Lie Down With Lions by Ken Follett Page A

went to the waterfall, and after her pregnancy began to show, Mohammed did not look at her body.
    Perhaps it was their latent intimacy that had emboldened Mohammed to come in and to help her, when other men would have refused and might even have turned away at the door. Or perhaps it was Mousa. Mohammed had only one son—and three daughters—and he probably now felt unbearably indebted to Jane. I made a friend and an enemy today, she thought: Mohammed and Abdullah.
    The pain began again, and she realized she had enjoyed a longer-than-usual respite. Were the contractions becoming irregular? Why? Jean-Pierre had said nothing about that. But he had forgotten much of the gynecology he had studied three or four years ago.
    This one was the worst so far, and it left her feeling shivery and nauseated. What had happened to the midwife? Mohammed must have sent his wife to fetch her—he would not forget, or change his mind. But would she obey her husband? Of course—Afghan women always did. But she might walk slowly, gossiping on the way, or even stop off at some other house to drink tea. If there was adultery in the Five Lions Valley there would be jealousy, too, and Halima was sure to know or at least guess at her husband’s feelings for Jane—wives always did. She might resent being asked to rush to the aid of her rival, the exotic white-skinned educated foreigner who so fascinated her husband. Suddenly Jane felt very angry with Mohammed and with Halima, too. I’ve done nothing wrong, she thought. Why have they all deserted me? Why isn’t my husband here?
    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