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

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Alone figure knelt on the sacred ground of Mount Hira, where the Revelation had begun. He flexed his powerful muscles and then raised his hands in prayer to the One God that had chosen his family to redeem mankind.

Hamza had always known that his nephew Muhammad had been destined for greatness. They were close in years and the man who was now called Messenger of God had been more of a younger brother to Hamza than a nephew. But even when they would race each other across the stone alleyways of Mecca, or wrestle playfully in the sand, Muhammad had never quite seemed like a child. There had been a wisdom in his eyes, a sadness that seemed to belong to someone who had already lived a lifetime of struggle, loss, and triumph. Perhaps it was the sorrow of an orphan, having lost his father before he was born and his mother at the age of six.

But there was something else different about the boy. A sense of destiny that hung around him like an aura. It was a power that others in the family had sensed as well, and not all were comfortable with it. Hamza’s half brother, Abu Lahab, in particular had taken an early dislike to their nephew, seeing Muhammad as a dreamer and an idealist, someone who refused to adapt to the harsh realities of life in the desert.

When Muhammad had come to Hamza and told him about his vision, in a cave not far from where Hamza sat now, he had been fascinated but not really surprised. Still, Hamza had been set in his ways and found it difficult to renounce the gods of their fathers. But as he watched the growing opposition of the Meccan lords to his nephew’s teaching and their increasing cruelty toward his followers, he had felt a growing passion within his breast. Hamza had always believed in living life with honor and justice, and he began to see that the followers of the old ways displayed few of those traits.

And then one day he heard how the wretch Abu Jahl had insulted Muhammad viciously while he prayed at the Kaaba, raining obscene curses on him and his family, and his nephew had simply taken in the abuse and walked away with dignity. At that moment, Hamza had made a decision. He had taken the powerful bow with which he had famously killed lions and cheetahs in the desert and strode over to Abu Jahl, who was rallying a crowd against the Muslims in the Sanctuary. Without hesitating, Hamza struck Abu Jahl across the forehead with the bow, knocking him to his knees. And then, before the whole city, he proclaimed faith in his nephew’s religion.

And now he sat here, praying as the Messenger had taught him, his knees on the ground, his head bowed in surrender to God. He found peace at Hira, and he could understand why his nephew found solace here. The air was pure, crisp and clear, not filled with the smell of the burning offal of the city. And instead of the cacophony of loud voices, squawking chickens, and braying camels that arose from the streets of Mecca, there was silence. It was a silence so deep, so still, that a man could finally hear the beating of his own heart, the gentle whispers of the soul.

And then the silence of mountain was shattered by a child’s cry.

“Hamza! We need you!”

He turned and saw me scrambling up the rocks like a redheaded spider. My dress was torn from this terrible journey and my face covered in the gray dust that covered the mountain like soot.

Hamza moved to intercept me. He climbed down several sharply inclined boulders that I could never have scaled. We finally reached each other and I collapsed in his thick arms, panting for breath.

“Aisha? What is it?”

I wheezed, trying to get the words out, as my heart beat in my ears.

“My father…Sumaya…They need you…Abu Jahl…Umar…No one can stop them…”

I didn’t make much sense. But I didn’t need to. Mention of Abu Jahl and Umar was enough.

“God will stop them, little one.”

He rose and took my tiny hand and then gently led me down the rocky slope.