Mother of the Believers Part 28

And then I saw the silk dealer's face change. He had recognized me. Suddenly the practiced showmans.h.i.+p vanished and I saw fear and awe in his eyes.

"You...you are the Mother of the Believers...Please, take it as a gift..."

He handed the roll of silk to me reverently, his wrinkled hands trembling, and suddenly it was I who felt like the fraud.

"My husband would not let me take something without paying," I said hastily. I suddenly regretted having come here alone.

I saw tears well in the old man's eyes.

"Then take it in exchange for a prayer," he said in a voice that cracked with emotion. "My daughter Halima is sick with the oasis fever. Please pray for her. I know that G.o.d listens to the Mother of the Believers."

I suddenly felt sorry for this kindly old man. He looked at me with the eyes of a child, completely trusting that I could do something for him. But I could not even find an answer for my own fervent prayers. I had now been with the Prophet for almost four years and my womb was barren. I had been praying every night for the past year for G.o.d to quicken my body with new life. And there had been no answer.

"I will ask my husband to pray for her," I said softly. "And insha-Allah insha-Allah she will be healed." she will be healed."

The merchant's face lit up in a smile of pure glee. He fell to his knees and praised Allah so loudly that people in the bazaar stopped what they were doing to stare.

I felt my face flush red. I wished the old man peace and quickly turned to walk away.

And then I walked right into a tall woman whose face was almost completely covered by a black veil. All I could see were her gray eyes, which pierced into me like an arrow.

"Alms for a poor woman..."

She held out her hand and I saw that her fingers were finely manicured, not rough and callused like those of all the other beggars in the town. And yet there was something about the intensity of her gaze that suggested she carried more sorrow than all the hungry women and children who came to the Bench every day asking for food.

I reached into my small leather purse and took out a few silver coins. As I placed them in her outstretched palm she gripped my hand with terrifying strength.

"Let go of me!" I was suddenly afraid, even though I knew that if I cried out, the entire bazaar would rush to the aid of the Mother. But something about the mournful way that she looked into my eyes filled me with greater dread than the violent threats of any enemy.

The woman leaned close to me and I could smell rosewater about her. Even though she was dressed in rags, her flesh had the unmistakable scent of luxury.

"Your husband is in danger."

My heart forgot to beat for an instant, and then made up for it by hammering with wild abandon.

"What are you saying?" I had to raise my voice to hear my own words over the pounding in my ears.

"The Bani Nadir plan to kill him outside the walls of their fortress," she said softly, her gray eyes s.h.i.+mmering with tears. "Save him. Or war will be upon us and Medina will be washed in blood."

I felt all color drain from my face. The woman let go of my hand and I felt my legs moving even though I had not willed them to do so. And suddenly I was racing away from the strange woman, away from the stands of olives and spices and jewelry, away from the cobbled streets of Medina into the palm groves that stood between the oasis and the mighty walls of the Jews.

I did not look back. Had I done so, I would have seen the woman in black bow her head in shame before removing her veil.

And I would have recognized the cold, statuesque beauty of a girl I had seen on a handful of occasions when the Messenger had met formally with the chieftains of the Jews.

A girl named Safiya, who had just betrayed her own people.

3.

I tore through the palm grove, blinking wildly as the wind blew grains of dust into my golden eyes. The sun had set and a blanket of darkness was rapidly descending on the grove. I managed to clamber up the path and suddenly I could see the ominous walls of the Bani Nadir blocking my path. tore through the palm grove, blinking wildly as the wind blew grains of dust into my golden eyes. The sun had set and a blanket of darkness was rapidly descending on the grove. I managed to clamber up the path and suddenly I could see the ominous walls of the Bani Nadir blocking my path.

I was relieved to hear the gentle tones of my husband's voice in prayer. He was reciting a sura of the Qur'an that had recently been revealed, a beautiful poetic verse meant to ward off evil.

Say: I seek protection from the Lord of Daybreak, From the evil of that He has created And the evil of darkness when it falls And the evil of witches who cast spells And the evil of the jealous when he envies.

My eyes adjusted to the fading light and I saw the Messenger leading the Maghrib Maghrib prayers at the base of one of the towers of the wall. I breathed a sigh of relief that he was safe. Suddenly I felt very stupid. I had no idea who the veiled woman was, and yet I had taken her ramblings as truth. Feeling my cheeks flush in embarra.s.sment, I turned to go home. prayers at the base of one of the towers of the wall. I breathed a sigh of relief that he was safe. Suddenly I felt very stupid. I had no idea who the veiled woman was, and yet I had taken her ramblings as truth. Feeling my cheeks flush in embarra.s.sment, I turned to go home.

And then I heard something. A sound coming from above. I looked up and my falcon's eyes fell upon the old turret high above the ground and I saw the distinct outline of figures pus.h.i.+ng hard against the old stone from above.

A tiny cascade of pebbles streamed down the side of the tower and then I understood. My eyes went wide with horror and I ran across the path, hurtling toward the Prophet like a crimson arrow.

"No! It's a trap!"

And then I crashed against my husband with such force that I knocked him aside in the midst of his prayers. The Prophet fell backward and his followers immediately stopped the ritual and leaped to his defense.

And then with a mighty roar, an avalanche of stone blocks larger than my head came tumbling down the side of the tower as the turret crumbled and collapsed. The heavy boulders crashed right where the Messenger had been standing and would have buried him in their deadly cascade had G.o.d not used me to push him out of the way.

I heard a tumult of cries as the Companions grabbed the Messenger and pulled him back from the wall into the safety of the garden. They took refuge under a thick palm tree and formed a protective circle around him. The men had come unarmed to the feast, but I saw such frenzy in their eyes that I knew they would fight any attackers, using their fingers and teeth if need be.

I looked down at my husband, who appeared to be in shock. And then I saw the familiar tremor racing through his bones and I knew that he was having a Revelation. And then he went still and his eyes opened.

He looked at me in surprise, and then at his followers, and finally at the pile of sharp rocks that covered the s.p.a.ce he had occupied only moments before. He blinked rapidly as his sense of self returned.

"Gabriel appeared to me as I prayed and said my life was in danger...but G.o.d would protect me..."

He ran a hand across my face, which was smeared with dirt.

"Thank you," he said softly. I suddenly realized that I was trembling as wildly as he did during his mystical trances, and I hugged myself tight and tried to end the shaking.

I heard footsteps approaching and I saw my husband's face darken. The smile vanished and was replaced by something so terrible that I quickly looked away.

Huyayy, the chieftain of the Bani Nadir, came running to our side.

"My friends! Are you all right?" he cried with an obsequiousness that did not come naturally. "What a terrible accident! I will order our masons to fortify the wall so that something like this will never happen again."

It was such a transparent ruse that I stared at Huyayy in surprise. And then I saw beneath his protestations of innocence a mix of desperation and fear. This mighty statesman, this merchant renowned for his influence in worldly affairs, had been reduced to employing this crude and ultimately ineffective scheme to eliminate the Prophet.

The Messenger looked at him with both pity and contempt.

"You will not need to rebuild your wall," he said, ice in his words.

"I don't understand," Huyayy said, continuing to feign innocence.

My husband stepped forward with dignity and took hold of Huyayy's richly embroidered lapel.

"The Bani Nadir have broken the Treaty of Medina with their treachery. Your lands are forfeit."

Huyayy's fawning mask fell and his face twisted into an ugly sneer.

"You do not have enough men to compel the Bani Nadir to abandon their homes."

The Messenger did not move. His eyes remained locked with his adversary's poisonous gaze.

"Once the Bani Amir learn of your intention to kill a guest under guise of sanctuary, they will stand by Medina," he said with the power of absolute certainty. "As will their allies among the Bedouins. By G.o.d, you will leave your homes. Whether alive or dead, the choice is yours."

And with that, the Messenger let go of Huyayy and stormed down the path back to the safety of Medina. The men immediately followed, but I lingered for a second. I stared at Huyayy, who suddenly looked lost, as if he could not understand how the journey of his life had led him to this moment.

I saw the sadness in his gray eyes, and I felt a chill race down my spine as I remembered the veiled woman with the same eyes who had betrayed the Bani Nadir. And then I ran to join my husband, the full tragedy of Huyayy ibn Akhtab branded on my heart.

A FEW DAYS LATER FEW DAYS LATER, I stood at the edge of the oasis, watching as the Jews of Bani Nadir evacuated their homes and prepared for the long march north. The rumor was that they would take refuge in Khaybar, a Jewish stronghold at the edge of Byzantine territory. As I watched the men load their possessions on camels and mules, my eyes fell upon a young girl with sandy hair sitting alone upon a horse. Her gaze met mine and I immediately recognized the gray eyes, which now s.h.i.+mmered with tears.

I nodded to Safiya in grat.i.tude, but she looked away. And then the daughter of Huyayy ibn Akhtab turned and rode out into the desert, the secret that we shared a burden that would forever haunt her days.

4.

I stood outside the birthing chamber as Fatima's screams of agony echoed from beyond the thin palm-wood door. The Messenger stood by my side, holding his small grandson, Hasan, in his arms. My husband looked even more pale than usual, and his eyes were red from lack of sleep. Ever since his daughter had begun labor three nights before, he had been holding a vigil in her small house. Each of his wives had alternated spending the hours at his side, and I had just arrived to relieve the elderly Sawda, who shook her head wearily as Fatima's cries intensified. stood outside the birthing chamber as Fatima's screams of agony echoed from beyond the thin palm-wood door. The Messenger stood by my side, holding his small grandson, Hasan, in his arms. My husband looked even more pale than usual, and his eyes were red from lack of sleep. Ever since his daughter had begun labor three nights before, he had been holding a vigil in her small house. Each of his wives had alternated spending the hours at his side, and I had just arrived to relieve the elderly Sawda, who shook her head wearily as Fatima's cries intensified.

"She is in so much pain," my sister wife said to me quietly. "I don't understand it."

I glanced over at my husband, who held his grandson tight, as if afraid that some evil djinn would appear and spirit him away into the netherworld. The boy was now two years old and his face looked remarkably like the Messenger's, although his eyes were light brown and his curly hair had streaks of gold in it. Hasan looked at us, his grandmothers, with a placid smile, as if he could not hear the heart-wrenching cries from the adjacent room. I was always struck by how perpetually happy the child was. Indeed, I could not remember Hasan ever crying, and he seemed to find every moment of his little life a source of great delight and wonder. The "miracle child," the people of Medina had called him, the boy who should have died in Fatima's malnourished and tiny womb.

Hasan's mother had endured great suffering in the final weeks of her first pregnancy and had been unable to rise from her bed, requiring constant attention from the other women of the household. So when we learned that Fatima was carrying a second child, the women of the Ahl al-Bayt Ahl al-Bayt worked feverishly to prepare a comfortable home and bed for the Prophet's daughter. We expected another difficult pregnancy that would require us to spend many long nights at her side. But this time it was different. Fatima had shown no signs of discomfort in the days and weeks prior to the onset of labor, and we were delighted that our fears had come to nothing. worked feverishly to prepare a comfortable home and bed for the Prophet's daughter. We expected another difficult pregnancy that would require us to spend many long nights at her side. But this time it was different. Fatima had shown no signs of discomfort in the days and weeks prior to the onset of labor, and we were delighted that our fears had come to nothing.

But the moment her water broke, Fatima had suffered terrifying pain. Her unearthly screams had chilled me to the bone, and for the first time made me thankful that I had failed to conceive a child myself.

My husband saw Sawda and me looking at him and he spoke for the first time in hours.

"It is not her own pain that she feels. It is her child's."

I stared at him in confusion, unable to understand what he could possibly mean. But then I realized I shouldn't have been surprised. Nothing about Fatima had ever made much sense to me.

The Messenger turned his attention to his son-in-law Ali, who sat cross-legged on the hard floor, his head buried in his hands. My husband placed a comforting hand on the young man's shoulders as Fatima's wails continued unabated. It seemed so strange to see this mighty warrior hunched over, as if the suffering of his wife were far more painful to him than any wound he had endured at Badr or Uhud. I suddenly realized with a flash of surprise that Ali truly loved Fatima. I had never thought much about it before that moment. Perhaps I had a.s.sumed that the marriage was nothing more than a political union meant to bring the young man closer to Muhammad, his cousin and mentor.

But looking at his sagging shoulders, his body trembling from suppressed grief, I finally understood that the bond between Ali and Fatima was deeper than I understood. They were both misfits, people who did not and could not fit into the cruel world, and in each other's company they must have found solace. And if, as it appeared, Fatima failed to survive the childbirth, Ali would be truly alone. With few friends or supporters aside from the Messenger himself, he would be plunged into a desert of solitude that would make the empty wastes of the Najd look green with life. For the first time in my life, I felt sorry for him.

And then, without any warning, the cries from the birthing chamber ceased abruptly, followed by a terrible silence that was more frightening than all the hours of agony that had preceded it.

Ali lifted his head and met the Messenger's eyes. I saw both men exchange a look of terrible grief and I felt tears welling in my eyes. The Prophet had lost another daughter. Fatima, his most beloved child, who was the plainest and simplest of his girls, and yet the one he treated with such open devotion that it bordered on reverence. Ever since Khadija had died, Fatima had been the rock that held him steady amid the cras.h.i.+ng waves of his destiny. Even though I knew that I was his favorite wife, Fatima held a place in his heart that I could never reach. And now she was gone.

I moved to comfort my husband, when, to my absolute surprise, I heard the cry of a baby. The Messenger and Ali both turned to stare at the door to Fatima's chamber, which swung open, revealing an elderly midwife named Malika standing in the threshold, her birthing ap.r.o.n covered in blood.

Malika looked as if her face had aged a dozen years in the past hour. And just beyond her weary form, to my disbelief, was Fatima in her bed, alive and holding a tiny baby swaddled in green.

"Blessings to the Ahl al-Bayt. Ahl al-Bayt." Malika spoke, her voice as heavy and exhausted as that of a warrior crawling back from the battlefield. "The Messenger has another grandson."

As if swimming deep underwater, my husband stepped slowly inside the room, followed by Ali. Sawda and I hesitated and then stepped behind the men, keeping a respectful distance as they leaned over Fatima and stared in silence at her newborn baby boy.

As I stepped inside the birthing chamber, I felt as if I were entering a dream. My vision flickered like a candle caught in a storm and I felt a strange chill even though the night air was unseasonably hot.

I watched in awestruck silence as the Prophet leaned close to the new baby. His elder grandson, Hasan, was still held tightly in his arms, and the smiling boy laughed with delight at the sight of his baby brother. The Messenger held Hasan close to the baby, and the child kissed the newborn on the forehead. And then my husband handed Hasan to his father and took the bundled baby in his arms.

I saw the infant's face for the first time, and I was startled to see that his eyes were already open and were looking at the Messenger with surprising intensity. The Prophet gazed into the baby's eyes, which, I saw, were as black as his own. And then he whispered the prayer call into the child's right ear before handing the baby to Ali, who repeated the prayer in newborn's left ear.

It was a miracle that Fatima and the baby had survived. And it was a blessing that the Prophet had been given another grandson through whom his lineage would continue. But there was no rejoicing. I looked around the room, confused to see the solemn looks on the men's faces and tears of evident sorrow on Fatima's bloodless cheeks.

I felt as if I had walked in on a funeral rather than a birth, and I finally turned to Ali, unable to hold back my unease.

"Why are you not smiling? You have a son!"

Ali looked at me with those mysterious green eyes. As always, I felt he was seeing past me to another place, another time.

"My heart smiles, but my lips cannot. He has a burden I wish for no man."

And then Ali looked down at his son and I was shocked to see a tear roll down his cheek. In all the years that I had known him, I had never seen this strange young man weep, except in prayer.

Shaken, I turned to face Fatima, who was gazing at me as if seeing me for the first time.

"What will you name him?" I asked with a forced smile, hoping to bring some semblance of normality to this otherworldly scene.

Fatima opened her mouth, but it was a long moment before any sound came out. When she finally spoke, her voice was like a whisper carried on the wind.

"He has already been named."

Fatima turned her head to her father. My husband stood at Ali's side, stroking his new grandson's thick black hair with his forefinger. His eyes glistened, but I saw no sign of tears. It was as if a light had been lit in his soul, one that I had seen only during his painful moments of Revelation.