The Judas Rose (5 page)

How in the name of the good green Earth an unmarried linguist woman could have become pregnant, Sister Antonia absolutely could not imagine. It seemed to her that it ought to have been impossible. The linguists' children were educated privately except for their obligatory participation in the two-hour daily sessions of Homeroom required by law for every American youngster—except of course when they were excused from Homeroom because they were needed as interpreters—and every moment of Homeroom is spent under the watchful eyes of a teacher. They had no leisure time; it was not unusual for a child of the Lines to already be working many hours each day in official delegations between Earth delegations and Alien delegations by the age of eight or nine, and that was true six days of the week. Leftover time went to household duties and to the endless study of the many languages the poor little things were required to master . . . and then on Sunday the family went like a platoon to church and returned like a platoon home. Where, as Antonia understood it, the children were required to take part in various sorts of “recreation” rigidly supervised by adults every instant. They were never, so far as she knew, allowed to simply play; and although the boys could go about unattended once they were in their teens, the women were as controlled as any other women. They went out to the negotiations, certainly; they traveled a great deal. But they were taken to their destinations by men of their
family and returned home in the same way, and except in their work they probably had
less
freedom than other women. When, and where, could this defiant young woman have found an opportunity for illicit sexual congress? Not in the dormitories where the little girls slept, all in rows, with an adult woman always awake and on duty all night long. Not in an interpreting booth, under the eyes of federal employees and Aliens and heaven only knew what else. Not in the big family flyers, trekking back and forth between government buildings and home.
Where?
And equally as mysterious, with
whom?

They had asked her, of course, and encouraged her to confess the full details of her sin for the sake of her immortal soul. And for the sake of her mother, who had somehow managed to arrange this daughter's absence and concoct a cover story the males of the house would believe, in itself an extraordinary accomplishment. For the lies she had told, and the punishments she risked, that mother deserved to know who the father was. At least that! But the pregnant girl had looked at them calmly and said that she was grateful for their concern but had no intention of telling them anything at all. And there it had stayed.

Perhaps now, in her agony, she would cry out the man's name. That was common enough, and the nuns were prepared to pay close attention to even fragments of cries. And they might learn
her
real name, perhaps; they doubted very much that it was, as she had told them, just “Jane Jefferson,” although she'd answered to that readily enough through the last four months. The linguists were much given to exotic and elaborate names, especially for their women; perhaps because the family customs forbade them any other ornament, they were almost excessively ornamental with their naming. Sister Antonia did not believe in any “just Janes” among the women of the Lines today. “Patagonia Gloriosa” was more likely, or “Autumn Dawn Crocus,” or some such awful nonsense.

The girl was healthy, as was any young linguist; the children of the Lines, like expensive race horses (and for similar reasons), followed superb regimens of diet and exercise and health care. Sister Antonia had been sure she would not require much assistance during her labor—thank goodness there'd be no reason to call on Sister Carapace!—and had sent Sisters Claudia and Ruth, both experienced women of even temperament, to see to her. With no expectation that anything more would be needed.

She was therefore much surprised when Sister Ruth arrived red-faced and breathless from running up the stairs and down the corridors, rushing into the room asking for her to come at once.

“Whatever in the world is the matter?” she asked, already on her feet and headed for the cellar room; if the situation had not been serious, she knew Ruth would never have come for her, and in childbed serious situations could turn into disaster while you discussed them. They could settle the details on the way.

“Hemorrhage?” Antonia asked, starting the checklist as they ran for the stairs. “Placenta pr—”

“Sister, forgive me for interrupting you, but it's not that sort of problem.”

“No? What, then?”

“Please . . . come and see.”

“You're sure you need me, Sister?” Antonia was going to be very annoyed if she'd been called away from her work to tend to a case of ordinary hysterics.

“Quite sure,” said Ruth steadily. “This is beyond me, and Claudia is as much at a loss as I am. We've never seen or heard anything like it, not
here!
”

They took the stairs to the basement, and the narrow old stairs to the cellar below, as quickly as the skirts of their habits allowed, and Antonia asked her colleague nothing more. The Sisters Of Genesis worked well together—with a few inexplicable exceptions such as Carapace to prove the rule—and they did not waste time.

Come and see, Sister Ruth had said. Antonia stood now and looked carefully at the room—it was in order—at the birthing bed, which appeared just as it ought to appear, and at the Jefferson woman. She was flushed, of course; as its name indicates, labor is hard work. Her hair was damp, soaked, clinging to her skull; with hard work went copious sweat, and that too was normal. No sign of unusual bleeding; no sign of shock. . . . Sister Antonia turned to look at the other nuns, her eyebrows raised.

“I'm sorry, Sisters,” she said gravely. “I don't understand why you've called me.”

“Please, Antonia,” said Ruth. “It's time for another pain—please watch.”

Antonia nodded, and looked again at the woman on the bed. She saw the great belly gather, clench, and ripple under the force of a major contraction; she must be far advanced, the birth near.

“How close together?” she demanded.

“Less than a minute now. And good long ones.”

“And she's been like this all along?”

“Exactly like this.”

Antonia waited through one more pain, to be sure, and then
she went straight out the door to the staircase and pressed the alarm that would bring the Mother Superior at once. Mother would be a bit startled when her wrist computer told her where the alarm was coming from, but that would not delay her.

“Do you think—” Claudia began, but Sister Antonia shook her head, saying, “We'll wait for Mother, Sisters.”

Dorothea Luke, Mother Superior of this convent for forty years and a Sister Of Genesis for nearly sixty, reached them in minutes, and when Sister Antonia had explained she did not wait to verify what she was told. “Sister Ruth! Sister Claudia!” she said. “Leave us at once, both of you!”

They turned startled eyes to her, and she said again only, “At once!”, and they hurried away looking troubled, but without offering either objections or questions. Dorothea Luke closed the door after them, sighing heavily, wishing this were not happening under her roof, and she and Antonia went to the bed where the woman lay. They bent over her together, urgently.

“You must scream, my child,” said the Mother Superior tenderly. She leaned close, and spoke directly into the young woman's face, because it would not be easy to get her attention at this stage. “Jane! It's Mother Dorothea Luke. Sister Antonia and I are here to help you. Listen to me, child—you must
scream!
For the sake of your immortal soul, my dear child . . . you
must
.”

Not a sound. The fierce contractions, almost continuous now, wracked her body, but except for the rough animal panting she was absolutely silent. According to the other nuns, she had not so much as whimpered, in all this time. Not a word of complaint. She should have been shrieking by now, begging for mercy, begging them to free her from her agony, but she was doing nothing of the kind. She was working; she was laboring; but she made no outcry. She was not even weeping. And that would not do. In the Book of Genesis it was decreed: a woman must bring forth her children in sorrow, that she might be cleansed of the guilt of tempting Adam and causing the Fall of all humankind. This woman knew that,
must
know that; however empty her own faith, she'd spent almost every Sunday morning of her life in a church. There was no chance that she had not heard the verses that applied to her condition.

“
Jane! Jane Jefferson! For your soul's sake, you must scream!
”

Nothing! Nothing but the panting; and now the deeper sounds that meant the moment was upon them.

There was no time for discussion. There was only one thing to be done, and by a quick jerk of her head the Mother Superior
authorized it. They were older women, she and Antonia, but they were as strong as most men; they had spent their lives lifting and turning and hauling and tending. Antonia went to the other side of the bed; and she and Dorothea Luke, moving as one, threw their bodies with full strength upon Jane's, holding her thighs tight together in a grip that even the frenzy of birth would not be able to loose.

“Now,” said the Mother Superior, she, too, panting with effort, “now, my child, we will explain to you. And you will listen to us, because we will hold you, exactly like this, until you do. We ask your forgiveness, Jane, for what will seem to you to be cruelty—we are not cruel, dear child, we are doing what we
must
do if you are not to spend all eternity in the depths of Hell.” And she and Antonia together, never for an instant weakening the hold they had on Jane and on the infant struggling to come into the world, began murmuring the appropriate verses of Genesis. Tenderly, with infinite love, they explained the case to Jane.

She did scream, before they were through. She screamed quite satisfactorily, bringing smiles of relief and gratitude to the faces of both the women tending her, before it was over.

The other nuns had no respect for little Sister Carapace, and she knew that. She was so low in their estimation that she had nothing to lose; it was an attitude she went to great pains to cultivate in them. It was Carapace who came into the cellar room that afternoon, when the dusk had begun to fall and it was easy to tuck a newborn infant into the bottom of a basket and spread a light cloth over it to hide the nature of her burden. She went through the door, and she locked it behind her, which was strictly forbidden; if she were caught, if she were asked why she had done that, she would say that she had been confused, and she would be believed. She was only silly Sister Carapace, almost always confused.

She went over to the narrow bed, where the young woman lay with huge eyes in an ashen face, staring at the ceiling in the way that victims of any torture do stare, and she reached out to gather the rigid body into her arms. When Jane resisted, Carapace was prepared for that; she reached into the deepest pocket of her skirt and took out a small wreath of wild vines no bigger than her palm, and she laid it in the other woman's hand. She waited until the tormented face cleared, and understanding showed in the eyes, and then she tried again. “Dear child,” she said softly, and kissed her forehead, and this time the girl came to her
willingly and let herself be comforted. Carapace set two plump pillows behind Jane's back and helped her to sit up on them, and smoothed her wet hair. And then she took the infant from the basket on the floor and put it to its mother's breast and saw the tiny mouth first fumble and then grip tightly on the nipple.

No milk there yet, of course, but substances necessary to the well-being of this baby, made by the mother's body through the infinite generosity of the Blessed Lord. It never ceased to astonish Carapace—that generosity, embodied in women. Every month for most of her life, a woman's body prepared wholesome life-sustaining food. In abundance, always made new each four weeks, just in case. Just in case! In case some child, male or female, might have need of it. It was a miracle, though it was a miracle a woman was obliged to hide away as if it were a mark of shame instead of a mark of God's grace. And then there were these substances of birth, first the colostrum with its powerful medicines against illness, and then the good pure milk . . . more miracles! It was just such miracles that had drawn Carapace into the Sisters Of Genesis and sustained her through the rigors of its novitiate, in spite of every obstacle placed before her; and when she found herself in a situation like this present one she was very glad that she had not given up.

“Dear child,” she said briskly, because nothing would be gained by maudlin sympathizing, “it's over. There won't be any more pain, and no one will torment you any longer, for any reason. Here's your sweet babe, Jane—such a
lovely
little baby girl! Look, Jane, look at how beautiful her little face is; look at the perfect little eyebrows and eyelashes! I don't know how many newborns I've seen that seemed to have no brows or lashes at all, but just look at this one! Isn't she beautiful, Jane?” As she talked, she took the vine wreath gently from the girl's hand and dropped it back into the depths of her pockets.

She went on like that a while. A flow of the sort of empty soothing nonsense that was just what was needed right now. Until the awful rigidity left the pale face, and a shadow of a smile tugged at the corners of the bloodied lips.