Beneath a Marble Sky by John Shors Page A

asked, trying to smile.
    “Only to the pain.”
    More contractions came as the night ebbed. They drew closer. Mother thrashed and her eyes teared. “I wish I could take your suffering,” Father said softly. “Take it and bury it far within me.”
    I wiped her brow. “Does the first hurt the most?”
    “If only that were true,” she managed, then was overcome by pain. Father cringed when she moaned, and I suspected her agony had reached out and grabbed him as it rent her. She asked for something to bite on and I gave her the cloth. Her contractions were more frequent now. Her whimpers turned to moans and the moans turned to shrieks.
    “Can you see him?” Father asked impatiently.
    Thunder boomed. “A leg, yes,” the physician replied. “It’s a breech.” Father’s face quivered. I was uncertain what this meant and revealed my ignorance. “It means,” the physician offered worriedly, “that the child fights to remain in the womb. He’s not ready.”
    Mother screamed and I clutched her hand. “He comes, Mother, he comes.” I prayed as I spoke, pleading with Allah to ease her misery.
    “He does,” Father echoed. “And when he’s here, I’ll hold you both all night.”
    She tried to reply yet could only moan. Her tears welled and I knew she suffered terribly. “Pl…please,” she stammered.
    “Can you give her nothing else?” Father asked suddenly, the ferocity in his voice frightening me.
    The old physician paused. “Too much is dangerous, my lord. But I’ll give her a bit more.”
    Drops of the tea fell into her mouth. I could see that her tongue bled from where she had bitten it. Her face, always so serene, was twisted in agony. I looked from her to the physician, who removed a bloody cloth from between her legs. “You must push harder, my lady,” he said, somewhat urgently. “Truly you must.”
    “But the pain.”
    “Push, my lady. Push harder!”
    She screamed and thrashed. Father and I held her down while the midwives brought fresh water. “Glorious Allah,” Father prayed, “let it be over soon and I’ll build You a beautiful mosque. I’ll feed and clothe Your poor.”
    I also prayed. I turned to Mecca and begged Allah to deliver the child. Alas, only screams and thunder answered me. The physician asked her again to push, desperation clear in his voice. Blood pooled on the floor and the fresh bowl of water was already crimson. The old man had his fingers inside her and was trying to reposition the child. I hoped desperately to hear him wail but heard only Mother’s tortured moans.
    “What happens?” Father exclaimed, hurrying to the physician’s side.
    “The child is twisted, and too large for the birthing canal. He tears her and she bleeds to death.”
    Father staggered. “Then shed her of him now,” he wailed.
    Mother’s cries weakened. Her eyes started to wander. “Hurry, Father!” I shrieked. “You must do something!”
    Father pushed the old man aside and knelt before her. “Tell me what to do.” As the physician explained how to reposition the child, Father yanked off his rings and eased his fingers into her passage. He tried to be gentle, his face contorting with consternation. Father wasn’t able to turn the baby, but suddenly the child dropped free, the cord tight around his neck. He was bloody and beautiful and lifeless. Father carefully set him aside. “Make the bleeding stop,” he beseeched the physician, who applied clean linen to the opening. The cloth quickly reddened.
    “I’m sorry, my lord. She has little time left.”
    “No!” Father wailed. “You must do something!”
    “She is in Allah’s hands. Not mine.”
    Father fell beside her, weeping, and called her name. “Please, no!”
    Her eyes flickered, and then a spasm of hurt encompassed her. “Hush, love,” she mumbled.
    “Please, Allah,” he pleaded. “Please, please, please let her live. Take me instead. Please take me.”
    My tears mingled with his upon her face. “You must…you