Lie Down With Lions by Ken Follett

Rabia’s voice, as if from a distance, saying: “It begins. This is good.”
    After a while the urge went away. Zahara brought a cup of green tea. Jane sat upright and sipped gratefully. It was warm and very sweet. Zahara is the same age as me, Jane thought, and she’s had four children already, not counting miscarriages and stillborn babies. But she was one of those women who seemed to be full of vitality, like a healthy young lioness. She would probably have several more children. She had greeted Jane with open curiosity, when most of the women had been suspicious and hostile, in the early days; and Jane had discovered that Zahara was impatient with the sillier customs and traditions of the Valley and eager to learn what she could of foreign ideas on health, child care and nutrition. Consequently Zahara had become not just Jane’s friend but the spearhead of her health education program.
    Today, however, Jane was learning about Afghan methods. She watched Rabia spread a plastic sheet on the floor (What had they used in the days before there was all this waste plastic around?) and cover it with a layer of sandy earth, which Zahara brought from outside in a bucket. Rabia had laid out a few things on a cloth on the floor, and Jane was pleased to see clean cotton rags and a new razor blade still in its wrapping.
    The need to push came again, and Jane closed her eyes to concentrate. It did not hurt exactly; it was more like being incredibly, impossibly constipated. She found it helpful to groan as she strained, and she wanted to explain to Rabia that this was not a groan of agony, but she was too busy pushing to talk.
    In the next pause, Rabia knelt down and untied the drawstring of Jane’s trousers, then eased them off. “Do you want to make water before I wash you?” she asked.
    “Yes.”
    She helped Jane get up and walk behind the screen, then held her shoulders while she sat on the pot.
    Zahara brought a bowl of warm water and took the pot away. Rabia washed Jane’s tummy, thighs and private parts, assuming for the first time a rather brisk air as she did so. Then Jane lay down again. Rabia washed her own hands and dried them. She showed Jane a small jar of blue powder—copper sulfate, Jane guessed—and said: “This color frightens the evil spirits.”
    “What do you want to do?”
    “Put a little on your brow.”
    “All right,” said Jane; then she added: “Thank you.”
    Rabia smeared a little of the powder on Jane’s forehead. I don’t mind magic when it’s harmless, Jane thought, but what will she do if there is a real medical problem? And just exactly how many weeks premature is this baby?
    She was still worrying when the next contraction began, so she was not concentrating on riding the wave of pressure and in consequence it was very painful. I mustn’t worry, she thought; I must make myself relax.
    Afterward she felt exhausted and rather sleepy. She closed her eyes. She felt Rabia unbutton her shirt—the one she had borrowed from Jean-Pierre that afternoon, a hundred years ago. Rabia began to massage Jane’s tummy with some kind of lubricant, probably clarified butter. She dug her fingers in. Jane opened her eyes and said: “Don’t try to move the baby.”
    Rabia nodded, but continued to probe, one hand on the top of Jane’s bulge and the other at the bottom. “The head is down,” she said finally. “All is well. But the baby will come very soon. You should get up now.”
    Zahara and Rabia helped Jane stand and take two steps forward onto the earth-covered plastic sheet. Rabia got behind her and said: “Stand on my feet.”
    Jane did as she was told, although she was not sure of the logic of this. Rabia eased her into a squat, crouching behind her. So this was the local birthing position. “Sit on me,” said Rabia. “I can hold you.” Jane let her weight settle on the old woman’s thighs. The position was surprisingly comfortable and reassuring.
    Jane felt her muscles begin to tighten