Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (50 page)

T
he Messenger sent the Mothers a message through the fiery Umar. He would not speak to any of us for a month. He retired alone to a small tent at the edge of the Masjid courtyard and refused our desperate entreaties for reconciliation.

The next month was one of the most miserable in my life. The Prophet was true to his word and did not speak a single word to any of us for the entire time. And to make our punishment sting deeper, we received word that God had absolved his Messenger of his hasty oath and my husband was spending his nights solely in the company of the slave girl Mariya. As usual, the other wives blamed me for our collective predicament, although in this instance we all shared responsibility for pushing Muhammad too far. They avoided me as if I carried a disease, and I was more isolated than ever.

The only company I found during those miserable days was that of my sister, Asma, who would often bring you, Abdallah, to play in the corner while she comforted me. You were still a small boy, not yet five years old, but you had a seriousness and wisdom about you even at such a tender age. When I cried, as I often did during your mother’s visits, you would invariably put down your toys and come over to me, placing your head in my lap until the gentleness of your presence calmed me. I knew in my heart that I would likely never have a child of my own, and you became a son to me in those moments, a bond that I still feel as readily today, nearly fifty years later, as I did then. And it is perhaps for this reason that I open my heart to you now, for you have always been a salve to the pain of your aunt, whom destiny has chosen to be both blessed and cursed.

Time lost all meaning during those weeks, and yet I did not stop counting the hours before the ban would be lifted and—I hoped—my husband would return to us. Still, I was terrified at the thought of where we would go from there. Would he still love me, or had Mariya forever taken my place in his heart? Would the glorious fire that had once linked our souls be reduced to a smoldering ember, a pale echo of days long past?

And then one night, as I sat alone in my room, looking down at my husband’s threadbare mantle, the musky scent of his flesh still emanating from its fibers, I heard the sound of footsteps. And then the door opened, revealing the silhouette of a man standing on the threshold. Startled, I reached for my veil, and then the figure stepped inside and I saw that it was the Messenger of God.

For a moment, I sat utterly still, convinced he was just a waking dream, a shadow of my imagination. He looked down at me for a quiet moment, and then his pale face broke into a small smile.

I rose to my feet, my heart caught in my throat.

“But…it’s been only twenty-nine days…” was all I could croak The Prophet raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“How do you know that?”

I moved toward him, pulled like a drop of water toward the ocean.

“I have been counting the days. And the hours.”

And then I realized that this month, Rajab, had only twenty-nine days instead of thirty because of the early sighting of the new moon. The Prophet had waited exactly as long as he had promised and not a moment less. And he had chosen to come to me first of all of his wives.

The Messenger of God took my hand in his and squeezed tightly until I could feel the steady pulse of the blood in his veins, matching the rhythm of my own heartbeat.

“Aisha, God has revealed these words to me,” he said gently, but I sensed a hint of sternness still lingering in his glance as he recited the newest verses of the holy Qur’an.

O Prophet, say to your wives

If your desire is for the present life and its finery,

Then come, I will make provision for you

And release you with kindness.

But if you desire God, His Messenger

And the Home of the Hereafter

Then remember that God has prepared great rewards

For those of you who do good.

I listened with my head bowed as Allah presented me with two paths, the way of the world or the way of eternity. The God who had rescued me from disgrace, who had saved my honor when even my husband had doubted me, was now warning me that my future with Muhammad and the believers lay on the path toward which I turned my heart at this instant.

“So,
Humayra,
what do you choose?” the Messenger asked in a voice that was a whisper.

Hot tears ran down my cheeks and I looked up into the obsidian eyes of my husband, and I knew there had never been any choice in the matter.

“I choose God and His Messenger, and the Home of the Hereafter,” I said, trembling with an ache that threatened to tear my heart in two.

And then the Prophet smiled warmly. He took me in his arms and kissed me, and the waves of passion soon took us beyond the veil of this harsh world into the timeless mystery of man and woman and the infinite joy of their union.

A
WEEK LATER
, I learned that the slave girl Mariya had missed her courses for the second month in a row.

She was pregnant with Muhammad’s child.

S
even months later, the wives gathered around Mariya as she went through the final, horrific pangs of childbirth. I held her hand while Hafsa wiped the flood of sweat that bathed her soft curls and Umm Salama crouched low over the birthing chair, gently coaxing the poor girl to push just a little harder.

Whatever jealousies we had felt—whatever lingering bitterness had hung over the household of the Messenger since we’d heard the news of the slave’s conception—all of it had finally been forgotten in the long hours we’d spent beside Mariya since her water broke. The girl was as fragile as a bird, and each contraction produced such wrenching screams that the coldness of our hearts melted in the flame of empathy. She was no longer our rival for the love of the Messenger, no longer the usurper who had come in and taken the honor that was meant for one of the noble women of free birth who had shared Muhammad’s bed. That night, she had become just another terrified girl, enduring the agony that was also the glory of womanhood.

I looked into Mariya’s soft eyes, as kind and lost as those of a doe in the wilderness, and tried to send into her soul the strain of indomitable strength that flowed in my own blood. She looked up at me, confused and frightened, but I could see a light deep inside her eyes that said we had made a connection and I could see a hint of gratitude in her bloodless face.

And then Mariya clutched my hand with such fury that I thought she would shatter my fingers, and gave a scream that was more horrible than any cry of a dying man I had heard on the battlefield.

And then a new sound filled the stone barn that now served as a makeshift birthing chamber. The wondrous, improbable, heart-stirring sound of a baby crying.

I turned in awe to Umm Salama, who was kneeling on the ground, holding the child who was the hope of a nation. And then the gentle woman with the motherly smile looked up at us with reverence, thick tears welling in her eyes.

“Tell the Messenger of God…he has a son…”

I
HAD NEVER SEEN
such rejoicing in Medina. In the days that followed, the sober oasis was transformed into a city of grand festivities as the Muslims celebrated the birth of Muhammad’s son, who had been named Ibrahim. Hundreds of camels, sheep, and oxen were sacrificed by overjoyed believers, the meat distributed to the poor. Merchants heavily slashed prices in the marketplace and sometimes simply gave away their goods as gifts. Poets raced to compose verses in honor of the new boy in whose blood lived the hope of the entire Muslim
Ummah
. Had alcohol not been banned by the holy Qur’an, the streets would have been flowing in beer and
khamr,
and I suspected a few of the less pious were secretly toasting away in the privacy of their own homes.

It was a glorious time, and the joy was shared by all in the Prophet’s household, including the Mothers. Our envy of Mariya had been replaced by a fierce protective instinct toward her and the baby, who had become the son of us all. I remember the first time I held Ibrahim, after his mother had suckled him and the Messenger had wept over his tiny fingers. The Prophet had given him to me first in a sign that, even now, I remained foremost among his consorts.

I had held the tiny bundle in my arms as if he were a precious jewel and looked down at his face. Ibrahim’s hair was a mass of brown curls like his mother’s, but his eyes were indisputably those of his father, gazing up at me like black pearls filled with ancient wisdom. His skin was softer than a dove’s, and he radiated that mysterious coolness that always surrounded Muhammad, even in the hottest days of summer. And then those mesmerizing eyes seemed to twinkle at me as he smiled, and I fell in love with Ibrahim in that instant. It was a love as ferocious and all-consuming as I had for the Messenger, and I vowed that I would lay down my life to guard him and his mother, even if all the demons of Hell were unleashed upon us.

On the seventh day of Ibrahim’s life, the Messenger held the ceremony of the
aqiqa,
where the baby’s hair is cut for the first time and weighed, with the weight in gold then passed along to the poor. The People of the House gathered to celebrate this first milestone in the child’s life, and a pavilion of green and yellow stripes was placed outside the Masjid, where the faithful could come see the beautiful boy and the indigent could find alms.

The women of the household were gathered in a closed section in the back, separated by a woolen curtain from the excited crowds. Along with my fellow sister-wives were the daughters of Muhammad—Zaynab, with her little daughter, Umama; the childless Umm Kulthum, who had married Uthman after Ruqayya’s death; and the Prophet’s favorite, Fatima, with her sons, Hasan and Husayn. All of us gathered reverently around Mariya as if she were the queen of the nation, jostling with one another for a chance to hold the baby, the little Chosen One who was the light of the
Ummah
. I heard Hasan giggle as he chased his little brother, Husayn, around the room and I glanced at Fatima, who for once did not look sad and distant but was laughing heartily as her new baby brother looked up at her with the utter trust and absorption that only infants untainted by the world possess.

In the early days of Mariya’s pregnancy, some gossipmongers had spread vicious tales suggesting that Fatima and Ali were sad about the news that the Prophet would soon have an heir, displacing their own sons as the sole custodians of Muhammad’s bloodline. But despite my own unwavering antipathy for Ali, I did not believe for one second that he or his wife held anything but happiness for the Messenger, and, seeing the sincere look of joy on the normally taciturn Fatima’s face, I knew that such talk had been malicious and misguided.

And then the curtain parted and my husband walked inside the women’s chamber, his eyes twinkling. He went over to Mariya, kissed his infant son on the forehead, and then whispered something into the Egyptian girl’s ears. She giggled mischievously and nodded as the Prophet turned his attention to us. And I saw for the first time that he held in his hands a pretty necklace—an emerald pendant on a silver chain.

“In honor of my son’s
aqiqa,
today I will give this necklace to the girl I love most,” the Messenger said, holding the pendant aloft for all to see.

There was an immediate rustle of excitement and I suddenly felt my heart pounding in my chest. The Messenger glanced at me for just a brief moment and then began to walk slowly past each of his wives, dangling the necklace near their eager faces.

I saw Hafsa turn to Zaynab and whisper. Her voice was too low for me to hear, but I had mastered the art of reading lips during my years of fending off—and participating in—harem gossip.

“He will give it to the daughter of Abu Bakr,” Hafsa said, and I could see the irritation on Zaynab’s beautiful features as she nodded her agreement.

I felt a flash of pride as the Messenger walked by all of his wives and approached me. For a moment, he lingered before Safiya and I felt my heart sink. And then he passed by the disappointed Jewess and strolled toward me, the last in the circle of the Mothers.

I smiled triumphantly and raised my hand to take the jewel……and the Messenger walked right past me! I flushed red, shocked and confused. He had gone by each of his wives and yet the necklace remained in his hands. And then I saw him approach little Umama, who was sitting in her mother, Zaynab’s, lap. The Messenger bent down and tied the necklace around his granddaughter’s neck, then kissed her on the lips.

We all groaned, realizing that the Prophet had played a poignant little joke on us, the women of the household, who were perennially creating drama in our rivalry to be the first in his heart.

The Prophet looked at me in amusement. I crossed my arms in mock irritation, but I could not suppress the smile on my face. I finally burst out laughing, and soon everyone joined in.

And the mirth of the afternoon was interrupted by the sound of a dog barking wildly nearby, and I saw the Prophet’s face grow dark. He began to tremble and I saw beads of sweat on his forehead, and I leaped to my feet on the assumption that the tremors of Revelation had set in. But the Messenger did not fall to the ground in convulsions as often happened during these moments of spiritual ecstasy. He stood where he was, his eyes gazing out across the pavilion as if he were looking through the cloth walls and seeing something far beyond the confines of time and space.

And then the moment passed and the Prophet blinked rapidly, looking around as if trying to remind himself where he was. He turned to face us, his eyes gazing long and deep at each one of his wives, his handsome face suddenly tense with anxiety. His gaze fell upon me and I felt a strange chill in my heart.

“O Messenger of God, what is it?”

The Prophet continued to look at me, as if his eyes were peering deep into my soul.

“The dogs of al-Haw’ab…they bark so fiercely…”

Al-Haw’ab was a valley to the northeast, on the caravan route to Iraq. I did not understand why the Prophet was mentioning this remote and desolate place, but there was something about his tone that suddenly frightened me. I looked at my sister-wives and saw that they were unnerved as well.

The Prophet now looked away from me and stared across the room. He continued to speak, but it was to himself and not to us.

“They bark at the Angel of Death…who follows her skirts…so much death in her midst…”

A terrible silence followed and the only thing I could hear was the pounding of blood in my ears. And then the Jewess stood up, her eyes filled with the terror that we all now felt.

“Who is she? Who do the dogs bark at?”

The Prophet stirred from his silent reverie and then looked again at each of us, sorrow etched on to his features.

“I…I don’t know…but I grieve for her…”

The air of festivity was gone, replaced by a terrible sense of doom hanging over us. The Messenger of God shook his head as if trying to free himself from the awful vision that had captured his heart. He turned to leave and then stopped, his eyes suddenly focused on me. He leaned close so that only I would hear.

“Please,
Humayra,
” he said softly. “Don’t let the dogs bark at you.”

He walked out, leaving me with an unearthly sense of foreboding. I suddenly threw on my veil and ran outside. As I fled the pavilion and raced back to the security of my little home, I felt like a terrified gazelle charging through the wilderness, escaping an unseen predator that was coming closer every moment.

In years to come, when the Messenger’s prophecy came true, I learned that we are all gazelles, and the lion that is bearing down upon us is the heartless hunter called fate. And the tragedy of life is that no matter how fast we run, no matter how far we go, the lion always wins.