On a cold night in Bethlehem, a weary servant girl named Hadar is sent to carry water to strangers sleeping in the stable. What she finds there (a frightened young couple, a desperate birth, and a child beneath a radiant star) will change her life forever. Told through the eyes of the forgotten, Hadar and The Child reimagines the Nativity in tender human detail, capturing the wonder and quiet holiness of the night the world stood still.

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On a colder night than usual in Bethlehem, Hadar hastened to do the bidding of the Roman soldiers and visitors staying at the inn. The recent census had forced people to travel to Jerusalem and the surrounding villages, along with the usual sitting Roman army, since there were zealots in Nazareth.

Hadar felt in no mood for nonsense. Throughout the day, she had endured irritable men displeased with how long it took her to complete any task, and the harsh words of her mistress, the innkeeper’s wife. The older woman hated her because her prettiness stole the admiration of her son, and the woman wanted a better wife for him than a servant girl. The steady stream of coin flowing across her palm as the rooms filled up soothed her, but not the amount of sweaty people that attempted to encamp on their doorstep. If not for their need, Hadar would have found another position, just to be away from the woman’s sharp tongue. But her father would be pleased with her contribution to the family this week. He had been out of work for some weeks, laid up with an injured ankle after an accident while repairing the aqueducts.

Shortly before twilight, the last stream of travelers across the barren hills arrived, and a man and his wife with a donkey tried to pay for a room for the night. Since all the rooms were taken, she had to turn them away, but not before Hadar saw the plight of the man’s wife. She could not have been over two years older than Hadar’s fourteen, and pretty with enormous brown eyes and softly curling dark hair, but she was swollen with child. The innkeeper took pity on them, after much pleading and promise of coin, and allowed them to remain in the stable overnight. That was where they were now.

“Hadar!” ordered her mistress. “Carry those poor wretches some water to the stable!”

This meant going to the communal well in the square and hauling buckets of it up the winding road to the mouth of the caves where they kept the animals. Water sloshed against Hadar’s ankles as she carried two at once with a sling slung across her shoulders. Pausing to rest and wipe the sweat off her face, she turned her eyes heavenward to admire the star that had burned brightly above them for several weeks. It felt bright and clear enough to touch tonight.

A long day left its weight in her bones as she trudged the last few feet to the makeshift door. As soon as she nudged it open with her foot, the stench of animals washed over her. Donkeys were in a stall in the corner, a handful of sheep in another, and in a mound of hay sat the young woman, laboring to bear forth a child. With a note of panic in his voice, her husband ran up to Hadar and pleaded, “Her time has come. You must send for a midwife!”

There was none. The closest midwife had been forced to travel to her hometown for the census. Hadar unloaded the buckets and told him this. He ran his fingers through his wild hair, standing it on end, and cast a despairing glance at his wife, made as comfortable as possible in one of the cleaner stalls. Torches glimmered along the walls in brackets, burning brightly and casting eerie shadows across the occupants. The cave grew colder by the hour. What a dismal place to give birth to a child.

He kneeled beside his wife and pulled her into his arms to whisper to her and stroke her hair. Hadar caught her eye and found it strange. Rather than the fear she sought, they seemed clear with intent. She hesitated at the door and then approached them. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Mary,” the woman answered, “and my husband is Joseph.” She clung onto him with affection, and he buried his face in her hair, visible now that her veil had slipped.

Hadar sighed. She had seen babies born, even aided her mother when the midwife could not reach them in time. But the long hours of the day and endless tasks for demanding guests had made her weary. She wanted only to return to her straw mattress in the kitchen and go to sleep, so tired that she could hardly have removed the worn sandals from her feet. But she mustered the last bit of her strength and prayed for more. “I can help you. I have helped the midwife before.”

Joseph thanked her and dipped a piece of cloth into the bucket to wet his wife’s forehead. Hadar wished he would leave, but he refused and retreated only a short distance, to stroke and comfort their donkey. She took off her own headdress to use to swaddle the child, a mere scrap of undyed cloth, and checked. It wouldn’t be long now, from what she could remember of childbirth. Mary reached out to catch her hand, and their eyes locked. “Thank you,” Mary said with a kind of sweetness that eased the exhaustion from her bones.

“Joseph,” Hadar said, “you need to leave for a little while. You can wait outside the door. Please.”

Doubt and distrust shone on his face, beneath his short-cropped beard, but he nodded and ducked out into the darkening countryside. Its coolness slicked the sweat from his skin, and he shivered, drawing his cloak closer about him. The streets had quieted once the sun set, for the centurions imposed a curfew. Joseph sank onto the rough stone step and picked at a loose piece of his sandal. It had walked many miles.

“It should not be long now,” a voice said from somewhere nearby, and a Roman centurion emerged from the shadows near the olive orchard. Joseph stiffened in the presence of his enemy, but the man had a kind face despite the crimson cloak and wore no sword. A bold decision in such times.

Joseph searched for an answer that would not offend him. “You have children?” he asked at last.

The man nodded and sank down nearby to wait. “Three of my own. The servant girl is wise. She will see yours brought here with no trouble. And he arrives under a fortunate star. It is unusual for the time of year. Not one that is familiar to me. But I felt like I should venture out and observe it tonight. Here, do you care for a piece of fruit? I cannot abide any more figs.” He offered a handful to Joseph, who took it.

What a strange night, that he would eat with a Roman. Yet both of them sat there and listened to his wife crying out in her labor. It felt like all the world watched and waited, for the night had grown silent.

Heads turned toward open doorways in the town without knowing why, and the herdsmen in the surrounding hills noticed a strange calm over their flocks. Then, all at once, a piercing wail interrupted the stillness as a child filled his lungs with air. He screamed loudly and strongly in Hadar’s arms, as she cleaned him with water and wrapped him in her simple headdress. Joseph burst into the stable to see him, almost falling on the uneven floor. The face of a Roman loomed behind him, curious to see the boy, and Hadar showed the child to him in a moment neither of them understood. Then he passed out into the darkness once more.

Mary lay back with relief against the hay and held out her tired arms for the child. Hadar felt reluctant to release him, but carried him to his mother. She had seen other infants before, and there was nothing unusual about this one, except that his eyes found hers and looked deep into her soul. She felt Seen. Loved.

But that was impossible. This child knew nothing yet except his displeasure and hunger.

Mary wanted to hold him, but saw the look of awe on the girl’s face and did not intrude upon it. She would see it again a thousand times over the years, in everyone who saw and touched and listened to her son. At last, Hadar tore her eyes away from him and rested him in Mary’s arms, where his protests ceased. She waited until Mary finished, then tidied away the mess, cleaned her hands in the bucket, and took it outside to throw it into the bushes. A breeze stirred her hair and drew her attention once more to the star. It felt like a promise.

“Something has changed tonight,” said the centurion from a short distance away.

Though startled by him, she did not fear him. “Yes,” she answered, and turned toward the inn with renewed energy. She did not know if she would ever be weary again.

About the Author: Charity Bishop writes historical fiction, historical fantasy, and suspense novels that explores the darkness in human hearts, and the light that refuses to be extinguished. Discover her books.