The Jewel Of Medina Read online

  I dawdled as I got ready for the journey, hoping Umm al-Masakin would leave without me. She liked to depart after the early morning prayer, but how could I go until the bread was baked? I thought Sawdah would topple over when I offered to mix the dough. Then she spied Mother of the Poor waiting for me in the corner, clicking her prayer beads like nervous teeth, and she shooed me away.

  I fed my runt lamb and changed clothes, and still she waited. At last I ran out of excuses to delay, and we said ma’ salaama to our sister-wives. How they clucked over me—as if I were going far away, instead of to the edge of Medina! Sawdah handed me her cowrie-shell necklace to wear as protection against the Evil Eye, and Hafsa whispered a warning not to get too close to anyone. “You don’t want to catch any strange illnesses,” she said.

  Of course, Umm al-Masakin fed and nursed the poor every day, and she seemed healthy enough, if a bit pale. As we walked through Medina together—her with her heavy bag of medicines and a sack of barley and me with a sack of dates—I asked her how she kept from getting sick.

  “By the grace of al-Lah,” she said, and nothing more.

  “What about me? How do I protect myself? Is there a medicine in your bag for that?” I asked.

  She cut me a mischievous look from the corner of her eye. “Would al-Lah allow anything to happen to His Prophet’s favorite wife?”

  “How do you know I’m Muhammad’s favorite? Did he tell you?” Pleasure, like the morning sunshine, spilled warmth over my face.

  “He does not need to say so. I must only look at his eyes when he looks at you. Even the mention of your name causes him to glow.”

  “Sometimes I wonder.” I paused, pondering how much to tell. “He treats me like a child—in every way.” She blushed and pulled her wrapper about her face, and I wondered if I’d revealed too much.

  We walked through town, brushing away the flies rising like steam from the scattered piles of manure, keeping our eyes down so we wouldn’t draw attention from Ibn Ubayy and his men. At this early hour, though, the flies and the men were scarce. Umm al-Masakin moved her feet at a pace so quick I had to trot to keep up with her.

  Then a baby’s cry pierced the air. I raised my eyes to see the infamous “tent city” littering the desert like dirty laundry scattered by the wind. Puzzled, I searched for tents, but I saw only tattered pieces of dingy gray cloth spread across acacia branches stuck into the sand. These “poles” leaned at haphazard angles, threatening to collapse if anyone breathed on them. Some tents didn’t even have poles. Their owners sat with pieces of cloth over their heads, or draped between their heads and those of their family members.

  The stench here was much worse than anything in Medina. Urine, feces, the rotting carcass of a fly-blown dog, and unwashed bodies made a sickening stew of odors, nearly gagging me. A man hunching on the rust-red sand noticed my discomfort and laughed, baring bright, swollen gums and green-black teeth.

  “Yaa Mother of the Poor, who is your helper?” the man asked. “I do not think she will be much help today.”

  “Abu Shams! Where is your tent?” Umm al-Masakin said.

  “My son found a goat, and the goat ate it,” the shaykh said. “My son is going to butcher the goat and give some of the meat to me, though, so I will be eating my own tent for supper!” He laughed at his ridiculous tale, and Umm al-Masakin laughed with him. I smiled politely, wondering how he could chew anything with those teeth.

  “If your son will give me the skin of that goat, I can have a goatskin shelter fashioned for you in two days.” Already she had recruited Sawdah to tan and stretch animal hides for this purpose.

  Umm al-Masakin motioned to me for the sack of dates, opened it, and pulled out a handful of fruit.

  “These will satisfy your hunger until mealtime,” she said to the old man. I stared as she put the dates in her mouth, chewed them, and spat them into the wooden bowl he held out. He dipped his fingers into the concoction and slurped it down.

  He lifted his eyes to catch me watching him. I quickly looked away, but he laughed again. “Never seen a starving man before, sister?” he said.

  “Yaa Abu Shams, please speak to A’isha with respect,” Umm al-Masakin said. “She is the favored wife of the Messenger of God. She honors us with her visit today. You should honor to her as you honor the Prophet.”

  He raised his eyes to me—hungry eyes, filled with pain. “The Prophet is the greatest of all men,” he said. “Without him, none of us here would even have tents. But it is the Mother of the Poor who feeds us and tends to our health every day. She is the woman I honor.” He folded his arms and glared at me as if I had asked him to bow down before me.

  Umm al-Masakin thanked him and led me away. “Pay no attention to Abu Shams,” she murmured, lowering her eyes in embarrassment. “The more he ages, the more eccentric he becomes.”

  Abu Shams had spoken truly about one thing: I wasn’t much help to the Mother of the Poor that day. I knew nothing of the bundles of herbs, plant extracts, and incenses she carried in her bag, so I could only watch as she ground mixtures together with her mortar and pestle and gave them to a man to apply to the sores on his arms and legs, or spread them on the chest of a coughing baby, or fed them to a boy whose guts contorted with pain from the spoiled meat pies his mother had “found” at the Medina market the day before. (Just as the old shaykh’s son had “found” the goat, I assumed.)

  In the corner of the tent, the boy’s mother moaned and clutched her stomach. “Mix that barley you cooked with some vinegar and give it to her,” Umm al-Masakin told me. “It will cleanse the bad meat from her system.”

  I carried the bowl of food to the poor woman, and she clasped my hand with rough fingers, as my beloved grandmother had done when I’d visited her deathbed as a child. Now, as then, I could see the bones of her face as plainly as if she had no skin at all—but instead of staring at her in disgust, as I had the rotten-toothed old shaykh, I squeezed her hand in return.

  “In the future, if you need food, tell Umm al-Masakin,” I said to the mother.

  “Can Mother of the Poor keep the stomachs of my babies full?” She peered up at me with knowing eyes. “Their father never could. From the looks of you two, your husband struggles, also.”

  “Al-Lah provides for me, and He helps me provide for you,” Umm al-Masakin said. She came over and knelt beside me. “I have only barley, not meat, but it will not make you ill.”

  She pulled out a folded handkerchief from her medicine pouch, and opened it to reveal several silver dirhams. The woman’s eyes tracked Umm al-Masakin’s fingers, watching the coins as if they were fish in the water and she a bird of prey. Yet she offered a feeble protest.

  “God bless you, Mother of the Poor. You feed my children while your own flesh wastes away and your skin turns pale from hunger. How can I accept yet another gift from you?”

  “Do not worry about me, Umm Abraha. I am provided for.” Umm al-Masakin pressed the money into the mother’s palm. “Everything my husband left behind when he died went to his brother, including my children.” Sorrow crossed her face like a shadow. “But I had some clothing I could sell, thank al-Lah. I thought I would use the money to buy food, but the Prophet was kind enough to marry me. He feeds me, so now I can feed you.”

  “But what would the Prophet say—”

  I leaned forward to touch her arm. In that touch, I felt a warm rush from my heart through my arm and into my fingertips, as if I were pouring pure love into her skin. “The Prophet would bless Mother of the Poor for following his example and sharing with those less fortunate.”

  “Take the money, Umm Abraha,” Mother of the Poor said. “It may prevent you from stealing tomorrow. Thievery is a great risk for a widowed mother. If you lose your hands, who will care for your babies?”

  Bilal’s voice tolled, summoning Believers to Friday prayer services. The clamor of voices and tramp of feet past the tent almost drowned out Umm Abraha’s tearful thanks and our good-byes to her and her son. Mother of
the Poor ducked out of the tent, and I followed, stopping first at the entry-way to bid Umm Abraha farewell once more. Our gazes met, and I saw, beneath the gratitude in her eyes, a look of determination so fierce it took me aback.

  “Tell the Mother of the Poor that I will repay her,” she said. A smile passed over her lips like a shadow. “And not by thieving. When I have recovered from this illness, I will find work, by al-Lah!”

  I returned her smile, although I doubted her words. What kind of work could she do in Medina? For an unmarried woman with no family to support her and no skills, two prospects were available: begging and prostitution. From what I’d seen, Umm Abraha was too proud to beg, and too devout to sell her body.

  Guilt panged me as I joined Mother of the Poor outdoors and we began to walk through the tent city back toward the mosque. How selfish I’d been these years in the mosque with Muhammad, moping about my own hunger while others in my backyard faced starvation every day! My struggles for power and freedom seemed petty compared with the tent-dwellers’ constant struggle for food and shelter. I would never complain again. And from now on, when I heard others denigrate the tent people as I’d once done, I’d make sure to tell them of the pride and dignity I’d witnessed today.

  As we wound our way among the small lean-tos and rude tents, men and women shouted their blessings to Umm al-Masakin. She nodded to them, calling out that she would see them all tomorrow. I said nothing, for who knew when I would return to this place?

  A shirtless girl ran up and tugged at Umm al-Masakin’s robe. She was six or seven years old and she wore a skirt full of rips and holes. Her hair was cut short, reminding me of myself on my wedding day.

  “Yaa Mother of the Poor, will you give me some barley?” the girl said, her dark eyes bold.

  “Ahlan, Bisar, what happened to all your hair?” Umm al-Masakin said.

  “Lice,” the girl said. “But I don’t care. I like my hair better this way.” I laughed, remembering how I’d wished my cropped hair would never grow long again. “Can I have some barley?” she said. “I’m hungry.”

  “I’m sorry, I gave the last of my barley to Umm Abraha,” Umm al-Masakin said. “Go and see her. She has enough to share. Tomorrow I will come back with more—and with some clothing for you, little one.”

  The child began to run toward the tent, but I called out to her and she returned. “No girl should be without a wrapper,” I said—and, with a heart so full I thought it might burst, removed my wrapper and draped it around her shoulders and head. “You don’t want the sun to burn your tender skin.”

  “Yaa Bisar, take good care of that garment,” Umm al-Masakin said. “I will bring you clothes that fit you tomorrow, and you can return it to me then.”

  “No, I will come back for it,” I said. Mother of the Poor turned her eyes to me, questioning, and I dipped my head. “If you’ll allow me to accompany you here again, Umm al-Masakin.” Her delighted smile was my answer.

  When the girl had run gleefully away, billowing my wrapper behind her, my sister-wife shook her head at me.

  “I am afraid you are too generous,” she said. “Without a head covering, how will you attend prayer service?”

  “Al-Lah will provide,” I said. “If we return to the mosque in time, I can borrow something from Hafsa.”

  As we walked through the Medina streets again, however, I began to regret my impulsiveness. My bright hair hadn’t been all that unusual in Mecca, where various kinds of people walked the streets. But in Medina, even Muhammad’s pale skin stood out amid the uniform dark hair and eyes and skin the color of toast. Hurrying through the market with Mother of the Poor, I attracted stares from everyone we met. I felt my face burn, and knew it must be as red as my hair—but, as I’d told Umm al-Masakin, it was better for me to bare my head than for a young girl to have to run around with naked shoulders.

  As we hurried, with our eyes downcast, toward the mosque, I asked Umm al-Masakin why her husband’s brother hadn’t married her when she’d been widowed, as was the custom.

  “I had been married to him already,” she said, “before Ubaydah made me his wife. My first husband divorced me years ago because I refused to stay at home instead of tending the poor. Ubaydah married me to save his family’s honor.”

  “But did you love him?” I said.

  She smiled as though she held a secret in her lips. “What is love, A’isha? Is it something you feel, or something you do? If it is something you do, then I loved both my husbands.”

  “But not enough to submit to their wishes.”

  “Al-Lah is greater than any man. He called me long ago to do this work. How could I abandon it because of a jealous husband?”

  “Some husbands would insist.”

  “If you mean using force, yes. Al-Tufayl, my first husband, tried that. But I could fight back, to his great astonishment.” Her eyes glinted. “I’d learned much about self-defense on my walks to the poor neighborhoods.”

  As if she’d conjured them, six filthy men approached us from an alleyway. My blood ran cold as I looked into the leering faces of Ibn Ubayy and his friends—two of whom I recognized from the day I’d moved in with Muhammad.

  “Marhaba, habibati,” the short man with big ears said. “Remember me? You’re a tiny thing, but you’ve filled out nicely. Are you still the Prophet’s toy, or are you looking for a real man?”

  “Do you still sleep alone, or have you found a dog to meet your needs?” I retorted, but Umm al-Masakin’s voice cut in as sharp as a whetted blade.

  “Step aside,” she said in a stern tone. The men nudged each other and grinned.

  “I’ll take her,” Ibn Ubayy said. “I prefer grown women to redheaded brats.”

  I glanced about the street, searching for help, but Medina was deserted. Everyone, except these Hypocrites, was at the mosque. I would have to fight them myself. My pulse reared like a spooked horse. I reached for my sword, but the big-eared man yanked me into his arms before I could draw it out.

  “Don’t even think about fighting me,” he said. His breath smelled like meat left in the sun too long, and wine. “You’re right, you know: I do sleep alone. But not tonight.”

  Then he groaned and clutched the back of his head, releasing me, and slumped to the ground. Umm al-Masakin stood over him with a crazed expression in her eyes and her medicine bag dangling from one hand. Ibn Ubayy stepped toward her, but she whirled around, swinging the bag again, and hit him in the face. Blood gushed from his nose, which he tried to stem with his fingers. She turned to his tall companion, her eyes flashing.

  “Approach either of us, and you will be next,” she said.

  What she didn’t realize, though, was that her bag had spilled its contents all over the ground. Now she had no way to defend herself—but I had my sword. The tall man laughed and lunged toward her with his arms outstretched. Blood surging through my limbs, I yanked my blade from its sheath, making it zing.

  “Touch the wife of the Prophet of God if you dare,” I snarled, dancing about to hide the trembling in my legs. He pulled out a dagger and turned to me with his teeth bared, but I used my favorite trick of knocking his blade to the ground.

  I waved my sword, all bluff and bluster, fending him off while I snatched up his dagger. “Leave my sight!” I shouted. “All of you. Or prepare to burn in Hell this very day.” The tall man turned and ran, leaving his friends behind. Ibn Ubayy eyed my sword, but apparently he decided not to fight. He and the short man limped away from us holding their wounds.

  I slipped my sword back into its sheath, took a few deep breaths, and knelt down to help Umm al-Masakin gather her medicines. She frowned to see how my hands shook.

  “Are you unhurt?” she asked.

  “Thanks to you, sister-wife,” I said between gasps. “And you?”

  “Untouched, praise al-Lah,” she said, as unruffled as ever.

  I laughed—at myself, for getting so agitated, and at her composure. “Yaa Umm al-Masakin, such a fierce fighter you are!�
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  “You would not believe the threats I have encountered over the years. That medicine bag has saved me many times.”

  We finished stuffing her mortar, pestle, and incense burner into her pouch, then hurried to the mosque. Alas, we were late. Inside, worshippers crouched on their mats, crowding the floor like gulls on the sand, murmuring praises to al-Lah as they stood in unison behind the red-robed Muhammad. I didn’t dare enter with my head bare. So I climbed the wall to the courtyard and helped Mother of the Poor over. Together we slipped into my apartment to wash and pray there.

  When we were finished, she hugged me and thanked me for my help in the tent city. Tears pricked my eyes as I returned her embrace. I’d had such evil thoughts about her—all of them untrue. She was no docile, mindless sheep but a real warrior, fighting husbands, disease, and would-be attackers to defend the lives of the poor.

  “I should be thanking you,” I said. “Muhammad told me I could learn from you, and I have. Never again will I resent his generosity to the tent people.”

  “A’isha, you have always been compassionate. Look at how lovingly you tend to the runt goats and lambs! No wonder the Prophet esteems you above other women.”

  I sighed. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken about the ‘woman’ part. In Muhammad’s eyes, I’m still a child. I’ve never minded that before, but lately …”

  Umm al-Masakin opened her medicine bag. “Take this,” she said, and pressed a small pouch into my hand. Inside, a fine yellow powder wafted sesame.

  “Wars,” she said. “Mix it with some of your face lotion and wear it on the Prophet’s next night with you. It is an aphrodisiac.”

  “What does that mean?” I frowned.

  Umm al-Masakin’s smile showed her beautiful, straight, white teeth. “It means,” she said, “that the Prophet will never think of you as a child again.”