The Jewel Of Medina Page 15

Not fight! I felt as if I were a goat’s-bladder ball losing its air. Not help the umma defeat Abu Sufyan? Not see the regard and respect—and maybe, desire—in Muhammad’s eyes after we’d won the battle? Umm al-Masakin had been sick before, but she’d always recovered. Nursing the poor had given her the strength to resist disease.

  “What if Umar finds a healer?” I said. “Why do I need to be here then? There’s nothing I can do for her, but I could help the umma on the battlefield.”

  “She loves you, A’isha. You will be a comfort to her.” He kissed my forehead. “Stay.”

  After he’d ducked out, I blinked back my tears, telling myself not to be selfish. Helping Umm al-Masakin was more important than fighting a thousand battles. I knelt beside her and smoothed her hair off her face, and soon those familiar feelings of peace enveloped me. I sang to her and sponged her forehead, oblivious to everything outside the tent, until she drifted off to sleep. Then, from outside I heard more shouts. I moved to the tent flap, where Barirah stood with me and watched as four of our warriors raced past waving their swords, headed for Muhammad’s tent. I heard Ali’s cry and saw his warriors begin to move into battle formation. My fingers itched for my sword.

  “I feel vulnerable without a weapon, and an army on its way,” I said to Barirah. “But I told Muhammad I’d stay here with Mother of the Poor. Will you bring it to me? Don’t let anyone see you.” Soon Barirah was slipping, unseen, into mine and Muhammad’s tent.

  Back inside I found Umm al-Masakin still sleeping, her lips moving and her face bathed in cold sweat. Where is that healer? I wiped the water from her skin, searching her face with my eyes for some sign of improvement, but finding none. Yet she didn’t appear to be worsening. She’d been more ill a few months ago when I’d cried for her, certain her end was at hand. Consoled, I moved again to the tent entrance to see the lines of our men lengthening and Ali strutting among them, barking orders.

  “The Quraysh are coming!” someone cried, running past me.

  Camels snorted. Armor clanked. Swords sang and clashed. Where was Barirah? I paced the tent, stepped outside, then returned inside to check on Umm al-Masakin, who slept. After what felt like an eternity, Barirah ducked into the tent, opened her wrapper, and pulled out my worn blade with its old tarnished handle.

  She watched, curious, as I practiced my swordplay, but she frowned when I bragged about all the Qurayshi I planned to kill in the battle. “I heard you tell your sister-wife you will not leave her,” she said.

  By al-Lah! Was Barirah my conscience? I shoved my sword back into its sheath.

  “When she wakes up, we’ll see.”

  Five men rode past on frothing horses. They wore chain mail and helmets, and their horses wore leather armor. Their accoutrements gleamed like scrubbed teeth, bright and new, not like the dented, beat-up armor our men wore, salvaged from dead soldiers. In the front of the group I recognized the hard, cold eyes of the Qurayshi warrior Khalid ibn al-Walid. He turned those eyes on me, and I gasped, gripped so tightly by fear that my breath ran away. Mesmerized, I stared at the long scar twitching on his left cheek like a man writhing in pain. I’d heard how his face had bled in the first battle of Badr.

  “He’s come back for another scar to match,” I boasted in a voice that shook.

  How I longed to sneak away and listen to the men’s discussion! But I had promised not to leave Umm al-Masakin, so I sent Barirah instead with an admonition not to be seen.

  Meanwhile, Umm al-Masakin slept. Look at her, so peaceful—definitely recovering. I kicked at the dirt floor, sending little puffs of dust into the air. Apparently, no healer had been found. Yet if she was seriously ill—and I couldn’t believe this fever was as dangerous as Muhammad feared—I lacked the skills or the knowledge to help her. Barirah could nurse her just as competently while I joined the men outside.

  But if Muhammad saw me on the battlefield, he’d turn red with rage. He might lose his trust in me again. Staying in the tent, though, meant missing my chance—again—to help my umma.

  I had done everything I could to answer God’s call to arms: I’d trained, I’d acquired weapons, I’d found ways to accompany our troops to every major battle. I was ready to help liberate my community from the threat of Quraysh, yet I seemed destined to fail. Why, al-Lah? First at Uhud, when Umar had taken my sword, and now at Badr, confined to the camp with Umm al-Masakin and her sickness while she slept, oblivious to me beside her.

  Her limp hand lay in mine like a wet rag. I searched for a pulse, and my own heart fluttered when, at first, I felt nothing. At last I pressed my fingers to her throat and found a faint beat, as erratic as a drunkard’s stumbling. And her skin had turned from rosy and hot to pale and cold.

  My scalp tingled, and the hair stood on my neck, as if a chilly wind had blown through the tent. “Umm al-Masakin!” I whispered, half-hoping she’d wake up and smile at me, showing me that all was not as bad as it seemed.

  The thunder of hoof beats shook the tent. I leapt up and ran to the flap to see the Qurayshi messengers ride past, heading out of camp. Khalid ibn al-Walid, in the lead, nurtured a twisted smile that filled me with dread. Our archers stood in formation and practiced shooting their arrows in unison. I struggled against the longing in my heart to join them. Umm al-Masakin and I would have been on the battlefield now, with her medicine bag and my sword. We’d be wishing the fighters good fortune and dispensing herbs to increase their energy. We’d move about in the thick of the excitement, and Umar wouldn’t complain because we were healers and he might need our help himself today. Instead, Umm al-Masakin lay sick on the ground, unable to help herself, and her assistant paced the tent and prayed for a chance to fight.

  “Can’t You do something?” I prayed out loud, looking toward Paradise. “Yaa al-Lah, I beg You to free me from this tent. I can’t breathe!” Feelings of entrapment and helplessness—the same as I’d experienced in purdah— overcame my love for my sister-wife.

  Barirah slipped in like a whisper. “The army is not coming to Badr.”

  “That’s impossible!” I snorted. “Abu Sufyan challenged us himself!”

  “He tricks the Prophet into coming here today, while he leads a great caravan around Medina,” she said. “His messengers laugh when they tell the Prophet. Umar wants to kill them, but the Prophet says no.”

  Relief swept over me like a sudden wind. Not coming! There would be no fight. I wouldn’t have to miss the battle, after all. And now we could start for home this evening. We needed to get Umm al-Masakin back to Medina as soon as possible. There, more skilled hands than mine could nurse her back to health.

  A moan drifted to our ears. I stepped inside the tent with a smile, hoping to see Umm al-Masakin much improved after her long sleep. Instead, her eyes bulged with panic.

  “Yaa A’isha!” she cried. “Help me!”

  I ran to her and pulled her into my arms. She trembled all over; her skin felt cold, as if she’d fallen into a well.

  “My children,” she said. “I should never have left them. I want to see them, A’isha! Take me to them, please.” She was delirious, I realized. She’d left her children years ago with her first husband, in Mecca.

  “There will be no fight, Umm al-Masakin. We’re going home. You’ll see your boys very soon.” I stroked her hair and murmured calming words, but my heart pounded. Stay with me, Mother of the Poor. Just for a few days more, until we can get help for you.

  “The fight, canceled?” She smiled. “Praise al-Lah. Brothers will not kill brothers this day.”

  “Yes, praise al-Lah,” I said woodenly, as shame flooded my skin. I’d rejoiced at the news, but for selfish reasons. I’d never even thought about the bloodshed, or about the lives of the warriors on either side. But now I realized that Umm al-Masakin spoke the truth: These battles with Quraysh did pit brother against brother, father against son, cousin against cousin. I still carried the stench and horror of death in my memory from the battle at Uhud. I hadn’t let myself think about it before, when
I was preparing to fight, but now I uttered a prayer of thanks for a respite from that nightmare.

  “My babies,” Umm al-Masakin moaned again, tossing her damp head on her pillow. “My husband took them from me. Why did I let him, A’isha? My little boys.” Tears streaked her face.

  “Yaa Mother of the Poor, save your strength. You’ll see your boys,” I said. “And all your tent people, also. They’re your children, aren’t they? That’s why your name is ‘Mother of the Poor.’”

  “The tent-dwellers—who will provide for them?” she gasped.

  No, please, I prayed silently. Please don’t take her. Why had I asked God to free me from Umm al-Masakin’s care? I’d promised Muhammad I would remain with her, and now al-Lah would end her life so I could join a battle that would not be fought.

  “Call the Prophet,” she said. “I need Muhammad!”

  I summoned Barirah, and sent her to find him. “He’s coming,” I said to Umm al-Masakin.

  “Promise me you will take care of the tent-dwellers,” she rasped, clutching my arm so hard I winced in pain. “They have no one else.”

  I gulped. Me, care for them? How could I ever take Umm al-Masakin’s place in their hearts, she who had given all of herself, who had risked her life, and now stood to lose it for their sakes?

  Yet her grip on my arm and the panic in her eyes forced me to say what she needed to hear. “I—I promise,” I said. “Don’t worry about your tent people, Mother of the Poor. I’ll take care of them, if needed.”

  Her trembling stopped. She lay back in my arms, suddenly calm.

  “But it’s not going to be needed, sister-wife.” I swallowed the tears filling my throat, hiding my sorrow. “As soon as we take you back to Medina, you’ll get better.”

  She gazed up into my eyes. “How loving you are, A’isha.”

  I began to cry. She was wrong about me. A loving person wouldn’t have paced the tent floor and clutched her sword while her sister-wife lay dying. A loving person wouldn’t have prayed for release so she could strut on the battlefield. If I’d been sick, Umm al-Masakin wouldn’t have left my side for even the flickering of an eye.

  “You’re the loving one,” I said, but her eyes had gone blank.

  “Umm al-Masakin,” I choked. “Umm al-Masakin!” I shook her. Her head lolled.

  Muhammad and Barirah burst into the tent, but I didn’t see them. I had laid Mother of the Poor on her pillow and covered my face with my hands.

  “I recant my words!” I sobbed into my cupped fingers, into the dark place I had made there. “Yaa al-Lah, please ignore my prayer and send her back to us. I only wanted to show off, and now she’s gone. I should have prayed for Umm al-Masakin, not for myself.”

  A hand squeezed my shoulder. I shrank away. I didn’t deserve comfort. But Muhammad wrapped his arms around me and wouldn’t let go.

  “She’s gone,” I said. “She’s dead, and it’s my fault.”

  Muhammad stroked my hair as I had done for Umm al-Masakin the day we’d left Medina—could it have been just two days ago?

  “Remember what you said then, A’isha,” he murmured. “Al-Lah alone decides whether we live or die. The rest is vanity.”

  To covet glory on the battlefield while your sister-wife struggles to breathe—that is vanity. But I didn’t correct Muhammad. He’d given up everything he’d ever had for al-Lah. He didn’t know anything about vanity. Not yet.

  THARID AND MOONLIGHT

  MEDINA, JULY 626

  THIRTEEN YEARS OLD

  The loss of my friend Umm al-Masakin weighted my body like a great stone, pulling me down when I tried to get out of bed, stooping my back as I trudged from my hut to the cooking tent. In an attempt to cheer me up—and, probably, wanting to clean me up, since I’d lost interest in my appearance—Sawdah and Hafsa took me to the hammam, the public baths where Medina’s women gathered to wash, groom, and share stories.

  Outside, the day was strangely cool and overcast, mirroring my gloomy mood. To my relief, the baths were not crowded; only a few women soaked in the large rectangular pools lined with stone, which were filled from a nearby spring using copper pipes. Others reclined on stone slabs beside the waters and towel-dried their skin, or sat upright, clothed and scented, while their daughters braided their hair. Musk and sandalwood, lavender and rose tinged the moist air, overpowering the burnt smell of oil from the lamps on the stone walls.

  Umm Ayman, Sawdah’s sun-wrinkled friend and wife of Muhammad’s son Zayd, greeted us with brittle kisses and fevered questions as we entered. Why, she wanted to know, didn’t the Prophet wear dark blue after the death of his dear wife?

  “He says folks who mourn over dead Believers lack faith,” Sawdah told Umm Ayman as we undressed and lowered our bodies into the bath. Zainab sits at the side of al-Lah this very day, he’d said the morning of her funeral, and forbade the city’s wailing women to join our group as we walked to her grave site.

  Why, Umm Ayman asked, did I look so bedraggled and red-eyed? Sawdah told her how fervently I grieved for my sister-wife.“Not because she isn’t faithful, by al-Lah, but because she misses Mother of the Poor. Those two did everything together.”

  Their words fell like blows on my head, pushing me down under the water. I remained there as long as I could, away from my sister-wives’ dewy-eyed gazes. But, alas, I couldn’t hide forever from Umm Ayman, whose eyes gleamed as if she knew a secret about me.

  “Poor A’isha. You and your sister-wife shared so much, isn’t that the truth? Including the Prophet,” she said, nodding. “But now, with her gone, you share a little less, hmm? You lost a sister-wife but gained a husband, hmm? Maybe al-Lah will bless you with a child now. Then you can put to rest all the wagging tongues in the umma.”

  I looked down at my hands, not wanting to insult Sawdah’s friend with hateful looks.

  “I would happily share Muhammad with Umm al-Masakin,” I said, “to have her back with me.”

  Yet as my grief subsided, I began to see how shrewd Umm Ayman’s insights were. With one less wife in the harim, I saw more of Muhammad than I had in a year: sword-fighting in the courtyard, riding horses together in the desert, and sparring with our tongues as we each strived to outwit the other. Bolstered by his love, I began to feel more like a real hatun. But I made sure to keep my promise to Mother of the Poor and visit her beloved tent city from time to time.

  At first, those visits were excruciating. Struggling to rise above my grief—and guilt—over Umm al-Masakin’s death, I had little solace for the tent-dwellers who mourned and keened for her and begged me to recount her final hours. How could I talk about her death when I’d been partly to blame? I’d thought of my own desires above her needs, and al-Lah had taken her away. From now on, I’d strive to fill her place not only by caring for the tent-dwellers, but also by thinking more of others and less of myself.

  That vow flew out of my head when, just three months after Mother of the Poor’s death, Muhammad asked me to ready her apartment for a new wife. Sawdah’s prediction was coming true: Ten months after the death of Muhammad’s milk-brother, his widow Umm Salama would join our harim.

  “They say she is a haughty one,” Sawdah told me and Hafsa as we kneaded bread.

  “Her story is the opposite of mine,” Hafsa said. “While my father’s friends declined to marry me because of my temper, they all wooed the lovely Umm Salama. My father and yours both proposed marriage to her, can you believe it, A’isha?”

  My laugh was harsh, raising Hafsa’s magnificent eyebrows. “She must be special indeed for abi to take that risk. Marrying a twenty-eight year old from the Makhzum clan would turn his harim into a hornet’s nest.” Umm Salama hailed from a long line of wealthy Meccan aristocrats.

  Like Qutailah, she was a jealous woman. That was why she’d turned down my father’s proposal, she’d said. To Umar she’d given no reason. She’d rejected Muhammad three times before he won her over.

  “I am set in my ways, and my years are too advanced for
me to change them,” she’d told him. “Also, I am hesitant to move my children into a home that may not be as loving as the one they had with their father. And, third, I am averse to sharing my husband with other women. Abdallah loved me alone. I would writhe in jealousy to see the man I married even look upon another with desire.”

  But, unlike her other suitors, Muhammad persisted. He wooed her for months until she finally relented. “I am more advanced in years than you,” he’d said in answer to her concerns. “And I have known, and loved, your children since their births. As for your jealousy, it is no obstacle. I will ask al-Lah to remove it from you.”

  Judging from her demeanor the day she arrived, his prayers had not been answered. Standing in the cooking tent with Muhammad, Umm Salama appraised me, Hafsa, and Sawdah with arrogant gray eyes that seemed to calculate our worth and find us all lacking. Jealousy shadowed her face even as she held herself erect. Were it not for the colors she wore—a robe of white over a dark blue gown—she might have resembled a date-palm tree, so rigidly did she tower over us.

  “Brrr! I feel a sudden chill,” Hafsa murmured, but I didn’t answer. I was watching Muhammad’s nostrils flare and his eyes gleam, as though he were a hungry lion and she his next meal. And I wondered: Could I, his Little Red, ever compare to this tall, elegant beauty?

  With Umm Salama were four children: a baby sleeping in her arms, the sight of which made my heart pang with longing; two boys, one about fourteen, and one much younger, and a tall, quiet girl named Dorra, almost my age, who smiled at the pet goat I had tied to one of the tent stakes. I returned their smiles even as I felt my stomach writhe. How fertile was this new bride! Would it take long for her conceive an heir for Muhammad?

  Of course, I’d had these same fears when Mother of the Poor had first married him. If she were alive, she’d be kissing the bride’s hands and welcoming her to her new home. I couldn’t go quite so far, but I reminded myself to treat our sister-wife with kindness until she proved unworthy.