“A’isha,” he said. “Look at me.”
I opened my eyes and looked up into his. They were soft and fierce at once, and coming closer as he dipped his head down to kiss my lips. I closed my eyes again and tried to make my body relax, but the feel of his breath on my skin and his mouth against mine only made me grip my doll more tightly. He slipped his tongue inside my mouth. He moved his hands to my waist, and then slowly up my ribcage, toward my breasts. I twisted my doll frantically, willing my hands not to push him away. Then I heard a ripping sound that made me gasp.
I looked down at my hands. Poor Layla lay limp, her eyes vacant, her head torn almost completely off her body.
“Oh, no!” I cried. “I’ve killed her.” Bits of sheep’s wool trickled out of her neck and fell across my hand. Her pretty head dangled at an odd angle. I began to sob as if she were a real, flesh-and-blood child instead of an old rag doll.
Tenderly Muhammad took her from my hands and examined the tear.
“She is not dead, only injured,” he said. “Fortunately, Sawdah is very adept with a needle. She will mend your dolly without leaving a scar.”
“No!” I cried harder. “She’ll ruin her. I’ve seen your sandals—”
Muhammad’s laughter boomed, startling me out of my tears. “Yaa Little Red, Sawdah works hard enough minding the household. I mend my own clothing—including my sandals.”
I laughed, too, through the tears, and put Layla down. How foolish of me to cry over a doll! Many husbands might shout or even slap me, but not Muhammad. I stepped up to him and wrapped my arms around him like a necklace. He folded his arms around me and held me close against him. His body felt as warm as if he’d been out in the sun all day. He smelled sweet and clean, of cardamom and miswak. His heart skipped against my ear like a child’s feet. His hand stroked my long hair—but differently now, with his whole hand rather than just his fingertips.
“My Little Red,” he said. “Your body may be ready for me, but I am afraid your heart is not.”
I looked up into his face, expecting to see desire kindling again—but amusement twitched his lips.
“Do you think I don’t love you?” I said.
“I know you do, habibati. But it is not the same love that I have for you. Yours is a young girl’s love, not a woman’s.” He sighed. “It is the risk I accepted when I married a child-bride.”
I sucked in my breath. A child! Children lived with their parents. Would he send me back to that prison?
“I am a child, in some ways,” I said. “But I’ve been trapped inside my father’s house for five years. How could anyone grow up without adventures, or at least experiences? If you sent me back there today, I would be the same in five more years.”
He grinned. “Send you back? Why would I want to do that? Already you have brought laughter to this lonely place. Little Red, you will not reside in your parents’ home again. You and I will stay together for as long as we live—and afterward, in Paradise.”
“But—what about the consummation? We’re not truly married without it.”
“A wedding takes place in the heart, not in the bedroom.” He pulled me close and kissed my forehead. “Although, I like the bedroom part. And so will you—when you are ready. In the meantime, we have other, very important, things to do.”
He loosened his hold. I stepped back from him and looked up at his face—but he had already moved past me to the sword I’d dropped on the floor. He picked it up and held it to the light, turned it this way and that, flashing the sun against his face. He turned to me with a fierce grin.
“Lesson number one,” he said. “How to disarm your opponent.”
TROUBLEMAKER
MEDINA, MARCH 625
The sun was a white hot sword, striking feeble shaykhs and panting dogs to the parched ground. Its relentless blows sent the wilting Fatima to seek refuge in her room, where she hung dark cloths on the windows and lay with a dampened rag over her face. As for me, I was no cringer from the heat, especially not today.
During those years in my father’s house I’d had to miss the sights, sounds, and flavors of Medina’s big yearly market, whose festivities brought traders from all over Hijaz and beyond to the Kaynuqah neighborhood on the city’s edge. Now, in spite of Ali’s protests, I was finally going. Nothing would keep me away: not the heat, nor Ali’s surly glares, nor even the danger of attack by our Kaynuqah neighbors.
As we saddled our horses and Sawdah’s camel, Ali glowered and complained about the heat—but I knew it was the errand he resented. I’d seen the sullen droop of his eyelids when Muhammad had asked him to escort us. It was clear that he considered the task beneath him. Resentment, and not the weather, was why he slumped against the mosque wall, in the shade, and watched poor Sawdah struggle to heave her bulk over her camel’s hump.
“Everyone with a brain is at home today, keeping cool,” he said loudly, as if he were speaking to al-Lah Himself. His face was taut, all angles and planes and sharp points.
“Yaa Ali, the heat keeps only the lazy from an event like this one,” I said, glaring at him from my horse. “Of course, no one needs to tell you about laziness.”
As slowly as a snake wriggling out of its skin, he peeled himself from the wall to amble over to Sawdah’s side.
“What am I supposed to do?” he drawled. “It is forbidden for any man to touch the Prophet’s wives. But little girls might not know that.” He draped the edge of his robe over his hand, then used it to hoist Sawdah over the camel’s hump until she’d finally settled in her saddle. She mopped her sweating face as he commanded the camel to stand. I cringed to hear her thank Ali profusely for his help.
“I know you did not want to come with us,” she told Ali. “But I swear by al-Lah, I did not ask the Prophet to send you. In truth, I tried to talk him out of it.”
Sawdah just wanted to sell her saddlebags; she didn’t want to bother anyone. That was what she had told Muhammad this morning, when she’d asked for permission to go to the Kaynuqah market.
From the tilt of his head and the set of his jaw when she’d come to my apartment to ask, I could see that Muhammad wanted to say “no.” But how could he? The Kaynuqah suq was the only worthwhile market of the year in Medina. There, Sawdah’s lovely leather work would sell for a good price. Yet something worried him: The Kaynuqah had traded for many years with our enemy Abu Sufyan. Their alliance with the Quraysh was strong, and driven by something Muhammad didn’t possess: money. Because of money, our raids on Qurayshi caravans were causing resentment from our Kaynuqah neighbors—that, and Muhammad’s claim that he was the Prophet their holy Book foretold. Their leaders had mocked him for it, saying their God would never send an Arab to minister to Jews.
“I am sorry, Sawdah, but I cannot allow you to go,” Muhammad had said. “There is much tension between us and the Kaynuqah. Their market is too dangerous for you.” Sawdah looked as if she might crumple into a heap. She’d been working for months on her saddlebags, tanning the pieces of leather to a butter-soft consistency, tooling moons and stars into them, stitching them together with a needle of bone, adding fringe as thick and wavy as camel’s hair. Now that they were complete, who could blame her for wanting the best price?
I spoke out on her behalf. “Yaa Muhammad, are we training our army to fight our enemies or to run away from them? Warriors don’t cower in their homes, afraid of the next battle. I will be Sawdah’s guard. Anyone who touches her will lose his hand.”
Muhammad’s lips twitched, holding back a smile. “You want to go to the market, Little Red? Will you prevent trouble there, or cause it?”
I lifted my chin. “I’ll stop whatever trouble there is to stop, and cause whatever trouble needs to be caused.”
Eventually, he did let us go—with Ali, who urged him to change his mind about me. “I am no baby-sitter,” he said. “I think you should follow Abu Bakr’s example and keep A’isha at home, to avoid trouble.”
Keep me at home! My chest tightened as thoug
h a harness had been attached to me. Yet I knew my sense of humor could win Muhammad’s favor, so I forced a laugh. He looked at me with raised eyebrows.
“Have I missed a joke, A’isha?” he said. “Please share it with me.”
“Nothing, husband,” I said, then gave him a wink. “Only that, from Ali’s words, I see that he knows nothing about my abilities. If there’s a fight, he’ll need my help!”
Muhammad chuckled, but he shook his head. “You may speak the truth, A’isha, but Ali is also convincing. Yet, since we have heard no reports of conflict at this market, I will allow you to go.”
“By al-Lah, cousin, you are making a mistake,” Ali said, glaring at me. “Will you at least make her leave that sword at home? You see how eager she is to use it.”
“Leave it at home?” My pulse skittered. “But what if I’m attacked? How will I defend myself?” Without my sword, I’d be just a helpless female in need of male protection.
“I will let you to carry it to the market,” Muhammad said. “But you must promise not to use it unless you are attacked. Even then, you must first ask for Ali’s help. I am sending him to protect you and Sawdah. It is better if you allow him to do so.”
I ran to him and flung my arms around his waist. I was going to the market! It would be my first excursion in six years.
“Watch A’isha closely, cousin,” Muhammad said with a grin. “She bested me last night with that sword of hers. If there is a fight, observe her. You may learn something.” Ali didn’t smile, having the humor of a rock.
“Silly fools, going out while Medina blazes like the fires of Hell,” Ali grumped as we rode. Sawdah turned fretful eyes to me; she hated to displease any man. I had no such problem. “Don’t worry, Sawdah,” I said—loudly, so Ali could hear. “Wait until you’ve sold your saddlebags. When Ali sees your purse bulging with gold coins, he’ll be nice. He’ll probably carry you home to the mosque on his own back.”
Ali hmphed, and then we were all quiet as heat covered our noses and mouths with its smothering hand. The tang of manure stung my nostrils. Flies whirled in frenzied clouds, aiming for my eyes. The sun flashed, dazzling us. Somewhere in the city, wailing women screeched over a dead body. I pulled my wrapper close around my face. Through the narrow opening I peered at the city of Medina. Carefully I breathed through my mouth, trying to avoid the stench. Just ahead, Sawdah huffed and prayed, drawing disgusted looks from Ali.
“Oh God, why did you choose this day of all days to blow Your hottest breath on us?” she moaned. Then, so He wouldn’t feel criticized, she quickly added, “But You know best.”
Soon we passed through the shade of date palms, where a few women strolled to the market in twos and threes, mopping their faces and carrying empty baskets on their heads. Their colorful garments added greens, reds, and blues to the drab streets lined with mud-brick houses. Children laughed and ran among their legs, oblivious to the sun. I delighted in their freedom, remembering how I’d kicked up the sands in Mecca with strong leaping feet and shouted until my lungs felt sore. Coming the other way, men trudged behind their donkeys, spurring them on with whips and sun-sparked curses. The bedraggled animals pulled wooden carts laden with wine, honey, and rice—rare goods, from faraway lands—purchased in the Kaynuqah market. My pulse quickened as I remembered the exotic aromas, bright colors, and strange, musical tongues that had made the market in Mecca so exciting. Would we see a similar scene in the Kaynuqah neighborhood today?
A few Believers passed us as we lumbered along. They grinned and made comic faces at Ali, teasing him for riding with two women.
“Someone alert the Prophet!” cried a lean man with ears that stuck out from his head like open doors. “Ali is stealing his wives!”
“One wife is not enough for a man with two blades,” called another, and everyone laughed. Ali’s eyes narrowed as he brandished Zulfikar, his double-bladed sword. I’d heard him brag that he’d split the blades by yanking the sword from a scabbard that had been nailed shut—quite a feat of strength, if it were the truth. But I knew that Muhammad had given the sword to him, twin points and all, after the battle at Badr. The men cheered to see its blades reflecting the sun. Some of them chanted a name—Ali’s or al-Lah’s, I couldn’t tell which.
After a short time we reached the far edge of Medina, and it seemed as if we’d entered another world. The farm-town, with its streets full of sheep and goats, had faded away. The Kaynuqah neighborhood was dark and full of shadows. Shops lined the edges of the cobbled, canopy-filled street, the tall stone buildings blocking out the sun and casting a menacing pall. Men stood in the shaded doorways of their stores and watched us from the corners of their eyes. The aromas of roasting lamb and mint made my mouth water, but I clenched my stomach against the leers of the venders. From the tents, men and women announced their wares, filling the air with their cries—until we passed, and the exuberant shouts faded to suspicious murmurs.
I tensed every muscle in my body as if to cover myself with armor, and kept my gaze on the colorful beads dangling from racks alongside copper bracelets and bolts of dyed cloth. A grinning bald man with a gold tooth and a booth filled with jewelry held up a long knife as we passed, turning it this way and that as if to see his reflection, then gave me a pointed look. A goat-faced vendor darted out his tongue, lizard-like, then laughed when I hid my face in my wrapper. A chill seemed to drip down my spine as I remembered Muhammad’s warnings about the Kaynuqah. I turned to Sawdah, intending to suggest we return to the mosque, but the smirk on Ali’s face stopped me. He’d tell Muhammad I’d been afraid, and that would be the end of my excursions. I touched my sword, reminding myself that I was a good fighter, and I felt my heartbeat and my breathing become slower and more steady.
Our little caravan stopped. I hopped down from Scimitar and tied her to a post, trying not to think of the eyes watching me. Ali helped Sawdah dismount her camel and the two of them walked away, leaving me behind to calm my skittish horse. I scouted the crowd for hostile faces. Now it seemed everyone was too busy buying and selling to notice the presence of a few Muslims in the crowd, and I gave myself a shake for letting my imagination get the best of me. For the first time in years I was free to wander about, and I wasn’t going to let my childish fears ruin my pleasure. As for Sawdah, Ali would take care of her. All I needed to do was avoid trouble so Muhammad wouldn’t stop me from going out like this again.
I wandered among the stalls, forgetting about danger in the thrill of being surrounded by beautiful things: ornate kohl pots and perfume bottles of silver and colored glass; fragrant myrrh and frankincense; rubies like blood-drops on a gold necklace. I lifted the jewelry toward the sky, trying to see the color of the light in the stone. A hand snatched it away. I stared at the twisted face of a woman with eyes like hot coals.
“Muslim thief!” she snarled. “Is it not enough that you steal our goods from Quraysh’s caravans? Keep your fingers away from my merchandise.” I stepped back onto someone’s foot.
“By al-Lah! Forgive my clumsiness.” My skin began to flood with heat even before I looked up into the smooth, sculpted face of Safwan. He had grown nearly as tall as my father since I’d last seen him, and his ears no longer jugged out from his head. The strong line of his jaw, the slant of his dark eyes and the long hair hanging like a mane down his back made me think of an Arabian steed. The curl of his lips reminded me of the nights, long ago, when he’d filled my dreams. I lowered my gaze, too flustered to speak.
“My feet are honored to carry such a pretty load.” His voice was as soft as the purr of a cat. My pulse fluttered and I pressed a hand against a stall for support. “Are you going to faint?” Safwan said. “It must be the heat. You need a cool breeze.”
He plucked a fan made of date-palm leaves from a nearby pile and held it out to me. I stood there as if my body had turned to wood. It wasn’t proper for me to accept a gift from any man except Muhammad or my father—but that wasn’t why I froze. I worried that his fingers might brush min
e, or that I would feel the heat from his hands on the fan as I touched it. Surely al-Lah would strike me dead for betraying His Prophet! Safwan watched me standing like a statue, struggling to breathe, and his eyes glinted.
“We of the umma must relieve one another’s sufferings as we can.” He waved the fan over my head and face as if he were my servant—but no servant would have moved so close to me, or caressed me with his eyes as the palm fronds tickled my nose and cheeks. My pulse raced like that galloping horse I’d dreamt so often of riding on with him.
“By al-Lah, that smile is worth the pain in my toes!” he murmured. “I wish for a camel to trod on my feet next. Then I might have a thousand of your smiles to console me.”
I couldn’t help laughing, he was so audacious, but when I glanced up at him the expression on his face told me clearly that he was not joking. And I wondered: Was this the danger I’d sensed when I’d approached the market?
“Yaa A’isha,” he said. “I miss our times together.”
A shriek shattered our moment, drawing our attention to the goldsmith’s stall. There a group of women pointed to Sawdah and cawed with laughter. Oblivious, she fingered a new piece of leather and waddled toward the outdoor cafe where Ali drank coffee with his friends. As she walked, her thighs jiggled like dancers, bared to the world. Someone had pinned the back of her skirt up to her belt.
The baldheaded goldsmith doubled over and grabbed his sides in laughter. Other merchants slapped him on the back, congratulating him for his trick.
“The true face of the Muslim is revealed!” he shouted.
Ali continued to talk, unaware. I cried out and would have run to her, but Safwan grabbed the sleeve of my robe. “No, A’isha, it’s too dangerous for you,” he said. I jerked myself out of his reach and fled through the stalls, ignoring his shouts, toppling baskets of fruit and scattering jewelry with my feet.
The Jewel Of Medina Page 8