"Mother Of the Believers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pasha Kamran)

2 Mecca-AD 617

My first real memory is the day I witnessed death.

Ever since that day, I have been blessed-and cursed-with perfect memory. I can recall words said forty years ago as if they had been uttered this morning. The scent of a moment is forever impressed on my heart, as if I live outside time, and every moment of my life is now. The Messenger, may God’s blessings and peace be upon him, used to say that I was chosen for that reason. That his words and deeds would be remembered for all time through me, the one he loved the most.

But there is a darkness behind every gift, like the veil of night that remains hidden behind the sun, waiting patiently for its moment to cast the world in gloom. My gift of memory is like that. For even as I can remember every moment of joy, every instant of laughter in my life, I can also remember the pain with absolute clarity. There are those who say time heals all wounds, but that is not so for me. Every wound I have suffered, I relive with terrifying precision, as if the knife, once embedded in my heart, leaves behind a shard of crystal sharpness ready to cut me again should I turn my thoughts in its direction.

It is that perfect memory that has made me the most prized recounter of hadith, the tales of the Prophet’s life and teaching to be recorded for future generations of believers.

And it is that perfect memory that brought war upon my people and splintered our nation forever.

But every memory, even one as pristine as my own, must begin in earnest one day. Mine begins the day of the great Pilgrimage. My father had decided that I was old enough to attend the annual ritual, where tribes from all over Arabia descended on the arid valley of Mecca to worship at the House of God.

I ran shoeless out of the house when Abu Bakr called, and my father sternly sent me back, telling me that I could not accompany him unless I wore the tiny blue sandals he had bought from Yemeni traders earlier that summer. I pouted and stamped my feet, but Abu Bakr simply raised his eyebrows and refused to open the gate until I hung my head and sullenly went back inside in search of them.

I hunted through the house, trying to remember where I had thrown them in one of my tantrums earlier that morning. I searched in my small bedroom, beneath the tiny cot with its knotted rope fibers supporting the soft Egyptian cotton mattress. I looked through the mountain of dolls and toys that were piled in a corner, throwing the little wooden and rag figures everywhere and making a mess that my mother would assuredly chide me for later that day. But that inevitable reckoning did not concern me, a young girl who only cared for the moment. The future, as every child knows, is little more than make-believe. All that ever exists, all that ever matters, is now.

Frowning, I ran out of her bedchamber and looked in the main sitting room, underneath the emerald brocaded couches from Persia that were among the few luxuries that still remained inside our home. My mother told me that our house used to be filled with beautiful and expensive furnishings in the Days of Ignorance but that Abu Bakr had sold most of his worldly goods since I was born, dedicating his wealth to the spread of the Truth. I always wondered why spreading the Truth should be expensive, since it was obvious and free to all, but when I asked Umm Ruman once, my mother gave me the stern glance that was her practiced response to my litany of impertinent queries.

Looking around in frustration, I suddenly saw a hint of blue in a corner. I ran over, my crimson hair flying behind me. There they were! My Yemeni sandals were tucked behind an intricate vase that my mother said was made in a faraway city called Damascus. I paused to admire the swirling floral designs in carnelian, citrine, and olive that circled the ivory vase in crisscrossing patterns.

Umm Ruman had taught me the names of the different blooms depicted on the vase-hyacinths, jasmine and lotus-flowers that grew in faraway cities with mysterious names like Aksum, Babylon, and Persepolis. I loved flowers, but so few grew in the hot desert sun. I had yelped with delight a month before when I had found a small abal bush growing in a gulley just outside the perimeter of the holy precinct, at the base of the sacred hill of Safa. I had plucked its red, lantern-shaped blooms, which I had seen the older girls use to rouge their cheeks, but its thorns had torn into my tiny palm and I had run home crying.

My mother had gently removed the needles from my hand and salved the little wounds with dried sap from the thornbushes that grew in our courtyard. After drying my tears, Umm Ruman had gently chided me for wandering so far away from home. From now on, I was to play only within sight of their house. Mecca was a dangerous city for little girls…especially girls whose families supported the heretic Prophet in its midst.

I remembered her words as I grabbed the sandals and slipped them on. They were pretty enough, with little white stars woven though the tiny blue throngs, but I didn’t like them. Although other girls were obsessed with shoes, spending hours in silly talk about the merits of various designs, the newest fashions arriving on caravans from north and south, I found shoes to be an irritant. Instead, I loved the tingly feeling of the warm sand on my bare feet, even the tiny pricks caused by the pebbles that littered the streets of the ancient city. Shoes made me feel restricted and caged, like one of the goats my father had kept in a pen behind the old stone house in preparation for the sacrifice at the apex of the Pilgrimage.

I ran back to my father, who was still waiting by the gate. Seeing the look of mild irritation on his face at the delay, I quickly kicked up my feet and showed off the little shoes, and then danced an excited jig around him, until his stern face broke into an exasperated smile. I always knew how to melt Abu Bakr’s serious mood. I was too full of life to allow others the luxury of gloom.

My father took my hand and together we walked through the dusty streets of Mecca. Smoke rose from the chimneys of hundreds of small stone cottages and mud-brick huts, clustered together in expanding concentric circles around the central plaza known as Al-Haram-the Sanctuary. As we walked toward the heart of the city I saw children racing through the streets, chasing one another or a variety of animals-goats, lambs, and a few wayward chickens-that had escaped their pens.

I also saw dozens of beggars, mainly women and bastard children who had been abandoned by their fathers. They held out their hands, their pathetic cries for compassion largely ignored. My father handed an old woman a gold dirham. Her eyes went wide in shock at his generosity, for she had come to expect little more than a copper piece accompanied by a grudging look. We were suddenly surrounded by what appeared to be every beggar in town, their hands reaching out for this source of bounty. I was frightened by this excited crowd of young and old, dressed in rags and smelling worse than the rabid dogs that prowled the streets at night. But Abu Bakr was patient with them, handing to each a single gold coin from his leather purse until he had nothing left.

They followed him through the streets, pleading for more, but my father simply smiled and shook his head.

“I will be back tomorrow with more, insha-Allah,” he said, using the phrase “if God wills” that was a signature of the Muslims. The Messenger had taught us that we should say insha-Allah whenever we spoke of the future, even if referring to events only an hour away. It kept man humble and forced him to acknowledge that he was not solely the master of his destiny.

My father managed to slip away from the more persistent and aggressive of the beggars, pulling me into a side alley and taking a circuitous route to the Sanctuary. We were now in the oldest section of the city, whose buildings were said to have stood for hundreds of years, since the earliest tribes had settled the valley. The ancient houses looked like grand towers to me, but in truth most were ramshackle constructions of wood and stone, few rising higher than a second story. I could see people standing on rooftop terraces, their eyes on the horizon as the steady stream of Bedouin pilgrims emerged from the dead hills in search of Mecca ’s gods-and its life-giving wells. My eyes went wide as I watched the strangers ride by, their camels covered in colorful mats of wool and leather, their faces cracked and blackened by years of harsh work under the unforgiving sun.

My father sensed I was dawdling and he pulled forward with a gentle tug until we had cleared the narrow stone alleys and stepped onto the red sand that marked the boundaries of the Sanctuary. The plaza was spread open in a wide circle and my eyes immediately fell on the Kaaba, the grand temple that was the heart of Mecca and all of Arabia. Shaped like a majestic cube, it towered forty feet above the ground and was the tallest building in the settlement. The granite walls were covered in a variety of rich curtains of wool, cotton, even silk-crimson, emerald, and sky blue-that were brought by tribes from every corner of Arabia to mark their Pilgrimage to the sacred house.

As we approached the Kaaba, I saw my father frown. The plaza was covered with a bewildering collection of idols, stone and wood icons that represented the various gods of the desert tribes. There were 360 in all, one for each day of the year. Some were elegantly fashioned, chiseled in marble to an almost lifelike representation of a man or an animal-lions, wolves, and jackals seemed particularly popular. But others were little more than misshapen clumps of rock that required much imagination before any semblance of recognizable form could be imputed to them.

My eyes fell on two large rocks that looked vaguely like a man and woman entwined in the act of love. My friends had giggled and told me that they were once two romantics named Isaf and Naila who had consummated their lust in the Kaaba and had been turned to stone for defiling the Sanctuary. I was not sure why these two sinners who had been punished for their indiscretion should now be worshiped as gods, but they were apparently quite popular, and many young men and women bowed before them and tied tiny strings in the nooks and crannies, praying for the deities to win them the heart of their beloved, or at least bring ill fortune to their rivals in the game of love.

“Barbarism,” my father uttered under his breath. He grimaced at the sight of middle-aged women kneeling before a red-flecked rock shaped like a pregnant woman with bulbous breasts and hips. This was Uzza, one of three “daughters of Allah” who were worshiped by the pagans. She was said to be the goddess of fertility, and her favor was much sought after by those who wished to conceive. The women, their eyes brimming with hope and despair, tore open their tunics and rubbed their naked breasts against the cold stone, pleading in loud wails for Uzza to reverse the course of time, to begin their cycles again so that they could bear the children that had been denied them.

I was fascinated by these strange rituals, but my father pulled me away and led me toward the Kaaba. A crowd of hundreds of pilgrims was steadily circumambulating the House of God, moving like the stars around the earth, circling seven times while praising Allah, the Creator of the Universe. The pilgrims were dressed in a variety of robes reflecting their wealth and social power, with the tribal chiefs wrapped in silk and endowed with glittering jewels commanding the right to walk closest to the temple, while others encircled at the outskirts in filthy rags-and a few even danced around the Kaaba naked.

“Don’t look at them,” my father warned sternly as my eyes fell on these hairy nude men, their organs hanging like the sagging genitals of a dog in the open. I giggled, but a stern look from Abu Bakr forced me to hide my amusement. We walked around the holy house at a steady pace, while my father prayed aloud for the mercy of God on his wayward and ignorant people.

When we finished the sacred rite, my father, who was now drenched in sweat from the noon sun, led me away from the Kaaba and guided me to a blue pavilion at the outskirts of the Sanctuary. Under the merciful shade of the tent was the well of Zamzam, which had provided the city with a steady supply of water since the days of the first settlers. Its miraculous existence in the middle of an otherwise dead wilderness had made Mecca a necessary stop for all trading caravans that traveled between the fertile lands of Yemen to the south and Syria to the north.

This strategic location and life-giving water supply had brought much prosperity to the city’s traders-but not for most others. For the merchants of Mecca believed in only one rule-the survival of the strong. Those who were smart enough to take advantage of the opportunities provided by trade deserved to lord their wealth over others. Those too weak to do so best hurry up and die, freeing up the resources they left behind for those who were more worthy. It was this heartless mind-set that the Messenger of God had challenged, and his calls for economic justice and redistribution of Mecca ’s wealth were a direct threat to the philosophy of the city’s ruling class.

As we joined the line of thirsty pilgrims eager for a drink of the sacred water, I saw a newly arrived caravan of Bedouin pilgrims approach the Sanctuary. Their leader, his face scarred and his beard dyed red, disembarked from a gray camel and helped the others of his clan climb off their horses and mules. Their faces had the dark complexions and high cheekbones of the men of Yemen, and I realized even at my tender age that they must have traveled at least twenty days in the harsh desert to attend the Pilgrimage. Their faces were covered in coarse sand that was turning into mud under rivers of perspiration.

As I watched them, I saw a tall man dressed in rich silk robes approach them, a blue turban on his head. Abu Sufyan was not the king of Mecca, but he certainly acted like it. He walked with a royal flourish, his hands held wide in welcome of the new arrivals. Beside him I saw a short boy of about fifteen years of age with a hooked nose and unblinking black eyes that made him look like a hawk. Muawiya, Abu Sufyan’s son, was more reserved than his expressive father and looked over the newcomers with shrewd appraisal. I sensed that he was calculating their wealth and value to Meccan trade even as his father embraced the Bedouin leader as if he were a long-lost relative.

“Welcome my brothers, my friends!” Abu Sufyan’s voice boomed with the practiced good cheer of a salesman. “Welcome to the House of Allah! May the gods bless you and grant you all that you seek!”

The Bedouin leader wiped his brow as the river of sweat threatened to blind him.

“We seek water, for the journey has been trying and the sun god merciless.”

Abu Sufyan’s eyes fell on the heavy emerald rings that covered he chief ’s fingers and he smiled greedily.

“Of course, my friend.”

And then Abu Sufyan’s saw that the traders were carrying arms. Swords and daggers in sheaths on their rough leather belts, and spears and arrows tied to the sides of their horses. Necessary protection for their journey through the wild-but a potential threat to order inside Mecca itself.

“But first, I must ask that you lay aside your weapons, for they are forbidden inside the precincts of the holy city,” Abu Sufyan said with an apologetic smile.

The Bedouin looked at him for a moment and then nodded to his fellow pilgrims. They removed their various weapons and dropped them at their feet.

Muawiya stepped forward to pick up the blades, but the Bedouin leader moved to block him, his eyes filled with suspicion at the boy.

Aware of the sudden tension, Abu Sufyan immediately put on a gracious smile and stepped between the scarred Bedouin and the youth.

“My son Muawiya will take personal responsibility for all your weapons,” the Meccan chief said smoothly. “He will hold them in trust at the House of Assembly, and will return them to you at the conclusion of your Pilgrimage.”

The Bedouin spat on the ground at Muawiya’s feet.

“We are warriors of Bani Abdal Lat,” he said, his face hard. “We do not leave our weapons in the care of children.”

Abu Sufyan’s ingratiating smile vanished. The pride and power of his lineage suddenly shone through.

“My son is a lord of Quraysh, and there are no children among us. Only men of honor,” he said, his cold voice suggesting that the Bedouin had overstepped the bonds of hospitality.

Muawiya quickly interceded. “I will serve as surety over your goods,” he said, demonstrating the natural diplomacy that would serve him well in years to come. “If you do not receive them all back when you leave, you may take me as your slave in return.”

The gruff Bedouin looked over the small boy, who gazed at him steadily, never breaking eye contact. The pilgrim finally nodded, satisfied.

“The boy is strong. He has the eyes of an eagle,” the man said in clipped tones. “Your surety is accepted.”

He nodded to his people, who stepped aside as Muawiya quietly gathered the blades, spears, and arrows. Abu Sufyan’s gracious smile returned and he led the dust-covered pilgrims toward the tent of Zamzam. But when he saw my father and me standing near the well, a dangerous look came into his eyes. It was if he were communicating a wordless warning to my father. Abu Bakr met his gaze without flinching and then turned to me and held me up by my arms so that I could reach for the bucket of water he had pulled out of the well. I grasped a small bronze cup that hung from a ring at the side of the wooden bucket and drank to my little heart’s content.

Abu Sufyan turned back to his visitors.

“Behold the sacred well of Mecca, which never runs dry, nor do its waters suffer from disease or pollution. A sign of God’s favor on this blessed city.”

The Bedouin gathered around the well and dipped their leather pouches into its waters, scooping up the precious liquid and consuming it in quick gulps.

My father looked at Abu Sufyan and then laughed loudly.

“You are a strange man, Abu Sufyan,” my father said. “You acknowledge God’s favor on Mecca, and yet you still refuse to obey Him.”

The chief of Mecca turned red with suppressed anger.

The Bedouin leader saw his reaction and gazed at my father with sudden interest.

“Who is this man?”

Abu Sufyan turned his back on us.

“Just a madman spouting nonsense,” he said, waving his hand in dismissal. “Unfortunately the time of Pilgrimage draws many such fools, like the flood brings out the rats.”

Hearing him speak of my father like that ignited a fire in my child’s heart. I broke free of my father’s grasp and ran over to Abu Sufyan. “Don’t talk about my father that way! You’re the fool! You’re the rat!”

The Pilgrims laughed at my childish outburst, and my father quickly pulled me back with a scolding look.

“Aisha! We are Muslims. We do not speak to our elders with disrespect. Even if they are unbelievers.”

Now the Bedouin were intrigued. Their chief stepped forward

“What is a Muslim?”

Which was, of course, the question my father had been waiting to answer.

“One who has surrendered to God alone,” he said solemnly, like a teacher imparting wisdom to a young pupil.

But Abu Sufyan was not about to let this happen. He stepped right in front of my father and looked down at him with fury.

“Do not pester these pilgrims any further, Abu Bakr,” he said through gritted teeth. “They are tired and thirsty. Let them drink the sacred water of Zamzam in peace.”

Abu Bakr looked at the Bedouin, quenching their thirst from the well.

“I will do as you say. If you can tell me why this well is so sacred.”

Abu Sufyan stiffened.

“It is sacred because our forefathers have said so. That is enough for me.”

My father turned to the Bedouin.

“Tell me, my brother, is that enough for you?” he asked softly. “Do you know why the water you drink is blessed?”

The Bedouin looked perplexed. He ran a hand over the scar that disfigured his left cheek.

“I have never asked. But now I am curious.”

The Bedouin glanced at Abu Sufyan, but the tribal chief had no response.

And then my father turned to me.

“Tell them, little one,” he said with a gentle smile.

I looked up at the dark and dusty men from the desert and recited the story I had been raised with.

“The well of Zamzam is a miracle from God, written in the Book of the Jews and Christians,” I told them. “When our father Ishmael was sent into the desert by Abraham, his mother, Hagar, looked for water so that her child would not die of thirst. Seven times she ran between those hills.”

I pointed to the peaks of Safa and Marwa that overlooked the city. Even then, dozens of pilgrims were racing between the hills as part of the Pilgrimage ritual, though they had long forgotten its meaning or origins.

“But when she could find no water, she came back here,” I continued. “And the angel Gabriel appeared and told Ishmael to strike his foot. And the well of Zamzam sprang from beneath his feet, bringing water to the desert. And life to Mecca.”

As I spoke, I could tell that I had caught the attention of the Bedouin. They listened raptly to the story I wove, which suddenly brought a new meaning to the ancient rites they had crossed the desert to perform.

Abu Sufyan snorted.

“A child’s fable. Come, let me take you to the House of God.”

The Bedouin looked at me and my father, intrigued.

“Perhaps it is a child’s tale, but it is a good one,” he said, his eyes wide with wonder.

Abu Sufyan could no longer hide his irritation. He pushed his Bedouin guests toward the Kaaba as if they were wayward mares. My father and I followed. Even though we had completed our rites for the morning, Abu Bakr had sensed that the Bedouin were ready to hear more about our faith. We would wait until the men had finished their circumambulation and Abu Sufyan attended to other newcomers. And then my father would likely take them back to the House of the Messenger, where they could hear the Truth and be saved.

But as we approached the Kaaba, where the perpetual whirlwind of pilgrims was in motion, I heard shouts from across the Sanctuary. The enraged, booming voice of a man echoed through the plaza and drowned out even the loudest of prayers.

“What is it?” I asked my father, more intrigued than frightened.

“It is Umar. As usual.”

Ah, of course. Umar ibn al-Khattab, one of the most virulent of the lords of Mecca in his opposition to God’s Messenger. I saw him across the open space, towering like a giant over a small African man I immediately recognized as a former slave named Bilal. My father had bought Bilal’s freedom from his ruthless master, Umayya, who had tortured the poor man after he had embraced Islam. Umayya had dragged his rebellious slave into the marketplace, tied him to the ground under the blazing Meccan sun, and placed a heavy boulder on Bilal’s chest until it cracked his ribs and made it almost impossible to breathe. Umayya demanded that Bilal return to the worship of his master’s gods, but all the courageous slave would croak out under torture was “One God…One God…” Bilal would have died there that day had my father not intervened and paid Umayya’s outrageous price of ten gold dirhams for his freedom.

And now Umar tormented the poor freedman, who lay prostrate on the earth before the House of God, a gesture that immediately identified him as a follower of Muhammad’s new religion.

“You son of a dog! Get up!” Umar’s voice was like an elephant’s cry, terrifying and unearthly at once. He was the tallest man I had ever seen, with a bushy black beard that grew down to his waist. His arms were as thick as tree trunks, the muscles bulging clearly from the thin fabric of his red tunic. Umar reached down with hands that were larger than my head and grabbed Bilal by the scruff of his threadbare white robes. Bilal did not struggle but looked into Umar’s eyes with a serenity that only seemed to enrage the monster more.

Umar slapped Bilal hard, and I saw a flash of white as one of the African’s teeth flew out of his mouth. Alarmed, my father ran over to his side.

“Umar, leave Bilal in peace. Do not profane the Sanctuary with your wrath.”

The son of al-Khattab stared at my father, who barely came up to his chest, with contempt.

“It is you who profane the Sanctuary with your lies, Abu Bakr!” his voice thundered. “You spread discontent and rebellion, turning slaves against their masters!”

My father remained calm, refusing to let Umar get a rise out of him.

“Bilal is no longer a slave to any man,” he said firmly.

Umar spat in contempt.

“Just because you bought his freedom does not make him any less a slave.”

Bilal looked at his tormentor with a steady gaze. When he spoke, it was with a deeply melodious, musical voice. A voice for which he would be renowned in years to come.

“You are right, Umar. I am still a slave. A slave to Allah.”

Umar’s face reddened until it became the color of an angry sunset.

“You dare speak to me about Allah before His very House!”

Umar kicked Bilal hard in the gut, knocking the small man to the ground. The tiny African cried out in pain, grasping his stomach and writhing in pain. Umar pushed my father out of the way when he leaned over to help Bilal and then kicked him again.

Furious, I ran over to Umar and kicked him in the shin.

“Stop it! Stop hurting him!”

By then, a crowd of pilgrims and locals had formed around us, watching the ongoing drama. When I lashed out at Umar, many laughed at the madness of a child taking on one of the most feared men in Arabia.

Hearing their jeers, Umar looked up and saw the men for the first time. Alarmed at the sudden public spectacle his temper had created during the sacred Pilgrimage, Umar attempted to reassert his dignity and power over the bemused crowd.

“Step back! I am a guardian of the Holy Kaaba!”

But I wouldn’t let him get away with that.

“No! You’re just a bully!” I threw my tiny arms around his legs to prevent him from kicking Bilal again, causing a greater eruption of laughter from the spectators. I looked up to see that while some were mocking, others, especially pilgrims who were foreigners to the city, were shaking their heads in disgust at the violent display before the House of God.

And then I saw Talha, my favorite cousin, push his way through the crowd. My face lit up. Of all my relatives, he was the one I was closest to. There was a natural sweetness to him, like the honey from a bee’s comb. And he was so handsome, with his flowing brown hair and expressive gray eyes that always showed what he was feeling. And in them now I saw terrible anger.

Talha stormed up to Umar, unafraid of the towering blowhard.

“How brave of you, Umar. Fighting a man half your size, and then a little girl. Shall I bring you a cat to test your prowess next?”

Umar stepped back, stunned by Talha’s reproach. He looked confused, as if he could not understand how a powerful man like himself had lost control of the situation so quickly. He finally stared down at Bilal, eager to have the last word.

“Leave the Sanctuary and darken not its stones again with your black flesh,” he said contemptuously.

Bilal stood proudly, wiping blood from his mouth.

“God made me black and I praise Him for it,” he said with dignity. And then he raised his beautiful voice to recite a verse from the Holy Qur’an.

“We take our colors from God, and who is better than God at coloring?”

There was a murmur of interest from the crowd at the lyrical sound of the holy words. I saw several of the dark-skinned nomads, who were accustomed to being treated with contempt, take in these words with a look of delight. They started whispering to one another, and I knew that soon they would learn about the Messenger from whose mouth these strange words had emanated. Words that broke the rules of Arab culture and yet touched the heart. Words that could give a slave strength to stand up to a tyrant. Now the crowd wanted to know more about these words and who was spreading them.

I saw in his sudden flash of regret that Umar had realized this as well. In his explosion of rage, he had only managed to bring attention to Muhammad’s message. Shaking his head, he grumbled to himself as he turned away from us.

“You are all mad,” Umar said dismissively. And then he faced the crowd and raised his hands for their attention.

“Know all present that I would not have harmed this girl,” he said, pointing at me in the desperate hope of regaining some dignity. “Umar ibn al-Khattab does not hurt children.”

Umar turned to walk away from the scene, when Talha laughed bitterly.

“Really? So why did you bury your daughter alive, you pagan wretch?”

Umar froze.

Time itself seemed to stop at that moment.

When Umar turned around to face Talha, there was a terrifying madness in his eyes.

“You…you dare…”

My father realized that Talha had gone too far.

“Leave it be, Talha,” he warned.

But my cousin was filled with righteous indignation. It was an open secret in the city that Umar’s wife, Zaynab bint Madh’un, had recently given birth to a girl. Ashamed and embittered that Zaynab had failed to produce a son, Umar had taken the infant child into the desert. In accordance with the practices of the idolaters, he had left the child on the searing sand and covered her with stones until she died. The Messenger of God had condemned this horrifying practice, which had further alienated him from the rulers of Mecca, who viewed infanticide as a man’s privilege.

“Murderer!” Talha cried, burning with the fire of outrage. “When you are raised on Judgment Day, you will account for your crimes!”

And suddenly, as if a dam had broken, Umar rushed at Talha and threw him to the ground.

Abu Bakr tried to pull Umar off him, to no avail. Umar threw my father aside as if he were one of my rag dolls. I saw him hit his head hard on the ground, drawing blood.

“Father!” I ran to his side in horror. I had never seen my father bleed before and it terrified me. As I helped my father up, Umar violently hit and kicked Talha, who endured his painful blows with dignity.

“Go…go find Hamza…” my father said softly. “He went to Mount Hira…I am too weak…”

Hamza was the Messenger’s uncle, a bear of a man who was the only one of the believers of sufficient strength and stature to challenge the formidable Umar. I raced out of the Sanctuary toward the surrounding hills that led to Mount Hira.

I DESPERATELY CLIMBED THE ROCKY hills in search of Hamza, hoping that I could somehow get him back in time to save Talha’s life. The thought of losing him, the cousin I loved the most, terrified me. Talha was the only one who did not treat me like a baby. He was strong and handsome and charming and always made me laugh. My gossipy friend Rubina thought I had a crush on him and teased me relentlessly that we would marry someday. Once she said this loud enough for him to hear, to my mortification. But Talha did not mock me. Instead he looked at me with a warm smile and said, “It would be an honor of which I am unworthy.”

Oh, poor Talha. There are times that I think I should have left him to die at Umar’s hand. Then he would have been the first martyr and no man would question his honor or place in paradise.

But I was only a child and did not have the gift of prophecy. All I could see was that he would die at that moment unless I could save him. And I, whose name meant life, would not let him die.

I stumbled on the rocks and cut my hand against the edge of a jagged boulder. A streak of blood ran down my palm, but I ignored it and clambered up toward the hilltop.

And then I saw a sight that has been forever burned into my soul. Two men and a woman, emaciated and roasted by the sun, tied to the thorn trees like scarecrows. I recognized them immediately. Sumaya, who was often in my mother’s kitchen, fussing over the proper number of onions to put in the lamb stew. Her quiet, kindhearted husband, Yasir, and their small but stout boy, Ammar.

I stood frozen, my young mind unable to process what I saw.

THIS WAS NOT THE fate Sumaya had wanted for her family when they left their lives as wandering goat herders and sought a more sedentary experience in the city. She had come to Mecca hoping to find a wife for Ammar and steady employment so that her son could build a life for himself and perhaps one day his children. But all they had found was misery.

Sumaya quickly discovered the rule of Mecca that newcomers had no rights unless they secured the protection of a powerful clan. But protection was expensive, and the few goatskins they owned would not suffice. So her family worked like slaves for whoever was willing to offer a few copper coins. Cooking and cleaning were her lot, while her son and husband would tend to the animals of the wealthy or provide help with their hands, laying stone and brick for the expanding mansions of the town’s wealthy lords. Sometimes the pay was good. But if their money was stolen, as it often was, they had no recourse. If their employers beat them and refused to pay after a hard day’s work, they could not protest or raise any objection. Without the protection of a clan, their lives were worth nothing in Mecca, and if they were killed no one would notice, much less raise a sword to avenge them.

And then Sumaya had met the Messenger of God. She had been warned to stay away from his house by the families she cooked and cleaned for. Muhammad was a dangerous sorcerer, they said, and he would place a spell on any who came near. But after a week without food and no one willing to pay for their services, Sumaya, Ammar, and Yasir wandered over to the forbidden quarter of the city where the sorcerer was reputed to live. She had found a small crowd of beggars gathered outside his house, and saw a lovely woman named Khadija handing out fresh meat to the desperate poor. Sumaya had fallen before the noble lady’s feet and begged her for food and work. Muhammad’s wife had brought them inside, and given her family warm soup and shelter for the night.

And then she was brought before the Messenger, heard his gentle words of hope, his teaching that the poor would sit on thrones of gold in Paradise if they renounced false gods and dedicated themselves only to Allah. It was a message that Sumaya and her family had embraced eagerly. And it was their embrace of the message that had now brought them here, tortured and left to die in the wilderness.

SUMAYA’S SON, AMMAR, GAZED at me, his eyes alert and full of pain.

“Aisha…daughter of Abu Bakr…help us…”

For an instant, I forgot all about Talha. I ran toward them and desperately tried to tear apart their bindings with my small hands. His father Yasir was unconscious. Still breathing but weakly.

“Who did this to you?” I asked, unable to keep the horror out of my voice.

“Abu Jahl…”

And then I understood. The Meccan lord who was the most vehement foe of Islam. The monster whose name was told to Muslim children when they were naughty. “Behave, or Abu Jahl will come for you.”

Abu Jahl had come for them.

I tore the flesh from my hand trying to break the cruel knots, but to no avail.

“I can’t do it!” I felt hot tears coming to my eyes. Today was a day of death and destruction. Everyone I loved was in trouble, and I was powerless to help them.

And then I heard footsteps. Someone was coming. Ammar heard it, too. He looked down the hill and saw a figure approaching.

“It’s him! Hide!”

I turned and saw a man dressed in rich purple robes, a lavender turban wrapped across his head, climbing toward us.

Abu Jahl, the monster of my childhood nightmares, was here.

My heart in my throat, I looked around desperately. And then I saw a fallen tree trunk lying to the side. I jumped inside the trunk, ignoring an enraged spider whose web I tore apart as I hid from this demon.

Abu Jahl clambered over the ridge and stood only five feet away from me. He did not look like a monster. In fact, he was quite elegant in his rich robes, laced in gold filigree. His face was handsome and evenly proportioned, his cheekbones high, and his skin unusually fair for a native of the desert heat. He had a small and well-trimmed mustache that gave him a dapper look. His real name was Abu al-Hakam, which meant “Father of Wisdom” but the Muslims always called him Abu Jahl, “Father of Ignorance.”

I saw that his hands were full. In his right hand, he held a spear, the jagged head polished to sparkle in the sun. In his left, I saw an idol. A small, curvaceous stone made of shining obsidian. Even from the distance, I could tell that it was an icon of Manat, Abu Jahl’s patron goddess, to whom he attributed his remarkable wealth.

He looked at the three prisoners whom he had been left to die here. Abu Jahl smiled almost apologetically.

When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost soothing.

“I hope the sun god has taught you reason, Ammar,” he said, without any hint of the rage or madness that possessed Umar.

Ammar looked him in the eye, ignoring the persistent flies that were buzzing around his sweat-drenched face.

“There is no sun god. There is only Allah, the Lord of the Worlds.”

Abu Jahl shook his head, looking deeply disappointed. He sighed, as if filled with regret.

“Even to the end, you remain dedicated to your heresy,” he said. “Think, boy. If Allah cared about your singular devotion so much, why would He leave you to die in the desert?”

Ammar’s lips curled in fury.

“You did that, not Allah.”

Abu Jahl shrugged and turned to Sumaya, who looked up at him serenely despite her pain.

“You are Ammar’s mother,” he said, his voice eminently reasonable. “Tell me, Sumaya. Do you remember his birth? The agony of labor. The pain almost killed you. Yet your midwife prayed to Manat and you lived. Without the mercy of the goddess, how could you have endured those pangs?”

He held up the idol and dangled it right in front of Sumaya’s face.

“Manat ended your pain and gave you and your son life that night. And she can give it you again. Right now.” He leaned forward, holding the idol close to Sumaya’s lips. “All you have to do is kiss her holy image. And I will release you and your family from your bonds.”

Sumaya looked at him, and then at the idol.

I held my breath, praying that she would do it. The Messenger had said that anyone who was forced to renounce his faith for fear of his life, but kept it in his heart, would be forgiven by God. My soul screamed to Sumaya from inside the darkness of the tree trunk: Do it! Save yourself! Save your son!

Sumaya smiled at Abu Jahl gently, almost gratefully.

And then she spit on the idol of Manat.

And then I saw Abu Jahl change. Something terrible came over his face. Not rage, like Umar’s, but an emptiness. A lack of feeling. In that instant, he looked more like a corpse than a living man. And he frightened me more with the rigid calm of his face than Umar had with all his bluster.

“So you would choose death over life,” he said softly.

Sumaya laughed suddenly, as if she finally realized that she had been wasting her time arguing with an imbecile.

“No…I choose life…eternal life,” she said. She steeled her eyes on him, and I saw no fear. “There is no god but God, and Muhammad is His Messenger.”

Abu Jahl gazed into her face, and then nodded. He stepped back, locking his eyes on hers.

And then, in one fluid movement that was so fast my eyes barely captured it, he stabbed her through her vagina, pushing the spear up into her womb!

“No!” Ammar’s scream was the most terrifying sound I had ever heard. I bit my hand in horror, letting my own stifled cry shudder through my body.

Sumaya cried out in terrible agony. She writhed on the tree trunk as blood poured out from her womb and into a thick crimson puddle at her feet. Abu Jahl continued to push the spear higher, tearing open her intestines and stomach from the inside.

And then her screams ended. And there was only silence.

As Ammar wept, I saw Abu Jahl casually remove the spear. He used Sumaya’s threadbare tunic to clean the blood off his weapon, before turning to face Ammar.

“The gods have won,” he said simply, as if stating an obvious truth to the child.

Somehow Ammar found his voice in the midst of terrible grief.

“No…my mother has won…she is the first of the martyrs.”

Abu Jahl allowed a small smile to play on his full, sensuous lips.

“She will not be the last.”

He turned and climbed back down the hill, whistling a happy tune.

When he was gone, I emerged from the tree trunk. I felt like I was in a dream. The entire day had to have been a nightmare. Nothing I witnessed could happen in the real world.

I stared at the dead woman, hanging ignominiously, her lower body drenched in the blood that had only moments before flowed through her veins.

This was not real. It couldn’t be.

And then the screech of vultures tore me out of my trance and I ran away, racing from the specter of death that would forever haunt me, even as the midwife had prophesied the night I was born.