Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (21 page)

M
y mother and Asma washed my face with clear well water they had gathered in an iron pot. They made me change out of my play clothes and helped me put on a new red-and-white-striped gown that they said had been imported from the tiny island kingdom of Bahrain to the east. This was to be my wedding gown. I would be married tonight to the Messenger of God. And at the tender age of nine, I was about to become a Mother of the Believers, a revered status in this world and the hereafter. Yet I felt small and unworthy, unready for the responsibility.

My mind raced with questions to which I had no answer. How was I going to be a wife in any sense of the word to a man over forty years my senior, whose own daughters were older than me? And how could I, who barely knew a handful of verses of the Qur’an by heart, serve as any kind of spiritual guide or mentor to the Muslims? I remembered my parents’ conversation from years before, when my father had said that Gabriel had announced my wedding to the Prophet in a vision. Surely the angel had a made a mistake! For the past three years, I had let that story of the Messenger’s dream puff me up with vanity and pride, but now I wanted nothing more than to be forgotten and ignored.

As my mother closed the clasp of my dress around my neck, it felt as if she were putting a shroud over me. She kissed me on the forehead and smiled, and I wanted to smile back but I could not remember how.

My father entered, wearing a long yellow robe and turban. His shoulders were stooped lower than usual, and he nervously pulled at his wispy beard, which was dyed red with henna. Abu Bakr looked at me in my striped dress, a saffron veil covering my hair, and I could see tears welling in his eyes.

He held out his hand. I clasped his palm, felt the familiar roughness of the calluses that cracked even as he squeezed my fingers. He said nothing, and neither did I. We walked out, hand in hand, followed by Umm Ruman and Asma, and strolled through the gently paved streets of Medina. I could smell jasmine in the air, sensuous and pleasing. But it did not alleviate my fear, the fear of every virgin on her wedding night. I had learned the facts of life by watching the stray dogs in the alleys of Mecca and had always found the idea that men and women did the same both amusing and repulsive. I had heard that the first night was painful for many women, and I was suddenly terrified of whatever lay ahead. I wanted to run back to the safety of my bed and have my mother sing me to sleep with a lullaby.

As we walked through the streets, I saw eyes on me from every direction. Women wearing aprons emerged from their homes to gawk, and men in colorful tunics stared at me and then whispered to one another, perhaps acknowledging that the Messenger’s new wife was indeed as beautiful as rumor had it. I noticed that their eyes never went to plain Asma, and I felt a pang for her. I prayed in my heart that Zubayr would emigrate to Medina and marry her, so that the old matrons would stop clucking their tongues. The fact that I was ten years her junior and was marrying the most respected man in the city, while Asma lived alone pining for a love that might never be, added fuel to their catty gossip. The injustice of how women are judged, by their features rather than the character of their souls, never outraged me more than at that moment.

And then my thoughts stopped along with my breath as we stood before the Masjid. It was more of an open courtyard than a building proper, with walls made of mud brick and the trunks of palm trees. The sun had set an hour before and the
Maghrib
worship ceremony was finished, so the prayer ground was largely empty, except for a few devout men and women who were still kneeling in prayer. Their devotion and focus on Allah were so great that they paid no attention as my wedding party entered the courtyard.

I saw Sawda’s tiny brick hut that had been built on the southeast corner of the courtyard and then gasped when I noticed that another brick cell had been hastily built adjoining it, a structure that I had not seen a week ago when I came with my father for Friday communal prayers. I realized that this must be my new house and noticed with a little dismay that, like Sawda’s modest dwelling, the entire building was a single room, not much larger than my bedchamber back in Mecca.

I could see the flickering of candlelight from within and my heart pounded as my father led me to the place that would be my new home. As we approached, I noticed for the first time a group of women gathered outside, wives and daughters of the Prophet’s closest Companions from among the
Muhajirun
(the immigrants from Mecca) and the
Ansar
(the helpers who protected them in Medina).

“For good and for happiness—may all be well!” they called out cheerfully. I followed my father inside and saw that the Messenger was sitting on a small spread of soft lambskin that I realized with some trepidation would be our bed. His dark eyes were glowing with that strange fire and I immediately looked down, feeling my face raging with the heat of my emotions.

The women who had come to greet us decked me out in small ornaments—a thin coral bracelet, an ivory brooch for my hair, a ring made of silver with a tiny bluish gem that might have been an amethyst or a sapphire.

When they were done, they took me to the Prophet’s side and placed me on the lambskin, the only furnishing inside that tiny cell. The Messenger smiled at me gently and then opened his hand. In it I saw a necklace made of onyx beads. My frightened eyes must have sparkled with a little life when I saw the pretty black stones flecked with white and gold, because everyone in the room laughed as if the tension had been released.

The Messenger tied the necklace around my throat, which was, even in my tender youth, long and elegant. He fumbled with the clasp for a second before finally managing to seal it. I thought for a second that he might be as nervous as I was, but of course that was ridiculous. He was a grown man who had already been married twice and had four daughters who were old enough to give him grandchildren.

When he let go, my hand was drawn like a magnet to the necklace, which was Muhammad’s first gift to me as my husband and lover. In the years to come, I would treasure that necklace above all my other possessions, and it would repay my devotion by leading me into scandal and grief. How strange it is now to think that such a small thing could change a girl’s life? But that necklace had a terrible destiny, one that would change not only my life but the history of the world.

But none could have foreseen that, except possibly the Prophet, and I often wonder if he ever knew what destruction would come from that little present. The necklace that began as a blessing, a symbol of love, would end as a curse and a harbinger of death.

The Messenger raised a small wooden bowl filled with clear milk, the curds and fat having been carefully strained away. He sipped it and then looked into my eyes as he offered it to me. As I met his gaze, I felt a flash of something I did not understand in my foolish youth but I now know to have been desire. My body grew hot and I could feel my stomach flurrying as if overrun by tiny hummingbirds. I looked down, embarrassed and intrigued by this strange new sensation, and refused the bowl with a terrified shake of my head.

The Messenger nonetheless brought it to my lips and spoke softly.

“Drink,
Humayra
.”

There was something about the way he spoke his pet name for me that set the hummingbirds fluttering again. I could feel a bead of sweat drifting down the nape of my neck past my shoulder blades.

I looked at him again and he nodded. I bent forward and kissed the edge of the bowl, letting the icy cool milk flow down my throat. My heart began to beat faster as I did so, and it was no longer just with fear.

When I had drunk my fill, I passed the bowl to my sister, who sat beside me. Asma took a sip and then handed it to our mother, and then it was passed along among all who were present. When the bowl returned to the Messenger’s hand, I was surprised, because it did not look as if the liquid were any less than when we had first tasted it, but I dismissed the thought as just a fantasy of my excited mind.

The ceremony was over and I was now Muhammad’s wife. I had become what the angel had promised and what every other girl I knew secretly wished to be.

I was the Mother of the Believers.

My father arose. He kissed the Prophet’s hand and then placed his warm lips on my forehead.

“May Allah bless the two I love most in this world,” he said. And then he turned to leave, as did the women.

The simple door of palm wood closed behind them and we were alone. The Messenger smiled at me and took my hand in his. I noticed that despite the lingering heat of the evening, his hand was unusually cold, as if cooled by some mysterious breeze. I could feel the steady calm beat of his pulse. Its gentle rhythm soothed me, and the pounding in my chest gradually slowed until it was as if we shared one heart, one breath.

I gazed into his ebony eyes, blacker than midnight, and could see my own reflection in those bottomless pools. But it was not the reflection I witnessed every morning in the mirror. I looked older, wiser, my girl’s body blossomed to full womanhood. My hair was no longer crimson like the sunset but a warm auburn like embers of a dying fire. But I was not smiling. There were pride and righteous anger in my golden eyes that I could not understand. And then I watched as I aged, my hair turning to silver, my face lined but still regal in its beauty. My eyes seemed even older, now filled with regret and shame. And then the vision changed and I was something else, both human and angel, my body at once young and ancient, my hair and the bones of my face glittering with moonlight that seemed to emanate from within. As I looked into the eyes of this otherworldly woman, this spirit from beyond time and space, I saw that there was no more anger or sadness.

Only love.

The vision ended and I was alone with the Messenger. He was looking strangely at me, and for a moment I wondered if he saw what I had seen. But he said nothing about it and simply ran his hand across my face, savoring the delicate softness of my flesh that no man had ever touched before.

He leaned close to me and whispered softly.

“Don’t be afraid.”

I looked into those unearthly black eyes and answered truthfully.

“I’m not.”

He smiled warmly and took me in his arms.

I let myself go and fell into his embrace, losing myself in the wondrous sensuality of his body pressed against mine.

There was no fear. There was no pain.

There was only light.

T
he Muslims had escaped Mecca, but our enemies gave us no respite.

The establishment of an independent Muslim community outside the control of the Arab oligarchs was an even greater threat than the presence of believers inside the holy city. From our new vantage point in Medina, we were strategically placed to block caravan routes to the north. The Muslims had gone from being a persecuted rabble to an organized force with the ability to cut off the lifeblood of Meccan trade. Realizing that confrontation between our communities was inevitable, Abu Sufyan decided to take preemptive action.

And so it was that one day Umm al-Fadl, the comely wife of Muhammad’s uncle Abbas, stood outside her home, gazing in shock at the scene playing out before her. A group of men, their faces covered in dirty cloths and scarves, had broken open the sealed doors of the Muslim refugees. The houses of her kinsmen and friends had been locked since they had fled to Medina, and the property was under the protection of her husband’s clan, until they returned one day to reclaim it.

She watched in growing outrage as these thieves brazenly violated the honor of the Bani Hashim in broad daylight. The bandits kicked down doors, smashed windows that had been boarded with planks of acacia bark, and threw their ill-gotten booty into the street. Everything that her kinsmen owned—carpets, mirrors, tables, chairs, even cooking utensils—was removed and cast onto waiting donkey carts.

Umm al-Fadl saw the men of the clan standing by, their heads hanging with shame, as these sword-wielding burglars plundered freely. She could not let this go on. Her throat constricting with rage as well as terror, she stepped forward, blocking the path of a particularly loathsome-looking bandit, his cheeks scarred with a thief ’s brand he had probably received as punishment in Taif or one of the southern towns.

“Stop! What are you doing?” She cast a sideways glance, hoping that the frightened men of her clan retained a few shards of masculine honor to protect her if the burglar turned violent.

The branded thief, his mouth reeking of onions and cheap wine, just looked at her for a moment, then snickered and went about his business. He tossed a silk-cushioned chair onto his cart and turned to go back inside one of the houses his men were ravaging, when Umm al-Fadl ran over and stood in the door frame. Her brown eyes challenged him to touch her, the wife of one of the most respected members of Quraysh. The bandit rubbed his scar in irritation and then decided not to risk inciting an honor feud.

“The goods of the heretics are to be sold in the market,” he said through a nest of broken and blackened teeth.

“Under whose authority?” she said, like a teacher scolding a naughty child.

The thief looked over his shoulder at the crowd of nervous onlookers and then spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Abu Sufyan.”

Umm al-Fadl felt the color drain from her face. If Abu Sufyan could act with such impunity, then her clan was in severe danger. With the most influential Muslims gone, her husband would not have the backing to protect the community if Abu Sufyan decided to unleash vengeance on those who remained. It would start with stealing the property of the refugees. And it would end with the expulsion of her people. Or worse.

“These are the homes of the Bani Hashim,” she said, her outrage heightened by fear. “Abu Sufyan has no authority over our clan.”

And then a familiar leering voice she hated came from behind her.

“But I do.”

Umm al-Fadl turned to face the wormlike face of Abu Lahab.

Her brother-in-law, the chief of Bani Hashim, had always repelled her with his crude comments and suggestive glances at her breasts, which were still shapely and firm despite the onset of her middle years. His betrayal of his own nephew Muhammad, whom Abbas loved and who was always kind to her, had sealed her loathing for Abu Lahab.

“Go on with your work,” he said, in his high-pitched, almost effeminate voice.

“How can you let this happen?” she asked indignantly, even though her heart knew the answer. “These goods belong to men of your own clan!”

Abu Lahab shrugged. The sickly odor of his sweat was overpowering and she wanted to retch.

“Men who have renounced the gods and have fled our noble city like petty criminals have no clan,” Abu Lahab said loudly, ensuring that the crowds could hear his rationale. “Their goods belong to Mecca and will be sold to promote its commerce.”

Umm al-Fadl bit her lip hard, trying to restrain the compulsion to strangle him in the open street. She tasted blood in her mouth, like hot iron scathing her tongue. And then she turned to face the crowd, beating her chest in an ancient gesture of mourning.

“Is this what you have fallen to, Abu Lahab? Sanctioning theft and robbery as commerce?”

There were murmurs of shame among the men, and she saw several of the younger clansmen looking at their leader with open reproach.

Abu Lahab’s face turned dangerous. He suddenly grabbed her by the arm and pushed her against the stone wall of the house.

“You should learn to respect your elders, wife of my brother,” he said, a red glint in his tiny eyes.

Umm al-Fadl felt her skin crawl at his touch and she shook off his clammy hand with revulsion.

“A man has to earn respect, brother of my husband,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “It is gained through honor—which you have long since traded for power.”

There was a strange flicker his eyes and his tongue flitted in and out of his mouth like a hungry snake.

“Since you are so concerned with matters of trade and commerce, may I propose a business transaction to satisfy the debts of our wayward clansmen?”

She didn’t like where this was going. No one ever did business with Abu Lahab and profited. Umm al-Fadl knew that she had to take control of the conversation and the terms of any negotiation if she wanted to help her kinsmen.

“Abbas will ransom their goods,” she said with more confidence than she felt. Her husband was wealthy, but even he did not have the resources to buy back all of the stolen property in the marketplace.

Abu Lahab smiled. “It is not from my brother that I seek to collect payment.”

He ran his pudgy fingers, slick with the oil and sweat, through her hair. He leaned close to her, and she could feel the nub of his aroused member pressing against the thin cotton of his robe.

She slapped him, letting years of disgust pour through her hand.

Abu Lahab stepped back, stunned. His pale cheeks burned with surprise and embarrassment as the crowd of onlookers murmured at her audacity. The chieftain of a clan was a tent pole of Mecca’s social structure, and striking one in public would have many consequences. None of them good.

Abu Lahab’s eyes narrowed so much that she could no longer see his pupils. And then he struck back, slapping her with such force that she spun and struck her head hard against the stone windowsill behind her right shoulder.

The world scattered for a moment and she felt fiery needles pushing into her skull. Umm al-Fadl reached for her forehead, which was throbbing from the blow. When she looked down at her hand, she could see it was covered in blood.

Abu Lahab smiled viciously at the sight of his sister-in-law’s wound.

“Alas, it appears that we cannot agree to the terms of a deal. Pity.”

With that, the giant snail of a man turned and walked away, waving absentmindedly to his hired thieves to continue their work.

Umm al-Fadl looked at him through eyes that blurred with pain.

“Abu Lahab!”

The chieftain turned to face her, his eyebrow raised contemptuously.

“Every debt is repaid, brother of my husband,” she said coldly. “Remember that. Every debt.”

Abu Lahab snickered. But when he saw the darkness in her eyes, his smile faded and he hurried away.