Mother of the Believers: A Novel of the Birth of Islam (6 page)

“Welcome my brothers, my friends!” Abu Sufyan’s voice boomed with the practiced good cheer of a salesman. “Welcome to the House of Allah! May the gods bless you and grant you all that you seek!”

The Bedouin leader wiped his brow as the river of sweat threatened to blind him.

“We seek water, for the journey has been trying and the sun god merciless.”

Abu Sufyan’s eyes fell on the heavy emerald rings that covered he chief ’s fingers and he smiled greedily.

“Of course, my friend.”

And then Abu Sufyan’s saw that the traders were carrying arms. Swords and daggers in sheaths on their rough leather belts, and spears and arrows tied to the sides of their horses. Necessary protection for their journey through the wild—but a potential threat to order inside Mecca itself.

“But first, I must ask that you lay aside your weapons, for they are forbidden inside the precincts of the holy city,” Abu Sufyan said with an apologetic smile.

The Bedouin looked at him for a moment and then nodded to his fellow pilgrims. They removed their various weapons and dropped them at their feet.

Muawiya stepped forward to pick up the blades, but the Bedouin leader moved to block him, his eyes filled with suspicion at the boy.

Aware of the sudden tension, Abu Sufyan immediately put on a gracious smile and stepped between the scarred Bedouin and the youth.

“My son Muawiya will take personal responsibility for all your weapons,” the Meccan chief said smoothly. “He will hold them in trust at the House of Assembly, and will return them to you at the conclusion of your Pilgrimage.”

The Bedouin spat on the ground at Muawiya’s feet.

“We are warriors of Bani Abdal Lat,” he said, his face hard. “We do not leave our weapons in the care of children.”

Abu Sufyan’s ingratiating smile vanished. The pride and power of his lineage suddenly shone through.

“My son is a lord of Quraysh, and there are no children among us. Only men of honor,” he said, his cold voice suggesting that the Bedouin had overstepped the bonds of hospitality.

Muawiya quickly interceded. “I will serve as surety over your goods,” he said, demonstrating the natural diplomacy that would serve him well in years to come. “If you do not receive them all back when you leave, you may take me as your slave in return.”

The gruff Bedouin looked over the small boy, who gazed at him steadily, never breaking eye contact. The pilgrim finally nodded, satisfied.

“The boy is strong. He has the eyes of an eagle,” the man said in clipped tones. “Your surety is accepted.”

He nodded to his people, who stepped aside as Muawiya quietly gathered the blades, spears, and arrows. Abu Sufyan’s gracious smile returned and he led the dust-covered pilgrims toward the tent of Zamzam. But when he saw my father and me standing near the well, a dangerous look came into his eyes. It was if he were communicating a wordless warning to my father. Abu Bakr met his gaze without flinching and then turned to me and held me up by my arms so that I could reach for the bucket of water he had pulled out of the well. I grasped a small bronze cup that hung from a ring at the side of the wooden bucket and drank to my little heart’s content.

Abu Sufyan turned back to his visitors.

“Behold the sacred well of Mecca, which never runs dry, nor do its waters suffer from disease or pollution. A sign of God’s favor on this blessed city.”

The Bedouin gathered around the well and dipped their leather pouches into its waters, scooping up the precious liquid and consuming it in quick gulps.

My father looked at Abu Sufyan and then laughed loudly.

“You are a strange man, Abu Sufyan,” my father said. “You acknowledge God’s favor on Mecca, and yet you still refuse to obey Him.”

The chief of Mecca turned red with suppressed anger.

The Bedouin leader saw his reaction and gazed at my father with sudden interest.

“Who is this man?”

Abu Sufyan turned his back on us.

“Just a madman spouting nonsense,” he said, waving his hand in dismissal. “Unfortunately the time of Pilgrimage draws many such fools, like the flood brings out the rats.”

Hearing him speak of my father like that ignited a fire in my child’s heart. I broke free of my father’s grasp and ran over to Abu Sufyan. “Don’t talk about my father that way! You’re the fool! You’re the rat!”

The Pilgrims laughed at my childish outburst, and my father quickly pulled me back with a scolding look.

“Aisha! We are Muslims. We do not speak to our elders with disrespect. Even if they are unbelievers.”

Now the Bedouin were intrigued. Their chief stepped forward

“What is a Muslim?”

Which was, of course, the question my father had been waiting to answer.

“One who has surrendered to God alone,” he said solemnly, like a teacher imparting wisdom to a young pupil.

But Abu Sufyan was not about to let this happen. He stepped right in front of my father and looked down at him with fury.

“Do not pester these pilgrims any further, Abu Bakr,” he said through gritted teeth. “They are tired and thirsty. Let them drink the sacred water of Zamzam in peace.”

Abu Bakr looked at the Bedouin, quenching their thirst from the well.

“I will do as you say. If you can tell me why this well is so sacred.”

Abu Sufyan stiffened.

“It is sacred because our forefathers have said so. That is enough for me.”

My father turned to the Bedouin.

“Tell me, my brother, is that enough for you?” he asked softly. “Do you know why the water you drink is blessed?”

The Bedouin looked perplexed. He ran a hand over the scar that disfigured his left cheek.

“I have never asked. But now I am curious.”

The Bedouin glanced at Abu Sufyan, but the tribal chief had no response.

And then my father turned to me.

“Tell them, little one,” he said with a gentle smile.

I looked up at the dark and dusty men from the desert and recited the story I had been raised with.

“The well of Zamzam is a miracle from God, written in the Book of the Jews and Christians,” I told them. “When our father Ishmael was sent into the desert by Abraham, his mother, Hagar, looked for water so that her child would not die of thirst. Seven times she ran between those hills.”

I pointed to the peaks of Safa and Marwa that overlooked the city. Even then, dozens of pilgrims were racing between the hills as part of the Pilgrimage ritual, though they had long forgotten its meaning or origins.

“But when she could find no water, she came back here,” I continued. “And the angel Gabriel appeared and told Ishmael to strike his foot. And the well of Zamzam sprang from beneath his feet, bringing water to the desert. And life to Mecca.”

As I spoke, I could tell that I had caught the attention of the Bedouin. They listened raptly to the story I wove, which suddenly brought a new meaning to the ancient rites they had crossed the desert to perform.

Abu Sufyan snorted.

“A child’s fable. Come, let me take you to the House of God.”

The Bedouin looked at me and my father, intrigued.

“Perhaps it is a child’s tale, but it is a good one,” he said, his eyes wide with wonder.

Abu Sufyan could no longer hide his irritation. He pushed his Bedouin guests toward the Kaaba as if they were wayward mares. My father and I followed. Even though we had completed our rites for the morning, Abu Bakr had sensed that the Bedouin were ready to hear more about our faith. We would wait until the men had finished their circumambulation and Abu Sufyan attended to other newcomers. And then my father would likely take them back to the House of the Messenger, where they could hear the Truth and be saved.

But as we approached the Kaaba, where the perpetual whirlwind of pilgrims was in motion, I heard shouts from across the Sanctuary. The enraged, booming voice of a man echoed through the plaza and drowned out even the loudest of prayers.

“What is it?” I asked my father, more intrigued than frightened.

“It is Umar. As usual.”

Ah, of course. Umar ibn al-Khattab, one of the most virulent of the lords of Mecca in his opposition to God’s Messenger. I saw him across the open space, towering like a giant over a small African man I immediately recognized as a former slave named Bilal. My father had bought Bilal’s freedom from his ruthless master, Umayya, who had tortured the poor man after he had embraced Islam. Umayya had dragged his rebellious slave into the marketplace, tied him to the ground under the blazing Meccan sun, and placed a heavy boulder on Bilal’s chest until it cracked his ribs and made it almost impossible to breathe. Umayya demanded that Bilal return to the worship of his master’s gods, but all the courageous slave would croak out under torture was “One God…One God…” Bilal would have died there that day had my father not intervened and paid Umayya’s outrageous price of ten gold dirhams for his freedom.

And now Umar tormented the poor freedman, who lay prostrate on the earth before the House of God, a gesture that immediately identified him as a follower of Muhammad’s new religion.

“You son of a dog! Get up!” Umar’s voice was like an elephant’s cry, terrifying and unearthly at once. He was the tallest man I had ever seen, with a bushy black beard that grew down to his waist. His arms were as thick as tree trunks, the muscles bulging clearly from the thin fabric of his red tunic. Umar reached down with hands that were larger than my head and grabbed Bilal by the scruff of his threadbare white robes. Bilal did not struggle but looked into Umar’s eyes with a serenity that only seemed to enrage the monster more.

Umar slapped Bilal hard, and I saw a flash of white as one of the African’s teeth flew out of his mouth. Alarmed, my father ran over to his side.

“Umar, leave Bilal in peace. Do not profane the Sanctuary with your wrath.”

The son of al-Khattab stared at my father, who barely came up to his chest, with contempt.

“It is you who profane the Sanctuary with your lies, Abu Bakr!” his voice thundered. “You spread discontent and rebellion, turning slaves against their masters!”

My father remained calm, refusing to let Umar get a rise out of him.

“Bilal is no longer a slave to any man,” he said firmly.

Umar spat in contempt.

“Just because you bought his freedom does not make him any less a slave.”

Bilal looked at his tormentor with a steady gaze. When he spoke, it was with a deeply melodious, musical voice. A voice for which he would be renowned in years to come.

“You are right, Umar. I am still a slave. A slave to Allah.”

Umar’s face reddened until it became the color of an angry sunset.

“You dare speak to me about Allah before His very House!”

Umar kicked Bilal hard in the gut, knocking the small man to the ground. The tiny African cried out in pain, grasping his stomach and writhing in pain. Umar pushed my father out of the way when he leaned over to help Bilal and then kicked him again.

Furious, I ran over to Umar and kicked him in the shin.

“Stop it! Stop hurting him!”

By then, a crowd of pilgrims and locals had formed around us, watching the ongoing drama. When I lashed out at Umar, many laughed at the madness of a child taking on one of the most feared men in Arabia.

Hearing their jeers, Umar looked up and saw the men for the first time. Alarmed at the sudden public spectacle his temper had created during the sacred Pilgrimage, Umar attempted to reassert his dignity and power over the bemused crowd.

“Step back! I am a guardian of the Holy Kaaba!”

But I wouldn’t let him get away with that.

“No! You’re just a bully!” I threw my tiny arms around his legs to prevent him from kicking Bilal again, causing a greater eruption of laughter from the spectators. I looked up to see that while some were mocking, others, especially pilgrims who were foreigners to the city, were shaking their heads in disgust at the violent display before the House of God.

And then I saw Talha, my favorite cousin, push his way through the crowd. My face lit up. Of all my relatives, he was the one I was closest to. There was a natural sweetness to him, like the honey from a bee’s comb. And he was so handsome, with his flowing brown hair and expressive gray eyes that always showed what he was feeling. And in them now I saw terrible anger.

Talha stormed up to Umar, unafraid of the towering blowhard.

“How brave of you, Umar. Fighting a man half your size, and then a little girl. Shall I bring you a cat to test your prowess next?”

Umar stepped back, stunned by Talha’s reproach. He looked confused, as if he could not understand how a powerful man like himself had lost control of the situation so quickly. He finally stared down at Bilal, eager to have the last word.

“Leave the Sanctuary and darken not its stones again with your black flesh,” he said contemptuously.

Bilal stood proudly, wiping blood from his mouth.

“God made me black and I praise Him for it,” he said with dignity. And then he raised his beautiful voice to recite a verse from the Holy Qur’an.

“We take our colors from God, and who is better than God at coloring?”

There was a murmur of interest from the crowd at the lyrical sound of the holy words. I saw several of the dark-skinned nomads, who were accustomed to being treated with contempt, take in these words with a look of delight. They started whispering to one another, and I knew that soon they would learn about the Messenger from whose mouth these strange words had emanated. Words that broke the rules of Arab culture and yet touched the heart. Words that could give a slave strength to stand up to a tyrant. Now the crowd wanted to know more about these words and who was spreading them.

I saw in his sudden flash of regret that Umar had realized this as well. In his explosion of rage, he had only managed to bring attention to Muhammad’s message. Shaking his head, he grumbled to himself as he turned away from us.

“You are all mad,” Umar said dismissively. And then he faced the crowd and raised his hands for their attention.

“Know all present that I would not have harmed this girl,” he said, pointing at me in the desperate hope of regaining some dignity. “Umar ibn al-Khattab does not hurt children.”