Muhammad (13 page)

I won't say she didn't stumble over a word here and there. Wind whistled through gaps in her teeth. The women at the well were stunned. They stared at each other in amazement. Half of them wouldn't have let Halimah sweep the dust under their feet. Yet no Arab wife or daughter had ever uttered such words. And so many! Halimah didn't know how to react, but she was proud of herself. The angel com
manded Muhammad to recite, and now his followers would recite too, over and over.

I ran and told Muhammad what had happened. “Is this how we will change the world?” I asked. “One believer at a time?”

Muhammad replied, “Has there ever been any other way?”

I
see more than they know. I'm not just a boy to be sent away to fly a kite. I sneak through the shadows and peek through cracks in the door of my father's bedroom. My new father, I mean, the one who gets tears in his eyes when I touch his feet.

I saw him sitting up in bed. His wife—my new mother—was sitting beside him holding out a tumbler. He took a sip. In a low voice she asked, “Do you see him now?”

Father nodded. “He is before my eyes.”

Mother looked around. “I see nothing.”

“The angel is here. He appeared just as you came in,” Father said. “He has come a few times now.”

“But he's invisible to everyone else,” said Mother, not quite asking a question and not quite making a statement. She was like a bather testing the water to make sure it's not too hot or too cold.

Don't ask me what happened next. I heard little Fatimah running down the hall. She was whimpering, which meant that the next sound out of her mouth would be “Ummi, Ummi,” and Mother would come out to answer her. When
Fatimah saw me in the shadows leaning against the door, her eyes grew wide. I couldn't be caught there. I said “Ssh” and promised to take her out to play. Fatimah looked at me with a moment's suspicion, but she likes to play better than she likes to tattle.

When I was in bed that night, my mind went back to what Mother was asking. “Do you see him now?” That's what you ask crazy people.
If Father is crazy, then I will be alone again.
That was the first thought that came to me, and I couldn't get it out of my head. Believe me, I tried. I knew I had to be the perfect little boy. That way, even if they drove all the servants away and tied Father to the bed so he couldn't kick and scream the way crazy beggars do in the street, they'd keep me.

This is a house full of chatter and kitchen sounds, clanking pots and maids scolding the nomad who brings milk because it's not fresh. But when my father ran down from the mountain, a strangeness descended over us—the sound of silence. Why is it so frightening? Because it's like the silence before a man is hanged or beheaded. Those things happen to murderers in this city. Murderers and enemies caught on a raid if nobody sends ransom for them. I almost saw a beheading once, before Jafar caught me and dragged me home. Jafar is the cousin I like the best on most days.

The thought that Father had gone crazy was driving
me
crazy. Then I hit on something. What would a perfect boy do? I ran to the cook, who was rolling little balls of dates with honey and almonds. When I asked to help, she looked surprised and said they had girls to do that kind of work. I sat myself next to her and dipped my fingers into the bowl of sticky brown dough. Cook sighed and showed me how
to roll the little balls properly, until they were as smooth as marbles.

“Just don't eat any. Master gets them first,” she warned. I knew why too. Mother thinks that the candy will sweeten his thoughts. That's another thing I heard. I begged to be allowed to carry the sweets to Father's room. Cook looked over her shoulder.

“You don't want to go in there,” she whispered. But I whined, and when she let me trot off with the silver tray covered by a bright red cloth, I think the cook was relieved. At least it wasn't her.

So that's how I got inside Father's room. He looked very tired. His beard was all tangled, and sweat had matted his hair. I tiptoed in and put the tray by his pillow. Then I asked him very low if he wanted some water.

“You can speak up. I'm not dying,” he said. “It's not that simple.” Who knows what that meant. I fetched the water. He didn't touch it, and he didn't reach for the date sweets. When he caught me staring at the tray, Father pushed it my way.

“Go ahead. It will make them happy to think I've started eating again.”

I ate five. You can be a perfect boy and still eat candied dates, right? I'm not sure they made my thoughts sweeter, but I was less afraid. And braver.

“Do you see it now?” I asked.

Father gave me a look. “How do you know about that?”

I shrugged and waited. Either he would jump on me for sneaking around listening at doors or he'd tell me what he saw. I guess he wasn't in a jumping mood, because he sighed and said, “I can't choose to see or not see. He comes when God sends him.”

“Sends who?” I asked, with the knowledge that my father always had a special gift.

Pause there. First, I have a riddle. What three-letter word makes a boy invisible if you take it away and makes him visible again if you give it back? I go around asking people this riddle, but nobody ever gets it. When they give up, I walk away.

“Hey, the point of a riddle is that you tell the answer,” they all cry after me.

I just smile. “If I tell you the answer, you'll be able to make me invisible.” Nobody gets to do that to me again.

The answer is
ibn,
which even strangers know means “son.” When you're nobody's son, you're invisible. I never expected it to happen to me. I was tied to my father, Haritha, the way he was tied to his father, as tight as a goat tethered to the back of a wagon. But Allah had other plans and decided to make me as invisible as Himself.

One night I was sleeping under a warm blanket, and then in a moment it was snatched away. A raiding band had invaded our town. Two rough hands bound me hand and foot. They didn't bother with a gag but threw me over the back of a saddle.

This is a dream,
I thought.

I heard the horse's hooves clanging over rocks, and its iron shoes threw sparks. The rider who towered over me started to lash his mount to go faster. The tip of his whip caught me in the face. The pain made me wince, and I tasted blood as it rolled down my cheek. This was no dream. The lanterns of the town faded into the night behind us. I had turned invisible.

No one needs to hear the details of what happened next. Allah wanted me to survive, and I did. One day my new father spied me standing in a dirty shift on the slave block
in Mecca. I didn't squeeze my eyes shut when they lifted the shift to show that I would be able to breed. Shame doesn't exist when a boy is invisible.

You see why I interrupted my story with a riddle. Muhammad could see me. And if my new father could see me, then I am not surprised that he could see other invisible beings now.

“Who has God sent?” I repeated.

“An angel. Angels are His messengers,” Father said.

“And Mother can't see it?”

He shook his head. “She has to ask. And if the angel is there, I tell her where he's standing. She believes me. She says that I have a reputation for telling the truth. Why would I start lying now? Especially with a lie that will make me look crazy.”

Now my father's face wore a small, crooked smile. He was making me feel better. Once when I was walking with Jafar, he gave a coin to a beggar who was crouched on all fours, barking like a dog.

“Do you know what makes him a madman?” asked Jafar as we walked away. He was always dropping coins like that, and you never knew who he'd pick to drop one on.

“Because he barks like a dog?” I said.

“No. He's a madman because he doesn't know he's mad.”

I kept that in mind, because people do all kinds of crazy things, and it's useful to pick out the ones who have lost their minds. Father was worried that he might be crazy, so that meant he wasn't. I told him so, but he didn't look very comforted.

The worst time for him came soon after that. He kept seeing the angel—he never knew what corner it might be
hiding around—but God had nothing to say. There were only two messages. First, when he was afraid and lying in bed, covered with his cloak. God saw Father hiding there, and why not? He can see through walls and hearts and the lies men tell. The angel appeared saying:

Father immediately told the message to Mother. His heart was torn. Every day made him realize that he was chosen, but who should he warn? Who would listen to him if he did? In her way, Mother had also received a message. Her cousin was old Waraqah, who was blind now and confined to his house. I saw his face only once, and his eyes were clouded over with a white film. Yet the old man's head turned in my direction, even though I hadn't said a word. In secret he became a Christian, Mother said. I don't know that word, but she told me that Christ was as great a prophet as Moses.

“Then why does the tribe hate him?” I asked, meaning the old man, although it was no different with Christ.

As an answer, she quoted a saying: “Blind eyes see more than a blind heart.”

I wasn't with her when she ran into Waraqah when he was near the Kaaba. He demanded that his relatives take him there to pray, no matter what threats hung over his head. When he heard that the angel had come to Father, the old man trembled and said, “Khadijah, the holy spirit has come to him. He will be called a liar; they will persecute
him. He must hold fast.” Mother could see how overjoyed Waraqah was, but she was afraid for him as his voice grew louder. “Holy, holy, holy! He will be the prophet to this nation. But he'll have to fight. If God gives me life, I will be by his side.”

Mother tried to calm him. In her heart she was overjoyed and ran home to tell Father everything. Despite this omen the angel brought no more messages. Days passed like weeks. The silence in the house became more anxious.

“If God has something to tell you, why doesn't He do it all at once?” I asked.

“He wants to be sure I'm strong enough. All at once might destroy me,” Father replied.

People outside don't know what it did to him to be at God's mercy. We're all at God's mercy. I know that better than most. But for my father it was worse.

I was exhausted being perfect. Nothing I or anyone else did lifted the look on Father's face. Until one day he filled the house with a shout. We all came running. It was a hot morning, and he had woken in a sweat. At that moment a second message had come from the angel. Father recited it quickly, almost out of breath, word for word.

Mother and Father looked relieved. They told me and the girls to sit down to a meal together, like a real family. No one felt crazy that night. Father was smiling the way he did before God arrived. It was like the sun coming out again.

Only to fade in the coming weeks. The great message never came through. We all waited. Father acted the best, even though he had the most reason to be restless and nervous.

“God has told me how to live,” he said. “My duty is to obey.”

He stayed up half the night praying. My room is close to his, and if I opened my door I could hear him reciting in a strong voice the messages he had already received, over and over. I didn't understand the words, but it brought him peace of mind. This meant we could all stop worrying. I ran out to play again. Mecca is like Paradise to a boy who likes catching rats, chasing dogs, and flying a kite. The months passed, and I almost forgot about the angel. They told me in hushed tones one day that Father had started to receive more messages. He had waited six months. He had started to visit people again, and everyone assumed the crazy times were over. They all breathed easier.

I was pretty sure that it was good for him to hear from God again. In the house Mother said it was good, but I should not talk about it. She saw the worry in my eyes.

“Be happy. God is keeping His promise,” she said.

I smiled, acting reassured. On the inside I remembered a saying: “A promise is a cloud. Fulfillment is the rain.” I ran outside when I heard my cousins shouting for me. It wasn't raining yet. But I didn't care. When a stranger asks my name, I tell them what Father told me to say: I am Zayd ibn Muhammad.

I'm not invisible anymore.

T
he battle waged against the Prophet is fierce and grows worse every day. It's been seven years now. To protect some of his followers, he sends them across the sea to Abyssinia, where the Christians recognize us as brothers under the same God. A bitter irony, this. Our own blood brothers, the Quraysh, persecute us without mercy. I remain patient, as the Prophet commands. I carry a dagger with me at all times and wait for the day when God will choose the real sons of Abraham.

There's another reason I refuse to run. I lost everything worldly, so that I could gain everything holy. I see that now, as clearly as you see your hand. My poverty doesn't make me ashamed anymore. I used to cringe when thugs laughed at me in the street. My sandals were torn; I barely had a coin to pay a washerwoman to soap the dirt off my robe. When I walk to the Kaaba to pray to Allah, I smile at the wicked. Why shouldn't I? I've secured my place in heaven; no man can strip that from me.

So, you sons of Ishmael, heed the Prophet's warning:

I wish I had your courage, to stand at the mouth of hell and not care. You defile the Prophet's name and spit on the ground. That puts him in good company. I've seen men spitting on God in the shadow of the Kaaba. You prideful Quraysh know no shame. You have poisoned Muhammad's camels and spread vicious slanders about his daughters. Your plotting has worked. Didn't Zaynab, his oldest girl, marry a man who refuses to believe? She loves her father, but she fears her husband more.

I've held the hand of a small boy beaten half to death because of a rumor that one of his cousins worships Allah. As his bloody head was being bandaged, I comforted him with Muhammad's promise: “Whoever has seen me, that same man has seen the truth.”

So defile me too, that's what I say. It will get me to my reward more quickly.

The faithful tell me that I have the purest blood of anyone who follows the Prophet. My mother was walking past the Kaaba when suddenly she went into labor. To guard her modesty she rushed inside, and so I was born in that holy place. This means nothing to you who pretend that the Kaaba is sacred, but peddle whores within shouting distance of its walls. My mother stayed there for three days until she was well enough to leave. When I opened my eyes, the first face I saw was Muhammad's. He had come to protect my mother the moment he got word of her plight. I was as small and red as a wrinkled crabapple, but he foresaw my destiny.
“Name him the exalted one,” he said, which is where “Ali” came from.

My father is a sheikh, the same Abu Talib you mock so freely. He was bewildered that I was born in the Kaaba, but he took it as a powerful omen. It wasn't a good omen at first. I nursed at misfortune's breast. I remember being five when the famine struck. Drought wiped out my father's flocks and destroyed the crops in every direction from Mecca. My father couldn't afford to feed me, so one day he sat me on the floor.

“I face shame no matter what happens to you,” he said, hardly able to keep from weeping. “The shame of losing you is better than the shame of having you starve under my roof. Seek a better father if you can find one.”

I begged to be taken in by my cousin Muhammad. I had known his house since I was old enough to walk. No questions were asked if I grabbed a fistful of dates from the jar and gobbled them down in the corner. When I appeared at his door, Muhammad embraced me and kissed me on the cheek. I became a son to him at that moment, without a word between us. It was like freezing in winter and then suddenly feeling the warm sun on your back.

Let me tell you how the Prophet opened the door of my soul, so that he may open yours. I was eleven when the angel appeared to him. When Muhammad ran down the mountain and hid himself in his room, I was frightened, and what made me most afraid was Khadijah's face the first time she came out of his room.

She took me aside and said gravely, “You must believe. I am not saying this to anyone else. I know you're only a boy, but you must believe anyway.”

I asked her why. Khadijah hesitated. “Your cousin
Muhammad is now your father. A son's faith begins with his father.”

“My father? Abu Talib couldn't even feed me.”

Khadijah shook her head. “Abu Talib didn't know it, but he was working the will of God. You were cut adrift to put you under divine protection. Thieves hanging out in the alleys might have stabbed you for a laugh. Instead, you were sent to be the Prophet's son.”

She never used the word “prophet” to anyone but me, not in those first days. Muhammad confided to me—this was years later—that he had his own doubts about who he was. He was cowering under the sheets when Khadijah pulled them off and said, “God wouldn't punish a man as righteous as you. I hope with all my heart that you are the prophet promised for so long.”

She saw no reason to distrust the angel. So a woman was the first to believe, not me or any other man.

What does a boy of eleven know, anyway? I ran through the streets with my new brother Zayd throwing rocks at stray dogs, peering through cracks in a fence when the camels mated, and wondering why the sight made my body grow hot. By night I asked questions.

“Father, what did the angel look like?”

“At first I imagined that he looked like a man bathed in light. But soon he was transparent and filled the whole sky.”

“If I haven't seen an angel, how will I know God?”

“When you know your own self, you will know God.”

“But you say Allah is everywhere. If I traveled the whole world, I still wouldn't see Him.”

“The Lord has told me, ‘My earth and my heaven cannot contain me. The heart of my faithful servant can.'”

And so I believed without question, the way one believes
in the sun. Once you set eyes on the sun, how can you doubt it? To sit at Muhammad's feet is like listening to the fountains of Paradise. When new converts present themselves, he puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Here is my first follower. His face is pure, because it never touched the ground bowing to an idol.”

I used to blush to hear that. Behind his back, others argue that I wasn't the first convert, because I worshiped no one before Allah. Therefore, what did I convert from? Nothing. But all of this was secret for the first three years. Muhammad spoke of his revelations only to us few. Then a message came that the entire Hashim clan should be invited to accept the one and only God. I was not yet fifteen, but Muhammad directed me to prepare a sumptuous feast. Forty servings were prepared, enough for every man in the clan.

When the invitation went out, messengers scattered all over Mecca. Muhammad was precise in his instructions. “Don't give the invitation to a servant. Wait at the gate until you get inside or the master of the house comes to you. Bow with respect, and make sure that you use these words: ‘Muhammad has spared no expense.'”

The last part was canny. Many people had grown suspicious of Muhammad. They all knew the word “Islam,” “acceptance,” which he preached. But the Prophet's enemies reminded everyone that the same word meant “submission.” “You see? He wants to be chief over the whole city. His God is just a front for his own naked ambition,” they sneered. However even the wariest of the Hashim wouldn't miss a great banquet for the world.

The evening arrived; the guests pressed their way though the gate. Muhammad was as good as his word. There was so much food and drink that eighty men could have gorged
themselves. The servants were run off their feet; every girl woke up the next morning with bruises from being pinched. I looked around, knowing that every reveler was a doubter. I resented stuffing them with spiced lamb and honey bread, when tomorrow they would only complain about Muhammad louder than ever.

Muhammad was unruffled and reminded me of an old joke to settle my nerves. “A constant complainer died and was sent to hell. When he arrived, he looked around and frowned. ‘Is damp wood the best you can burn down here?' he said.”

When the company was sated, every man lolling back on his cushion with satisfied groans, Muhammad got to his feet. “Sons of Al-Muttalib, in the name of Allah I know of no other Arab who could have provided a feast like this. I have brought you the best of the hereafter as well as the best of this world. Allah has commanded me to invite you to enter heaven.”

Uneasy glances darted around the banquet room. If they hadn't gorged themselves, someone would have grumbled to hear Muhammad invoke Allah's name. A law had been passed forbidding it.

Paying no attention, he raised his voice. “Who will help me in my mission? The one who steps forward will be my brother, my successor, and the leader of the faith after I die.”

His call was so passionate that my heart began to race. I gazed around, but the Hashim were looking down at the floor or whispering among themselves. Muhammad asked again for anyone to step forward, and then a third time. I couldn't help myself. I jumped to my feet and said, “I will help you.”

Silence.

Muhammad's eyes swept the room, catching a glimpse of every uncle and cousin. None of them moved; a few snickered.

“By the will of Allah,” he said soberly, “I declare that Ali is my brother, my successor, and the ruler of the faith after my death. You owe him respect, and you must obey him.”

Now the snickering turned to open laughter. One of Muhammad's uncles, Abu Lahab, turned to my father. “See what submission means? From now on, Abu Talib must bow to his son.” There was harsher laughter at this, and I could read their angry faces. Every uncle in the room would have to bow to his nephew Muhammad, if they accepted him as God's messenger.

That feast was four years ago, and as events turned out, Abu Lahab became our fiercest enemy. He organized attacks against the believers. He once saw Muhammad praying near the Kaaba and grew so enraged that he grabbed the entrails of a sacrificed goat and threw them all over the Prophet.

Do you really believe he acted out of righteousness? Abu Lahab had already come to Muhammad in secret and asked, “If I accept your faith, what will it profit me?”

“You will be blessed by Allah, as all believers are,” replied the Prophet.

Abu Lahab grew impatient. The Hashim had been granted a tithe for the water of Zamzam that the pilgrims drank; everyone accepted this. He asked again what special privilege would come to him if he converted. This time he was twice as haughty.

“To submit is to become humble for God's sake. Your reward will be exaltation in His eyes. What more could you want?” said Muhammad.

Naturally, Abu Lahab wanted much more. He left in a fury and redoubled his denunciations. He wasn't the only rich merchant and trader who feared the call of Islam. To a man they were terrified when their slaves began to follow the Prophet, who went among the poor in secret. In dim houses filled with smoke and the stench of utter want, he raised his hands and said, “Even as the fingers of my hands are equal, so are men equal. None has preference over another.” A black slave named Bilal became an eager convert. When his master heard this, he had Bilal dragged by Qurayshi thugs out into the desert, where they beat him and stretched him out in metal armor under the merciless sun.

All the while he murmured, “God is One, God is One.” When this was reported to his master, he ordered that Bilal be crushed under the weight of heavy stones. The torture had just begun when Abu Bakr happened to pass by. He ran to the master's house and threw money on the table to buy Bilal. The master hesitated—no doubt to keep teaching his slave a lesson—before he relented. Abu Bakr set Bilal free and began the practice of buying other slaves who had converted.

Panic rose among the Quraysh. After the first three years, the Prophet began to preach in public. The number of believers was still less than forty. But the elders were no fools. They knew the danger of the message and feared a war among brothers. A God who brings all things to those who accept Him is hard to resist for long. Their only recourse was to run to Abu Talib, who as head of the clan extended his protection over Muhammad. Furious as the Quraysh were, they could not break the tribal code. Protection was absolute and had to be honored. If not, there would be endless warfare and blood in the streets.

Abu Talib refused to act. Time and again, his reply to the Qurayshi elders was, “Keep your silence and your dignity. Let us deal with Muhammad the way we must. Our sacred ways are not to be crushed.” Abu Talib wouldn't break his promise to take care of his orphaned nephew as his own son.

The Qurayshi elders didn't give up. They found a strapping young man in the slave market and brought him before Abu Talib. “Take this one as your son and renounce the other. The trade can only benefit you,” they argued. Abu Talib turned them out of his house with scorn.

I'll tell you what worries the Quraysh the most. It's the mystery of the word. How can this Koran, a stream of words delivered to an ordinary man, be stronger than their swords? Even surrounded by threats and ridicule, people converted, because they heard the voice of God in Muhammad's voice.

If you believe the rumors people spread, Muhammad's followers perform demonic rituals when gathered behind closed doors. If they only knew the truth. Muhammad preaches peace. He says, “The strongest wrestler has no strength compared to the man who can control his anger.” Sometimes one of us Muslims—so we call ourselves, to denote that we have surrendered—fights back after being sorely provoked. When brought before the Prophet, he rebukes him gently. “The creation is like God's family. Everything that sustains it comes from Him. Therefore, He loves most whoever shows kindness to His family.”

I would never say so in front of the Prophet, but Abu Lahab is the son of the Devil. He watches from behind the scenes like a snake waiting for its prey to come too near. He arranged for the Prophet's house to be vandalized by night. For a time it was necessary to post an armed guard at the
gate. Until one day a message came that told Muhammad to send the guard away. God would protect him. Perhaps this sura, one small verse, inspired the Prophet to adopt a new tactic.