The Jewel Of Medina (49 page)

“At least you have a home to return to,” Raihana said. “All my clan is either dead or enslaved. What will happen to me? I’ll poison myself before I become some man’s chattel.”

I wanted so badly to sob, but my sister-wives had troubles, also. Should they have to bear my burdens? Divorce, I was learning, would devastate them in ways I, at least, didn’t have to fear. If Muhammad cast me aside, I could return to my parents’ home, where I would be fed and clothed. Umm Salama’s family lived in Mecca, as did Umm Habiba’s. Neither could return without giving up
islam
, yet they might starve if they remained in Medina. To survive they would have to marry again, but who would want them after the Prophet of God had shunned them? Even worse for Umm Salama, she had small children depending on her. How would she feed them?

Zaynab and Hafsa would return to their fathers’ homes—but Zaynab’s father was growing old, and would not live much longer. His brother—Zaynab’s uncle—would marry her mother then, according to tradition.

“I have never liked the way he looks at me, as though I wore no clothes,” I heard her say. “Living in the same house with him would only bring trouble. Al-Lah protect me from that fate!”

Hafsa dreaded a life with Umar, and who could blame her? He’d abuse her for bringing such shame on his head.

“His beatings will be terrible,” she said. “Eventually, he’ll kill me—or I’ll wish I were dead.”

As I listened to their fears, my tears dampened my pillow. Zaynab, blotting my perspiring face, didn’t notice, to my relief. How could I bear their consolations now, when I had nothing but despair to offer them? What I really wished was for them to leave, so I could grieve for my lost baby in peace. My womb felt numb, violated by death’s cold hand. My little man.

Their talk wearied me.
Please, al-Lah, send them away
. But why was I praying to God? He could have protected me from that plucking hand. Like Muhammad, He had turned His face from me. I was alone in the world. Tears gathered in my nose and eyes, but how could I mourn in a room full of others’ heartache?

Sawdah pulled my gown back over my legs and dropped the rag with a plop into the bowl of water.

“I wonder if we ought to call the Prophet,” she said. “He would want to know about poor A’isha.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but my “no!” snagged in my throat. I squeezed Zaynab’s hand. “She awakens!” she cried. I open my eyes and
lingered on the faces of my sisters, all gathered around me like a beautiful bouquet. My heart flooded with love for them, even for Umm Habiba, who stood apart and frowned in concern, for Maryam, who was smiling, and for Zaynab, who clutched my hand as if I might be swept away by a
zauba’ah
.

“Let Muhammad finish his prayers,” I said in a choked voice. “He can’t do anything for me now.” In truth, I didn’t think I could bear the pity in his eyes, not when the last time I’d seen him he’d refused to look at me.

“But he will be a comfort to you,” Sawdah said. “Let us call him, child.”

“No!” I snapped. Seeing Muhammad would only break the pieces of my heart again. My sister-wives stared at me.

“What happened up there in the date-palm tree?” Raihana said.

“Nothing.” In truth, that was the problem, but I didn’t feel like talking about Muhammad. Would he blame me for the loss of our child? In a way, it had been my fault. If I’d heeded his command to leave him in peace, I wouldn’t have fallen from the tree. How could I bear his blame? I would shatter like a rock under the hammer’s blow.

“Watching Muhammad mourn will only make me feel worse,” I said. I smiled at the women crowded around me. “And I have all of you here, my sisters. Who could be more comforting?”

They tended to me every moment for days, feeding me, bathing me, telling me stories, helping me heal. At night they left me alone to rest—but in truth, I slept very little. My lost child filled my dreams: the bubbling laughter I would never hear, the milky fat face I would never kiss. Early one morning I awoke in tears and remembered Muhammad. The month was nearly over. Tomorrow he would come down from the attic and reveal his decision. What would he say? Would he be sorry to learn that I really had been carrying his child? Or would he be relieved that I had lost it, freeing him to divorce me?

How one moment, one slip, had changed my world so completely! Against the bleak landscape of my baby’s death, the possibility of divorce now seemed less terrible to me than it had before.

I considered my options. If Muhammad divorced me, I could marry someone else—Talha, perhaps, who’d bragged at Zaynab’s wedding feast that he would make me his wife someday. With another husband, I’d contend with three other wives, at most, since the limit was four for ordinary men. And I’d be free to roam with my face unveiled.

Maybe, with a different husband, I could conceive again. My little man, gone! My stomach knotted at the thought of my baby’s death. I sank to my knees, intending to pray, but I doubled over and wept, instead. Conceiving a child with Muhammad had taken so long, with his energies divided among ten women and his stamina diminished by age. If he kept me, would I ever bear him a son?

I heard a man’s shout and stood to yank my curtain shut. Not yet time for the morning prayer, and already neck-craners were gathering in the courtyard! But no. In the slow blooming dawn I saw Muhammad trudging toward my hut, practically glowing in his white gown. The light in his copper eyes was subdued, like stars behind clouds, and the lines in his face pulled at his skin. He looked for all the world like a messenger bearing bad news, and my first impulse was to hide from him, or to run into the mosque and out the door. I’d had all the sorrow I could withstand.

But a true warrior doesn’t flee, and in spite of the restrictions against my fighting I still considered myself a warrior. So I walked to my door and flung it open, facing my destiny with my chin thrust forward. Here came the man who’d ignored my pleas for his love and sent me, sobbing, down the date-palm tree. Hadn’t he caused the tears that had sent me hurtling to the ground? Nothing he could do now would hurt me more than that.

“
Ahlan
,
yaa
Prophet,” I said. “What a surprise to see you here today! You said you’d return in a month, but it has only been twenty-nine days.”

The clouds parted from his eyes for a moment, revealing a glimmer. “This month, A’isha, has twenty-nine days only.”

I refused him the smile he sought, as he’d refused to acknowledge me in his attic apartment. Holding my back as stiff as an arrow, I turned and walked inside as though I didn’t care whether he followed me or not. I heard the door
whoosh
shut and turned around to face him. To face my destiny, which he held in his hands, because nothing of mine belonged to me.

His eyes searched mine, as if he were the one with the questions. His hair in damp ringlets, his sweet, fresh-bathed fragrance. His hands reaching out as if to hold me.

“You look pale, A’isha. Have you been ill?”

I closed my eyes. Summoning my strength.

“I thought you would have heard,” I said.

“Didn’t Umar tell you?”

“I have spoken to no one except al-Lah this month. I vowed on my first day to listen to Him only.”

“Is that why you ignored me when I came to see you?”

“You ignored my request to be left alone.”

My sob surprised me, sharp and sudden as breaking glass. “You ignored my request to talk with you before you left. I had so many things to tell you! But now it’s too late.”

He stepped close to me and laid his hands on my shoulders. “Too late for what,
habibati
?”

I jerked away from his touch as if his hands were flames. How I’d longed for his solace these past days, as I’d grieved for our lost child! Now, though, as he stood before me with divorce on his mind, I had no desire for his comfort. His kindness would only make me cry, and I didn’t want my eyes to be wet when he told me his decision. I was A’isha bint Abi Bakr, and I groveled before no one. No matter how much I loved him.

“Your son is dead, Muhammad.”

He clutched at his beard. “Maryam—”

“No, not Maryam!” I took a deep breath, and when I spoke again it was in a calm, quiet voice. “Not Maryam. Me. I had an—accident, and I lost our child.” In spite of myself, I began to cry. “He was almost three months old, and I loved him so much, and now he’s gone and I have no one. He would have been so wonderful, Muhammad. He would have been ours.”

I pressed my hands to my face, capturing my tears and hiding my shame, hoping he wouldn’t ask me how it had happened. If I told him I’d fallen from the date-palm tree, he’d know it was my fault that our baby had died.

I felt his arms slide around my shoulders, and I buried my face in his beard, breathing in sandalwood and
miswak
, relishing the comfort I’d missed and would never, after this morning, feel again.

“A’isha, I am sorry,” Muhammad said. His voice tore like cloth on a thorn tree, and I looked up to see his eyes spilling tears. “I should have been there. I should not have left you.”

“Except you didn’t believe I was pregnant. Why would you? I’d been acting like a child until then, accusing Maryam of having a lover, calling Umm Habiba a spy, fighting assassins to show what a warrior I am.”

“You saved my life.” His eyes were luminous. “Your courage continues
to astound me. And now I know how brave you have always been. Being married to me was more difficult for you than I imagined.”

His resigned tone sent a shudder through my blood, but I managed to give him a faint smile. “Why do you speak in the past tense,
habib
?” I said, keeping my voice light. “Aren’t we still married?”

He gave me a long, quiet look. I held my smile up like a shield.

“That depends on you,” he said.

“On me?” I forced a laugh. “You’re mistaken about that, husband. Our marriage contract doesn’t give me the power to divorce, only you.”

“I am giving you that power now.”

Pressed against him, I could feel his heartbeat like pounding fists against his chest. I looked up into his pooling eyes and saw my own open-mouthed reflection.

“The decision is yours to make, A’isha.” My heart thrummed like powerful wings. I saw that his tears were gone, and that his face had stiffened as if he wore a mask.

“What decision?” I said.

“You can choose me and this life, or you can divorce me and marry someone else.”

My stomach writhed. What strange game was this? His face was such a blank, I couldn’t read his emotions. I pulled away from him and walked to my window. Outside, the sun lifted its face to the new day.

“I don’t understand your game. If you want to divorce me, husband, please say so.”

“It is no game, A’isha. I had vowed to listen only to al-Lah, but He opened my ears to your words the other night. When you left I wept tears of anger for my own ignorance. How little I have known of you! I did not know how miserable those years in
purdah
were for you.”

“And you restricted my freedom later,” I said. “It hardly seems fair, when I’m as good with a sword as anyone.”

“The
umma
watches my every move, and so do my enemies. They watch you also.”

“Let them watch! I’ve never cared what anyone else thinks.”

“As the favored wife of al-Lah’s Messenger, you must learn to care. I love your spirit,
habibati
, but others do not.” In a few strides he’d closed the distance between us and stood before me at the window. “A’isha, as
long as you are my wife you will have to hide yourself away, out of the glare of gossip and away from the threats of my enemies. I cannot afford the distractions or the added dangers.”

“And I can’t live like a bird in a cage,” I said.

“No one is caging you. You are free to fly away now, if you wish. It was never my desire that you, or any woman, should be forced to marry me.”

“Did you think I chose you at age six?” I huffed, impatient with his naivety. “Did you think I could even make a choice at that age?”

“I did not think about it at all, I am sorry to say. Your words from the date-palm tree showed me many things I had not known. Without the freedom to choose your own destiny, you are nothing more than a slave, A’isha. And you know I do not keep slaves.”

“What are you saying?” My voice snagged in my throat.

“You are free, A’isha. To choose.” He stepped to the cushions in the corner and settled himself, waiting.

As thoughts and emotions collided in me I turned again to the window, trying to make sense of Muhammad’s offer. I, choose my destiny? That was like giving a camel the choice of which pasture to graze in. The morning breeze carried the fragrance of lavender, and I breathed it in, remembering my girlhood days wandering the hills and picking flowers. Divorced from Muhammad, I could do so again, without hiding behind a screen in my own home and without having to hold my wrapper over my face. As a free woman I could marry again if I chose or I could remain single.

Safwan still watched me with haunted eyes whenever I ventured out. He’d eagerly marry me—but he’d be even stricter than Muhammad. Talha would be a kind and respectful husband, and I could be happy with him. But how happy? Would I bubble with laughter and song at the thought of seeing him, as I did with Muhammad? Would my skin zing with lightning at his touch, or my body quiver from a single kiss?

I turned to Muhammad, who sat with crossed legs and eyes closed, his brow lined with worry, his mouth a thin line. Here was the man I had loved all my life, the man who’d taught me to fight, who’d shown me the ways of passion, who’d fathered the child I’d lost because of my love for him. With Muhammad, I was truly free—to speak, to dream, to make mistakes, to be myself. I might not be the queen of his
harim
, but I was the Great Lady of his heart. And now he’d given me the freedom and the
power to choose my own destiny, the greatest gift anyone had ever given to me. In doing so, he had made me completely, utterly his own.

I knelt before him and removed the turban from his head. His eyes opened, and I saw fear race through them like a cold fire. I lifted his hand and pressed it to my cheek, and the fire went out, quenched by his tears.