Nonfiction/Historical Fiction Contest Entries

SmackDown: And Then There Were Two...

Shrill screams pierced the still morning air, quickly followed by desperate shouts and commanding calls. It upset the animals, sleeping in barns that they passed, not to mention the owners of the creatures themselves. More than one bleary-eyed farmer stormed down to the new, blasted canal, determined to give the rude noisemakers a verbal thrashing.

What each farmer would inevitably see, however, was shocking to say the least.

There was a narrow boat cruising down the canal at painfully low speeds for the chaos happening upon it. Packages were thrashed to the sides and somewhat filling up the center, making it difficult to observe the events taking place - but what events they were.

A woman was lying on the deck, clutching her engorged stomach and wailing like she was staring into the face of death. Around her was a crew of men, desperately trying to both keep the boat in control and assist the soon-to-be-mother.

The farmer would watch on, befuddled, before realizing that perhaps his wife could help, perhaps she could assist in the birth, if only the boat would come to shore. He would freeze for a few seconds, unsure whether to call out first or fetch his wife first, but no matter what he chose, it was hopeless. If he called out, his voice was lost in the commotion. If he ran back to get his wife, by the time he had woken her and convinced her to come down to the canal with him, the boat was too far gone, practically to the next farmhouse, and the farmer and his wife could only shake their heads and wish the woman luck.

"Hold on, Ophelia! Hold on!" a man begged, kneeling beside the woman and clutching her hand. The other sailors, as busy as they were with trying to keep the woman comfortable, let their gazes slip off of the man as if he wasn't even there. The sorrow about to befall him was not theirs to partake in.

For there was something wrong with this birth, this birth that was many months early. In the best of circumstances - in a quiet house, surrounded by loved ones and women skilled in delivery, the odds of survival for either the mother or her child would be slim. On a boat cruising down a canal, surrounded by rough-hewn sailors who didn't know the first thing about childbearing?

It was a recipe for disaster.

Ophelia looked up at her husband, the father of the child within her. He pushed her hair back from her sweat-dampened forehead, pressing a kiss there, a kiss full of desperation and a sliver of mad hope that was waning by the second.

"How far until the next lock?" he demanded. The sound of him was more difficult to ignore than the sight of him, so a sailor hesitantly answered him.

"About eight kilometers. We'll be there in an hour or two, less if we manage to get this thing moving faster."

"She can't - we can't make it that long!"

"We could stop the boat at a farm. See who can help us. Can she move?"

Ophelia let out an earsplitting shriek and clutched her husband's hand so tightly that he could feel the bones moving, grating against one another. He clenched his teeth through the pain, which was likely a fraction of what his wife was experiencing.

"Yes," he managed through his teeth. "I'll carry her myself if I have to."

"We won't be able to wait for you. We have to make this delivery, James."

"So just leave us at one of the damn farms and get it over with!"

The men bit their lips, returned to ignoring the man. It was not out of cruelty, but rather out of fear - fear as they pictured their own mothers, sisters, wives, daughters in Ophelia's position. It is in the nature of humans to, at the pinnacle of one's suffering, turn away and force them to bear it alone.