The Jewel Of Medina (48 page)

I had to prevent this divorce, but how? Every day I grew more desperate to tell Muhammad my story, so that he would know I’d always acted out of love for him and not only jealousy. Staring out my window at the guard Umar had posted under the tree, I felt as helpless as I had those years in
purdah.

“Do not worry, A’isha,”
abi
said to me one day. “I told Muhammad of the Yemeni plot and how you saved his life. He was distraught, at first, that you did not alert him to your discovery. But I think he had forgiven you by the time we returned to Medina.” Some consolation his words offered! And from the waver in his voice I could tell he, also, was worried about what Muhammad might do.

After a while Muhammad’s visitors began to tire of gawking. They still crowded the base of the tree to gossip and speculate about him, but by day’s end only a few stragglers remained. When night cloaked the courtyard the last of them would trail home, leaving the guard to stand sentry alone.
Please, al-Lah, send him away
, I prayed, but as the weeks dragged on and the guard remained, I decided to grasp the camel by the nose—with Hafsa’s help.

One night, when the moon gave only a sliver of light, Hafsa ran up to the guard and tugged at his sleeve. “A shadow!” she said, gasping. “I saw it moving behind my hut. And when I went to my window to see, I heard a crashing in the bushes. Come quickly!” Her performance was quite impressive. From my hut I watched the guard leave his post to investigate—and then, dressed in my dark red robe, I scurried across the grass and up the date-palm tree.

Stealthily I climbed, keeping my gaze on Muhammad’s window, not daring to glance down for fear I’d be overcome by dizziness. Heights had frightened me ever since my first, frantic ride in that swaying
hawdaj
years
ago. But too much was at stake to let that stop me from seeing Muhammad.

I found him sitting with his legs crossed on the clay floor, staring out a side window. His head was bare, and his hair was as tangled as my emotions. I yearned to throw myself in his lap and bury my face in his beard, as I’d done so often—yet, at the same time, I wanted to respect his need for solitude.

I leaned into his window and whispered his name, hoping he would invite me in. He didn’t move, only sat and stared like one of the stone statues outside the Ka’ba.

“
Yaa
Muhammad!” I rasped, but he still didn’t respond. By al-Lah, had his spirit left his body? I was about to call his name more loudly but the crackle of dry grass pulled my gaze to the base of the tree far below, where the guard had moved back to his post. I could just make out his turban, like a pale stone in the faint moonlight, before my stomach turned, queasy from the height. My heart raced, and a cold sweat beaded my face. I grabbed the windowsill and gulped the night air until the world righted itself again.

Through it all Muhammad sat motionless. Was he in a trance?

“I had to come and see you,
habibi
,” I said, keeping my voice low so the guard couldn’t hear. “Before you decide my fate, you need to know why I’ve acted as I have.”

His back straightened, making me believe he was listening. Now was the time to tell Muhammad how much I loved him, how I’d only wanted to protect him from harm, how al-Lah had called me long ago to fight for him and for the
umma
.

Instead, though, I found myself relating a different tale, the story of a little girl betrothed without her knowledge to a much older man, a man so prominent that her parents locked her in
purdah
much earlier than usual to give her special protection. I told him how I’d cried and paced the floor, restless for the sky and the spicy warmth of the sun on my skin. I told how I’d watched Qutailah abuse my mother and vowed not to let the same thing happen to me, and how desperately I’d craved attention from my busy father. I didn’t tell him how I’d dreamt of Safwan’s rescue or how I made up verses about riding the desert with him, free from
purdah
and parents and anyone else who had the power to lock me indoors.

Like that nightingale, I sang to Muhammad of the shock and fear of walking into my wedding and finding him there, the man I’d loved more as a father than a husband. I told him how lonely I’d felt in that room filled with relatives and friends, all of them beaming with pleasure and pride for me, all praising the tears they thought I cried over leaving my parents while in truth I was grieving over the loss of my dream. Married to Muhammad I would never ride as free as the wind over the desert dunes, making my own laws, living my own life free of my neighbors’ rules.

“They were childish dreams,” I said, “but they were mine. And they were my only true possessions, for what else can a girl own? Even her body belongs first to her father and then to her husband.”

A voice inside warned me to stop, that I was saying too much, but, by al-Lah! I could not. It was as if a dam had burst inside my heart, and all the sadnesses and disappointments in my life came gushing out through my mouth. I told Muhammad how frightened I’d been to see him sitting there in the groom’s place at my wedding, and how I’d tried to run away but my mother had stopped me with her strong arms.

“Once I was in your lap, I felt happy,” I hastened to add. “I knew you would always take good care of me. And I thought you would take me to your home and my confinement would end.”

But it had not ended. I was doomed to nearly three more years of
purdah
. I told Muhammad how I couldn’t wait for my menarche, for then I would be able to leave the dark, stifling prison that was my parents’ home and ride away with him into the city, where as his wife I’d be able to walk freely in the market and feel the sun on my face and hands whenever I wished.

“My dreams of becoming a Bedouin had faded, but my yearning for freedom did not,” I said. “And then you veiled us, hindering our movements. By al-Lah! You might as well have put blinders on us.”

All these restrictions, we were told, were meant to protect us. It was the same excuse I’d been hearing all my life. It made no difference that I, an accomplished sword-fighter, could protect myself.

“That’s why I said such angry words to you in the cooking tent the day you returned,” I said, my voice catching. “Forgive me, but I’ve never believed that God meant for me to live in a cage. If it’s a sin for me to say these things, al-Lah forgive me. He knows my heart. As you do now, my love.”

Still he sat motionless, barely blinking. “Muhammad!” I cried, starting
to sob. “Say something to me. Anything!” He did nothing, made no sound, just sat and stared into the night.

“
Yaa
Prophet, what is going on up there?” The guard’s voice rose, but I didn’t dare look down. “You! What are you doing? Come down!”

“Muhammad,” I said, beginning to tremble. “Muhammad, please.”

“Come down here now, or I will shoot!” the guard shouted. I heard Hafsa cry out, and then Sawdah, and soon the entire
harim
had gathered at the bottom of the tree to watch me descend.

My tears fell like hot raindrops onto my sister-wives’ upturned faces as I slowly made my way down the tree. Muhammad had reached his decision where I was concerned, that was clear. How heartlessly he’d listened to me bare my soul, reveal my fears and my sorrows, and beg him for forgiveness, without even a glance or a nod of acknowledgment! I might as well have been a gnat buzzing about his head.

My tears dripped down my chin and rolled down my neck, tickling me. I stopped to wipe them away, but all I did was dampen my fingers so that they could barely grasp the copper posts that had been hammered into the sides of the tree. I stopped again to wipe one hand on my robe, and the other hand lost its hold—and then I was falling so fast my cry of alarm couldn’t even escape my mouth before I hit the hard, parched ground.

F
REE AT
L
AST

I heard several gasps and Sawdah’s “By al-Lah!” before the dear old mother was crouching beside me, cradling my head in her hands and feeling my temples for a pulse. I knew I’d have to withstand hours of nursing and Evil-Eye rituals if I didn’t get up right away, so I forced myself to stand, ignoring the pounding in my head and the dull ache in my abdomen.

“I’m unharmed.” I forced a laugh. “Only clumsy.”

“What were you doing up there?” Zaynab said, flashing her eyes at me. “Trying to convince Muhammad to divorce everyone except you, I suppose.”

“Not everyone. I’d be happy if Hafsa and Sawdah stayed.” I glared at her. Then I made my way to my apartment with Hafsa and a clucking Sawdah close behind.

“I’m afraid your wish won’t come true where I’m concerned,” Hafsa said once we’d entered my apartment.

“Muhammad’s not going to divorce you.” I held onto the wall so I wouldn’t fall over.

“He threatened to, remember?” Hafsa said.

“By al-Lah, he wants to divorce me, also!” Sawdah unrolled my bed with a face as grim as death.

“Not you, Sawdah.” I reached over to pat her back, and nearly toppled. “You’ve raised Muhammad’s daughters, and me, also. Besides, you’re the only one of his wives who doesn’t complain.”

“Maybe I should have spoken up more, then,” she said. “Last month he asked would I be happier in my own house, free to marry someone who would have physical affection with me.”

“Physical affection?” Hafsa blurted. “You and Muhammad don’t—” Sawdah’s
hmph
cut her off.

“What does an old woman like me want with that stuff? I had my fun with my first husband, as-Sakran. When he died, I did not want anybody else. I wanted to be with him in Paradise.”

Slowly they helped me walk to my bed while Sawdah talked.

“When the Prophet asked me to be his wife, I knew he just wanted someone to take care of his house and his girls, but I was honored. It meant losing my chance to be with as-Sakran again, but I knew he would understand.”

“He’s a true martyr,” Hafsa said. “Giving up his life for Muhammad, and then his wife.”

“Now as-Sakran has a beautiful young
houri
in Paradise, and I am supposed to live with the Prophet in his castle, next door to al-Lah. But if he divorces me, I will not get anything!”

She wiped her tears, smearing dust across her cheeks and upper lip. Hafsa lifted the corner of her gown and cleaned Sawdah’s face. “Muhammad, divorce you? We won’t allow it,” she said.

A sharp pain pierced my womb, like menstrual cramps more severe than any I’d ever imagined, making me cry out. Wetness ran down my leg. I looked down to see blood on the floor. I moaned, then heard the cries of my sister-wives as I fell. When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on my bed, drenched with perspiration. The smell of blood filled my nose and mouth. Sawdah was kneeling between my legs and wiping my thighs and private parts with a warm rag. She handed it to Umm Salama, who dunked it in a basin and wrung out pink water. I dug my nails into my palms to distract from the anguish spreading like heat through my body.

“I’ll dab the moisture from her skin.” Zaynab took a dry cloth from the stack. I remembered my words under the date-palm, awful words because I knew divorce would be as tragic for Zaynab and the other sister-wives as
for me. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see her satisfied smirk at the sight of me in pain or, worse, her sympathy which I didn’t deserve.

“Is she in danger, Sawdah?” Hafsa said, sniffling.

“Her body will be fine. It is not that unusual to lose the first one. But her spirit is what I worry about, poor thing. She wanted this baby so much.”

Wanted? My baby, gone? A taste like bitter herbs covered my tongue. I splayed my fingers across my womb, felt a fluttering like wings.

“Now not even she is safe from divorce,” Raihana said.

“By al-Lah, Raihana, are you so heartless?” Zaynab snapped. She pressed the cloth against my forehead, my cheeks, my neck, making soft, cooing sounds although she couldn’t have known I was listening. My baby, dead!
Al-Lah, how could you let this happen?

“For you to lose Muhammad is nothing, Raihana,” Hafsa chimed in. “You aren’t even his wife. A’isha married him when she was a young girl.”

“Losing Muhammad would be difficult for all of us,” Juwairriyah said. “When I think of returning to my family as a divorced woman, I want to hurl myself off a cliff.”

My baby. Hot tears rolled down the sides of my face. No little toes to tickle, no big eyes to gaze into, no soft baby cheeks to kiss. Had he fingers or toes yet? I had been carrying him not quite three months. Had he a heartbeat, or ears to hear the songs I’d sung to him?

“I want to see him,” I whispered, but no one heard me. And then I thought of the miscarried babies I’d seen at the tent city: partially formed, grotesque little creatures, more like nightmares than humans. Suddenly I was glad my request had gone unheeded. I wanted to remember my son as I’d imagined him: curly-haired like his father, and laughing, like me, running through the grass with his stick-sword and his friends, riding his horse in a flurry of sand and shouts. And revering his mother above all women. He was gone, my little man. Who would love me now? Whom would I love above all others after Muhammad had gone to Paradise and left me behind? Who would save me from a humiliating life as Zaynab’s servant? A dark wind blew through the hole in my body where he’d nested, bringing fresh tears to my eyes.