Muhammad: A Story of the Last Prophet

  I feel prickly all over when he says that, but before I can question him, he has melted into the crowd. Now, you’d think something dark was afoot. Maybe one night the vigilantes will raid a particular clan and wipe out all the young males. It’s happened before, and since they sometimes get careless and slit the throats of a few slaves, I keep to my house the next few nights, begging off that it’s my unclean days of the month.

  The buzzing won’t die down. The next time I carry a basket of washing to the well, I stand next to an Abyssinian woman I know; it’s easier next to another black. They leave us alone. And she says, “You won’t believe it. Uthman wants to be king. That’s why they nicked him with a knife. It happened while he was coming home. He screamed blue murder and ran inside.”

  “They did more than nick him,” I say, slapping the laundry harder against the rim of the well to make more noise. It wouldn’t do to be overheard.

  “That’s not the point. A king—these Arabs won’t stand for it.”

  A few eyes dart our way, so we shut up. But to tell the truth, I feel like laughing. A crazy man calls himself a king. I call myself Queen of the Nile, but the last time I looked, there isn’t a crown under my pillow.

  Muhammad doesn’t smile when I bring it up, however. “Uthman bin al-Huwayrith. He’s not crazy. He just doesn’t know how to keep a secret.”

  The Arabs love secrecy more than they love a feud even. They have a saying: “A secret is like a bird. Let it go from your hand, and it flies everywhere.”

  Gravely Muhammad tells me that Uthman has become a Christian. He looks surprised when I burst out laughing.

  “Is that all?” I say. The last thing a slave has to worry about is who to worship. Our masters point to their idols, and there’s an end to it. We bow down where they bow down.

  “I wish you could understand,” Muhammad murmurs.

  “Why?”

  “Because Uthman has brought the pot to a boil. Not just him. There are others. They refuse to hide anymore.”

  I settle down for Muhammad’s sake and pay attention.

  “This Uthman is a rich Qurayshi. He got drunk one night and declared that the lands beyond Arabia are civilized. They have laws. A man’s money is as safe there as his life. He can even loan with interest, like the Jews. That made the others sit up, even though they don’t tolerate words against their damned pride. Uthman explained that the Christians are the true sons of Abraham, them and the Jews. If Mecca had a Christian king, trade would improve for everyone. Alliances could be made with Byzantium, where Christians pile gold as high as a virgin’s head to make her dowry. ‘Oh, and who would be king?’ someone yelled in derision. Which is where Uthman should have shut his big mouth. ‘Make me king,’ he shouted over the general laughter. ‘I’m a Christian already.’

  “Uh-oh. The room grew quiet. Everyone knew there were hanif around, and it was assumed that Uthman was one. He went freely to and from the house of Waraqah. But Uthman tried to wave a big stick and accidentally hit a hornet’s nest. He upset the balance, and over such a stupid thing. They warned him with a nick, but then some others came out on his side, and they were mumbling about Christians and Jews too, saying that they’re all the true sons of Abraham.”

  “Why not go and ask Abraham himself?” I say, growing bored with the tale.

  Muhammad gives a small, crooked smile. “If only we could.” He explains that Abraham is the grandfather of grandfathers, and no one knows how long ago he lived or who his true sons are, except that part of keeping power for the Quraysh meant that they laid claim to him. He says that if they aren’t the sons of Abraham, they’re just another tribe of puffed-up bullies.

  “Are you taking sides?” I ask Muhammad. And he drops a saying: “A lizard doesn’t hop from one branch until he’s sure of the next one.” Arabs live by old sayings. I shouldn’t criticize. Muhammad is being prudent. He’s known for that. He’s earned more money by refusing the third cup of wine than by shrewdness.

  “This won’t go away,” says Muhammad, getting up and leaving me the last piece of bread. “Zamzam ran underground out of sight for a long time. No one knew it was there until my grandfather had a vision. God has been running underground too. He hasn’t broken through yet, but the ground is moist, and everyone can see it.”

  “You can’t drink moist dirt,” I point out. Muhammad smiles and leaves.

  6

  KHATTAB, THE ELDER

  Years ago Christ’s army marched on Mecca to destroy us, and almost succeeded. Memories are short. People talk about the trouble being stirred up now. This is nothing compared to the madness back then. I pulled Muhammad into my house to make him listen. His influence is growing in the tribe. He understands trade, and I trade in power. If Mecca collapses, the Arabs will be powerless. We are devouring ourselves.

  “Once you hear me out, you can alert the others,” I began. “You are young, but your counsel means something.”

  “Am I here for a history lesson?” Muhammad asked with a serious smile.

  “It’s a lesson about danger,” I said. “Last time the danger came from without. This time it festers within, like a disease. I feel the plague spreading. Trust me, I’ve seen the worst.”

  Muhammad bowed and took a seat. “Tell me.”

  I cast my mind back. “News spread of an attacker marching across the desert. Bedouin boys tending sheep in the mountains were the first to spot the enemy. They ran to town crying that huge monsters were in league with thousands of soldiers. Mecca had no defenses. Our men couldn’t form a proper army. The desert has protected us for so long, they had forgotten what war was like. This devil Christ must have been protecting his soldiers to bring them across a hundred miles of sand without dying of thirst. Panic broke out. Everyone became a nomad overnight. The clans ran into the desert to escape the invaders. People said hysterical things: Christ’s followers ate human flesh; the Jews had sold them secret plans to the city. Doors were marked with signs in blood in the dead of night.”

  “It must have been horrible,” said Muhammad. He was listening, but you never knew what he was thinking, not that one.

  “Horrible? You’ve never stared starvation in the face, you and your generation. The bazaar was stripped clean as if by a swarm of locusts. A few sellers tried gouging. They offered a pomegranate in trade for a pearl. Instead, men held knives to their throats and stole the pomegranate. They deserved it too.”

  Muhammad nodded. He never faltered in the respect department. However, the real question remained. Would Muhammad stand with us, the guardians?

  I take some wine at noon for my blood, and it can go to my head. I found myself shouting at him. “This must never happen again, do you understand? Never!”

  “Is that why you had Uthman attacked?” he asked in a voice as quiet as mine was loud. “Is he part of the disease?”

  “Nobody had anybody attacked,” I muttered resentfully.

  “Did the knife go in on its own?”

  “Uthman is a secret Christian,” I said. “You don’t understand. And since you have eyes in your head, that means you refuse to understand. Let everything crash. I’m old. What does it matter?”

  I slumped back on a pile of cushions and poured myself another cup. There was nothing more to say. Muhammad gazed out the window. I stared into the dregs of the wine and swatted a fly. It was too hot to argue. If Mecca goes to hell, they can’t blame me.

  “I admire you,” said Muhammad suddenly.

  I was so startled, all I could blurt out was, “Why?”

  “‘Fate loves a rebel.’ You know that saying?” he asked.

  “I’m not the rebel. Things are going on behind closed doors. Conspirators are trying to destroy us. Fanatics, zealots. If they have their way, another army of demons will be at our walls.”

  Muhammad didn’t cringe. I wasn’t so drunk that I didn’t know I was losing my case. I couldn’t live with myself if the blame fell on me. To calm my nerves, I retold the story of Christ’s invasion. I assu
med Muhammad had already heard it, but I needed to tell it and he needed hear it again.

  “You were born that year. I knew your mother, as I knew all of the clan of your great-grandfather Hashim. Her belly was swollen when I came to warn her. Aminah wasn’t the kind to be hysterical. She wanted to know everything, so I talked to her as if she was a man.”

  My words were pouring out freely, but I was far away. In my mind’s eye I could see her again, clutching her robe around her throat so that her hand wouldn’t tremble. Aminah was too pregnant to flee, and yet staying behind could mean her death.

  “She had barely heard of the king of Yemen, whose name was Abrahah al-Ashram. You know the insolent vanity of those people. Paradise begins when you cross the border into their green land. Abrahah despised Mecca for one thing—the Kaaba and the wealth it brought us. Why shouldn’t hordes of pilgrims come to his kingdom instead of this wretched desert town? In a dream he saw the solution. He had to build a shrine so grand and luxurious that it would awe any pilgrim who set eyes upon it. He obeyed his dream and called his bejeweled shrine Qullays. If a god had spoken in his ear, Abrahah’s ambition might have been realized, but he was listening to demons. They quickly betrayed him. No pilgrims turned away from the Kaaba. The Arabs made up songs ridiculing his gaudy, empty temple. Now Abrahah’s vanity turned to anger. He rounded up an army of mercenaries, spear throwers and archers, the scum of the earth, but experienced in war. They began their march on Mecca, and what did our Bedouin brothers do? They greased the way with food and water, sold at a premium. They even provided guides from the hill towns who were jealous of Mecca. Abrahah created wonder with a pack of huge gray monsters, as the ignorant called them. They had never seen drawings of elephants.”

  I stopped my story and looked at Muhammad. “You think this is only a tale, but the future depends on what I’m saying.”

  He quietly asked me to go on.

  “When word spread that Abrahah’s army was only a few miles away, the Quraysh gathered in council. The invader sent word that he would kill no innocent civilians. His wish was to enter the city, raze the Kaaba to the ground, and depart. The emissary who brought this news was lucky he wasn’t beheaded on the spot. The Quraysh became furious and vowed to defend Mecca to the last man. One elder dissented, though. ‘We can rebuild even the most sacred building,’ he argued. ‘But if we die, there will be no one left to bring the Kaaba back.’

  “That lone voice was your grandfather, Abdul Muttalib. The invaders had scoured the hills to steal our animals, and he had lost the most, more than a hundred camels. If Muttalib could keep his head in the face of such a crime, he was the man to send to the enemy camp as ambassador. Muttalib went and bowed before Abrahah, although obeisance stuck in his throat like a mouthful of thorns. To him he said, ‘Sire, withdraw from our home. We cannot fight you, but our idols are not under our control. I cannot vouch for what they might do. Accept tribute from us instead.’ Muttalib offered money and fruit from the best orchards to be paid in perpetuity. Abrahah sneered at tribute, which he saw as a sign of weakness.”

  “Like a true Arab,” Muhammad interrupted.

  “No, that’s the cruelest part. He was an Abyssinian, a foreigner. Yemen had fallen to their king. In those days the demon Christ seduced Abyssinia, and his hand was guiding everything.”

  “From what I’ve heard, Christ doesn’t inspire war,” said Muhammad mildly.

  I grew irritated. Why did he refuse to see?

  “Christ inspires whatever makes him more powerful. He’s no different from any other god,” I said glancing at the wine jug. I resisted temptation, as persuasion deserts a loose tongue.

  “Muttalib returned to Mecca with the bad news. He counseled calm. He repeated Abrahah’s promise not to harm the populace, but panic spread without check like a contagion. Whole streets were abandoned overnight and became prey to wandering ghosts and thieves. The tribal elders held no sway. They fled faster than anyone. Now came the decisive moment.”

  I paused so that Muhammad would be slightly uneasy, uncertain what I was really about. He knows my reputation for canniness and power brokering. Nothing I do or say is casual.

  I let anticipation hang in the air. Then I said, “On the night before the invader reached our gates, I spied on your grandfather.”

  “Why?” Muhammad was obviously caught off guard.

  “Because the Kaaba meant more to his clan than to anyone else. Without the idols, what would happen to the sale of their precious water and the money it brought? Muttalib had done his best to get his family to safety. The only one he couldn’t persuade was Aminah, and her peril gave him added incentive. I followed him from his courtyard to the doors of the Kaaba. He seized the handles with both hands and began to wail. He wailed to every god he could think of. He invoked the one God, Allah, but he didn’t exclude even the most insignificant idol made of cracked plaster. When he was finished, he composed himself. From the shadows I couldn’t hear what he muttered to himself, but we were both Arabs. He left the rest to fate.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Can you believe that his prayers were answered?

  “That very day a sickness fell over Abrahah’s army. Soldiers broke out in sores that oozed poison. Some say a swarm of biting insects swooped down on their camp, but I saw with my own eyes. Within hours the troops began falling to the ground. A day later they were dying in piles. I sneaked beyond the city walls and spied on them. There were no insects. An invisible curse felled them. The war elephants with brass balls on their tusks stood around listlessly, unable to move. Like a man caught in a nightmare, Abrahah realized that the predator had become the prey. The tribes would sniff out this calamity and descend to devour him. He turned tail and ordered an immediate retreat. Suddenly the demon army and its monsters vanished like a mirage.”

  “I have listened,” said Muhammad, “but there is a tale within the tale. Why is this about me?”

  “Be patient. Your grandfather, Muttalib, was overjoyed, and his prestige soared. Drunken celebrations clogged the streets. Rich men slept with all their wives and woke up exhausted the next morning. Muttalib remained sober. He called a council to create ways to prevent such a threat from ever happening again. Laws were passed forbidding Jews and Christians from living in Mecca. A street patrol was formed, and armed men guarded the prosperous neighborhoods.”

  “The guardians, which you lead,” said Muhammad quietly.

  I smiled and extended an arm. “I’m not threatening you.”

  “Then why does it feel that way?” he asked.

  “Listen to me. The man who demanded that the Jews and Christians be driven out was your grandfather. His decree rests upon your shoulders.”

  Muhammad was grim. He had never counted on spies. I knew he consorted with the hanif. The old ones like Waraqah were beyond my power. If I hadn’t liquored up some half-crazy thugs, Uthman wouldn’t have been warned. And yet it was necessary.

  I expected Muhammad to react with fear or passion, but not with violence. I had no dagger hidden under my couch for a talk with him. He did surprise me, though.

  “Do you know why I called you a rebel?” he asked calmly.

  I shook my head.

  “Because you lead the revolt against change. The new terrifies you. The danger isn’t an invisible curse this time. It’s the invisible, period.”

  I gave a disgusted sigh and reached for the wine jug. There was no reason to hold back now. “You talk like one of them.”

  “They are us. That’s what you don’t see. What are you really guarding? Slow rot. I smell it in this room.”

  His voice was strong and steady. He was willing to utter words that get men killed. Had I underestimated him? I pretended to be unmoved while I recorded everything he said in my mind.

  “How are they us?” I asked.

  “The Quraysh control this city for one reason. It’s not money. My grandfather made and lost a fortune. His sons were left weak and stripped of riches. I was reduced to living like a s
ervant in my uncle’s house, the last to be given bread and the first to be beaten when his sons were in a rage. But I know that without Abraham, our father, the Quraysh are nothing. We owe him everything. The water of life springs from him. For years that has meant less and less. What is Abraham without the faith of Abraham? Tell me your answer, and I will join you. If you can’t, rot with the rest.”

  I cannot imagine how he managed this speech without challenging me to a fight. Muhammad’s eyes flashed, but his hand remained quietly by his side.

  “You are no longer welcome inside my gate,” I said with cold formality.

  “I obey with sadness,” he replied.

  A moment later he vanished. I threw my wine cup across the room. It smashed against the wall and dripped purple juice down the plaster. No matter, it was undrinkable, spoiled by the heat. Flies buzzed around my head, attracted by the sickly sweetness of a drunkard’s breath. There were too many to swat. I covered myself with a blanket and waited for sleep.

  7

  A WANDERING MENDICANT

  Because I wandered in from the desert, nobody knows my name. They call me “the chick,” because I sit all day with my mouth open, waiting for people walking by to drop food in. It’s a cunning way to beg. Everyone knows who I am, and all of Mecca marvels at how I survive. At times there can be nasty surprises. I’m a decent man, or I would tell you some of the filthy objects street urchins have dropped into my mouth.

  Today I’m a beggar, but I have ambitions. I hope to become a fool. People pity fools, and those who don’t are at least superstitious about them. The best fools have gone mad over God. They even think they speak with God’s voice, but it’s all babble. I think about that when I’m curled up in an alley on a cold night. Is it better to be pitied or despised? Those are my two choices.

  I don’t feel sorry for myself. On feast days and especially weddings it’s good to sit with your mouth open as the guests pass by. A few will be feeling merry enough to toss a sweet-meat your way. The last wedding was Muhammad’s. Mecca couldn’t stop talking about it. A trader in his twenties marrying an old woman. Why did he agree? It wasn’t for her beauty. The lady Khadijah is forty. Two rich husbands have died on her. So it had to be for her money. He must have played a close game. The widow is rich enough that she resisted all offers from greedy suitors. Rich enough to be the one who proposed to Muhammad too, not the other way around. No one felt she was stooping beneath her station, though, because Khadijah’s purity is impeccable. She was waiting for a pure husband, they say.