Lie down with lions - Ken Follett [28]
When another contraction began, she burst into tears. It was just too much. “I can’t go on,” she said aloud. She was shaking uncontrollably. She wanted to die before the pain could get worse. “Mummy, help me, Mummy,” she sobbed.
Suddenly there was a strong arm around her shoulders and a woman’s voice in her ear, murmuring something incomprehensible but soothing in Dari. Without opening her eyes, she held on to the other woman, weeping and crying out as the contraction grew more intense; until at length it began to fade, too slowly, but with a feeling of finality, as if it might be the last, or perhaps the last bad one.
She looked up and saw the serene brown eyes and nutshell cheeks of old Rabia, the midwife.
“May God be with you, Jane Debout.”
Jane felt relief like the lifting of a crushing burden. “And with you, Rabia Gul,” she whispered gratefully.
“Are the pains coming fast?”
“Every minute or two.”
Another woman’s voice said: “The baby is coming early.”
Jane turned her head and saw Zahara Gul, Rabia’s daughter-in-law, a voluptuous girl of Jane’s age with wavy near-black hair and a wide, laughing mouth. Of all the women in the village, Zahara was the one to whom Jane felt close. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said.
Rabia said: “The birth has been brought on by carrying Mousa up the hillside.”
“Is that all?” said Jane.
“It is plenty.”
So they don’t know about the fight with Abdullah, Jane thought. He has decided to keep it to himself.
Rabia said: “Shall I make everything ready for the baby?”
“Yes, please.” Goodness knows what kind of primitive gynecology I’m letting myself in for, Jane thought; but I can’t do this alone—I just can’t.
“Would you like Zahara to make some tea?” Rabia asked.
“Yes, please.” There was nothing superstitious about that, at least.
The two women got busy. Just having them there made Jane feel better. It was nice, she thought, that Rabia had asked permission to help—a Western doctor would have walked in and taken charge as if he owned the place. Rabia washed her hands ritually, calling on the prophets to make her red-faced—which meant successful—and then washed them again, thoroughly, with soap and lots of water. Zahara brought in a jar of wild rue, and Rabia lit a handful of the small dark seeds with some charcoal. Jane recalled that evil spirits were said to be frightened off by the smell of burning rue. She consoled herself with the thought that the acrid smoke would serve to keep flies out of the room.
Rabia was a little more than a midwife. Delivering babies was her main work, but she also had herbal and magical treatments to increase the fertility of women who were having difficulty getting pregnant. She had methods of preventing conception and bringing on abortion, too, but there was much less demand for these: Afghan women generally wanted lots of children. Rabia would also be consulted about any “feminine” illness. And she was usually asked to wash the dead—a task which, like delivering babies, was considered unclean.
Jane watched her move around the room. She was probably the oldest woman in the village, being somewhere around sixty. She was short—not much more than five feet tall—and very thin, like most of the people here. Her wrinkled brown face was surrounded by white hair. She moved quietly, her bony old hands precise and efficient.
Jane’s relationship with her had begun in mistrust and hostility. When Jane