The Jewel Of Medina Page 23

  “I’m not a child anymore.” Having made my point, I laced up my chemise.

  He looked into my eyes again. His expression tightened.

  “Did Safwan make you a woman in the desert?”

  Heat flooded my skin. “How eager you are to believe these rumors!” I said. “You said yourself that I’m not ready for consummation, yet you suspect me of giving my virginity to another man. Of course, Safwan doesn’t think of me as a little girl.”

  “Did he make you a woman?”

  “I was a woman before any of this happened. I’ve been waiting for you to make me your wife.”

  “By al-Lah, A’isha!” Muhammad cried. “Were you unfaithful to me with Safwan or not? Tell me you were not, and I will proclaim your innocence to the entire town.”

  “Tell him, A’isha,” my mother urged from her corner. “Tell your husband you are pure.”

  “Why should my husband believe me, when my own parents don’t?” I said. She lowered her eyes, and I turned my gaze back to Muhammad. How could I say what he needed to hear? I’d waited for Safwan under the date-palms. I’d almost run away with him. Wasn’t that a kind of infidelity?

  The dream al-Lah had sent me came back as clearly as if I’d just awakened, telling me what to say next, and what to do.

  “If I tell you, ‘Yes, I did what they accuse me of,’ you’ll divorce me and al-Lah will punish me for lying,” I said. “If I say no, you may stand up for me, but you’ll always doubt me in your heart. So I will say nothing. There is only One who can clear my name.”

  “But Safwan has disappeared!” my mother cried.

  “Do you think I need Safwan to plead my case?” I straightened my spine, reminding myself: I was the queen of Muhammad’s harim and of his heart. “I have the most persuasive One of all on my side. Al-Lah will speak for me.”

  “I told you, I have tried praying,” Muhammad said.

  “Perhaps you should try listening,” I said. Then, with my head high, I walked toward the entryway.

  “Yaa A’isha, I command you to come back,” my father boomed. “Your business with your husband is not finished.”

  I turned to face them all. “I have said what I have to say, abi. The matter is in al-Lah’s hands now.” I looked at Muhammad. “When He has vindicated me, I will happily return to the harim—as your true wife.”

  My task completed, I glided from the room, hoping they couldn’t see how my legs trembled. I pulled aside my curtain, took a shaky breath, and went inside, where I fell onto my bed and covered my head with my pillow. It’s in Your hands, al-Lah. I trust You to help me.

  It had been the greatest performance of my life—and the most dangerous. Muhammad would return, but in what capacity? As a loving husband with his arms open wide, or—al-Lah forbid—as a stern judge, condemning me to death?

  BEWITCHED

  LATER THAT DAY

  The inexorable sun trudged upward, dragging the day in its wake. Outside, a vulture’s cry impaled my waning hopes. On my divan of blue and gold I lay in wait for Muhammad, fending off despair, refusing Barirah’s solace, eschewing the evening meal. How could I face my parents after defying them so confidently this morning?

  Muhammad should have returned for me before now. Where had I erred? Perhaps I should have insisted I was innocent, as he’d asked. I could have told him that Safwan didn’t take my virginity. But Muhammad would want the full truth. He might ask how I’d really ended up in the oasis with Safwan. No, I’d been right not to say anything. He would come back for me. But when?

  A clamor at the front door made my heart jump. Muhammad! Through my window I saw eight men, including Ali and Hamal, waving swords and demanding that my father hand me over.

  “The wells are drying up, and the dates shrivel on the trees,” an Aws man snarled. “Al-Lah withholds the rain to punish us for the sins of your daughter.”

  A rock flew past me, barely missing my head. I dropped my curtain of blue beads and hid against the wall, trying to hear my thoughts above my heart’s hammering. Blood-lust raged in the voices of those men. Could my father fend them off, one against ten? They’d cut off my head and parade it through the streets before Muhammad finished his prayers.

  “Yaa Ali, has the Prophet sent you?” my father asked, as calmly as if they had come for coffee.

  “The Prophet has done nothing. That is the problem, Abu Bakr. That daughter of yours has bewitched him. He has been in anguish since she returned from the desert.”

  “The fahisha has brought a curse on the city,” the Aws man cried. “Al-Lah demands justice!”

  “Bewitched?” I heard my father chuckle. “By al-Lah, Muhammad was in my house this day, and I saw no signs of bewitching.”

  “The Prophet was here?” Hamal spoke. “We have heard nothing of this.”

  “He is making a decision about A’isha’s guilt or innocence,” my father said. “We expect him back soon. What if he declares her blameless?”

  “Safwan ibn al-Mu’attal has disappeared,” the Aws man said. “Only a guilty man would run away.”

  “You may speak truly,” my father said. “Or you may be mistaken. Either way, the Prophet will not be pleased if he returns today and finds you have killed his favorite wife. If he declares her guilty, he will punish her soon enough. But if he finds her innocent, then you have committed murder, my friends. You would all be dead before the sun sets.”

  “Muhammad would be grateful,” Ali said. “That girl has been trouble since the day she arrived in his home.”

  Hamal cleared his throat. “Yaa Ali, if the Prophet is going to decide today, then we should wait for his verdict.”

  “If we kill his wife, the Prophet might kill us,” the Aws man said. “And we would go to Hell for eternity.”

  To my relief, their murmurs and grumbles faded as they walked away. Then Ali’s voice hissed through my curtains and slithered over my bones.

  “Yaa A’isha, you might have tricked the Prophet, but you have not fooled me,” he said. “I have seen you and Safwan together, remember? If the Prophet finds you innocent—al-Lah forbid it!—I will watch your every move for the rest of your days.”

  The sun was a bird with an injured wing, lurching painfully downward, staining the horizon with blood. Digging my knees into my prayer mat, I begged al-Lah to send my husband the revelation he needed to set me free and take me home, away from all the doubts and shame.

  As I prayed, my voice cracked with the weight of my deeds. Why would al-Lah help me after what I had done? I’d dreamed of a life without Muhammad even while I lay next to him at night. I’d schemed to run away with Safwan, never even thinking about how my husband—and my family—would suffer.

  When I’d told Safwan I was a virgin, he’d stopped his advances. But what if he hadn’t? What if he’d continued pulling up my skirt and pushed himself inside me? I would have deserved it. Then, having consummated with Safwan, I’d be living with him among the Ghatafani Bedouins right now, doing his bidding—and Muhammad, stripped of all dignity in his followers’ eyes, would be the same as dead. Ibn Ubayy would have taken Medina at last, and that would have been the end of Muhammad, and the umma, and islam.

  I began to cry, imagining Abu Sufyan’s army riding into Medina, seizing Muhammad, torturing him to death, slaughtering all the Believers who remained with him. Would my parents have been among them, or would my disappearance have sent them slinking away in shame?

  “Yaa al-Lah, forgive my selfishness,” I prayed. “I know I deserve to die. I deserve to lose Muhammad. But for his sake, and that of the umma, please show my husband I’m innocent.”

  I began to cry. “And please help me to accept the life You have chosen for me, and to live it in ways that bring honor to You and to Your Prophet. Yet—” an ache rose in my chest, as if chains weighted my heart “—I beg you, God, please help me to seize my destiny, to become the woman I yearn to be.”

  I cried so much, I could have filled that cup I’d sent with Barirah. When I finished I
lay on my mat, exhausted. And then I had a revelation of my own. Not the direct kind such as Muhammad experienced, with alLah speaking through his mouth. For me, it was like the drawing aside of a curtain, sending sunlight pouring into the darkened rooms of my soul.

  I hadn’t left the umma for Safwan. I’d never dreamt of his kisses or his loving arms, but of desert rides wild and free and, later, of a life of equality with my husband. It was an impossible dream, my mother had said. Even now, though, I didn’t believe her. Hadn’t Muhammad declared, when I was a baby, that girls were as valuable as boys? Al-Lah had wanted me to live, and He’d called me to fight. He’d given me the sword and the skills of a warrior while Ali and Umar and other men like them and, yes, women also, including my mother, forbade me to use them. They were the ones I’d run from, they and their ridiculous inventions such as purdah and hatun and durra and their traditions of male superiority that made chattel of women.

  Power was what drove them all, including Muhammad. In truth, it was what I desired, also: the power to live freely, to fight for my umma, to control my destiny. Being a woman meant I couldn’t seize this power by force, and I certainly wouldn’t gain it by running away. Muhammad had married every one of his wives, starting with me, for political gains. My best chance for empowerment, I saw now, was to become politically useful to him. If I could earn his respect and his trust, I could become his advisor. I might also be able to help the umma, fulfilling my promise to al-Lah with my intelligence instead of my sword.

  My pulse drummed an exuberant beat. Me, advisor to the Prophet of God! I knew I could do it, and do it well. How many times had I spied on the men in the majlis with ideas spinning through my head? Muhammad would listen to me if I proved myself worthy. Even that jackal Abu Sufyan, it was said, consulted his shrill wife, Hind, for political advice.

  I must have fallen asleep, for when I awoke the rich, red light of the fallen sun bled into my room, and the wing of the angel Gabriel slid over my cheek and out the window.

  “The Prophet!” Barirah crashed into my room, arms flapping. “He calls for you. Look outside.”

  I heard a shout as I arose, followed by clamoring voices. Muhammad stood in my mother’s garden with his arms outstretched, his smile leaping like a flame, his hair flung about his head as if he’d just awakened from a long sleep. Around him, men and women of the umma ululated and threw themselves to the ground, shouting their thanks to God.

  “Yaa A’isha, al-Lah has sent me a revelation at last,” Muhammad called. “You are innocent of any wrongdoing!”

  Relief washed over me like a cooling rain. “Praise al-Lah,” I breathed, and let the curtain drop.

  I sent Barirah for my robe and pulled my hair back, reminding myself of my vow to become Muhammad’s helpmate. To gain his respect, I would have to command it. And if I wanted him to treat me like a woman, I would have to act like one. I dried my tears and washed my face, giving myself a chance to calm down before going to greet him.

  Barirah came in with my robe. I slipped it on, then covered my hair with my wrapper. My mother rushed in with a face as eager as a child’s.

  “Muhammad is waiting for you. Come and thank him,” she said, and practically pushed me toward the front door, where my father stood smiling at Muhammad, who in turn beamed at me like a man presenting a precious gift.

  “Yaa A’isha, I’ve come to take you home and make you my true wife,” he said.

  I lowered my eyes quickly, hiding my joy, fearing he’d see triumph, which would have raised me above him, or gratitude, which would have placed me at his feet. Neither of us was responsible for this change, anyway. Al-Lah had made it all possible. The triumph belonged to Him, and so did my thanks.

  “I will gladly accompany you, husband,” I said. “But first, I’m going to the mosque.”

  “What are you talking about?” my mother cried.

  I kissed my father’s beard. “Thank you for your protection during this difficult time. Will you please call for a camel so I may ride home, as befits the wife of the Prophet?”

  It was a ridiculous request; the mosque stood next door to us. But I was determined to reclaim my dignity. My father grinned, but my mother seized my shoulders and stared at me with wild eyes.

  “Ai! The Prophet has saved your life today. Are you too proud to thank him?”

  “Muhammad didn’t clear my name. Al-Lah did,” I said. “Al-Lah is the one I’m going to thank.” Then I gave Muhammad my most winning smile. “And when I return to my room, husband, I hope to find you waiting there.”

  “Hearing is obeying, habibati.”

  A GLANCE IN THE MIRROR

  MEDINA, FEBRUARY 627

  How quickly the heart changes! Desire burned like a fire in Muhammad’s loins, unquenchable in one night, or two, or three. As for me, the pain of consummation soon melted away—Muhammad was so gentle, I hardly felt the scorpion’s sting. To be in his arms, skin to skin, was the bliss I had longed for all my life. Now my husband’s very glance filled me with pleasure, and I understood at last the grins and sighs and innuendoes that swirled like cinnamon in the cooking tent whenever Muhammad sequestered himself with a new wife.

  Afterward, lying in the circle of his arms, I listened with a full and quivering heart to his declarations of love and his tender promises for the future.

  “When I heard that you were missing from your hawdaj, I felt as if my life were ending,” he murmured, stroking my hair. “All color seemed to drain from the sky, and all the heat from the sweltering day. For the first time in my life, A’isha, I felt truly afraid. My first thought was to ride out in search of you immediately.”

  My stomach shifted as I imagined him galloping up to find me lying in Safwan’s arms. Of course, by the time Muhammad had discovered me missing I was vomiting in the dirt and holding my belly, alone, in the shelter of Safwan’s tent.

  “What made you change your mind?” I asked.

  “Ali. He convinced me that it would be foolish to set out in the midday heat. In truth, I was weary and in need of replenishment. When the day had cooled, Ali sent Abu Hurayra in search of you.” He frowned. “In retrospect, it was not a good decision. Being unfamiliar with the path, Abu Hurayra lost his way.”

  I couldn’t suppress my smirk. If Ali had truly been interested in finding me, he wouldn’t have sent a newcomer from Yemen to search for me. But I kept my suspicions to myself. Ali couldn’t hurt me now.

  “It’s fortunate that Safwan’s horse has a more refined sense of direction than Abu Hurayra’s nose,” I said.

  “Fortunate, yes. But it does not surprise me that you returned in safety, for al-Lah chose you for me long ago.” Muhammad caressed my face with his coppery eyes, making me glow. “The angel Gabriel once showed me your face in the palm of his hand. I knew we would be together until death.”

  “And afterward.” Heat surged under my skin and spread through my chest.

  “A’isha, every woman I have ever loved has left me. My dear Khadija, who believed in me from the first and who gave me Fatima, died only a few months before you and I became betrothed. Before that, I lost my mother when I was six.”

  My heart beat only for him as I imagined the sorrow of the boy Muhammad, orphaned at such a young age, for his father had died before he was born. “That must have been terrible for you. Do you remember her?”

  “As if she lived yesterday.” His eyes grew misty. “She was beautiful and filled with joy. No one ever made me laugh so much—until you came along.” He squeezed my hand and gave me a tremulous smile.

  “At least you had your uncle Abu Talib to take care of you.” Ali’s father had raised Muhammad as his own son, inspiring Muhammad, years later, to return the favor and care for Ali.

  “But not right away. In those first years after ummi’s death, my life was a procession of ever-changing sorrows. My grandfather took me to live with him in a house with little light, for he was nearly blind. No longer was I allowed to play with my friends or to go outdoors except to dr
aw water from the well. Instead I became my grandfather’s servant.”

  I exclaimed over this news and pulled him close Like me, Muhammad had been imprisoned at a young age—had lost his childhood before he’d had a chance to enjoy it. “Then you must know how I felt, being locked in purdah.”

  “I tried to change your father’s mind, to convince him such drastic measures were unnecessary, but he feared for you,” Muhammad said.

  I sighed and lay my head on his chest. “We were not children for long, were we, habibi?”

  “Our lives have been difficult, yes. But you and I are survivors. That is one reason I admire you, why I love you more than my own life. Like me, you are a fighter.”

  “Control your destiny, or it will control you,” I said.

  Muhammad nodded. “You speak the truth. That is why I have risked so much for islam, why I have given up everything to come to Medina. I must worship according to al-Lah’s wishes, not those of Quraysh.”

  I sat up, sensing the opening I’d been waiting for. “And I want to fight in battle—” Muhammad winced—“as I know I cannot do, and to be the official hatun of your harim, which I know I can. With your support.”

  He wrinkled his brow. “But you are already the hatun, are you not?”

  “Yes and no. I have taken the position, but not all your wives respect it. Some say I’m too young to lead the household. But if you tell them yourself, they’ll have to respect my status.

  Muhammad tapped his forefinger against his chin and studied me as if I were a puzzle that needed solving. “My leadership of the umma was given to me by my followers.”

  My jaw dropped. “You’re not going to help me?”

  “The harim is not the man’s domain, but that of the women,” he said with a rueful smile. “If you want to be hatun, you must earn the privilege from your sister-wives.”