, as she frowned and looked up into the younger woman’s body.

The pains were milder now. She pushed more gently. She was afraid the baby would roll over and  fall to the ground.

She felt the last of it all come away from her. The small creature on her stomach was making sucking noises. Narisja placed the blue-red material into the bowl, which the one-eyed woman held up to her.

‘That is promised to Jansen Metlan. It will make his soil richer,’ she said. ‘Take it now, Saratina.’

Saratina nodded and shuffled out of the room.

Narisja smiled at the Mother and laid her large bony hand on the baby.

‘Welcome, Peace Child,’ she said.

The Mother looked at the crying lump of flesh, which until so recently had been part of her body. Its eyes were shut. Its tiny hands were made into fists and one of them was in its mouth. Its face was all wrinkled and the remnants of her blood were beginning to dry on its skin.

This was a living creature. This was her son. Suddenly the child opened its eyes. It seemed to stare right into her. She noticed the downy blond hair above its creased  forehead. This child was wiser than her. This babe understood everything. She recognized those eyes. They were his father’s eyes.

‘Does the Peace Child have a name?’ asked the midwife.

The Mother shook her head.

The Prophecy The Z Zone Two

The body of the Mother carried on growing. She became less comfortable. The shine went from her hair. The tremendous energy had begun to wane, as she found her now huge form harder and harder to move.

She could feel the baby moving almost all of the time now. What before had seemed a neat trick, a sweet moment, now became an annoyance. The outline of the foot appearing on the belly now meant a kick in the stomach, heartburn or an uncomfortable feeling under the ribs.

She found it difficult to eat. There was no room for her food. The baby was taking up all of the space inside.

She moved less, and when she did move, she felt heavy and ugly.

I’m glad he went, she told herself. I’m glad he can’t see me like this.

‘The head is engaged,’ said the old woman, one day as she felt the Mother’s belly. ‘The baby will be here soon.’

At times she would walk around their cave home. She had to walk, even though she did not feel like it, because if she didn’t her legs would cramp up and she would have excruciating pains travelling through the whole of her body.

As she walked, she could feel the head of the life inside her bouncing on top of its exit. She was sure that at any second it would just fall out.

I wish the baby would hurry up and come, she thought to herself.  I would like my body back.

But  then she would feel sick with fear. The old midwife had told her what to expect of the birth. The baby would not just fall out. There were likely to be hours of pain, fluids dripping from her body, blood flowing between her legs, and high temperatures. The baby would not be cute and clean when it appeared. It would be covered in blood, and wrinkled, most likely and with a thick fleshy cord coming from its belly.  But the worst thought of all was of that great head, which she could already feel so keenly, forcing its way through that gap so much too small.

There was going to be very little help in the Z Zone. If they had still had all the technology available in the normal zones, it would have been of little use here. Even the Z Zoners, with the exception of Narisja, had forgotten about birthing and she had not practiced it for many years.

The older woman put the Mother through her lessons. She told her how to breathe - shallow for when the pains were sharp and she wanted to push, deep for when she needed to relax. She showed her how to push, how not to put the energy into her throat but to direct it downwards, and so help the baby on its way.

‘Then we will put Him on your breast and give Him His first milk. That is the milk which is rich in nutrients and fights disease,’ she said. She ignored the Mother’s grimace at the word ‘disease’. ‘You have fine breasts,’ she continued. ‘The Child will be well nurtured from these breasts.’

The Mother shivered. She did not like to think of the child sucking at her nipples. It was animal-like. It was barbaric. It was just not done these days.

They still looked at the book. The Mother slowly found herself absorbed by the story. She imagined the people planning their great city and building the tall tower, which would lead them up to God. She saw them as flesh and blood, not just as the paper cut-outs here, though they did look fine in their silver and gold clothing.

‘Read it to me,’ said the old woman. And the Mother read it, from beginning to end. Her eyes skimmed across the Wordtext sections. She did not need to read them. She knew them so well.

She felt more and more uneasy as she came to the part where the tower began to tumble. It looked almost nothing in the pictures, but she could imagine the people screaming, and the children falling then searching in vain for their mothers and fathers in the debris on the ground.

‘Those poor children,’ she said to Narisja

‘You are bound to think of the children,’ said Narisja, ‘in your condition.’

At least they had mothers and fathers, thought the Mother, rubbing her huge belly, unlike you, my poor little one. She tried to stop the tears as she thought of how it might have been if Gabrizan could have been there with her.

‘It is so good that you are here,’ said the older woman. ‘It is so good that you came to the Zone, carrying the Babel book.’ She spoke as if she had not seen the Mother’s tears. But the Mother knew that her old friend understood her pain.

She could move less now, and the dancing had stopped. She had time to think. And she thought of what might happen after the birth. Would Narisja still keep her prisoner here? One day she dared to ask.

‘Narisja,’ she said, ‘what should happen to me and the child after he is born? Should we stay here?’

The older woman stared at her for several minutes. Then she looked away. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She turned back to the Mother and looked deep into her eyes.

‘The Child will know what is best to do,’ she said. the old woman. ‘We must trust in Him.’

Now it was the turn of the younger woman to look away.

This is nonsense, she told herself. It was just a mistake. They are hiding me behind a prophecy. Then she shuddered again as she remembered that the Stopes programmes had failed, though the Stopes programmes never failed. It was the book, the simple story in which Narisja had so much faith, which had saved her. Nevertheless, she asked herself what sort of life she and the Child would lead here, in the Z Zone.

The days followed the usual pattern. The Mother rested more and more. The older woman completed the chores. One day the Mother woke up, full of energy again.

‘I want to help you to beat the rugs,’ she said to Narisja ‘I want to boil the bean soup and want to move all the dust out of the cave. It must be clean for the sake of the child.’

And she set to, broom in hand. She sang as she worked. She swept and scrubbed, she peeled and scraped. She felt strong. She felt brave. She felt happy. She was reluctant to lie on her bed for the midwife to examine her.

‘I must get on. I must get everything ready for the baby,’ she said.

Eventually she had to let the older woman look at her. There was a fire in the eyes of the midwife as she gently felt around the contours of the swollen belly. The old woman put the listening tube to the lump.

‘Good,’ she murmured. ‘Very good indeed.’

‘May  I go now?’ said the Mother and rushed from the bed. She took the feather duster and started to flick it high up the cave walls. Nothing was going to beat her.

Suddenly there was a sharp pain in the small of her back. She dropped the duster and held her breath, trying to count the pain away. Something warm trickled from the space between her legs. She saw the blood dripping to the floor. A gush of water, warm and steaming, which she could not control splashed around her feet.  Then came the second pain.

The old woman smiled.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘It is time.’