stomach, creating a long, thick line of red. Prying apart the flaps of flesh, she exposed the yellow fat within, then sliced through it, working quickly, roughly.
Panic ensued behind her, but she paid no mind to it. She focused on the task at hand—on the Woman torn apart in front of her, Her innards displayed. The Savior looked the same on the inside as all other women, a surprise, as she had expected a white light to flood from Her opened body. But there was no light, only blood and tissue, the same pulpy organs she had seen so many times before.
And then there was light—a small glow buried within the Woman’s body.
The light of Her Baby.
She made an incision in the womb, moving delicately, artfully. With a deep breath, she plunged her hands into the Woman’s belly and pulled out a tiny, wet Baby.
The people silenced. In her arms was a glowing ball of light—a little Girl with white skin, eyes clamped shut, and reddish clumps plastered to Her body. The woman cut through the umbilical cord and ran her finger between the Baby’s gums, driving out lingering fluids. She waited for Her to scream just as every newborn did, but there was nothing.
She’s dead too.
Suddenly the Baby drew in a long, grating breath. Still the woman waited for a cry, but there was none. Instead the Baby breathed in slowly, Her eyes closed, Her body peacefully curled against the woman’s chest.
The woman wiped the little Girl down with the hem of her dress while the crowd stared in awe. She was small—premature, almost weightless in the woman’s arms, yet She felt strong, as if power emanated through Her, shining like Her skin.
“Is She all right?” an onlooker asked.
“Yes.” The woman’s voice wavered. “She’s perfect.”
Her eyes flitted to the Mother—the lifeless corpse, belly ripped to shreds. Tears flooded her eyes, and she looked away, focusing on the Baby in her arms—the tiny Girl with the same glowing skin as Her Mother. The Ruler of the realm.
“Our newest Savior is born.”
The swish of the sickle echoed in his ears—swish, swish, the rhythm endless. Monotonous. It would’ve been enough to lull him to sleep, but fortunately the labor kept his focus, and if that ever failed, there was always the blistering heat to pique his nerves. God, he could’ve used a breeze, but the air remained perfectly still, and the sun continued to beat down on him like fire; it was a torture he’d never grown accustomed to even after two years in this line of work.
With a harsh breath, he dropped his sickle and ripped his shirt from its resting place around his neck. The fabric was sopping wet, but he mopped his forehead with it anyway, then flung it over his shoulder.
Swish, swish.
Sugarcane stalks plopped to his feet with each swipe, tumbling one after the next like dead bodies. It wasn’t nearly as grotesque as that, but he had to entertain himself somehow. Cane harvesting was such tedious work. Such mindless work.
Necessary. It was necessary work.
A heap of cane rested in front of him, piled like a pyramid. He tried to see shapes in his labor—to focus on the rich color of each stalk, to see the nicks from his sickle as a signature, to turn his efforts into art—and then he resigned himself to the banal reality of what he was doing.
Swish, swish.
A man scuttled from the distant sugar mill, heading his way. Was it the end of the day already? The ferocious sun was setting, bleeding between the clouds and turning the sky from blue to pink, yet somehow it was still as sweltering as ever. How was that even possible? Or fair?
The man waved; yes, work was over, and both relief and dread stirred within him. He could get in some more work if he had to. And he did have to.
Dropping his sickle, he yanked at the sheath lying by his feet, hoisting all however-many sugarcane stalks onto his back. He recalled the first time he had done this—how the weight had felt immeasurable, how he had thought his back would break from the pressure—but now he was stronger, or perhaps the cane was simply lighter.
The man reached his side, chewing on a blade of grass and eyeing the stretch of harvested land. “That’s the last of it for today. You’ve done good work, Tobias. You always do good work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The man pulled a small purse from his pocket. Coin. Thank God.