The Jewel Of Medina (32 page)

“Tell me you were faithful to me,
habibati
,” he said. His voice sounded thin, like water leaking from a cracked vessel. “One word from you is all I need.”

I hid my doubt behind a haughty gaze. I remembered how he’d looked at me when I’d told the story of losing my necklace in the dunes. If I lied now, Muhammad would know. Yet if I told the truth, it would be worse for me than lying.

“I have recovered from my illness. Have you come to bring me home?” My calm, clear voice surprised me.

“You look well, A’isha,” was his vague reply.

“Should I flatter you,” I teased, “and say you look well, too?”

I gave him a coy glance, but his eyes only drooped.

“You look as if you hadn’t slept these past three weeks,” I said.

“My dreams are too tortured for sleep.”

“I have been waiting for you, husband. I have been praying to al-Lah, hoping He would send you to me.”

“Al-Lah has abandoned me.”

My mother sucked in her breath, reminding us that she watched. My father shook his head at her and pressed a finger to his lips.

“I have prayed, but He turns His back to me,” Muhammad said in a choked voice. “I do not know what He would have me do now. I do not know what is true and what is false anymore.”

Guilt flooded me, but I clung to what I knew. In waiting for Safwan at the Wadi al-Hamd oasis, I’d made a terrible mistake. But I hadn’t cheated on my husband. And I’d realized, there in the desert with Safwan, how much I truly loved Muhammad.

“Do you believe I’m guilty?” I hated the tremor in my voice. Muhammad admired women who were strong and confident, not whining and cringing.

“I do not know what to believe,” he said. “Others have come forward, telling tales of seeing you and Safwan together. He is a handsome young man, and you have a history with him.”

“Has no one spoken on my behalf?” I turned to my parents. “
Ummi
,
abi
? Won’t you vouch for my innocence?”

My father’s face was a stone carving, except for his tear-brimming eyes. My mother twisted her rings and shifted her glance between Muhammad and me. “We know how unhappy you have been, A’isha, with your marriage unconsummated.”

I laughed. “My own parents think I’m an adulteress. But they don’t know me nearly as well as you do.”

Muhammad frowned. “Does your mother speak the truth? Have you been unhappy?”

“Of course I’ve been unhappy!” I raised my voice, forgetting my parents, forgetting my newfound poise. “Haven’t you noticed? Haven’t you heard my complaints?”

The vein on his forehead bulged. “I have been busy, as you may have noticed.”

I laughed again. “Busy finding new wives to marry. You’re right—that’s hard work! Meanwhile, the one who loves you the most sleeps alone, neglected.”

“No more neglected than my other wives, A’isha. I divide my time equally among you.”

“Wife? How can you call me ‘wife’ when you’ve never been intimate with me?”

“I am waiting, out of consideration for you.”

“Waiting? For what? For me to beg you, or take you by force?”

“For you to grow up,” he said darkly. “From the tone of this discussion, it appears that you have some distance to go.”

I turned my back to my parents, then untied the bodice of my chemise and pulled it open, revealing my breasts. Muhammad’s eyes widened in surprise—and then, to my delight, the flicker of desire began to dance on his face.

“I’m not a child anymore.” Having made my point, I laced up my chemise.

He looked into my eyes again. His expression tightened.

“Did Safwan make you a woman in the desert?”

Heat flooded my skin. “How eager you are to believe these rumors!” I said. “You said yourself that I’m not ready for consummation, yet you suspect me of giving my virginity to another man. Of course, Safwan doesn’t think of me as a little girl.”

“Did he make you a woman?”

“I was a woman before any of this happened. I’ve been waiting for you to make me your wife.”

“By al-Lah, A’isha!” Muhammad cried. “Were you unfaithful to me with Safwan or not? Tell me you were not, and I will proclaim your innocence to the entire town.”

“Tell him, A’isha,” my mother urged from her corner. “Tell your husband you are pure.”

“Why should my husband believe me, when my own parents don’t?” I said. She lowered her eyes, and I turned my gaze back to Muhammad. How could I say what he needed to hear? I’d waited for Safwan under the
date-palms. I’d almost run away with him. Wasn’t that a kind of infidelity?

The dream al-Lah had sent me came back as clearly as if I’d just awakened, telling me what to say next, and what to do.

“If I tell you, ‘Yes, I did what they accuse me of,’ you’ll divorce me and al-Lah will punish me for lying,” I said. “If I say no, you may stand up for me, but you’ll always doubt me in your heart. So I will say nothing. There is only One who can clear my name.”

“But Safwan has disappeared!” my mother cried.

“Do you think I need Safwan to plead my case?” I straightened my spine, reminding myself: I was the queen of Muhammad’s
harim
and of his heart. “I have the most persuasive One of all on my side. Al-Lah will speak for me.”

“I told you, I have tried praying,” Muhammad said.

“Perhaps you should try listening,” I said. Then, with my head high, I walked toward the entryway.

“
Yaa
A’isha, I command you to come back,” my father boomed. “Your business with your husband is not finished.”

I turned to face them all. “I have said what I have to say,
abi
. The matter is in al-Lah’s hands now.” I looked at Muhammad. “When He has vindicated me, I will happily return to the
harim
—as your true wife.”

My task completed, I glided from the room, hoping they couldn’t see how my legs trembled. I pulled aside my curtain, took a shaky breath, and went inside, where I fell onto my bed and covered my head with my pillow.
It’s in Your hands, al-Lah. I trust You to help me.

It had been the greatest performance of my life—and the most dangerous. Muhammad would return, but in what capacity? As a loving husband with his arms open wide, or—al-Lah forbid—as a stern judge, condemning me to death?

B
EWITCHED

L
ATER THAT DAY

The inexorable sun trudged upward, dragging the day in its wake. Outside, a vulture’s cry impaled my waning hopes. On my divan of blue and gold I lay in wait for Muhammad, fending off despair, refusing Barirah’s solace, eschewing the evening meal. How could I face my parents after defying them so confidently this morning?

Muhammad should have returned for me before now. Where had I erred? Perhaps I should have insisted I was innocent, as he’d asked. I could have told him that Safwan didn’t take my virginity. But Muhammad would want the full truth. He might ask how I’d
really
ended up in the oasis with Safwan. No, I’d been right not to say anything. He would come back for me. But when?

A clamor at the front door made my heart jump. Muhammad! Through my window I saw eight men, including Ali and Hamal, waving swords and demanding that my father hand me over.

“The wells are drying up, and the dates shrivel on the trees,” an Aws man snarled. “Al-Lah withholds the rain to punish us for the sins of your daughter.”

A rock flew past me, barely missing my head. I dropped my curtain of
blue beads and hid against the wall, trying to hear my thoughts above my heart’s hammering. Blood-lust raged in the voices of those men. Could my father fend them off, one against ten? They’d cut off my head and parade it through the streets before Muhammad finished his prayers.

“
Yaa
Ali, has the Prophet sent you?” my father asked, as calmly as if they had come for coffee.

“The Prophet has done nothing. That is the problem, Abu Bakr. That daughter of yours has bewitched him. He has been in anguish since she returned from the desert.”

“The
fahisha
has brought a curse on the city,” the Aws man cried. “Al-Lah demands justice!”

“Bewitched?” I heard my father chuckle. “By al-Lah, Muhammad was in my house this day, and I saw no signs of bewitching.”

“The Prophet was here?” Hamal spoke. “We have heard nothing of this.”

“He is making a decision about A’isha’s guilt or innocence,” my father said. “We expect him back soon. What if he declares her blameless?”

“Safwan ibn al-Mu’attal has disappeared,” the Aws man said. “Only a guilty man would run away.”

“You may speak truly,” my father said. “Or you may be mistaken. Either way, the Prophet will not be pleased if he returns today and finds you have killed his favorite wife. If he declares her guilty, he will punish her soon enough. But if he finds her innocent, then you have committed murder, my friends. You would all be dead before the sun sets.”

“Muhammad would be grateful,” Ali said. “That girl has been trouble since the day she arrived in his home.”

Hamal cleared his throat. “
Yaa
Ali, if the Prophet is going to decide today, then we should wait for his verdict.”

“If we kill his wife, the Prophet might kill us,” the Aws man said. “And we would go to Hell for eternity.”

To my relief, their murmurs and grumbles faded as they walked away. Then Ali’s voice hissed through my curtains and slithered over my bones.

“
Yaa
A’isha, you might have tricked the Prophet, but you have not fooled me,” he said. “I have seen you and Safwan together, remember? If the Prophet finds you innocent—al-Lah forbid it!—I will watch your every move for the rest of your days.”

The sun was a bird with an injured wing, lurching painfully downward, staining the horizon with blood. Digging my knees into my prayer mat, I begged al-Lah to send my husband the revelation he needed to set me free and take me home, away from all the doubts and shame.

As I prayed, my voice cracked with the weight of my deeds. Why would al-Lah help me after what I had done? I’d dreamed of a life without Muhammad even while I lay next to him at night. I’d schemed to run away with Safwan, never even thinking about how my husband—and my family—would suffer.

When I’d told Safwan I was a virgin, he’d stopped his advances. But what if he hadn’t? What if he’d continued pulling up my skirt and pushed himself inside me? I would have deserved it. Then, having consummated with Safwan, I’d be living with him among the Ghatafani Bedouins right now, doing his bidding—and Muhammad, stripped of all dignity in his followers’ eyes, would be the same as dead. Ibn Ubayy would have taken Medina at last, and that would have been the end of Muhammad, and the
umma
, and
islam
.

I began to cry, imagining Abu Sufyan’s army riding into Medina, seizing Muhammad, torturing him to death, slaughtering all the Believers who remained with him. Would my parents have been among them, or would my disappearance have sent them slinking away in shame?

“
Yaa
al-Lah, forgive my selfishness,” I prayed. “I know I deserve to die. I deserve to lose Muhammad. But for his sake, and that of the
umma
, please show my husband I’m innocent.”

I began to cry. “And please help me to accept the life You have chosen for me, and to live it in ways that bring honor to You and to Your Prophet. Yet—” an ache rose in my chest, as if chains weighted my heart “—I beg you, God, please help me to seize my destiny, to become the woman I yearn to be.”

I cried so much, I could have filled that cup I’d sent with Barirah. When I finished I lay on my mat, exhausted. And then I had a revelation of my own. Not the direct kind such as Muhammad experienced, with alLah speaking through his mouth. For me, it was like the drawing aside of a curtain, sending sunlight pouring into the darkened rooms of my soul.

I hadn’t left the
umma
for Safwan. I’d never dreamt of his kisses or his
loving arms, but of desert rides wild and free and, later, of a life of equality with my husband. It was an impossible dream, my mother had said. Even now, though, I didn’t believe her. Hadn’t Muhammad declared, when I was a baby, that girls were as valuable as boys? Al-Lah had wanted me to live, and He’d called me to fight. He’d given me the sword and the skills of a warrior while Ali and Umar and other men like them and, yes, women also, including my mother, forbade me to use them. They were the ones I’d run from, they and their ridiculous inventions such as
purdah
and
hatun
and
durra
and their traditions of male superiority that made chattel of women.