Writing for Fun
November 2015
It's Our Own Fault- Vivian Burdon
'No. No. Listen, I'm trying to tell you . . . it takes two of us to make one of them.'
Art was exasperated, he scraped his fingers through his fine, blond hair. 'No, I can't make one on my own. Tell them!' He looked to Hazel for support, she stared back, eyes wide, arms tightly wrapped around her body. At their feet chickens, their soft clucking a surreal soundtrack to the chaos playing out in the lofty barn. 'Hazel. Look at me. I need you to breathe. That's it breathe. Tell me . . . can you hear them?' She shook her head.
An old fashioned image of a small baby, wrapped in a crotched blanket hovered, turning slowly in the air around them. They, whoever they were, had stopped talking leaving a low thrum, a vibration in the air. Art moved slowly towards his wife where she stood drowning in his oversized jumper. The voice startled him into a standstill. More questions. He waited, considering how to reply, how to explain the differences between the reproductive cycle of birds and mammals.
'No, we can't do that, they are birds, only birds lay eggs. We are mammals, we grow babies inside females for a long time, then they come out. We call it being born.' More silence then another question. 'Er, . . . well no, the male fertilizes the egg in-situ so to speak.' Art edged closer to his wife. He wrapped Hazel in his arms and whispered, 'Don't worry. I think they are just curious, if they were going to hurt us they would have done it by now.'
The image of the baby disappeared and was replaced with moving images of the human reproductive act! Hazel stifled a laugh. 'Good grief, they're running 70s soft porn films! Haven't they got anything more recent?!' They fell silent for a while and watched. 'Have you noticed all the images so far are vintage, it's like they haven't been here for a while.' They stared as 'Confessions of a Window Cleaner' collapsed into a black dot making way for a large image of a time line showing the female reproductive process. Birth, puberty, monthly cycles, fertilization, gestation, birth, and lastly the menopause.
'Well they certainly have us nailed.' Hazel frowned and strained her head as if trying to hear something far away.
'They want to know.' Art faltered, thinking how to phrase the question they'd posed. 'They want to know, if a human egg was fertilised today and was born female how long would it be before she was no longer fertile? What do you reckon?'
Hazel straightened up and frowned. 'What kind of stupid question is that? It varies, but I suppose anything between 40 and 60 years. Plus the 9 months of course.' She finished speaking and a deeper silence surged back into the barn. 'Listen.' Hazel cocked her head again. 'That vibrating hum sort of thing has stopped.'
'I think they've gone,' Art whispered.
They told no one, nor did they talk of that night with each other. Secretly, they both scanned the newspapers and watched the news channels for anything untoward or that would explain what had happened in their barn. Nothing. The winter melted into spring and the rhythm of tending animals and crops quickened and consumed their thoughts and time.
Plus Hazel was pregnant, an unintended consequence of a torrid night to assuage the trauma of their alien encounter . . . if that's what it was. Art had convinced himself it was a methane induced episode! Unease grew in Hazel's body alongside her baby. She scowled nightly at the news and was forever shocked by the new levels of barbarity people were capable of. The incident and scale of conflict around the world beggared belief. She had no right to bring a child into this. Nevertheless, one glorious early summer evening, Lilly was born, healthy and beautiful. This unplanned but delightful addition to their world slotted effortlessly into the natural cycle of their days on the smallholding.
And then it happened, Art saw it first – a rolling news band across the bottom of the screen during the sports report. A silent yet deadly threat. It had scrolled by four times before Art called to Hazel to come and see. 'Jesus!' Hazel sucked in her breath and held it tightly behind clamped teeth . . . the low vibration and hum had returned, this time coming from the TV. The cameras returned to the studio. A standing reporter uncomfortably clutched a sheaf of papers and finally engaged with the right camera. 'The BBC has confirmed reports that all World Leaders have received an ultimatum from an unknown source. The message, which is repeated every 20 minutes, calls upon those with power over armies or militia to forsake all weapons and cease all conflict or else there would be unspecified but catastrophic consequences.'
The message apparently had set a Christmas deadline by which all arms, including nuclear weapons, should be demonstrably decommissioned along with an extended period of non combat so that compliance could be monitored. All of this, according to those high up, had been accompanied by benign demonstrations of unfathomable power. The ultimatum could not be ignored.
Hazel and Art watched the unfolding debacle. It turned out Hazel had been right in the chicken shed. They, whoever they were, had been to earth before and had been monitoring the planet for over 50 years. They had hoped humankind would find a way to create a more peaceful world, but it had failed on an epic scale.
Art could be heard late at night screaming at the TV screen as, time and time again, the inadequacies of inept world leaders were laid bare. Pictures swarmed the TV screen of grown men arguing as they railed against each other. Meanwhile, frightened people turned to once marginalised religious cults. They gathered in their thousands on mountain sides, wailing a welcome to the coming apocalypse.
'We aren't going to do it are we?' Hazel was tucked up on the sofa, nestled against Art, cradling Lilly on her knee.
'Nope.' Art was trying to stifle his own fears to protect his nascent family. They talked long into the dark autumn nights, side by side in their old bed. Should they keep their livestock for another winter? If the time came who should take who's life? If there was a chance, should they try and stay alive? They had cried together and fetched Lilly to their bed, hungry to hug every drop of love from each other in those last days.
Then . . . nothing happened, the deadline came and went and nothing happened. World leaders addressed their people saying they were 'following all protocols to re-establish contact and when they had information the people would be kept up to date.' There was rejoicing in the street of the world's capitals.
Then came the leaked reports – slowly at first – the odd scandal about hospitals where still births had increased. It emerged that across the world there had been no new live births. Scientists and medical experts were called together only to appear on TV screens with drawn faces confirming the rumours that there had been no new pregnancies since the deadline had passed.
The world spun on. The only difference was there were no new people to replace those dying. Scientists forecast that without any new births there would be no-one left on earth in less than one hundred years. Mankind was dying out.
Food production slowed and factories closed, the population was ageing and the younger ones felt less inclined to work. Why should they? People killed themselves en masse on the same mountains they had stood waiting to be killed. Hazel, Art and Lilly tended the animals and crops as the years went by, the smallholding providing food and sanctuary.
Late one night, after a sombre thirteenth birthday dinner for Lilly, Art spoke of his fears for the future. 'What happens to Lilly when we die, Hazel? She's growing up and needs company and friendship. I think we should move to the town?' They were sitting on the porch bathed in moonlight.
Hazel touched his hand. 'Let's just keep her safe for now.'
Art's fears pushed him on. 'There is no good way out of this and you know it, she will be alone when we die. We need to make plans now.' He sunk his head into his hands. 'Why did I speak so freely about how we made babies.'
Hazel furrowed her brow. 'Don't you think they would have got it from somewhere else? they weren't stupid.' She bit her lip. 'Art, I need to tell you something. Please don't be angry, there was no need in the beginning and I wasn't sure. Then the deadline passed and nothing seemed to happen. Then there didn't seem any point.' She paused. 'Art, I lied. In the barn . . . I did hear a voice, but it wasn't the one you heard. It was more like a soft low purring noise. It took a while before I heard the words.'
Art's fury rose. 'What the . . .'
'Shush . . .' Hazel moved to hold his hand. 'Listen to me. My voice, in the barn, just kept repeating, 'Redemption child.'
Art jumped up. 'You're kidding me . . . so what are you saying? They were freekin' Bob Marley fans?'
Hazel sighed. 'I'm saying, I think Lilly is precious!'
For the first time his wife's calm disposition riled him. 'I'm not listening, Hazel, we need to take Lilly where she can grow old with people the same age. It's the least we can do'.
Hazel stood up and faced him. 'The least we can do Arthur J. Carpenter is find Lilly a mate. She started her periods today.'