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“I don’t know," Lucy said, clenching as another contraction riveted through her belly. “In the movies—" she began, “Boiling water. To sanitize.”
“In the old days before ambulances and hospitals, all women, princesses, and queens,” Anwar said, rising to his feet and kissing her forehead. “They all had their babies in the desert. Like you?—”
“Jesus!” she cursed.
“Yes, your Jesus, king of kings, was born in a dusty manger on a bed of hay.”
“I don’t want to have a baby in the sand,” she grimaced. “What if something goes wrong?”
“Nothing will go wrong. The stars are aligned. Venus is appearing like an angel in the sky, spreading her wings.” he clapped his hands. “Our baby will soon be born. Look, Lucy. Just like your nativity story. Following a great big star. Threekingswere riding on their camels through the dusty desert, with a star to guide the way.”
“A star won’t deliver my baby,” she cried. “Will anyone come? A nurse? A doctor? You must have someone.” She gripped his hand as shards of pain shot through her. The roar of the wind drowned out her muffled cries.
“Let go,” Anwar commanded as she clamped her mouth. “Scream! Don’t keep your feelings inside.”
“No!” she cried, writhing as a contraction jolted through her.
“There is no shame in expressing pain,” he reassured her. “In our culture, women wail, they cry, they bellow. You are giving life to life. Roar. Shout. Scream—do anything other than be quiet.”
“In my culture,” she threw at him, “Women who cry are weak!” She gritted her teeth and looked beyond his concerned face. Through the tent’s flapping opening, she could see a solitary palm. Its trunk stood firm and stoic like an iron rod, but the leaves flailed and heaved in despair and fury, fighting against the storm.
“No!” she screamed.
“Louder!“ He commanded. He ripped the fine cotton of hisdishdashiinto strips and plunged it into the pot of boiling water over the small fire in the center of the tent. He fished it out with iron tongs, waited for it to cool slightly, and then wiped her brow with it.
“My son will be strong like his mother. Yet sensitive to pain,“ he said. “He will not be a tyrant, a despot, a man impervious to the suffering of his people.”
She writhed and clenched the sheets. “I think he’s coming. Oh my God, I think he’s coming!”
“Push!” Anwar cried.
“Go!” she screamed. She didn’t want Anwar to see her with a baby’s head about to push through the place he considered sacred. “No man wants to see this.”
“But I do,” he said, kneeling before her, his hands splayed, ready to take his son in his arms.
The wind whistled like a kettle. The sand flew past the tent in horizontal sheets.
“Push!” he urged. “I can see his head!”
Lucy summoned the last of her ebbing strength.
“Again!”
“I can’t,“ Lucy said.
“You can!”
She clenched her teeth, sucked in a deep breath and pushed.
“Once more. I see him. I see our prince.”
“Marhabaan, habibti. Hello, my love,” He whispered as his hand gently held the baby's head. “He’s beautiful like an angel. Push, my love. Push. Push like a lioness would. Wild and strong, fierce with her love.”
The storm rose in fury as though helping her deliver her baby that would one day rule the desert. The child slipped from her womb like a fast-moving river in flood. Anwar cut the umbilical cord, joining mother and child with a deft slice from his royal saber. The baby lay in Anwar’s arms, cooing and gurgling like popping champagne.
“Habibti. Habibti.My love. My love–” he said, his eyes flaring wide.
“What is it? What’s wrong with my baby?”
