The Jewel Of Medina (11 page)

“I hope to see you enjoying it, Little Red,” he said. I slanted my eyes at him. Wasn’t I also a married woman?

Back in the courtyard, Muhammad pointed to the little hut I’d pitied and told me it belonged to Sawdah. If I needed anything and Muhammad was busy, I could usually find her there or in the cooking tent.

“She took care of my daughters after their mother died, and I am certain she will take good care of you.” Again, I nearly protested. Did he think I was a child? Did I want him to? I stilled my tongue.

Inside the tent, a black kettle of barley bubbled over an enormous fire pit, and discs of bread puffed on flat stones. A flap in the tent sucked the smoke upward into the tender morning air, but the tent retained the smells of bread and grain and burning coal. Openings at either end of the long, wide tent and a main entrance in the center of the west wall, facing the mosque, provided the only other natural light, but oil lamps hanging
from carved date-palm stands illuminated the room so that it was nearly as bright as the outdoors. The fire pit, a large, deep bowl lined with rocks along the long eastern wall, served as the room’s centerpiece. At the south end, under one flap, a small boy squatted on his heels and played with toy soldiers on a faded red carpet. Behind him, marbles, dolls, shells, and colorful sticks told me this was a play area for the household’s children—most of whom, as Muhammad had said, were grown. The north end of the tent held a second carpet, also faded to a bare blush, scattered with plump tan and brown pillows. This was where Sawdah and I would dine during the hottest part of the day, sheltered from the sun and insulated from the heat.

Directly across from the pit, beside the main entrance, large wooden boxes held more knives plus bowls and plates of fired clay, red and gray, brown and dark green, many of them chipped. These boxes sat on the floor, next to a large slab of white marble streaked with gray, where food was prepared. On it sat a great gray mortar and a pestle as big as a club, a basket of pale ground barley, and a bowl of clarified butter. A tall wooden barrel beside this food-preparation area held dates and the sticky-sweet nectar they seeped, used as a sweetener or, best of all, mixed with water for a refreshing drink.

Near the fire pit a red-faced Sawdah squatted beside a stone slab, grinding barley with a rock. Muhammad greeted her with a smile. She lifted a hand to the windowsill and, with a grunt, hoisted herself up to stand. She waddled across the room wearing a grin riddled with gaps on her broad, round face, and folded me into her body in a doughy embrace. Her musky, unperfumed odor took my breath away.

“Tut, what a tiny thing!” she said. “I had better get busy cooking. You need some padding on those hips!” She nudged me with her elbow. “A man needs something to hold on to, as you will find out soon enough.”

A telltale heat crept up my neck to my cheeks. By al-Lah, was the bedroom all anyone could think about today? I lowered my eyes so she couldn’t see my irritation.

“
Yaa
Sawdah, see how red my bride’s face has become!” Muhammad chided her gently. “You embarrass us both.”

But she only laughed and hugged me again, then turned to embrace Muhammad. She called her son from her previous marriage to meet us—just six years old, the pudgy-cheeked Abdal already showed signs of
inheriting his mother’s shape—then nudged us toward the courtyard, saying she needed to finish preparing the daily meal.

“Go! Enjoy these days and nights alone together,” she said. “They are the most memorable times for any bride.” Her eyes danced. “Savor them, A’isha. You will be working with me in the cooking tent soon enough.”

Days and nights. Alone together. What would I and Muhammad do? Many things, according to Asma. Unspeakable things.
When she bleeds, she’s ready to breed
. Me, bear a child? I could not imagine revealing my body to any man.
Close your eyes and it will be over quickly.
Muhammad led me across the courtyard to another, newer hut, attached to the mosque and fronted with a small, plain door of green wood.

“This is where you will live, and where I will sleep on my nights with you,” he said. My wedding gown dragged like chains around my feet as he led me into the mosque to wash our hands at the spout. The water trickled cool across my trembling fingers, calming my clamoring heart.

“Let us ask al-Lah to bless our marriage,” he said. He reached for a pair of date-fiber mats leaning against the wall and unrolled them to face south, toward Mecca. Together we performed two
raka’at,
bowing at the waist, then lowering ourselves to our knees and pressing our foreheads to the ground.

“Oh God, nurture my love and affection for her and nurture hers for me,” Muhammad prayed as we bowed and prostrated ourselves. “Inspire us with love for each other.”

Give me courage,
I prayed.
And please don’t let it hurt too much.

We rolled up our mats and replaced them. He took my hand and led me outside again. Dizziness muddled my vision as if I had sunstroke. At the door of my hut, we stopped. Muhammad stepped behind me and placed his hands over my eyes.

I stifled a cry and clung to my doll, which was still hidden beneath my robe. I felt his body radiating heat just inches away.

“Enter, and let us express our love,” he said.

I walked with faltering steps into the hut. The dirt floor crunched beneath my sandals. The dark smell of mud mingled with the sweet aroma of straw. Muhammad pulled his hands away from my face, and I opened my eyes.

“By al-Lah!” I cried. “Have you brought me to Paradise?”

Wooden soldiers, an entire army of them, filled the shelves and windowsills of my bedroom, as well as miniature horses with real horsehair manes, two girl dolls with dark hair and a boy doll wearing a turban, a rope for skipping, a ball—and, leaning beneath a window, a real sword with a curved blade and a hammered brass handle, small and light enough for me to lift easily.

“No more fighting with sticks,” Muhammad said. “I will teach you how to use the real thing.”

I tucked my doll inside my shirt, then slashed the blade through the air. “Now?”

He laughed and shook his head. His eyes glinted as he stepped toward me.

He said: “I had another game in mind for today.”

The sword fell from my hand and thudded on the earthen floor.

I held my breath as he reached his fingers toward me. I watched his eyes change, as if catching flame, and I waited for the scuttling hands, the stinging tail. This was the beginning of something new, something terrible. Soon I would be lying on my bed beneath him, squashed like a scarab beetle, flailing and sobbing while he slammed himself against me. He would not want to hurt me, but how could he help it?
It’s always painful the first time. Just close your eyes and pray he will finish soon.

“Wait,” I said. My voice shook. I grabbed my doll, Layla, and thrust her in front of me. My hands trembled, making my doll quiver, also.

“
Yaa
Muhammad, what do you want to play?” Layla said, shaking her hair at him. “Hide and seek? Horses and soldiers? Or maybe you want to push us on the swing.”

His eyes gazed deeply into mine. “This is a solemn occasion, A’isha. The time for children’s games is later.”

He took a few steps closer, and reached out one hand to tug my wrapper away from my head. It slipped over my shoulders and onto the floor with a
whoosh.

“Such lovely red hair, like liquid fire,” he murmured. I closed my eyes and tried to savor the caress of his fingers against my cheek, the slide of his palm across my scalp, but all I could think about was the next piece of clothing to fall.

He kissed the crown of my head. He slid his fingers down my arm. He pulled gently at my robe until it slipped off my shoulders and slumped,
also, to the floor. I wanted to cover my bare arms with my hair, or with my hands, but I clutched my doll instead and prayed he would finish with me soon. His fingers lightly swirled the skin on my arms, causing chill-bumps. Even in the sultry air of this small, stuffy room, I felt cold.

“A’isha,” he said. “Look at me.”

I opened my eyes and looked up into his. They were soft and fierce at once, and coming closer as he dipped his head down to kiss my lips. I closed my eyes again and tried to make my body relax, but the feel of his breath on my skin and his mouth against mine only made me grip my doll more tightly. He slipped his tongue inside my mouth. He moved his hands to my waist, and then slowly up my ribcage, toward my breasts. I twisted my doll frantically, willing my hands not to push him away. Then I heard a ripping sound that made me gasp.

I looked down at my hands. Poor Layla lay limp, her eyes vacant, her head torn almost completely off her body.

“Oh, no!” I cried. “I’ve killed her.” Bits of sheep’s wool trickled out of her neck and fell across my hand. Her pretty head dangled at an odd angle. I began to sob as if she were a real, flesh-and-blood child instead of an old rag doll.

Tenderly Muhammad took her from my hands and examined the tear.

“She is not dead, only injured,” he said. “Fortunately, Sawdah is very adept with a needle. She will mend your dolly without leaving a scar.”

“No!” I cried harder. “She’ll ruin her. I’ve seen your sandals—”

Muhammad’s laughter boomed, startling me out of my tears. “
Yaa
Little Red, Sawdah works hard enough minding the household. I mend my own clothing—including my sandals.”

I laughed, too, through the tears, and put Layla down. How foolish of me to cry over a doll! Many husbands might shout or even slap me, but not Muhammad. I stepped up to him and wrapped my arms around him like a necklace. He folded his arms around me and held me close against him. His body felt as warm as if he’d been out in the sun all day. He smelled sweet and clean, of cardamom and
miswak
. His heart skipped against my ear like a child’s feet. His hand stroked my long hair—but differently now, with his whole hand rather than just his fingertips.

“My Little Red,” he said. “Your body may be ready for me, but I am afraid your heart is not.”

I looked up into his face, expecting to see desire kindling again—but amusement twitched his lips.

“Do you think I don’t love you?” I said.

“I know you do,
habibati
. But it is not the same love that I have for you. Yours is a young girl’s love, not a woman’s.” He sighed. “It is the risk I accepted when I married a child-bride.”

I sucked in my breath. A child! Children lived with their parents. Would he send me back to that prison?

“I am a child, in some ways,” I said. “But I’ve been trapped inside my father’s house for five years. How could anyone grow up without adventures, or at least experiences? If you sent me back there today, I would be the same in five more years.”

He grinned. “Send you back? Why would I want to do that? Already you have brought laughter to this lonely place. Little Red, you will not reside in your parents’ home again. You and I will stay together for as long as we live—and afterward, in Paradise.”

“But—what about the consummation? We’re not truly married without it.”

“A wedding takes place in the heart, not in the bedroom.” He pulled me close and kissed my forehead. “Although, I like the bedroom part. And so will you—when you are ready. In the meantime, we have other, very important, things to do.”

He loosened his hold. I stepped back from him and looked up at his face—but he had already moved past me to the sword I’d dropped on the floor. He picked it up and held it to the light, turned it this way and that, flashing the sun against his face. He turned to me with a fierce grin.

“Lesson number one,” he said. “How to disarm your opponent.”

T
ROUBLEMAKER

M
EDINA
, M
ARCH
625

The sun was a white hot sword, striking feeble
shaykhs
and panting dogs to the parched ground. Its relentless blows sent the wilting Fatima to seek refuge in her room, where she hung dark cloths on the windows and lay with a dampened rag over her face. As for me, I was no cringer from the heat, especially not today.

During those years in my father’s house I’d had to miss the sights, sounds, and flavors of Medina’s big yearly market, whose festivities brought traders from all over Hijaz and beyond to the Kaynuqah neighborhood on the city’s edge. Now, in spite of Ali’s protests, I was finally going. Nothing would keep me away: not the heat, nor Ali’s surly glares, nor even the danger of attack by our Kaynuqah neighbors.

As we saddled our horses and Sawdah’s camel, Ali glowered and complained about the heat—but I knew it was the errand he resented. I’d seen the sullen droop of his eyelids when Muhammad had asked him to escort us. It was clear that he considered the task beneath him. Resentment, and not the weather, was why he slumped against the mosque wall, in the shade, and watched poor Sawdah struggle to heave her bulk over her camel’s hump.

“Everyone with a brain is at home today, keeping cool,” he said loudly, as if he were speaking to al-Lah Himself. His face was taut, all angles and planes and sharp points.