The Jewel Of Medina

by Jones, Sherry

  “Yaa nephew, there is no need to wring your hands,” al-Abbas said. “I am only suggesting that you ask him.”

  “By al-Lah, how can you speak about his death while he still lives?” Ali cried. Al-Abbas shushed him, and he lowered his voice. “It does not seem proper.”

  “I have seen members of the al-Muttalib family die before,” al-Abbas said. “I do not like the looks of Muhammad now. He reminds me of his father, who died of pleurisy.”

  “Pleurisy? No, that is no way for a Prophet to die,” Ali said. “I would rather he were killed in battle.”

  “Unfortunately, you cannot control how he dies,” al-Abbas said. “However, you may have some power over what happens afterward. Do you want to succeed him, Ali? Do you want to rule Hijaz and restore our clan to its former status?” His voice sounded low and cunning. I remembered the tray of tharid in Maymunah’s apartment and wished I’d taken some to test for poison.

  “You know I want to succeed him,” Ali said. My heart fluttered at the thought. With Ali in charge, what would become of my family, or of me? “But how can I ask him to name me? Then he would resign himself to dying. By al-Lah! I would rather that he lived.” Ali’s voice sounded gargled, as if he were crying.

  “When his baby died, Muhammad was left without an heir. His adopted son Zayd is dead, also. Who else is there but you, the father of his grandsons, to succeed him?”

  “Let him name me, then. I will not ask.”

  “What if he does not name you?” Al-Abbas said in a hissing voice. “What if he names no one? You are young and without power in this community. Others would certainly seize the position for themselves—Abu Bakr, who is not even related to the Prophet, or Umar! You would be left out. The clan of Hashim would fade into ignominy.”

  “If I don’t ask him, and he names no one, the people of the umma might choose me yet,” Ali said. “But if I ask him and he names someone else, they will never choose a Hashimite.” Al-Abbas started to protest, but Ali cut him off. “No, Uncle. I will not ask.”

  I opened the door and called out, hoping they’d think I had just arrived. Al-Abbas gave me his ever-generous smile—one that I now knew concealed a calculating soul. “How fortunate the Prophet is to be waited upon by an angel,” he said. “When he awakens, I will tell him so.”

  I pulled my wrapper more tightly over my face. “I hope he wakes up soon,” I said, “because I have a few things to tell him, also.”

  When Muhammad did awaken—the next morning—neither angels nor successors occupied his mind. He thought only of the Friday services.

  “I must lead them,” he said. “The umma depends on me.”

  He threw off his cover and tried to stand—but his legs shook so badly he couldn’t even get to his knees. Ali and al-Abbas rushed to his aid and helped him back into bed.

  “May I suggest that you designate someone else to lead the prayer today?” al-Abbas said. His glance flickered to Ali. “Someone you trust?”

  Muhammad sighed. “I suppose it is best,” he said. “Soon, all my duties will be performed by another.” He paused. The room fell as silent as an unasked question. I stared at him, willing him to choose anyone but Ali. To choose Ali was to choose the conniving al-Abbas, who cared only for power.

  “Please send for Abu Bakr,” Muhammad said.

  Al-Abbas’s countenance darkened like a snuffed candle. As for me, I smiled behind my wrapper.

  “Hearing is obeying,” Ali said, his voice tight. Then he followed al-Abbas out the door.

  WARRIOR BRIDE

  MEDINA, JUNE 632

  On that final day Muhammad roused himself, sweating and shaking, to attend the prayer service. He panted with the exertion of sitting up in his bed, but he sighed with pleasure as I bathed him and washed his hair. I dried him all over with a towel and hummed one of the tunes Maryam had sung to him the night before—not even minding when he smiled at the flatness of my tone. I would have made myself foolish one thousand and one times to hear him laugh again.

  He was too weak even for laughter. Fever had consumed Muhammad’s very soul, leaving only a barely glowing ember. Yet as I dressed him and wound his turban I allowed myself the thinnest sliver of hope. That he wanted to leave his bed was a sign of something, wasn’t it? Maybe God had decided to answer my pleas and let Muhammad live.

  I helped him stand. He remained still for a long time, panting and lifting a limp hand to daub his pale face. Then, with one hand on my shoulder and the other against the wall, he shuffled like an arthritic shaykh to the door that opened into the mosque. He smoothed his clothes, straightened his back, and took a few labored breaths. Then he nodded, and I pushed the door open.

  All sound instantly ceased. My father’s prayers flew like doves out the window. Light filled the mosque, shining on Muhammad, making him glow. His skin shone.

  “Assalaamu aleikum.” Muhammad’s strong, clear greeting echoed off the walls of the mosque. I covered my smiling cheeks with my hands and thanked al-Lah. He was restored!

  “Wa aleikum assalaam,” my father answered. Umar echoed with a cry of his own, and then Ali and Uthman, and soon the mosque reverberated with the cheers and good wishes of hundreds of worshippers singing the praises of God’s Prophet. Joy flew around my heart in expansive circles, making me feel as light as air. Muhammad was healing, and everyone could see it!

  My father stepped down from the tree stump and stretched a hand toward Muhammad. His smile crinkled his face beneath his long beard. “Please, Prophet, come and lead our service.”

  “I have come to follow today, not to lead,” Muhammad said. “But when you have finished the prayers I would like to speak a while.”

  My father’s sermon was eloquence itself. Words of beauty rolled like music from his tongue, quickening my spirit. He spoke of God’s love, of how generously He had revealed Himself to us through His Prophet, of how steadfastly He had defended us against our enemies. “He is all-good and all-powerful,” my father said. “None of us can compare to Him—no, not even our Prophet. For Muhammad will tell you himself: He is but a man. Men are born, and men die. But al-Lah lives on forever—and islam lives on after we are gone.”

  While he spoke, Muhammad continued to stand. His hands gripped the doorway on either side of him, making the shape of Maryam’s ankh. When my father stopped talking, all eyes in the room turned to Muhammad.

  “It is time to settle affairs,” Muhammad said. For hours he asked questions of the umma’s men. Had Muhammad ever taken anything from anyone without compensating them? Had he treated anyone harshly who didn’t deserve it? Did anyone want to ask him for a prayer?

  Men stood to speak. Disputes broke out. At one point Umar pulled his sword and threatened a man, irritated by his prayer request. Muhammad lifted his hand and, across the room, Umar’s sword clattered to the floor.

  “Yaa Umar, please hold your temper,” Muhammad said. “Every man’s troubles are important to al-Lah, no matter how small.”

  At last Muhammad’s voice faded. Perspiration matted his hair. His eyelids drooped like wilting petals.

  “Help me sit, A’isha,” he said hoarsely.

  Umar thundered across the mosque, loudly declaring that the service was over. “Yaa Prophet, you have overextended yourself, and for what?” he grumbled. “For fools.”

  “Those ‘fools’ are the reason why I live,” Muhammad said weakly.

  Tears stung my eyes as I and Umar helped him to his bed. “He seemed so much improved,” I said. “But now he withers like a rose plucked from the bush.”

  “Yes, he was improving,” Umar said. “His face glowed with health, by al-Lah! But as I said, he has overextended himself. Let him rest, and he will recover.”

  As he turned to leave the apartment, Muhammad uttered his name. Umar walked over to his side and bent low to hear his words.

  “Please bring my sword,” Muhammad gasped. “It hangs in the mosque. I need it now.”

  Umar chuckled as he stepped to the mosque door. “Did
I speak correctly, A’isha? Our Prophet is preparing for battle. This does not sound like a man on the brink of death.”

  But when I looked at my husband, I knew the end was near. His eyes had lost their focus. His breathing had become more labored. I moaned and pressed my head to his chest, listening to his heart keep erratic time, wishing it would beat forever.

  Muhammad laid a limp hand on my head. “A’isha,” he said, “I wish to clean my teeth. I must prepare myself.”

  Dread pounded my chest like hands on a drum, but I somehow crossed the room, feeling as if I were in a terrible dream, and plucked a stick of the miswak tree from the jar of them soaking by my wash basin. I sat beside Muhammad and chewed the stick to fray its ends, tasting the salt of my tears mingle with the astringent flavor of the wood. For eight years, since the day I’d moved in with Muhammad, I had performed this task for him. I’d never know this pleasure again.

  I trembled with the urge to fling myself across his chest. I watched greedily as he rubbed the miswak over his teeth and gums, wanting to memorize even his most mundane actions, all precious to me now. The proud bearing of his head, even in sickness. The lowering of his left eyelid, ever so slightly, as he concentrated. The crinkles at his eyes when he noticed how I drank him in. I met his gaze with my own, and something passed between us, like the spark between two hands in a lightning storm. I am leaving you, but only for a while, he seemed to say. And with my own brimming eyes I answered him: Please stay with me, Muhammad. Tarry a few more years so we can enjoy the love we’ve made.

  Umar entered so quietly the sound of his voice made me jump.

  “He cleans his teeth? Praise be to al-Lah, that is the best sign yet,” he said. I hid my face, not wanting my grief to dampen his hope.

  He laid the sword on the bed and was about to settle himself on a cushion, but Muhammad stopped him.

  “Yaa Umar, please leave us alone for now. I wish to speak with A’isha.”

  Umar’s smile never wavered. “I will return later, when the full moon is shining,” he said. “Yaa Prophet, you and I will walk into the courtyard to see it.”

  Muhammad’s eyes flickered like candles in a draught when Umar had gone.

  “What do I need with the moon when I have my A’isha?” he said. I clasped his hand and squeezed it, willing my strength to pass from my touch to his, but his fingers only twitched.

  “A’isha, take the sword,” he said. “Pull it from its scabbard.”

  I frowned at him, bemused. What would he have me do with an unsheathed sword? But he had closed his eyes and seemed to focus all his thoughts on his next breath. I grasped the golden hilt, warm in my hand, and pulled its long blade slowly away from its jeweled cover. Two golden serpents formed the handle, their heads turned to face each other. Both the handle and the case glittered with turquoise and emerald stones—green, Muhammad’s battle color, and more brilliant than ever in the sheen of my tears.

  “I have named it al-Ma’thur,” Muhammad said. “‘The Legacy.’ My father left it to me in his will. It has protected me in many battles, as you know.”

  “I’ve always wondered how you could risk damaging such a precious item by fighting with it,” I said. “It’s a jewel in itself—so valuable.”

  “A sword is only as worthy as its user,” Muhammad said. “That is why I am giving it to you.”

  “To me?” I held it up to a window and turned it in the day’s fading light, admiring the sharpness of its narrow blade, the warm glisten of color. Then I remembered why he was giving me this gift, and I began to cry so hard I almost dropped al-Ma’thur on his chest.

  “I don’t want it,” I said. “I’d rather have you than all the swords in Hijaz.”

  “You have me, habibati.” His eyes filled. “A’isha, I know you have looked with envy at the necklaces I have given my other wives. In truth, I considered having one made for you. But I could never find a jewel precious enough to express the nature of our love. I hope you will forgive me, Little Red.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” I said, wiping away my tears. “You gave me your precious love. It’s all I’ve ever needed.”

  He smiled. “What courage you possess. My little child bride. No—my warrior bride. Take this sword and use it well, habibati. It will serve you in the jihad to come.”

  “Holy war?” I frowned. “Quraysh would not attack us again, even without you here. Our army would crush them instantly.”

  “It will be as al-Lah wills,” he said. “But I speak also of the inner struggle.” He jerked as if a flaming torch had touched his skin, making me flinch.

  “A’isha,” he rasped. “Comfort me.”

  Shame jabbed me with its bony fingers for being so skittish. Was death a rat with sharp teeth, able to bite anyone in its presence? I moved behind Muhammad and propped him against my breast. More tears stung my eyes but I willed them away. “Warrior bride,” Muhammad had called me. I would not fear his death, or the life to come. I had al-Ma’thur and I had Muhammad’s love for all eternity. I smoothed his brow with my palm. If only I could take away his pain.

  “A’isha, you have received your wish,” he said. “With your touch, you have removed my pain.”

  I sighed with relief. “Praise al-Lah—”

  But his body jerked again, as if life surged through his limbs. He lifted his hands toward the ceiling. “There is no God but al-Lah!” he cried. Then he exhaled deeply and sank against me, as heavy as a rock.

  “Muhammad!” I screamed. “Muhammad! Oh, al-Lah, why?” I patted his face and shook him, but he lay as limp as a piece of cloth in my arms. I felt death’s claw scrape at the back of my neck, raising chills. Suddenly I wanted my father. Although tears blocked my mouth and nose I managed to call out to him.

  “Father! Yaa abi! Father, hurry!”

  The door between my bedroom and the mosque crashed open and my father raced in with wild eyes.

  “I cannot awaken him,” I said, sobbing, forgetting that I was a warrior now, forgetting everything except that Muhammad was gone.

  My abi’s face seemed to crumble as if it were made of sand when he looked down at Muhammad. He lifted his eyelids, tried to peer into his soul. He held a palm over his nostrils.

  “To al-Lah we belong, and to al-Lah we will return,” he murmured, his voice ragged. Tears ran down his face and mingled with my own on Muhammad’s brow. He kissed the Prophet of God’s salt-streaked forehead.

  “Alas! for a Prophet.” He kissed Muhammad’s forehead again.

  “Alas! for a man of purity.” He kissed Muhammad’s brow a third time. His face cupped sorrow in every crease. “Alas! for a bosom friend. The Messenger of God is dead.”

  We combed Muhammad’s curls and washed his face and smoothed his clothes, fumbling through our tears. Then my father left to inform the umma while I sat alone with him, wailing and tearing at my hair and skin. Soon my door burst open, and the sister-wives came running in, filling the room with their cries. Hafsa pulled my hands away from my face and held me, but even her love could not fill the hole inside me. Bilal’s call knelled from atop the mosque. Fatima slipped in among us, with Ali and al-Abbas close behind, and fell to her knees to kiss her dead father’s feet. Ali knelt by his side while a standing al-Abbas held the weeping Maymunah. His was the only impassive face in the room as he surveyed the scene. I felt his gaze on me and looked up to see his narrowed eyes taking in the sword I clutched.

  That evening I stepped into the courtyard to see the moon. It dangled like an ornament from the bejeweled sky, dipped in gold and looming so close it beckoned my fingers to reach out and pluck it. Muhammad would have loved this sight.

  My father’s voice murmured from inside the mosque. I glided across the grass in search of him. I stopped at the entrance, though, when I saw his hands on Umar’s heaving shoulders and their foreheads pressed together.

  “We will walk with him again in Paradise,” abi was saying. “As for now, we must consider the umma.”

  A short, st
ocky man with a mole on his chin as large as a beetle—Abu Ubaydah, Umar’s friend—walked into the mosque and seized Umar’s beard. “The men of Aws and Khazraj have called a meeting to decide Medina’s next leader,” he said. “I think you should attend.”

  “By al-Lah, the Prophet’s body has not yet cooled!” Umar growled, sounding like his old self again.

  “I agree, the timing is unfortunate,” my father said. “But this development was not unexpected. If this meeting proceeds without us, we will lose everything Muhammad fought for.”

  “His life will not be in vain, or I am not Umar ibn al-Khattab,” Umar gruffed. The three of them hurried into the street—with me following. I felt Muhammad’s presence with me, covering me like the moonlight he had loved so much.

  They stepped into Medina’s meeting hall. I slipped into an alcove and peered inside. The room was spacious and square, with a ceiling so high not even the tallest man could touch it if he stood on another man’s shoulders. Stone stairs led steeply upward to a closed door. The stench of unwashed bodies hit so strong I had to cover my nose with my wrapper. Oil lamps studded the unpainted stone walls, flickering dim shadows. The crowd of men inside fell silent when my father, Umar, and Abu Ubaydah entered the room.

  A flat-nosed man with large ears stepped forward to seize their beards in greeting. “We are honored by your presence, but I must warn you: We aim to choose a leader from among ourselves.”

  Umar opened his mouth, but my father was the first to speak.

  “We respect your desire to govern yourselves,” he said. “But perhaps you have forgotten what it was like before Muhammad came to Medina.” He turned to address the room, describing their feuds, how the Aws and Khazraj had fought so viciously some had worried they’d annihilate each other.

  “Under Muhammad, you have enjoyed peace between your tribes,” abi said. “But truly, it was al-Lah who granted you this peace, as a reward for helping His Prophet. Muhammad died today, yes—but al-Lah never dies. Al-Lah would continue to rule if you would allow it. And in exchange, He will make Medina the most prosperous and revered city in the world. Not even Mecca will be able to compare.”