Whirling Dervish - Mother and Child

This will be an ongoing thread from me although people are, as ever, encouraged to comment.

I've had time to compose some thoughts and have some ideas about the characters I play and why they are what they are. The following is a (perhaps) short story or indeed (perhaps) a longer one.

If anyone fancies contributing artwork, no matter what you feel is your level of artistic ability, perhaps even mood music then please feel free.

Because of this invitation to contribute and comment, the 'finished' piece is not in my mind a qualifying entry for any Creative Genius nominations. I don't intend that to sound arrogant or that the reader must enjoy the fiction, I am simply stating it here for the record.

That said, enjoy!

As the sun set over the dunes the wind rose and brought with it a feeling of unease to a small group of travellers who were setting out from the market town of Nowzad.

The two sturdy camels, laden with supplies, canvas and bedrolls, shifted uncomfortably along the sand and gravel, as if the next step might uncover a terrible sand wyrm, its gaping maw sucking them in to oblivion. Their stubborn, camel minds prevented them from bolting.

The leader of the group, a starvation-thin man yet with a steely glint in his eyes, sucked a finger and held it up to the warm air, “Storm coming.” He declared in broken English.

The remainder of the group, a white couple and their Moroccan maid, looked at the guide in astonishment. The white man spoke, “A storm? Do you mean a sandstorm? Shouldn’t we turn back?” His voice was unsure despite his sturdy frame. The white man’s head darted from the guide to his wife and back like a wheater and this image was compounded by his white headdress and light, golden brown robes.

The guide shook his head gently from side to side, “Is good omen, this storm. Magic!” and then he laughed, which set his companions at ease although not entirely.

The small group continued on at a slow and steady pace. They passed the dry, gravely plains of the Karakum and smelled the sweet sugar cane growing up through the seemingly barren, desert soil. Every so often the white man would stop and hold a hand over his eyes, scanning the horizon. He would point at what looked like a distant campfire only for the guide to chuckle hoarsely and shake his head.

“The sun takes its time out here. It not say goodbye soon.”

After an hour, which to the three people walking behind their guide felt like an eternity, the white woman, swathed in white linen and wearing a headdress similar to her husband’s, groaned and clutched her swollen stomach. The maid attended her mistress, issuing gentle cooing noises to ease the pregnant woman’s mind.

“Mary, darling,” her husband spoke, “we don’t have to continue our journey tonight. I mean, it’s ludicrous to keep wandering this far into the desert at night and in your tender condition!”

“Joseph,” the woman’s voice faltered for a second, “we must continue. You know what the Father said: I must find those people who will purge the spirit from me.”

“Godlessness!” Joseph spat the word out but his wife gave him a sudden, piercing look.

“Don’t say that!” Sweat crept down her face and he was shamed into submission.

The maid retrieved a cotton handkerchief from within the confines of her rustling, desert robes and dabbed Mary’s forehead. The guide, seemingly oblivious to the discussion, raised his arms to stretch and then pointed to a clump of trees in the near distance.
“We stop here. Soon cold comes.”

Relieved of the distraction from his wife, Joseph helped the guide unpack the canvas and bedrolls. The trees, if they could be called that, were protecting a small pool of clear water which rippled in ever-decreasing circles as the wind skated across its surface.

With the camp set up for the night, the troupe retired to their quarters although the guide remained on watch, sitting on a small rock by one of the camels and drawing some heat from it. When Joseph turned to look at him before entering the canvas tent, the guide looked him directly in the eyes and said, “I not miss this for the World.”

Puzzled, Joseph simply waved and smiled before disappearing behind a thick, green flap of material.

The night roared on and, in a waking dream, Joseph swore he heard the crackle of lightning.

***

It was Mary who awoke first on the first morning of the expedition. She had felt a kicking in her stomach as she lay on the soft bedroll next to her husband. It was the child – the cause of all this commotion and upheaval.

She remembered the day she found out that she was pregnant, from the doctor back in England, and how delighted she had been that they, that is Joseph and herself, were finally going to have a baby. After ten long years of trying and with no seeming change in their luck, a miracle had happened. She had gone to the post office straight afterwards to telephone Joseph at work and her heart sang as she heard the joy and elation in his voice. Then she had called for a cab to take her back to her mother’s where she had been staying, nursing her poor father, and dear mama was equally delighted that she would be a grandmother. They bowed their heads in prayer, both sitting in the parlour as her mother pointed out that now Mary was in a delicate state she must always be seated (no longer would Mary have to kneel at her mother’s side as a sign of respect), and thanked the Lord Almighty for his blessing and compassion.

Although no one spoke about the coincidence of their names (that would have been a blasphemy and two Hail Mary’s at confession), Mary found herself the centre of a special kind of attention; the ladies and gentlemen of the town would courteously see her past as she walked through the high street on errands. The butcher always put aside the best cuts of meat for her, claiming it was best to keep a lady in her condition in her best health when Mary knew that other expectant mothers had not received such a kind gesture. At church on Sundays, the boys and girls all dressed in smart suits with little caps and frilly dresses with ribbon-laden bonnets respectively were encouraged to gather round Mary (and Joseph, who always seemed to end up rather uncomfortably standing to the side of the crowd).

Then one Friday morning, after breakfast and prayers, her mother announced her father’s wish from his sick bed.

“You and Joseph are to make a pilgrimage to Lourdes.” She declared, stamping her cane on the oak floor of the breakfast room.

“But mother, Joseph has just gained employment at an accountancy firm in Eastbourne.” Mary silently cursed her small act of defiance as soon as she had uttered the words. However, the usual stern outburst did not follow. Instead, the matriarch of the family simply smiled at her only daughter, her only child, and said in a graceful, even manner, “Ah yes. Well I have already sorted the matter with his new employers. He is to join you as it should be on the pilgrimage. They have agreed to take him on in two months, when you return.”

Mary was shocked, not only by her mother’s calmness and in her dealing with ‘the matter’ so efficiently, but also by the suddenly overwhelming feeling that she could never repay the kindness she had received. More importantly was the fact that it did not matter.

Joseph was silent throughout Mary’s explanation of what was to happen. She thought she detected a hint of resignation in his silence but then she just put this down to being ‘with child’ and thought no more of the matter.

And so it was that they found themselves a week later, leaving Newhaven for the port of Dieppe, in a most inauspicious send-off: Father had died several days before and the funeral was a mixture of quiet respect and stifled enthusiasm for the upcoming journey to Lourdes. Mary’s mother, the parish vicar and the town mayor and his family waved coloured flags as the boat sailed away and across the British Channel. Mary would never forget the stern pride firmly etched on her mother’s face as she gave a final wave on the boarding plank and headed into the oily warmth of the ferry.

But all that had happened a month ago and now look where they were: A wretched tent halfway across the other side of the World with a godless guide and a child that held pure evil in its soul. Mary could not work out how it had come to pass that she had strayed so far from the flock and not realised. “What will Mother think of this?” she asked herself quietly, under her breath.

Joseph stirred in his sleep and so Mary decided she would venture outside rather than burden him with her wicked thoughts. Her eyes were blinded momentarily as the piercing sun, so different from the mottled gloom of the tent, took them by surprise. Cupping a hand over her eyes, Mary sought out the familiar shape of the camels and saw the guide and her maid chatting whilst the girl servant soaked handkerchiefs in the small pool.

And then she caught sight of the large rocks, lying side by side on the flat sand a short distance from the camp, that had surely not been there the night before. She pointed to them and the guide turned his head in her direction.

“A present from the sky.” He explained and chuckled.

Before Mary could ask what he had meant, the guide cocked his head to one side as if hearing something. Mary didn’t see the advancing silhouette over the horizon at first but the guide did.

“Company.” He said with a flourish and an unseemly wink.

“Good, or-“ Mary ventured but the guide laughed before she could finish.

“That depend on you.”

***

Joseph awoke from a vivid yet randomly felt dream. He had been running away from himself which, deeper down, obviously meant he feared or disliked himself but then that thought had never crossed his mind before now.

As the sounds and scents of the morning in the tent came to his full attention, Joseph heard his wife shouting something. Instinctively he grabbed his robe and made for outside. The sight he met was an unsettling one: Three men, on horses of varying shades of brown, stood behind a group of standing stones which the travellers had clearly stepped around the previous night, before setting up camp. The guide held is hands at mid-waist as if in prayer but he was smiling. Mary was animatedly shouting at the riders to “Go away!” flinging her arms wildly at them a small but safe distance behind the stones. The maid, trying to keep her own distress at the intrusion from escaping and making her mistress even worse, had her arms held out as if she were about to catch Mary.

“Who in the Devil’s blazes are you?!” Joseph shouted at the men, breaking the tableau. Mary turned, a little shaken by her husband’s blasphemy but relieved that he was awake and here whilst the maid relaxed and went to her mistress’s side. The guide spoke next, “Riders come. Take special child.” He indicated the horsemen reverentially and a dark thought crossed Joseph’s mind.

“You knew this would happen, didn’t you?” he shouted accusingly at the guide, wagging his right index finger at him for emphasis. The guide held his hands up, “Talk to wife. She knows why men here. I just guide you to the right place.”

It was Mary’s turn, “What?! Joseph, honestly, I am as lost as you are as to why these men have come.” She clutched her stomach suddenly, causing the maid to stoop in case she had to catch her. “I’m tired of this! I’m tired of journeying all the way out here to this desolate place. I wish this ch-“

Before she could finish the sentence, one of the riders dismounted and stood by the nearest stone. He was wearing black, desert robes and what looked like, to Mary and Joseph, a gauze mask. He removed it and revealed his face – a series of scars criss-crossing over his features which caused Mary to recoil, still clutching her stomach. The rider looked Mary in the eyes and spoke is a whispery voice and with very good English, “You know why you are here, Mary Connaught.” He raised his right arm and pointed at her, a little too dramatically in Joseph’s opinion. “The holy man in France told you, did he not, that the child you carried was dangerous?”

Joseph became very aware that this conversation was happening solely between his wife and the stranger who, somehow and no doubt through some nefarious, savage practice, knew much about her. Mary, usually a pale pink blush on her cheeks, stood stock still, her face white but not with terror. Instead she looked as if she were in thrall of this man. Joseph remembered the guide remarking on the storm being magical and although this jarred in his efficient, pragmatic, logical mind, his faith told him otherwise.

Mary did not respond to the man’s knowing of her actions in Lourdes so he continued, “This holy man, in his own way, was right. Your child is dangerous. He is a new kind of child, one who will be in touch with the Earth itself. A long time ago there were few of his kind who walked the Earth but soon there will be more.”

“B-but why? Why us?!” Mary had found a reserve of energy with which to speak.

The rider smiled, causing the scars to take on an even more gruesome pattern, “It is a question often asked, Mary Connaught. Do not be afraid.”

Mary flinched. The words were all too familiar to her: Not only had the priest at Lourdes spoken those same words to her but they were also the words the Angel Gabriel had spoken to Mary when she discovered she was pregnant by divine intervention. The present Mary felt doors unlocking in her mind - all the times she had desperately wanted someone to acknowledge that the special attention she received was down to a coincidence of her name and her husband’s. The people back home were so careful not to fill her head with ideas but they needn’t have done. They were there already, lying in wait. Mary considered that the Devil had somehow gotten into her head and was causing her to create this monstrous child growing inside of her. The rider spoke, “I see the conflict in your mind and I say again, do not be afraid.”

“Shut up! Shut up!” Mary shrieked. The maid ducked out of the way of her mistress as she flailed her arms again, the guide remained passive and Joseph watched on in horror as his wife went from pale to a hot pink colour.

The rider turned to his companions and all three of them nodded.

“She had begun the final stage.” said the leader of the riders. “We must take her to the holy place before the next rising of the new moon.”

“Now hang on!” Joseph, as if freed from some spell, raised his voice as he marched towards the riders. As he approached the standing stones the air around them crackled causing him to stop dead in his tracks. He looked to the guide who raised a hand and said, “She must allow it. It is law.”

Mary was half-sobbing, half-screaming and was spiralling to the floor. Joseph rushed to her side and held her close to him, kneeling on the warming sand. He held his wife’s head up and looked into her eyes, “Mary. Mary, darling. Whatever is happening please listen to me. I am here for you. You don’t need to go with these men. We’ll head back to Nowzad, find passage across to Morocco, then France and then home to England.”

Mary fell silent and started to shake her head from side to side in a violent manner. Eventually she spoke or, rather, howled, “No, no! I can’t go back! No!” Her tear-stained face fell into her husband’s arms and Joseph allowed a single tear himself as she sobbed into the robes about his body. He looked up at the riders, the rising sun reflecting sparkling colour off the lonely tear, and said, “Then it’s decided. We will come with you.”

“I am afraid you cannot.” The unveiled rider said.

“But I am her husband! My child, our child, is with my wife. I must go with her. Look at her, she’s so distraught!” Joseph’s lip was trembling with a hundred different emotions.

The riders conferred with each other and Joseph strained to hear what they were saying. After a few minutes their leader turned to Joseph and said, “You will come with us as far as the village. But under no circumstances will you venture to the holy place, either alone or with your wife.”

Joseph decided not to argue any further. Besides, he could always ask again at this village. Perhaps the elders there would be kinder when they saw Mary and himself together?
“Now my love, come with me.” Joseph spoke calmly and quietly to his wife who, for now, had become limp as a rag doll. The maid followed the pair, keeping a respectable distance, through an opening between two standing stones. This time the air did not crackle although she had witnessed her master’s attempt before and hurried past the rock in case they decided she wasn’t fit to leave.

Joseph turned his head back toward the camp and caught the eye of the guide. “Are you not coming, old man?”

The guide smiled, raised a hand and said, “Not my journey now. They know way. Soon so will she. Good journey.”

“Good journey.”

And with that the riders, Joseph, Mary and the maid walked on, disappearing behind a dune, toward the final destination of the pilgrimage.

***

The village was alive with activity when the travellers and their riding guards arrived. Despite being somewhere in the middle of the desert, the buildings were in shade thanks to a particularly high sand bank to the North. This allowed the denizens of the village to carry on to an extent with their lives and the children, especially, were taking full advantage. As Mary and Joseph (and the maid) stepped upon what appeared to be a salty path, Mary expected that the children who were playing with so much vigour out here would respond just as the children at home had. But as soon as a group of three young boys and a girl approached her, the riders issued a harsh cry and a large woman stepped out of a nearby hut. She shouted at the children in a foreign tongue and they sloped away, not daring to look at Mary anymore.

Joseph gave his wife a look of support but Mary, who had ‘revived’ a little during their trek from the camp, bowed her head as if in shame. Her complexion was still pinkish and he wondered if she was succumbing to the heat. “Hafeza, a handkerchief or two for your mistress.” He instructed the maid who went about her business, mopping Mary’s brow and squeezing the last few drops of water over her neck. Joseph turned to the riders and said, “Well then, we’re here. Where are we to stay?”

The lead rider pointed to a shack about thirty feet from where the group stood. “It is empty. The previous occupants have moved to a larger house to start a family. We are all very proud.”

“Pride is a sin.” Mary muttered, monotone. She was looking at the floor and occasionally her eyes would dart from left to right. Joseph thought she was looking a lot older than she did three days ago.

The riders dismounted and each one took a place to the side of the three outsiders. The maid, Hafeza, was the most impressed as she had spent her life so far in servitude – to be escorted was certainly a step up in the World. As the group made their way to the shack, Joseph caught sight of the children who had tried to run up to Mary peeking at them from behind a wooden hut. He smiled at the boldest one – the girl - who gasped audibly and was pulled back round the other side of the shack, out of sight, by her brothers.
Mary’s head was bowed as they stood by the doorway to the cool hut and her back was starting to form a humped shape. A sick feeling stirred in Joseph’s stomach so he went to grab her arm and get her indoors and out of the heat. His arm was held firmly by the rider who had accompanied him.
“What is this? We’re not prisoners, or are we?” he spoke with anger and just a little bit of physical pain from the rider’s strong hand.

“You and your…servant will stay here. Mary is to continue on, there is little time left before the boy will be born.”

“But look at her!” he was pleading now, too tired to shout. “Mary is in no fit state to- what do you mean, the boy? How do you know?”

“It has been known for a long time, Joseph. It must be done like this to save the both of you.” The lead rider’s voice was open and authoritative and Joseph calmed a little.

“Where is the leader of your…people?” He asked.

“You are speaking to him.” Replied the rider, smiling his criss-cross smile. “Do not worry, we will give her water and a little food before we depart. Muzela will be along shortly to bring you your provisions. This will not take long.”

Joseph was speechless and resigned. The riders departed with Mary to a clearing amongst the huts a little distance away and he watched as a group of older women tended to her, washing her face and giving her water. A youngish girl, who looked no more than about twelve years of age, arrived with a rough-woven basket containing what looked like bread covered with seeds.

True to the leader’s words, a short time later a young girl wearing her robes like a sari arrived with a similar basket and a dirty-looking jug of water in her hands. On her back she carried two bedrolls and what looked to Joseph like an old paraffin lamp. The girl caught him staring at it and, in a timid voice, said, “For the cold night, sir.” She bowed her head to him and to the maid and disappeared back to the centre of the village.

“Hafeza, what do you make of all of this?” Joseph half-mused to himself, not expecting a reply.

“I am worried for your wife.” She replied. It was possibly the first time he had heard her speak, except for the occasional grunt as she struggled with her clothes to rescue a handkerchief for Mary.

“Thank you.” He replied after a time. “Here, have some food and water. I’m neither hungry nor thirsty right now.”

“Oh thank you, sir!” Hafeza replied, delighted that she was being treated so well for a change.

Joseph walked out of the relatively cool shack into the partially shaded ‘street’ of salt. He thought that he might sneak behind the group taking Mary to this ‘holy place’ but he was discouraged after looking to her and finding that two riders had stayed behind with a group of the women. He squinted into the distance, trying to make out his wife and was sure that he saw her being led by the girl who had given her food. Come to think of it, both ‘serving girls’ were dressed in a similar fashion - Perhaps they were this savage tribe’s version of nuns? Joseph caught himself thinking ludicrous thoughts and chuckled. The effects of the sun could turn a man mad if he were out in it for too long.

***

Mary and her child-guard arrived at a grove, hidden between two large rock formations, that must have started its life as an oasis in the desert but was now more like a garden. The pregnant woman was incoherent and barely able to stand unattended despite the care she had received back at the village.

The girl, dressed in her sari-style, desert robes, pushed through a wall of cholla and yucca leaves to reveal a small pool of water, surrounded by little rocks. No animals, insects or birds resided here. An earthy bank on the western edge of the pool rose gently to the base of one of the large rocks that towered above, allowing limited yet vital sunrays through and keeping the ground cool. The pool was fed from the eastern side – the water seemed to seep from the rock itself and it was as clear as new glass. The girl elected to sit Mary comfortably down on the western shore, propping her against a root system most likely belonging to the yucca that had made its way above ground to greedily gorge on the water-laden air that surrounded the pool.

The girl set about cleansing Mary’s feet now, massaging the tension from them and cooling the soles. She picked a small, purple flower growing close to the water’s edge and crushed its pollen-glutted head between her fingers, creating a purplish-yellow paste. This was applied to Mary’s feet who then, in reaction to the sensation and pleasant smell, murmured contentedly. The girl did not smile at this intimate act and its reaction; instead she furrowed her brow and untangled some of Mary’s robes in preparation for the birthing to come.

Cold, clean water was gathered from the pool and contained in a shell bowl that the girl carried hidden in her robes. The bowl was placed neatly beside Mary who had been shifted down to a lying position now, her legs slightly apart and her painted feet comfortably amongst the soil and flowers. She looked to be growing from the Earth itself.

A few more flowers were picked and crushed. Mary’s robes were opened at the chest and the girl, with delicacy and respect, covered her swollen breasts with yet more dye. The girl noticed that Mary was laying in slightly the wrong position but was so relaxed now that when she attempted to move the woman’s body, her young arms could not find the strength. The girl contemplated her choices of either leaving her in that state or doing…something else. She opted, after a few minutes, the latter option.
Sitting cross-legged by Mary’s side, near the shell bowl of water, the girl paid attention to her breath, pushing the air around her body. When she felt in the correct state, she turned her open palms face down and placed them on the earth. If any witnesses had been there, they would have felt a slight movement in the earth itself and seen the water in the bowl ripple gently. Concentrating for a few minutes more, the girl dug her fingers into the ground with little effort and the earth shifted slightly at first, then gradually small ripples formed in the soil. The girl opened her eyes fully, something crackled in her eyes and the ground about Mary changed shape, gently lifting her into a better position. Her legs were slightly bent with knees facing upwards, her arms were cushioned gently at her side and a mound of dirt propped up her head and neck. Now Mary truly looked as though she had grown out of the earth. This time the girl managed a slight smile and she knew, looking at Mary’s prone body, that now was the time. Whispering gently under her breath, the girl closed her eyes and drew some water from the shell bowl with her messy fingers. She trailed her hand two inches above the pregnant woman’s body, sprinkling cold, clear water over her. Mary woke up!

A short gasp issued from her lips, suddenly full and red like a summer rose in England. Then another short breath and another and another. Soon Mary was breathing shallow on a regular basis. The time for the birth had come, this was it and there was no turning back.

The girl’s whispering increased in volume and as it did, Mary’s breath alternated between shallow and deep. There was a sharp tension in the air; leaves rustled without the wind; the water in the pool seemed to fizzle and from somewhere within the heart of the two rocks that gave this place form there came a heartbeat, growing louder and louder.

Mary’s mind that had been before so lost and confused was suddenly a knife. The baby was the thing that mattered, not herself or her mother or even Joseph. It was the baby and the baby was all and the baby was here, inside her, and the baby was all around her. She saw its face, masculine, strong, deep green eyes and fair, white hair. The baby was here, it was coming into full existence and the sheer joy and pain and fear of it all consumed her.

The last thing Mary heard, before passing out amidst the mass of blood, was the sound of a baby crying so very far away.

***

I wanted to post my comment after first chapter but than i thought maybe my feelings can change through the story. Nonsense, this story grasping reader from the very beginning of the first chapter. You give your reader enough space to paint dream picture by not going into too much detail about world around them and people themselves.

I usually don't read stories in this boards but yours captured me at the first moment.

I absouletly loved your story. Eagerly waiting for next chapter. Keep it going Princess and thanks for sharing this beautifull piece of art with us.

Knightly

Thanks very much Knightly. Your comments are much appreciated and I'm glad you're enjoying it. The next chapter (below) has been a bit of a doozy to write as I wasn't sure how much I needed to put in after the birth scene. I've gone for short, sweet and hopefully not too repetitive with this one. I'm quite pelased with it so far and this chapter is, if I'm totally honest, a bit of breathing space to allow me to work up to the finale.

I'd actually love for someone to do a few character studies for what they think the people look like - that sort of stuff interests me a great deal. Also, locations - I know what the places look like in my head but am interested in what other people see when they read.

Right, shameless request for artwork over (!) - on with the motley!

***

The child guard looked into the wide, mad eyes of the baby before her. It was no longer screaming at being brought into this terrible World but its look said much the same and she detected its mind, desperately searching for a way back inside its mother.

Mary was out cold – the heat she had exuded from her body during labour was now all spent and her breathing had returned to normal. The rocks were quiet and the pool had stopped bubbling fiercely now. The only sound was the breath of the girl and the baby, and the gentle trickling of the stream of water into the pool. There was no unnatural breeze, which meant that the flora had returned to its usual, still state.

The girl cradled the man-child in her arms and took him to the pool. The shell bowl of water had been contaminated by splashes of blood from the birth so it was useless as a way of bringing the child safely into the World. Very carefully, the girl held the boy and scooped up some water from the pool, trickling it over his soft body and producing a contented gurgle from his lips. How alike his mother was the boy. She continued the ritual for a few minutes and when she was happy that he was clean on the front, she very carefully turned him over to continue. The sight was a great shock to the girl, so much so that she gasped and then grabbed the baby tight in case she dropped him.

The baby started to cry and almost in instinct, Mary stirred from her post-natal sleep. Her vision was cloudy at best but the cry of her child caused her to look directly at the girl and him. To Mary it looked as though the girl was trying to drown her beloved son.

“No!” She screamed, “Get away from him. Get away from my poor child!” Mary scrambled to her feet, disrobing as she went and still covered in the painted-on flower paste. Her hair fell about her shoulders and her face, and the bowl went flying, splashing blood on the soft earth. Before the girl had time to explain, Mary had snatched the crying child from her and stared at her, baring her teeth and frothing with rage.

“You savage!” Mary screamed, spitting flecks of saliva at the girl. This caused the girl to flinch and fall back slightly into the pool with a splash. Her sari robes billowed out to break her short fall, which make it harder to get back up, as the water tension would not allow the fine material as easy a release. The girl splashed a little, fighting the water and this made Mary even more defensive: She took a step back, holding her child close to her breast with one hand, and formed a cruel knife shape with the other. The girl tried to shout but her robes came over her head as she pulled herself free and was sent tumbling to the floor, prone, before Mary’s feet.

“This place – what is this place?” Mary demanded, her voice sharp with anger and betraying her decision to stay and fight, rather than flee. The girl was trying to compose herself before replying. “Answer me!” Mary yelled and the girl, shocked by the tone of voice, looked up. Mary’s hand came down in a swift motion and her nails dug into the girl’s face as her arm followed through the swing. Blood began to pour from the flesh wound and tears welled in the young girl’s eyes. All she wanted to say was that the baby was healthy but that the marks on its back needed to be looked at by the village elders. There had been nothing in the prophesy about strange birthmarks, especially bright blue ones. But her own clothing, so useful in protecting her from the harsh power of the desert sun, was now the thing that prevented her from moving and talking freely.

Mary’s maternal rage did not subside after striking the girl although the consequence of her action suppressed it a little. “We’re going home now.” She announced imperiously to the girl. “Take me back to the village at once.”

The girl found her feet, dragging the sodden back half of her robes up and over her legs as she stood up. She touched her face where Mary had scratched her and used a little of her robe to wipe away the drying blood.

“Well, answer me, savage!” Mary barked, too caught up in her emotions to recognise her mother’s voice.

The girl wiped a tear away this time and, not daring to show her face to another attack, sniffed and said, “I was told you are not to go.” She braced herself for the assault.

“Oh you may very well have been told that, savage, but I am most certainly not going to comply with your orders!” Mary then realised that she was not wearing any clothes and so, rather than making a dramatic exit, she was forced to pick up the bloody rags and, very carefully, lay the boy down next to the roots in the soil. She dressed hastily yet managed to do a good job of protecting her body from the worst effects of the sun and picked up her boy, cradling him in her arms. She shot a look at the girl who was trying not to stare and then made her way to the dense leaves that marked the entrance to the grove.

“Well, are you coming or not?!” Mary snapped.

The girl, despite some very base desires, shuffled behind her with her head bowed. As they parted the foliage, the girl felt a breeze on the back of her neck. Puzzled she turned back but the garden was as they had left it. Mary issued a harsh order and the girl continued on and out into the desert.

Although the village was only a mile and a half from here, she felt that it would have been better company being stuck with a demon than this shrieking woman. And those blue markings on the boy’s back were troubling her. Something beyond her ken yet within her bones was needling at her, desperate to give a shape to what was to come.

***

It was dark in the village: The campfires at the centre of the group of huts had not been lit although a few people were milling around, chatting in hushed tones. Joseph noted that there was no laughter here and in fact that there had been no laughter during the whole of this damned journey. He craved laughter more than anything. It was the one thing, Joseph mused, that reminded everyone that they were still human.

The maid was snoring away inside the hut, dead to the World, and Joseph felt it would be inappropriate to retire inside with her. Not that manners and social mores mattered here: She simply needed her sleep and Joseph was not going to be the man to deny her that. When Mary and the girl returned he doubted they would stay for long. Perhaps the riders would escort them back to Nowzad? They were rough-hewn yet, somewhere below their stony exteriors, he detected compassion, especially from their leader.

Joseph kicked his heels in the soft ground and made a decision to try and engage the villagers in conversation, mainly to pass the time although he wanted to know why seven hours had passed and still no sign of his wife’s return was to be seen. As he approached the centre of the village, the girl who had brought him his provisions stood up and looked at him with a piercing stare.

“Not long.” She said, as if reading his mind.

Joseph nodded and smiled. “That lamp you brought me needs matches. Or something flammable at least.” He replied.

The girl gave him another piercing glance and motioned to Joseph to follow her, away from the eyes of the suddenly curious villagers who remained out in the cooling, night air. He raised an eyebrow but the past weeks had been strange enough and so he followed the girl back towards his hut.

He waited outside as she fetched the lamp and Joseph noticed how cold it was getting. Where were they?

***

“How much longer?!” Mary barked at the poor girl. They had been walking at a very slow pace for half an hour and the sun was almost set. Mary clutched her boy close and tried, unsuccessfully, to wrap the shreds of her robes around her more tightly to ward off the coming chill.

Her bones ached too, especially her pelvis. And the stupid girl who had let herself be struck by Mary’s justified anger was refusing to lead the way. Whenever Mary turned and demanded directions, the girl simply bowed her head even lower and nodded with a whispery grunt. This was not a clear indication of anything and it confirmed to Mary her (Mother’s) worst fears about the savages who lived over there: According to so-called intellectuals they were noble yet when you got down to the bare facts they were good-for-nothings who tried to drown children. And of course they were no longer over there but, and this burned Mary more than the desert sun had, she was over here. A traveller in a strange land, at the mercy of strangers.

The baby made a noise and its head turned in to Mary’s breast as if to suckle. It would not do to let the heathen girl see such an intimate act between mother and child so she brushed his head away and he gurgled.

When they returned to the hovels that these people called a home (Ha!) Mary would receive no aid from any of them (Why should you?). Joseph and the maid would follow her back to civilisation, no matter how long it took (|Back to the fold.). She would never have anything to do with these types ever again (They deserve no respect.). The girl tried to drown her child! (She must be punished.)

Mary turned to look at the girl who was keeping her distance (She’s waiting for the next opportunity to get him. She wants him dead.) and without a thought she snarled and spat at her feet.

“You’d be wise to keep your distance, girl!” New resolves of anger and despising coursed through Mary’s veins. “I’m watching you.”

***

“Watch.” The serving girl looked at Joseph and held a finger out to the open lamp. It can only have been a trick of the light because fire cannot jump from a young girl’s finger and light a lamp. He rubbed his eyes and when he opened them the lamp was burning and the girl was adjusting the valve to allow a little more paraffin through. The only smell in the hut was paraffin; no sulphur from a match head or burnt wood from a torch. Joseph looked at the girl again and was about to say something when the maid snorted in her sleep. The girl made to leave the hut but Joseph gently grabbed her arm.

“Why don’t you go and light the campfire? To welcome home my wife and child.”

The girl shook her head and whispered, “It must not be lit. And not by me. I not use my gift to welcome back the few.”

“Few?” Joseph supposed she meant the three people who were returning, as opposed to the two that had left all those hours ago. The girl took the opportunity to slip out of his hand as he became lost in thought and she disappeared outside.

***

Make an example of her.

Mary trudged on with the girl behind her.

Show the savages what it means to be civilised.

The women were climbing a softly-graded dune and their legs were tired. The cold had now set in and they should have been back at the village half an hour ago. If time had any meaning then Mary would have known this to be a fact but all she could feel was the cold air, the ache in her body and the warm breath of her beloved child.

The girl must be punished! She must pay!

“When we get back, she will.” Mary muttered. The girl’s nose wrinkled at this softly spoken promise to the wind.

***

Would it be possible to get this thread moved to the Roleplaying section, please?

I finally found this, buried away! I vowed to return to the story and finish it before the year was up - I've got about three weeks to do so.

So, here goes!