Stop The Flow
A Short Story by Tyger Schonholzer
(Previously published by The Writer's Drawer, a publication which is now discontinued)
'Stop the flow of a mother’s milk and her child will starve...’
Under a glaring sun, six women, wrapped in flowing white robes, wade through restless sands, at times sinking knee deep into the hot dust. A sharp wind billows the fabric of their robes and from afar it looks like they are dancing. The robes hide how gaunt they are and they hide something else, a secret more precious than a hundred kingdoms and the reason they trudge with such determination through the deadly heat.
The six are sisters, grown up together under a harsh desert sky. They once had families, but the rebel army murdered their husbands and took away their sons who would become soldiers, boy soldiers, murdering monsters. They once had homes before the army flattened them, fields, before the soldiers burned them, pride, before the men came and raped them. In the end, they had only the infants, birthed in the sand and clutched to their firm, full breasts. Though conceived in pain and shame, the children were born with love and the sisters gave them names that would remind them of those dead and gone.
But with the fields charred and the village razed, there was little to eat and the sisters picked up their babies and began the long trek eastward where the river flows and corn grows rich and plentiful in the valley. It has taken them much of a month and they suffered and the babies suffered more even. One by one, they turned to bones and their strong cries faded. One by one, tiny bundles were laid onto the sand, given back to the merciless gods and the desert swallowed them. The women spoke their names, so they would be remembered and they sang the words of parting with eyes too dry to weep.
By the watering hole, they camped for two days, while the sixth sister gave birth. Now only her babe is left and her milk does not want to come from sorrow and hunger. But a mother’s milk is life and the sisters hand the infant back and forth among them, each feeding what little milk she has to the newborn child. When they stop and huddle, they speak softly to the babe and to its mother until a trickle of milk begins to flow. Joy loosens her tongue and she sings to her child of the river and the land of plenty.
They trudge on through wind and sand and blazing heat, climbing dune upon dune, each time hoping to see the river and each time finding only more dust and desolation. Day after day they travel, flesh withering from brittle bones. They will not stop. They name the child ‘Heshalim,’ meaning ‘He who loves peace’ and they continue to feed him, taking turns offering their shrunken breasts with cracked nipples. And the babe feeds and grows.
At last they reach the tallest dune and when they climb it, a world of beauty spreads below them. Fat and lazy, the river snakes between squat houses, golden fields and green meadows. Like fluffy clouds, sheep graze through the bounty, their bells ringing a sweet welcome. The sisters stare, never having seen such richness. There is no hunger here.
They stumble downhill, faster and faster, aching to touch fertile ground. And when they reach the edges of the valley, they fall to their knees and kiss the earth. Slower now, they walk the narrow paths past fields and gardens. In the distance gleams a white building, their destination.
Six skeletons arrive at the mission hospital, wrapped in white desert robes. Only sheer will keeps them upright, and they fall, once inside, to the stone floor. Their hands reach in supplication and one of the women holds an infant, plump and rosy, whose strong, loud wail draws the nurses, doctors and mission workers from their beds, chairs, and chambers.
For weeks, the women live in the walls of the white stone hospital, the plentiful food mending only partially their ravaged bodies and torn spirits. But when the child is brought to them for feeding, their gaunt faces light up and their eyes shine. They hand the baby from sister to sister, from breast to breast, eager to share, to love, to nourish. Although the mother’s milk now flows aplenty, she doesn’t deny them this time of joy. Little Heshalim may never know what sacrifices bought his young life but his mother does and her eyes glisten with gratitude.
‘Stop the flow of a mother’s milk and her child will starve but the flow of love can save even the smallest of babes.’ (Proverb)
Under a glaring sun, six women, wrapped in flowing white robes, wade through restless sands, at times sinking knee deep into the hot dust. A sharp wind billows the fabric of their robes and from afar it looks like they are dancing. The robes hide how gaunt they are and they hide something else, a secret more precious than a hundred kingdoms and the reason they trudge with such determination through the deadly heat.
The six are sisters, grown up together under a harsh desert sky. They once had families, but the rebel army murdered their husbands and took away their sons who would become soldiers, boy soldiers, murdering monsters. They once had homes before the army flattened them, fields, before the soldiers burned them, pride, before the men came and raped them. In the end, they had only the infants, birthed in the sand and clutched to their firm, full breasts. Though conceived in pain and shame, the children were born with love and the sisters gave them names that would remind them of those dead and gone.
But with the fields charred and the village razed, there was little to eat and the sisters picked up their babies and began the long trek eastward where the river flows and corn grows rich and plentiful in the valley. It has taken them much of a month and they suffered and the babies suffered more even. One by one, they turned to bones and their strong cries faded. One by one, tiny bundles were laid onto the sand, given back to the merciless gods and the desert swallowed them. The women spoke their names, so they would be remembered and they sang the words of parting with eyes too dry to weep.
By the watering hole, they camped for two days, while the sixth sister gave birth. Now only her babe is left and her milk does not want to come from sorrow and hunger. But a mother’s milk is life and the sisters hand the infant back and forth among them, each feeding what little milk she has to the newborn child. When they stop and huddle, they speak softly to the babe and to its mother until a trickle of milk begins to flow. Joy loosens her tongue and she sings to her child of the river and the land of plenty.
They trudge on through wind and sand and blazing heat, climbing dune upon dune, each time hoping to see the river and each time finding only more dust and desolation. Day after day they travel, flesh withering from brittle bones. They will not stop. They name the child ‘Heshalim,’ meaning ‘He who loves peace’ and they continue to feed him, taking turns offering their shrunken breasts with cracked nipples. And the babe feeds and grows.
At last they reach the tallest dune and when they climb it, a world of beauty spreads below them. Fat and lazy, the river snakes between squat houses, golden fields and green meadows. Like fluffy clouds, sheep graze through the bounty, their bells ringing a sweet welcome. The sisters stare, never having seen such richness. There is no hunger here.
They stumble downhill, faster and faster, aching to touch fertile ground. And when they reach the edges of the valley, they fall to their knees and kiss the earth. Slower now, they walk the narrow paths past fields and gardens. In the distance gleams a white building, their destination.
Six skeletons arrive at the mission hospital, wrapped in white desert robes. Only sheer will keeps them upright, and they fall, once inside, to the stone floor. Their hands reach in supplication and one of the women holds an infant, plump and rosy, whose strong, loud wail draws the nurses, doctors and mission workers from their beds, chairs, and chambers.
For weeks, the women live in the walls of the white stone hospital, the plentiful food mending only partially their ravaged bodies and torn spirits. But when the child is brought to them for feeding, their gaunt faces light up and their eyes shine. They hand the baby from sister to sister, from breast to breast, eager to share, to love, to nourish. Although the mother’s milk now flows aplenty, she doesn’t deny them this time of joy. Little Heshalim may never know what sacrifices bought his young life but his mother does and her eyes glisten with gratitude.
‘Stop the flow of a mother’s milk and her child will starve but the flow of love can save even the smallest of babes.’ (Proverb)